Unnamed: Chapter 2

This one is a lot rougher than chapter 1. Gonna look over it again tomorrow, but figured I could share anyways.

ATM, the tentative title for the work is Firstborn of the Frontier. Alternatively, I might go with Firstborn: Frontier Legacy. I still like Cowboys and Cultists, but I wasn't planning too many cultists shenanigans. Anywhoo, enjoy and lemme know your thoughts on the ch and the title.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1FW1IaDMeh0W-GcWTSsG6CPFLNbF9WEvnN7vqYii8jXs/edit?usp=sharing

Contrary to the name, Pleasant Dunes is anything but.

Which sure is disappointing since it looked mighty impressive on the way in. The stone walls were what sold it, tall, curvy, and slinky, sort of like a slithering snake circling around on itself. The material almost matches the desert sands too, off-white with speckled hint of pink and brown, and I can imagine how nice it’d all look in the crimson light of the setting sun. The rounded crenelations and circular murder-holes really brings the whole picture of Pleasant Dunes together, a rough-smoothed exterior which looks like a natural part of the surroundings. Rolling sand dunes on three sides with purple shrubs and prickly greens dotting the landscapes, and a mountain range for a backdrop matched by the rugged curves and rounded edges of the town’s sleek exterior walls. All done in a way that’s more artsy than a solid fortification has any right to, really. Why with the wind-blown sands piled up around the base of the walls, it almost looks like the whole town rose fully-formed right up out of the desert.

Shame that ain’t possible. Would make life on the Frontier a lot easier if there was a Spell for building cities, but even the Immortal Monarchs of the old world needed manpower to build their empires.

Now, it all look pretty as a spotted horse in a posey pasture, but that don’t get in the way of function. The parts of the wall that bulge out have got embrasures big enough for heavy weapons fire, with at least one stationary, hand-cranked gatling gun that I can see. A real expensive piece of hardware, though I’ve no idea how effective these particular ones are, as that depends largely on the blueprints and gunsmith. The ones the Rangers have will put at least ten-thousand Bolts downrange before it quits. Do it in a little over three minutes to boot, assuming they got an ammo belt long enough to last, but the heat’ll turn all ten barrels to slag and the whole thing to scrap. Burst fire will extend that lifespan a ir bit, and I seen some gats rigged to some heavy-duty arcana-tech to cool the gun, but it’d be cheaper just to build a second gatling. Aside from the heat, the stress of so many Metamagics stacked onto one Spell Core is also a concern, though the worst that can do is just crack.

Unless the heat melts something vital. Then the whole thing might blow. Not a big explosion, but enough to send shards of superheated metal into anything standing close by. There are a lot of shortcomings with gatling guns, but it warms my heart to see the humble Bolt Core pushed to its absolute limits by the ingenuity of the human mind. That gatling’s got much the same magic and Metamagic as what I got in my revolver, only dialed up to eleven thanks to the wonders of arcana-technology. Now ain’t that something.

Whoever designed Pleasant Dunes wasn’t just thinking about the big guns either. They considered the human element of the town’s defenses too, with wide platforms over top the heavy weapon embrasures and plenty of cover on three sides. That’s where I’d pack the untrained townies if I were in command, free to rain Bolts down at Abby without getting shot back at too much. And if they do, well, better them then your trained soldiers stationed on the recessed bits further back. They ain’t there strictly to keep them safe from Abby, but also from friendlies, seeing how townies lack the discipline to adhere to the necessary strict lanes of fire. Carl and his boys don’t seem like half-bad sorts, but I’d sooner goose a goblin with my tongue than stand in front of them during a gunfight.

The cornerstones of the town are the four towers, and not just because where they located. Nice tall structures built right into the walls themselves without interrupting the clean, rippling pattern they got going on, with a roofed nest up high, where sharpshooters can gun down Abbys coming from any angle except straight above. Whether them Abbys be outside the walls or in, which tells me them towers mean business. That’s where the good folk who call this place home plan make their last stands should their walls ever be breached. We built us some lookout posts using the same roofed-nest notion back in New Hope, on account of a pesky, persistent harpy issue we still got, but they might as well be treehouses compared to the stone towers of Pleasant Dunes.

