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Post by Deleted on May 20, 2017 0:06:32 GMT -5
1880, Montana A small mining settlement in the middle of nowhere. For the past two hundred (or so) years, centaurs and human have been vaguely at peace. Centaurs integrated into human society with little bumps, though the discrimination remains firm against them, with few jobs due to the believed animal nature. They are also a vital part of working life, due to having the strength to pull carts and various other things, they are a huge part of the travel industry and the transport industry. Some, of course, choose to do other things; some centaurs manage companies, others are actually rich (as surprising as it seems). America is one of the latest in the 'trend' of accepting centaurs as their equals. Considering how recent the land is, it's not a huge surprise.
Of course, not all centaurs are good and eager to please, just as not all humans are. Enter muse a, once just a rebellious foal, now a notorious bandit with a huge bounty above their head. Muse a is nothing like their city counterparts; wild and free, despite having been born into a family of high-ranking centaur. They derail trains with clever tricks, spook hunters and cause people to fear the small mining settlement that they live near. They mess with the heads of people, often being mistaken for just a wild horse - but no, they are a sentient centaur, aware of their misdeeds. They are causing the business for the small town to become weak, their aggressive nature to any visitors meaning that no-one wants to come and trade. They even cause trouble for the local ranchers, stealing cattle from time to time.
The time has come for this to stop, and so the town call in muse b, a "centaur-wrangler", or something of the like. A known expert (despite being bipedal and human), they're an expert on centaur behaviours, working closely with their horse-bodied friends. Their business is a small one, and they are a sheriff on the side; meaning that this is their forte. A criminal centaur is a rare thing, so their interest is piqued. They move to the small town so that their work will be easier, and so their hunt begins.
muse a ;; outlaw centaur Chistopher Moriarty ; aged 26 years Lean and long-legged, his horse-half is pinto, black-and-white tobiano. His tail is mixed black and white, more white than black, and he has a notable scar over his back; it looks vaguely like he was attacked, possibly by a wolf or something similar. His human-half is just as lean, with light brown skin and tousled black hair which has some white strands here and there. His eyes are an amber-toned brown, sharper than they should be in a slender face. A feather is weaved into the hair behind his ear, copying three feathers twined with the hair of his tail. He wears a beige button-up with a thin leather belt around his waist, and the sleeves are usually rolled up to his elbows. He has scarring over his throat and his left ear seems to be pierced with another feather. He's smaller than most centaurs, but still long-legged and definitely fast. His gun holster is on his thin leather belt, but he rarely seems to use this. muse a ;; local "centaur-wrangler"Huritt Glass ; aged 27 years Born to a Blackfoot mother and a white settler father, Huritt is an uncommon sight in any kind of "civilized" town, since his physical traits are indigenous, for the most part. He is naturally tall (stands at 6'1") and strapping, with a build that is both solid and gracefully thin--a product of a long-standing heritage that favored both lanky hunters and strong warriors. His skin is a lighter hue than his ancestors, though, more of an tawny/russet brown tone, displaying some of his Caucasian influence. It is also visible, to some extent, in his face, which is square shaped and classically handsome in white culture, and in his eyes, which are a lighter, clearer share of brown. In the native tradition, Huritt keeps his hair long and uncut, but tends to keep it tied back into either a loose bun or ponytail while in town. Faint freckles dust his cheeks and shoulders. All I ask is that you're willing to write lengthy replies (I tend to match on length; but I prefer longer over shorter, generally four or five paragraphs. Maybe three as an average), and that you're patient with me. Sometimes I vanish from the face of the earth because I'm busy or something similar. I guess I consider myself semi-advanced, or something. I don't know. (':
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Post by Deleted on May 20, 2017 13:16:20 GMT -5
i could do a victorian england ver of this but i felt like old west fit more but shrug emoji imagine this but with victorian england bam
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Post by Deleted on May 20, 2017 13:23:59 GMT -5
hey there. this plot is so unique and interesting that I just couldn't resist watching this thread anymore. can I please claim the sheriff spot?
