Post by vladtaltos on Oct 26, 2015 9:02:51 GMT -5
West Texas, 1866
Surrounded by a sea of lush green grass and a thin wire fence, the little house sits alone at the top of a gently sloping hill. Smaller hills cascade from the larger hill, rolling toward the horizon, like rippling waves far out at sea.
The family that lives here, like all the pioneer families that have made their homes in the hardscrabble Frontier, journeyed west with little or nothing, worked the land until their calloused hands bled, forging a livelihood for themselves. Now, they reap the rewards of sweat, muscle and risk invested---a patch of land and a home to call their own, along with the freedom that comes out here in the wide open spaces on the range.
If it were daytime the scene would make a perfect photograph of what the West has to offer, far in distance and spirit from the hustle and bustle of the congested cities back East. But it’s not daytime.
A thick blob of cloud passes over a gibbous moon, casting the house and land in concealing darkness. Amongst the shadows, you detect furtive, scuttling movement. When the cloud releases the moon, a thin shaft of light illumines the house, and it’s then you see them, like ants swarming over a picnic spread.
Revenants crawl and slither over the house, clawing at the planks on the roof, ripping at the logs on the sides of the house. Their skeletal jaws clack with unholy delight at the prospect of tearing and devouring flesh and meat from the bones of the living. An instant later comes the primal screams of the family within the tiny dwelling.
You, Jeremiah Jones and Gar Beck, are Seekers, the unofficial name given to a branch of the U.S. Marshals tasked with investigating the incredible claims of hellish monsters inhabiting the western Frontier. You’ve discovered, unfortunately, there’s merit to these claims. If there’s merit to the claims, you’re next task is to eliminate the threat, for the western Frontier must be made safe and habitable for the pioneers that have come, and for the influx of those that will come, from overcrowded Eastern cities to make this land their home.
Too, people have a tendency to overreact and become upset if they know hellish monsters exist, and are walking around slaughtering the innocent. If these killings can be made to look like a bear or wolf attack, that would be best for all involved. That’s a part of your job, too, you see? So when that wise-guy reporter from one of those big city newspapers back East takes a picture, there’s some ready-made, easy explanation for everyone. Folks back East like easy, ready-made explanations.
For several hours into the night you’ve been tracking this pack of Undead and the Hoodoo Man that has raised them with fell witchcraft and imbued them with powers and abilities far above the typical undead.
The typical undead?
Yes, in the Weird Weird West of 1866, you’ve discovered the undead have various levels of strength and ability. Revenants, unlike the more mundane undead, can move quite fast, kill quite swiftly, and escape rapidly back into the night and to their dark nests underground from whence they were raised.
A Revenant, one of the many terrors of the Weird Weird West
You count: nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Twelve! There’s twelve of the abominations swarming over the house. The cries of the family are punctuated with an occasional report from a rifle. You can tell by the sound of the report it’s from some low caliber model. It will do them no good, of course. No good at all. The whole family will be dead soon unless something is done about it.
The Revenants aren't aware of your presence...yet. You stand slightly down hill, twenty yards from the fence, and thirty yards from the house. An eerie half-light from the moon casts an ominous glow on the scene. Farther down the hill, out of sight behind you, your horses are tethered to a rocky spur in the ground.
Surrounded by a sea of lush green grass and a thin wire fence, the little house sits alone at the top of a gently sloping hill. Smaller hills cascade from the larger hill, rolling toward the horizon, like rippling waves far out at sea.
The family that lives here, like all the pioneer families that have made their homes in the hardscrabble Frontier, journeyed west with little or nothing, worked the land until their calloused hands bled, forging a livelihood for themselves. Now, they reap the rewards of sweat, muscle and risk invested---a patch of land and a home to call their own, along with the freedom that comes out here in the wide open spaces on the range.
If it were daytime the scene would make a perfect photograph of what the West has to offer, far in distance and spirit from the hustle and bustle of the congested cities back East. But it’s not daytime.
A thick blob of cloud passes over a gibbous moon, casting the house and land in concealing darkness. Amongst the shadows, you detect furtive, scuttling movement. When the cloud releases the moon, a thin shaft of light illumines the house, and it’s then you see them, like ants swarming over a picnic spread.
Revenants crawl and slither over the house, clawing at the planks on the roof, ripping at the logs on the sides of the house. Their skeletal jaws clack with unholy delight at the prospect of tearing and devouring flesh and meat from the bones of the living. An instant later comes the primal screams of the family within the tiny dwelling.
You, Jeremiah Jones and Gar Beck, are Seekers, the unofficial name given to a branch of the U.S. Marshals tasked with investigating the incredible claims of hellish monsters inhabiting the western Frontier. You’ve discovered, unfortunately, there’s merit to these claims. If there’s merit to the claims, you’re next task is to eliminate the threat, for the western Frontier must be made safe and habitable for the pioneers that have come, and for the influx of those that will come, from overcrowded Eastern cities to make this land their home.
Too, people have a tendency to overreact and become upset if they know hellish monsters exist, and are walking around slaughtering the innocent. If these killings can be made to look like a bear or wolf attack, that would be best for all involved. That’s a part of your job, too, you see? So when that wise-guy reporter from one of those big city newspapers back East takes a picture, there’s some ready-made, easy explanation for everyone. Folks back East like easy, ready-made explanations.
For several hours into the night you’ve been tracking this pack of Undead and the Hoodoo Man that has raised them with fell witchcraft and imbued them with powers and abilities far above the typical undead.
The typical undead?
Yes, in the Weird Weird West of 1866, you’ve discovered the undead have various levels of strength and ability. Revenants, unlike the more mundane undead, can move quite fast, kill quite swiftly, and escape rapidly back into the night and to their dark nests underground from whence they were raised.
A Revenant, one of the many terrors of the Weird Weird West
You count: nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Twelve! There’s twelve of the abominations swarming over the house. The cries of the family are punctuated with an occasional report from a rifle. You can tell by the sound of the report it’s from some low caliber model. It will do them no good, of course. No good at all. The whole family will be dead soon unless something is done about it.
The Revenants aren't aware of your presence...yet. You stand slightly down hill, twenty yards from the fence, and thirty yards from the house. An eerie half-light from the moon casts an ominous glow on the scene. Farther down the hill, out of sight behind you, your horses are tethered to a rocky spur in the ground.