Course it ain’t perfect, because nothing ever is. Already mentioned their flimsy steel gate, but once Carl let me and Cowie through, I laid eyes on their real gate, the one they use when they wanna keep Abby out. Aberrtin-reinforced steel, from the looks of it, or Darksteel as most call it, since the melding turns it matte black and ugly. Durable though, and just as heavy, so I imagine it take more than four men to wrestle a nine-foot-tall gate into place, even with a track to guide it. Seems silly to have an expensive gate like that and no real way to use it when things go from pudding to poop right quick, but I ain’t about to tell Carl how to do his job.

Unfortunately, Pleasant Dunes’ pretty façade fades away like dust in the wind as soon as you step through that gate and past the much less impressive inner wall. Makes it tough to keep a smile on my face as Carl shows me the sights, my self-appointed guide as he were. Not that there much to show, as even he ain’t pleased by what he sees as we amble through a sea of patchwork tents and ramshackle lean-tos that look ready to fall over in the breeze. “Company mining town,” Carl explains, as if that says it all, and sadly enough, it do. The walls, the towers, the guns, and guards, all a necessary expense to protect the townies from Abby while they lay their heads to rest. Things like shelter and beds? Why those are damn luxuries, so let the townies’ll source those themselves.

And if they ever grow sick of the terrible conditions and pay, why a fortress also makes for a great prison too.

“What company?” I ask, even though I already know the answer, because I done my research. It never hurts to get people talking though. Learn a lot about a town from townie complaint, and I can tell Carl more townie than company man.

“Vanguard National.” Carl shrugs, and that says it all. Nothing good to say, so he don’t say it, because he’s afraid of what might happen if he did. We both ignore the awkward silence while I pretend to keep Cowie from rolling over any tents. There no roads inside town, just stretches of sand no one’s sleeping in, but Cowie knows his business better than I do. Course he also an understanding soul, so he only huffs a tiny bit when I make some noise about keeping the wagon straight. After a bit more walking, Carl points out a lane of buildings, as if I could miss it, seeing how they the only buildings inside town. “Saloon’s over there.”

Which of course does triple duty as the town’s inn and brothel too, with a bunch of gussied up gals in scandalous outfits. Nothing against these ladies, but if Tina were ever caught wearing her shorts that high, Aunty Ray would have her shovelling horse patties for weeks. Ain’t proper to show that much leg, with or without tight hosiery, or so much shoulder and belly from wearing what amounts to a kerchief around their chests. Not saying they don’t look mighty fine, even if every last one of these ladies got more than twice my seventeen years, though they also look bored, tired, and sad whilst drinking and smoking on the saloon’s front porch.

Tearing my eyes away from the sights, I focus on the architecture instead, which is unfortunately mighty disappointing. The saloon be a blocky, brick and mortar affair, with no glass in the windows on the first floor or big sign to advertise. Screams ‘company’ saloon, one with no care for comfort or aesthetics once you inside their walls. No need to entice a crowd when you the only game in town, with the company paying miners to mine then clawing that pay back with high prices for girls, booze, and drugs. Then again, there’s something to be said for offering affordable vices. Keeps your workforce captive without needing to clap on any chains as addiction brings them back wanting more. We’ll see which mandate Vanguard National ascribes to soon enough, but I reckon it be the former. Drunks and druggies don’t make for good miners, who count handling unstable explosives, unpredictable Shatter charges, and the occasional Abby as part of the job description.

The neighbouring buildings are all similarly blocky structures too, each housing more company owned businesses I bet. A bank, a grocery, a general store, and some other essential services, but nothing else besides, because I doubt the company looks kindly on any competition. Sad really. Town ain’t really a town without a touch of the non-essential, like a candy store or woman’s boutique where they buy smelly candles and lady junk. You know, ribbons, clips, bobby pins, and whatnot, all that clutter ladies leave lying around wherever they please then turn around to wonder where it all went.