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Post by Deleted on May 20, 2017 13:26:25 GMT -5
i am so blessed you dont even know absolutely yes
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Post by Deleted on May 20, 2017 14:47:30 GMT -5
ahh rad thank you! I can get something up character-wise sometime later tonight.
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Post by Deleted on May 20, 2017 14:54:02 GMT -5
nice !! take ur time man <:
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Post by Deleted on May 20, 2017 18:54:05 GMT -5
Huritt Glass ; aged 27 years
Born to a Blackfoot mother and a white settler father, Huritt is an uncommon sight in any kind of "civilized" town, since his physical traits are indigenous, for the most part. He is naturally tall (stands at 6'1") and strapping, with a build that is both solid and gracefully thin--a product of a long-standing heritage that favored both lanky hunters and strong warriors. His skin is a lighter hue than his ancestors, though, more of an tawny/russet brown tone, displaying some of his Caucasian influence. It is also visible, to some extent, in his face, which is square shaped and classically handsome in white culture, and in his eyes, which are a lighter, clearer share of brown. In the native tradition, Huritt keeps his hair long and uncut, but tends to keep it tied back into either a loose bun or ponytail while in town. Faint freckles dust his cheeks and shoulders.
Personality basics: reserved--more so because of racist townspeople than his own personality, serious, dedicated to his work, thorough, meticulous (a bit of a perfectionist), self-reliant, fiercely independent, distrustful of strangers.
Weapons: generally carries a hunting knife and two pistols in a belt. Is also quite skilled with a bow and arrow, but only brings a bow and quiver on more serious missions as town sheriff.
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Post by Deleted on May 20, 2017 18:54:57 GMT -5
yea boiiii. ofc I had to make my boy biracial bc who doesn't love an undertone like that?? also excuse my laziness on his personality, but I tried to do the most so you'd get the gist of it.
anyway! so that's done. should I write a starter or should you?
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Post by Deleted on May 20, 2017 19:31:35 GMT -5
YE BOIII?? i love him
i can write the starter :^D ill work on it now
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Post by Deleted on May 20, 2017 20:06:44 GMT -5
Winters were not exactly harsh in Montana, even in the mountainous region that the mining settlement was on, and so laying in the grass like this was something that Christopher Moriarty often did. Rolled on his back with his arms behind his head, gazing up at the light clouds that promised a light rain sometime later in the day. The silhouette of the town lay beneath the hill he lay on. It was, of course, dead as ever. Locals would be mulling about, keeping an eye out for the 'monster' that lingered and circled their town. He almost smiled at that thought, and rolled over so that he could stand, using his hands to assist him until his front hooves caught the ground. The lean centaur managed to pull himself into a standing position, and he shook himself off idly. His tail lashed automatically despite a lack of flies in the cooler air, while his fingers nimbly adjusted his belt so that it settled more comfortably on his waist.
Had it been any other month, the mud might've been wet underneath the grass - instead, however, it was just hard, and so he could shake off the dust from his body without much trouble. His last heist had gone without much of a hitch; a toppled cart, transporting some coal. He found nothing of interest in the cold, but found great joy in stealing the man's purse and causing the horse pulling the carriage to go wild by spooking her. A little bit of rearing and kicking, and it had been easy enough to scare her away. It was, of course, talked about in the village the next day - the black and white menace, a colt who knew no shame. Christopher smiled to himself as he pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his shirt and lit it, inhaling the smoke as he wandered through the field, long grass tickling his underbelly.
Birds flew up from the trees lining the small forest (if it could even be called that), and a gunshot rang out. He paused and tilted his head towards the direction, sharp eyes narrowing. Hunters? This close to where he lived? Not if he could help it. He began at a brisk trot, wincing a little at the stones in his hooves. They were making him irritable, caught in horseshoes that were due to be changed. Damn, he thought idly. Where was he going to find someone to change them? Or help with the stones? He had the money, obviously, but the mining settlement would not help a notorious crook. Last he had heard, they were going to bring in someone to deal with him. The last so-called 'centaur wrangler' to be called in had ended up in a ditch, not quite dead but certainly injured. He had soon left, deeming this an impossible mission.