The only building that really matters sits two doors down and across the way, the one with the six-pointed star hanging over the door. Sherrif’s office, though I don’t see why a Sherrif’s star got six points, when a Ranger’s only got five. Sherrif is a law-man sure, an elected townie official, but the Rangers are the frontline in the war against Abby. Seems deserving of a tad more importance than a fella whose job amounts to wrangling drunk most nights. Smart money says the Sherrif’s a company man too, one so crooked he could swallow nails and spit out corkscrews. Can’t stand crooked lawmen, perverting the very laws they supposed to uphold, but if anyone can point me towards the vipers’ nest, he’d be my best bet.

By now, me and Carl have picked up a bit of crowd after passing through town, since my wagon do stand out, a bulky, armoured beauty that ain’t never let me down. I been told wagon is something of a misnomer, and ox-drawn tank more appropriate, but Cowie a bull, not an ox, and ‘tank’ don’t sound real friendly, while I like to be friendly whenever I can. That being said, there’s no hiding what my wagon is, not with my Big Stick up top. Don’t feel the need to either, because my wagon gets me where I’m going with all my pieces intact.

Outside the saloon, I set to unhitching Cowie from the wagon, even though he can do it himself. Partly because most folk get spooked when they see it, and also because the work gives me time to quietly get a read on the general mood of the crowd. Subdued, in a word, miserable to be less polite, here mostly out of curiosity and a lack of anything better to do with their lives. Even if I were of a mind to trade, which I ain’t because that’d be stepping on company toes, these people don’t got nothing to barter with. It’s plain as day to see in their patchy, rough-spun clothes lacking any colour or embroidery, as well as the general state of ennui all about. That’s French for boredom, but also means lacking in good cheer. Ain’t no folk dicing in the streets, no instruments resting about, no children running about, or cute animals out in the streets. There ain’t no one working towards a better future here in town, no one thinking past today, because the can’t spare nothing for anything except surviving.

They a sad, sorry lot, but at least they got all the colours represented. White, black, brown, yellow, and red, they all equally mistreated here in Pleasant Dunes. I know I ain’t supposed to identify people by colour, but I got no other way to do it. Can’t tell an American from a Metis or a Brit from a Frenchie unless I hear them speak, though I reckon that ain’t got nothing to do with colour neither. However you chop it up, the multi-cultural crowd here is mostly women and children, as I expect the men are all up in the mines or resting up for their shift. Same with all the older children most like, as anyone over ten and under twenty is conspicuously absent. No doubt because some company man said that ten is old enough to work a twelve-hour shift and them kids ought to be grateful for the opportunity to boot.

Not a pretty picture, but tells me Vanguard National is an equal opportunity exploiter. It ain’t about race, just cold, brutal, and downright inhumane business. Don’t much like company towns or company men. Marshal Ellis don’t like them much either, but nothing he can do about it. Not so long as the company men follow the Accords, and I ain’t laid eyes on nothing to prove otherwise just yet.

Thing is, I didn’t come here to set right company wrongs. The story of Pleasant Dunes is sad, but familiar, and I got other matters to attend to, like finding the outlaws hidden in this miserable town. Soon as Cowie’s brushed and settled in with a bucket of feed and a trough of water, I slap on a cheery face and get back to business by first addressing the crowd. “Howdy folks. My name’s Howie Zhu, and the big furry fellow with his nose in the bucket is my driver Cowie. You’ll have to excuse his manners, as he was raised in a barn.” The joke gets a small chuckle from the children, and those smiles are precious indeed, a balm for the soul to make up for the ugliness inside Pleasant Dunes and bring some genuine cheer to my face.

Smile and the world smiles back. That’s what Uncle Raleigh used to say, and he was always smiling.

“Now as you folks can see, I’ve come here on behalf of the U.F.P.S. Before we get into it though, I got something to get off my chest.” Normally, I would pause here for dramatic effect, but the people of Pleasant Dunes got enough to worry about without me piling it on. “This here happens to be my first rodeo. Got sworn in last week as an independent contractor of the good old U F of A, then handed a stack of letters and a bunch of boxes too, but not before they slapped me with a big, dusty book of rules.” This time I do pause and make a bit of a face, which the kids love. “Afraid that means if I wanna keep the job, then I gotta do things by the book.”

Tapping a rainbow Tourmaline crystal embedded in the side of my wagon, I activate the stored image and step aside so the crowd can read the projected list of names. That gets a real kick out of the kids, and surprise from some of the older folk too. Don’t see why, it’s just a Minor Illusion Cantrip I slapped onto the gem, but they all acting like they ain’t never seen arcana-tech before. Wonder what would happen if I showed them some of the real fancy tricks built into my wagon. “If your name is on the list, then it means I got mail for you, but I’ll be needing to check your papers before I can hand anything over. New policy, I think, or might just be because I’m new.” I expected a little grumbling, but the crowd just sort of accepts it without a fight. “It’s a hassle, but it’s gotta be done, and I’m sorry for the trouble. If your name ain’t on the list, then I got no mail for you, though I’ll have free candies for anyone who wants some, kids or adults. For now, I’ll trouble you all to head out and spread the word, let everyone know to bring their papers, and I’ll be back in an hour or thereabouts after I eat and freshen up.”

Moving around to the back of my wagon, I grab two wine bottles of honey mead out the back and hand one over to Carl. “You drink?”

Rhetorical question, which he knows don’t need answering as he takes the bottle with a grin. He pops the cork, gives it a good sniff, then takes a big pull before coming up for air with a gasp. “Whooo-wee. That’s some good fizz. Tastes like peaches.”

“So I’m told, though I ain’t never tasted no peach before. This here brew uses a fruit we call starmelon in New Hope. Don’t look like no star, just got patterns on it that do.”

“Oh yea, I seen those before. Pink and hard as rocks.” Nodding at my still unopened bottle, he flashes a grin which shaves years off his pockmarked face and asks, “You ain’t gonna join a man for a drink?”

Carl’s ain’t a bad sort. Sure he called me a slur, but there ain’t no real hate in him. Qink’s just a bad word to him, no different from any other vulgar insult he might use only a little more specific. Makes a man feel a little bad about lying, seeing how I’m lying for personal gain. Don’t really need to see no papers to hand out mail, but I want to. Real easy to spot outlaws when you ask for papers. Those that got them and are dumb enough to use them while they got warrants out on their heads, well they deserve to get got. As for those living under an assumed name, they either won’t have papers or they’ll have fake ones, and I’ll have a suspect to take a closer look at. So I really shouldn’t feel bad about lying to Carl or the good people of Pleasant Dunes. Way I see it, I’m doing them a service, removing the criminal elements that done infiltrated their settlement. Besides, ain’t hurting no one, having to show me their papers, and if that don’t work out, well, I got other avenues to explore.

Like talking to the Sherrif, though that’d mean cutting a crooked cop in on the bounty.

To answer Carl’s question, I give him a sigh and shake of my head. “Can’t drink. Still seventeen, and on the job to boot. Gonna need a fresh head to look over them papers, make sure I don’t screw the pooch. The new Postmaster General’s got a real hard on for rules, wants to crack down on fraud and such, except the only way he know how to do it is make it harder for his people to do their jobs.” Not really, but I get the feeling Carl knows what it’s like working under a demanding boss. “I was actually hoping you could do me a favour, and bring this bottle in for the proprietor of this here saloon. Give him a chance to taste the drink without me standing there breathing down his neck and looking to make a sale. If he likes what I got, then I have sixty more, at two American a pop. If not, then all’s well. I ain’t gonna twist their arm.”

“Two dollars a bottle?” Carl’s eyes go wide over what I would call a reasonable price, seeing how near and dear honey is, but selling mead ain’t the point.

“Asking price.” Giving him a conspiratorial wink, I lean in and whisper, “Always wanna let the customer bargain you down.”