Christopher did find it somewhat amusing, and he considered this as he ashed his cigarette and used one hoof to make sure it didn't set light to the dry leaves. Another gunshot caught his attention, and he turned towards it.
By the time he had reached the clearing that the sounds were coming from, there was nothing to be seen aside from a splatter of blood on the dusty ground and some feathers. Paw prints, too - but those were fainter, clearly made by a light running dog, rather than a heavier dog that could carry prey. The centaur's gaze trailed over this before he snorted and shook his head, trotting over to some broken branches. So...the hunter had gone this way? He'd follow, if only to spook the dog that would be with the hunter. There was no point in making himself quiet, and so he sped up a little.
It wasn't until the ten minute mark that Christopher realised that he was close to the town. He could see people now - centaurs and humans alike, tending to cattle and their crops and...everything else. He tilted his head as he watched, partially hidden by the thinning forestry. He looked at the fence that separated a horse paddock from the place he stood at, and considered the jump. He could make it. Stir up some trouble. There seemed to be a stallion in the field, alone - old, too. Upsetting that one would be a hard task, but he supposed he could do it. There was nothing better to do, and he'd finished his cig a little while ago. Tapping one hoof lightly against the ground, he considered the jump again. No gate this side? No, it didn't seem so. It also didn't seem like anyone was watching the paddock. Cautiously, Christopher trotted over to the fence and studied it.
Maybe it was too big to jump. Now that he was up close, he'd definitely have some trouble. If he brushed against it or jumped too low, he'd probably injure himself. That wasn't really something he'd enjoy.
The stallion in the field watched him cautiously, so he smiled and gave a two-fingered salute to him. With a shake of his head, the stallion went back to grazing lazily, clearly deeming Christopher a safe enough centaur. Horses often mistook him for a friendly. It was rather amusing, but he didn't have time to consider it. He could see a gate to the side - wild centaur were not a thing in this part of America, so he supposed it was probably because of that reasoning. It looked secure, but with his nimble fingers, he was sure he could pick any sort of lock, sturdy or not.
As it turned out, while the gate was certainly sturdy, it was unused and unlocked - pure luck. He opened it with only a slight creak, closed it with one of his back legs and trotted into the field. A low snort caused him to glance to the stallion, but the horse's gaze was elsewhere. He followed it's gaze and squinted at the town. Still, no-one seemed to care for the old stallion, and there was a faint sick smell. Probably a dying horse, then. Old, sick, not worthy of working. It was, now that he thought about it, quite sad. The stallion would die alone.
"Hey," he said softly, uncaring of whether or not he'd be understood. Though the stallion turned his gaze upon Christopher, he didn't show any signs of understanding entirely. "You're alone, huh? No-one cares, or somethin'."
He didn't get a response, and he didn't expect one. Maybe he could stir up some trouble in the town. Honestly, now that he saw the state that the horse was in, he wanted to leave him alone, in peace. Still, no-one seemed to care about the fact that a centaur stood in the paddock with a dying stallion. He shrugged idly and rolled his sleeves up further as he walked towards the main gate. This one, of course, was locked - but a quick kick caused it to break. Pathetic. He pushed it open and glanced back to the stallion, who now grazed, happy to accept his fate. Despite himself, Christopher gave another two-fingered salute before he left, leaving the gate slightly ajar. Just in case.
Due to the streets being quiet (this was, after all, a rather quiet town), Christopher found that he was...pretty much unnoticed. Everyone was probably busy. He passed one or two centaurs who gave him curious (and suspicious) looks, but they said nothing when he grinned at them, all sharp canines and unfriendliness. They quickly passed him by. As expected, he knew he was intimidating. Smaller than most, often mistaken for a young colt - but he was anything but. He quickened his pace and winced briefly, trying not to put too much weight on his left hind leg. Felt like more stones than was worth it - he had to find a safe place where he could hide and see if he could get them out. Was it even possible? He'd never tried.