“Ha. Crafty little fella ain’t ya?” Accepting the second bottle with a nod, Carl turns to head inside before thinking better of it. “What you gonna be doin’ then?”

Knew it. Carl didn’t tag along to guide me. He’s here to keep an eye on me. “I’ll be right here, washing up.” Just to reassure him that I ain’t going nowhere, I hang my hat, rifle, and duster onto a set of fold out hooks I installed on the side of my wagon for just this purpose before getting to work on my gunbelt.

“What, right here in the streets where anyone can see?” Carl has himself a chuckle and asks, “You planning on using the trough water too?”

The ladies hanging about the saloon titter and mosey on over for a gander, leaning over the banister to afford themselves a better view. Which in turn offers me a better view too, one I take in without any intention of partaking in their pleasant company. Flashing my pearly whites with a roguish wink, I say, “Sorry Carl, ladies, but this ain’t that kinda show. I wouldn’t waste good drinking water washing up in the desert.” My gun belt goes onto a hook too, and Carl takes a good long look at my Aetherarms now that he can. Man’s got an eye for hardware, and I’d love to talk tech, but I’ve a dire need to be free of the sand cluttering all the wrong places.

First things first, I dismiss the big Spell I had ready in case Carl and his boys got twitchy, because I can’t hold a readied Spell while casting another. As the Aether drains away and leaves me a little faint, I take a deep breath and focus on the Spell I want. Holding a closed fist knuckles-down in front of me, I open up my fingers like a blooming flower while chanting, “Obtestor – Aqua – Sphaera.”

Now, my Latin is terrible, and my pronunciation worse, but the magic ain’t in the words or language. Nor is it in the actions, though that’s not to say both are unnecessary. The words and actions are a vital part of the Spellcasting process, just not the magical part. I could easily use Spanish, or French, even gibberish and interpretive dance to pair with it, but I don’t because Latin is how I was taught, and finger waggling is easier than dancing. As for the magic part, well, that already happened inside my head, which is one reason why I spend so much time there. The words and actions form a key to access the corresponding Spell Structure, one I embedded in memory many years ago, an arcane metaphysical engine which spits out one Spell and one Spell only. Responding to my will, the Spell Structure lights up within my mind’s eye, establishing a complex pattern of shifting lights which draws Aether from the Frontier to power its purpose. It’s not just the shape of it that matters, but the incalculable patterns within the trails those lights leave behind, the flow of Aether trapped within and the pulse of the weave itself, all adhering to the rhythm of a melody I can’t hear and timed to the heartbeat of a universe that has existed since the dawn of time.

A whole lot of fuss just to conjure up a ball of fake water, but it’ll do in a pinch to rid me of my sand problem.

The sphere of water stays affixed to the palm of my hand as I close my eyes, hold my breath, and plunge my whole head in. Makes it real easy to scrub the sand, sweat and grit outta my hair, which ain’t exactly long, but still longer enough to get in my eyes without my Stetson to keep it outta the way. Fake water it might be, it’s still mighty cool and refreshing against my sun-baked skin, and I gotta fight the urge to open my mouth for a drink.

“Holy shit.” As my head comes out of the water, I’m greeted by Carl’s wide-eyed stare once more, except it keeps getting wider. “You can Create Water?”

“Ha. No.” Shaking my head in denial, and to fling off the droplets of water, I set to scrubbing my kerchief clean. “That’s out of my wheelhouse.” Actually isn’t, but the Spell to make real, drinkable water with magic ain’t called Create Water. It’s a First-Order Transmutation Spell called Condense Water, which means drawing it outta the air. That don’t work too well here in the arid desert, so it’s easier to say I can’t do it as opposed to explaining why I don’t care to try. Folk tend to get upset when they think you can solve their issues but flat out refuse to, and I’m in no mood to spend the next hour memorizing a Spell Structure I don’t use often, then two more filling a bucket one droplet at a time just to prove what I already know. “This here is a Conjuration Cantrip by the name of Water Sphere.” Tossing the dirty water aside, it leaves a wet spot in the sand as I cast the Spell again. Chant a few words, waggle a few fingers, and a second ball of water appears over my hand, a process that don’t take more than three seconds. “Its not actually water, just ectoplasm masquerading as water. Temporary matter made up of Aether, pretty much. Rot your insides with Contagion if you drink it, but it works just fine for washing. Hands, clothes, dishes, whatever.” To prove the point, I smack myself in the chest with the aqueous orb and grin as the water pours down the front of my body, underneath my button up shirt and leather vest before making its way down to my wranglers. It’s an odd feeling, washing while fully dressed, but it beats the alternative of staying hot, uncomfortable, and dirty. “Spell won’t last more than a minute either, meaning I’ll be nice and dry soon as it ends.”