As luck would have it, there was a barn. It was quiet and the door was ajar, and after a quick inspection, it seemed to be abandoned. He sicked as he settled next to some straw, resting his arms on a small ledge. Clearly, this was made for centaurs that couldn't afford to live anywhere else, or something. Or - it had been, at one point. The roof was open, hence why it was probably abandoned. It did smell a little stale. He shook his head and looked at his body. He ached, but that was to be expected, and he had a few cuts and scrapes here and there; again, nothing new. However, the discomfort (and some pain, in one hoof's case) was new, and so he tried to shift himself so that he could reach. Of course, it was a failure, so he simply rested his chin on the ledge and sighed. He could rest here, for now.
"--you hear? There's gon' be a new sheriff in town. Some sorta wrangler, or somethin'. Y'think he'll deal with that stupid colt?"
"Bah. He'll probably be scared away if the sheriff is worth anythin'. Either way, we'll find out if he's decent."
Christopher listened to the voices fade away, before rolling his eyes. Yeah. The day he was scared of a sheriff was the day he got caught, which would be...never. Hopefully. To keep this up, he supposed that he'd just rest here for a little while before moving on. No-one would check an abandoned, run-down barn for an outlaw. Obviously. His logic was flawless.
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Post by Deleted on May 20, 2017 20:08:51 GMT -5
yikes i went overboard w the starter JUST...IGNORE THE LENGTH IF U WANNA U DONT GOTTA MATCH haha
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Post by Deleted on May 21, 2017 14:59:54 GMT -5
no worries man! that starter is a+ perfect length, actually. I'm planning on writing a lot too, but I haven't really had time to sit down and crank it out. I wanna make sure it's good, ya know? and this was my hs graduation weekend, so yeah. things should calm down by tomorrow for sure. sorry my dude! gracias for your patience.
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Post by Deleted on May 21, 2017 17:46:03 GMT -5
im glad ;v; take your time man! i understand when u have loads of things happpening in rl and i am great at patience (': congrats on graduating btw!!
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Post by Deleted on May 22, 2017 1:07:00 GMT -5
Time seemed to stand still the day the new sheriff rolled into town.
Like most other days underneath the cold winter Montana sun, the townspeople moved around with all the speed of molasses. Drab, dusty buildings seemed to huddle together for protection from those harsh winds that whipped through the flatness and grasslands that stretched on forever. People looked just as beat-down and worn as their homes, beaten to a state of near lifelessness from the toil of their land, which, despite what the government had preached to them, was entirely unyielding to most crops; farmers had yet to make a breakthrough, and families struggled. Mining and ranching were the only profitable trades, but both leeched the lives out of men. It was hard living, breeding only the grittiest people.
Something deeper, more immediate, graced their tired, windblown eyes than just the hardship of their lives: people were scared, terrified. Children didn't tussle and play in the dirt streets like they did in every other settlement in America. Mothers lingered in doorways or by windows with furrowed brows and narrow, scrutinizing eyes, watching, eyeing every passerby with suspicion. The men were constantly rigid, alert to any sound that was at all out of the ordinary. Even the centaurs eyed their own kind with a guarded caution, for fear of associating with the bandit.
Tensions had undoubtedly risen between the two groups in the recent months. Accusations of all kinds were launched at centaurs, who responded as expected, badly. Even aspects of life that were essential to the both of them, mostly work relations, were beginning to fall apart. How can I work with someone involved with the bandit? / You're a goddamn hypocrite--humans have wronged us in more ways than you can even think of. / Well, so have your kind! It wouldn't be long until it all evolved into something more dangerous, and neither side wanted to resort to that. This issue needed solving, and it needed it as soon as possible.
After a town hall, the perfect man for the job was chosen. Who could bring a group of unruly people better than the son of Hugh Glass himself?
The man was a legend--someone powerfully real and feared all through America. His name was close to religion in the frontier states. He was a natural in the wild, a man born and bred to live the hardest of lives, one with survival as the resounding answer of every fiber in his being. Sure, his story was remarkable--how likely was it that he actually survived a mauling from a mother grizzly bear, driven to attack from an overwhelming motherly instinct to defend her young? But, nobody doubted its legitimacy. When his pictures circled in the newspapers, they knew. Something fierce, a vitality that smoldered, resided in his eyes. They knew it couldn't be bought, or faked.