“Damn useful spell,” Carl remarks, and I can sense his hesitation as I Conjure up yet another Water Sphere.

I ain’t gonna make him ask though, so I speak soon as I’m finished casting. “It’s easy enough to learn, being a Cantrip and all. I’ll draw up the Spell Formula while I eat. Make a couple copies, share it with the town. Just make they know not to drink it unless they looking to die.”

Carl says nothing in reply, but his gratitude comes through loud and clear. Not that I deserve it. Ain’t like I came up with the Spell, just sharing what others taught me. Should be how everyone on the Frontier operates, but I can tell that ain’t how it is here in Pleasant Dunes. Carl heads in like a man on a mission, leaving me free to really go in on the scrubbing. The ladies stick around, watching with big smiles and making wolf whistles all the while, which I do my best to ignore. I ought to install some curtain rods on the wagon, so I can have a little privacy in times like this, but there’s always more important work to be done. Then again, it’d also afford me a moment to do some private Spellcasting too. Wouldn’t that be nice. My Mage Armour still got plenty of time before it fades away, and same goes for Ear and Insect Protection too, but there’s still some preparatory Spell slinging to be done.

Once my body is mostly free of sand, my clothes dry, and my dignity sorely wounded from the ladies’ enthusiastic catcalls, I throw my gun belt and duster back on. Then I turn around and fuss about with the clasp of my belt, grumbling all the while to hide a simple Spellcasting. It ain’t easy getting all the pieces in place without anyone seeing me fiddle with my Doorknockers, but I somehow make it work. That being said, the ladies are so distracting that I’m forced to rummage around the back of my wagon. Only way to make sure they don’t my efforts to recast and re-ready the big Spell I don’t want to use, but want to have on hand just in case. Tiring that, since holding the Spell and then dismissing it is every bit as tiring as just casting it, if not more, but at least my nooks and crannies are finally free of sand.

All this might seem like a lot of effort just to meet a man and sell some mead, but that’s how it is out on the Frontier. Preparation took even longer before I rode up to Pleasant Dune’s front gate, because like I said, I’ve had worse welcomes. Most people think a Spellcaster’s greatest strength is being able to cast high Order Spells and sling ‘em about willy nilly. Impressive as it might be to see Marshal Ellis slinging Fireballs and Lightning Beams about, my daddy believed that a Spellcaster’s greatest strength lay in preparation. Make sense considering most Spells take about three seconds to cast, with some taking even longer, while I can shoot six rounds in less time and kill a man with the first hit. As such, my daddy focused on Spells that gave him options in a fight, and utilized his revolver, the one I now wear on my hip, to do most his killing.

As for me? I want the best of both worlds. I mean, why wouldn’t I?

Feeling mighty refreshed after my horse bath and ready to take on the world, I leave rifle in the wagon before locking up. Won’t be needing it inside, and while I also won’t need my hat to protect me from the sun, that stays with me. Before plopping the Stenson back on my head, I take care of one last bit of prep work and make sure its clasp is facing forward, a square metal medallion that’s got my family name cut into it. Technically my mama’s family name, on account of how my daddy couldn’t remember his to pass onto me. The Republic’s work that, as they took my daddy from his family when he was six and told him his family didn’t matter. From then on, he became a Son of the Republic, with nation as his father and mother both, and comrades-in-arms as siblings. They taught him how to fight and survive, forage and hunt, build and farm, but only the theory of magic. Did that for all of their ‘first generation of heroes’, indoctrinated, non-magical children they sent through a one-way Gate to a dangerous, Aberration infested world without a single Spell to protect them, only the knowledge to maybe figure out the important bits on their own.