Even the wind seemed to stop blowing when the man's son finally made it to town, weeks after the petition was mailed to him. The people expected his son to be just how they imagined him, one that moved with an effortless and obvious strength, whose swagger both overwhelmed and intrigued all who drew near. Instead, he proceeded down the main dirt road with the subtlety of a moving cat; his horse's footfalls seemed to make no noise. He sat with near perfect posture in his saddle. The stranger could've been mistaken for just some traveler, had it not been for the intangible self-assuredness of his movements and the secure position of his feet on the ground when he finally dismounted.
He couldn't have been Hugh Glass's son. No, he was far too dark-skinned--he's practically a full-bred redskin. He... Their doubts in their new sheriff began to fade the more they observed him. His eyes, though darker than theirs, were sharp, sparkling with an uncommon intelligence. Part of him resembled a white man, but there was too much of him that didn't to set the townspeople at ease. Yes, he was handsome, and he stood and walked with an easy gracefulness, but the muscle underneath his clothing moved and shifted, indicating that his body was a hard one. One capable of adjusting attitudes. Of surviving. He was his son.
They all thought it somewhat odd, despite the obvious familial resemblance, that Huritt felt comfortable enough to tie his horse up right in front of the government building and stride inside to greet the mayor. They waited, lingering in windows, doorways, in the street. About twenty minutes later (he had to present all documents he could to prove his legitimacy, including portraits with his father, birth certificates, and even a signed statement) their mayor walked out with the native trailing behind him, and announced in a clear voice for all to hear:
"There's a new sheriff in town."
Huritt never liked the attention even existing brought him, nevertheless this mayor's dramatic announcement to his people. He was wise enough to not let it show, however, and held his head high and kept his shoulders back. He introduced himself to those that would have him with firm handshakes and curt words of hello, but nothing more. He was well aware of how they felt of him; it was unspoken, of course, but didn't need to be said. He grew up with the same stares, the same whisperings behind his back, the thinly veiled distrust in their words. It was alright--he knew no other reality than this.
He was instructed to begin his work the next day, since he was allowed the rest of the afternoon and night to settle down and start getting acquainted with the town. He was gracious, of course, and took residency in a tiny bed and breakfast on the edge of town until he got around to buying a more permanent home. It wasn't like he was going to really use his bed; this night was meant for planning, for research and preparation leading to the final task in the next couple weeks. Huritt was calm with confidence as he reread the copious notes he'd taken on centaurs in his studies. Whoever this bandit was didn't stand a chance against the master hunter, tracker, trapper, and centaur expert.
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Post by Deleted on May 22, 2017 3:29:59 GMT -5
Something in the air changed. It wasn't something explainable, like when a pack of wolves moved around the town, staring at the cattle with hunger, but something more...dangerous. Not to the townspeople, but to him. He had been trying to relax, but Christopher realised, after a few moments, that he couldn't continue. This rundown barn could become dangerous.
He put his hands to the ledge and pushed himself up, struggling briefly to get his hooves under him. Once he was up, he was aware of the toll that a small amount of sleep (broken up, too) had taken on him. He was young, in his prime - but he really did not feel like it. If anything, he felt like he was running on borrowed time; but his life was too fun to give up. Messing with people, causing trouble, and making people and centaurs alike fear coming to this town. That was fun.
The centaur shook his legs out lightly and looked around, choosing to exit through the back. He limped along lightly, glaring briefly at a paddock of young, freshly tamed horses that watched as he went, some of them snorting and stamping their feet. Oh, they knew he was danger. They could give him away, but they remained quieter than they usually did and instead turned away, as if he wasn't worth their time. Christopher rolled his eyes but accepted this, casting his mind to the buildings around the town he could hide away in. There weren't really any unused buildings anymore; most of them used for storage after being repaired, or lived in even if still worn down. They knew how to make use of everything, were used to having nothing.
Grass and mud underneath his feet were a relief. A huge relief. They were cooler and gentler than stone, brushed against his legs and promised him no harm. Not too far in the distance, he heard the loud train as it passed on its tracks. It would be derailed, naturally. He'd taken some time to really put in some damage, and those rails? Well. They weren't quite fit for trains. He smiled faintly at the sudden screeching, the loudness of a train that was going slightly too fast coming off its tracks and flinging itself to the side. Then, the smoke billowed up - and voices cried out with surprise from the town. People would, of course, go to discover what had happened, and find the derailed train and the yelling people. Didn't sound like many people were hurt, but it was satisfying to know that train shipments wouldn't be coming in anytime soon. He snorted softly and adjusted how he held himself, setting his aching back hoof down even though it pained him.
An older centaur - he had to be in his fifties - caught sight of him. Took note of his smile and his posture, then of his coat colouring. He looked afraid, which Christopher knew was good. Within moments, the palomino old man galloped away, likely to tell someone that he had seen the bandit.
He was, of course, correct.
The palomino was well-aware of there being a new sheriff in town, had always been able to keep up on town news. Jeremiah was no fool, but he was quite fearful of the outlawed centaur around here, knew first-hand the damage he could cause. Had a nasty-looking scar over the bridge of his nose to prove it, too. He asked around - where would the new sheriff be the day before he started work? Fingers pointed here and there, but the next bed and breakfast he came to told him that the man was here, though he was rather odd, was he not? Did not at all look like they had expected. Jeremiah brushed this off and instead chose to invade the man's privacy because, hell, time was always short between the sighting of the criminal and when he moved.
"I don't quite care that you're goin' to start working tomorrow, or whatever," said the rough-voiced centaur, pushing the door open with one leg while turning his head to make sure the man maintained some privacy, "but people told me you were here, and you're supposed to be here to help us with the outlaw, right? Well, I've seen him. Not too far from the tracks, 'bout ten minutes outta town. Thought you might want a head's up. The colt, well. He don't stay around often. Might be months before he shows his face again."
His tone made it obvious; he deemed this an urgent sort of information. Seeing a pinto centaur wasn't rare, but it was uncommon in this part of America. Montana was proudly home to bays and palominos, even some chestnuts. Washington was where the pintos were, where the criminal would be so common that no-one would talk about his colouring. Well. There was also a matter of the scar; but people pretended they didn't care about that. Pretended they were clever enough to pick him up by coat colour alone. Judging from his proximity to the town, he had a bad feeling that the colt had been in the town. Jeremiah did not like that - it made him fear for his shop.
"Train was derailed, too, but there're probably people on that."
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Post by Deleted on May 22, 2017 18:45:30 GMT -5
Huritt raised his eyes from his parchment notebook, expression immediately crumpling into one of concern. Sure, he'd been surprised by this stranger's sudden intrusion into his own room, but the shock quickly faded into interest as he listened to him speak. The middle-aged centaur sounded genuine as he went on, and something in him
"The colt's nearby, you said?" He echoed as he slowly rose from the seat at his desk. The young man didn't know for certain whether or not he was entirely prepared for this--no, who was he kidding? It was his own cautiousness and self-doubt settling in. Of course he could handle this task, just like he used to with unruly centaurs on the Great Plains with his mother, and in Missouri with his father. Bandits and troublemakers were something he was used to dealing with.
"You remember where he was? Take me to 'im. I can go right now." Huritt reached across the desk for his holster belt, but hesitated halfway across with the second part of what the centaur said. "Wait--a train's been derailed, too?' No doubt the bandit's own work, he mused silently. And on the first day I take my job, too? He's a bold one, I'll give 'im that.
For a moment, he stood still, conflicted on what exactly he ought to do. For the public's sake, an appearance helping out after the train wreck might do his image some good; he was already at a critical disadvantage with his race and skin color, so no doubt at least offering aid and shaking hands might make a better impression on the townspeople. But, then again, the centaur claimed that other officers--his own deputies--were most likely already there, and this colt was an elusive little trick. He sighed.