See, carving out a Spell Structure in memory changes a man, connects them to the Immaterium in some way. Among many other things, this makes them significantly more expensive to transport through a Gate, so the Qin Republic decided they’d cut back on travel costs. Instead of sending a small number of powerful Spellcasters through to the untamed death world, they figured they’d roll the dice and instead send a much greater number of helpless children instead. Not to tame or conquer the Frontier, but to endure and procreate. A gamble made with the lives of tens of thousands of children with the only attainable victory being one of sustained attrition.

Monstrous don’t even begin to cover it.

I don’t let none of these thoughts show as I bid Cowie be good and head on inside the saloon, which is made easier by the ladies demonstrating their appreciation for letting them watch me wash. More whistles and a bit of pinching mostly, all harmless fun because they like seeing me blush. I doubt any of them are actually interested in having me for a customer, nor am I interested in propositioning them. Ain’t got nothing against them for selling their bodies; the miners doing the same just in a different way. Come right down to it, we all selling ourselves and our labour. From there, it just becomes a choice. How we sell ourselves and for how much, a deal we all gotta make. The thing is, I get the feeling that no one in Pleasant Dunes can just pick up and leave as they please, which changes the nature of the deal. When the choice is sell your body at their prices or starve, well, that ain’t much of a choice.

The inside of the saloon, inn, and brothel combination only further strengthens my suspicions, and it all about as dreary as expected. A dimly lit interior with square tables and square stools scattered about, all in varying states of disrepair without a single stitch of upholstery in sight. Ain’t no chandeliers about, or even any Aether lights, just a plain old Light Spells shade lamps that I bet someone’s gotta recast every hour. Probably a good thing, considering how messy it is in here. If the floor’s been swept since the day it got put in, then it sure don’t look it. Course, that don’t bother the five drunks scattered about, all nursing their cups and smoking their cigarettes in quiet solitude and leaving nothing for the bartender or waitress to do. Ignoring the shells, butts, and other detritus cracking underfoot as I amble past the stairs and over to the bar, where Carl waves me over to join him.

And his friends. Three of them, formidable men, all radiating that air of violence you sometimes see in folk who been chewed up and spit out by the Frontier. That don’t necessarily mean that these men ain’t friendly, as there’s no sign they intend me any harm, but there’s something about the look of them that’s got my jimmies a rustling. My daddy put a lotta stock in his jimmies, though he called it his gut instinct. Said that even if you didn’t know what it was that got you spooked, you needed to trust your gut when it tells you something’s off. Believed there was more to the world that what your five senses can perceive, more than what your mind can comprehend really, but your gut would always steer you true. Marshal Ellis had a much wordier explanation, something about how a man use certain magics so much that sometimes magic try to tell him things, things he ought to already know from what he already seen and heard. A portent, or a subconscious inkling of things to come, which to my ears sounds a lot like ‘gut instinct’ or ‘rustling jimmies’. Course, the Marshal’s an educated man, so he got a tendency to overcomplicate things, but he a good man who means well.

So what do I know for certain? Nothing besides there three men here to greet me who I don’t like the look of, but something tells me that maybe I don’t gotta go searching for nests no more. Maybe, just maybe I done tripped over it without noticing, and a few of the thieving, murdering, raping outlaws I been hunting have come out and presented themselves to me. If so, then with a little luck, I can handle my business here in Prosperity Dunes and be on my way back to New Hope before lunch.

Yesterday wouldn’t be soon enough to set this soul-crushing place in my six, so I’m feeling mighty pleased and don’t even gotta work to put on a happy face as I head over to see what’s what.

Smile and the world smiles back. My uncle Raleigh was a wise man indeed, may his soul rest in peace.