" 'Aight. Show me to the colt, if you would, please," he finally said, sounding more firm than he did at first. "My horse is just out front." The young man clipped his belt on and retrieved his rucksack from underneath the desk, pulling out both pistols to slide inside the pockets. Just in case. He wasn't one to use force whenever he could, but liked to save his effort and ammunition solely for when it was necessary. But, judging by the nature of this colt, they might serve good to change his attitude a bit.
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Post by Deleted on May 22, 2017 18:57:54 GMT -5
Jeremiah doubted, briefly, the younger age of the sheriff; before shaking it off and nodding as he exited the room and then the inn, at a quick pace. He bounced between his legs as he waited, tail lashing with concern. What if the colt managed to get away? It was rare that even appearances were noticed, so the fact that he had been in such close quarters - it was unnerving.
"I remember where he was," he confirmed, "we'll have to be fast."
He meant that they'd have to gallop - full speed ahead, or whatever. The quicker they got to the location, the better. After a brief moment he set the pace, settling for a quick trot until he knew that the sheriff was on his horse. The streets were quiet enough that he'd be easy to follow as it was, and the sooner one of them got there, the better. If the other man's horse couldn't keep up, well. That was his problem.
Meanwhile, Christopher was walking at an unhurried pace. He was barely away from where he had been, and the slower pace was easier on his feet. He could take his time; he doubted the palomino old man would get very far in telling people that he'd been spotted. If so, then he doubted the man's ability to guide people. It was whatever. By the time the sheriff came by, Christopher hoped he'd be long gone - in the forest, at the very least. The trees were sparse and not great to hide within, but he could navigate his way. Sure, the stones and twigs became a problem on his legs, but he could deal with it. Had been dealing with it, for a very long time.
He hummed idly to himself and ran a hand through his hair, quite content at this pace. No worried, nothing to fear.
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Post by Deleted on May 23, 2017 23:10:46 GMT -5
The young man followed after the middle-aged centaur with haste, though he struggled to keep up with his longer strides. When the two reached the outside of the bed and breakfast, Huritt's mare--a lanky but strong snowflaked Appaloosa, no doubt an uncommon and exotic sight in American cities--was already alert to the change in atmosphere; her ears pricked to attention with the sudden rushed reappearance of the strange centaur and her rider. She eyed him curiously as he began untying her reins.
He spoke softly but gravely to her in a language that only they could understand, his mother tongue. I know you're tired, we've been going for weeks to get here, but please, give me all you've got for this. This is why we came here. I promise I'll rest you afterwards. She seemed to understand him, and yielded respectfully, allowing him to mount her with ease.
The young man huffed once he was sitting comfortably upright, turning towards the centaur with a determined expression. " 'Aight, show me the way."
To his surprise, his mare was able to keep up at quite a speedy pace. Sure, she didn't have the energy to sprint from their weeks long journey, but nevertheless she persisted at the same speed as the stranger leading them. The two shared a common goal, and wouldn't rest until it was fulfilled.
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Post by Deleted on May 23, 2017 23:24:32 GMT -5
True to Jeremiah's words, it only took ten minutes once they were out of town - and he was vaguely surprised at the hint of black and white that he could see, just by the treeline. He narrowed his eyes before turning to look at the sheriff and pointing, tail flicking back and forth to ward off the few flies that lingered despite the weather.
"Looks like he went there," he said, then crossed his arms, "sorry, sheriff, but I ain't goin' near that place if he's in there. I'm sure you can handle him."
He didn't quite sound like he believed that, nor look it, considering he had backed up a little.
Christopher, on the other hand, was quite content to stand near the outskirts of the forest, currently dismantling some sort of trap. Once upon a time, he supposed it had been for bears. Now, however, it looked like it was meant for him or the local wolves. Either way, neither would get caught because he'd seen it.
He winced a little as he brushed the palm of his hand over the jagged edges, but once he was satisfied that it was no longer dangerous, he tossed it aside and snorted softly. Humans. They always had to have some sort of semblance of control, even in the wilderness.
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Post by Deleted on May 23, 2017 23:46:03 GMT -5
fyi, I'll be out of town with very limited service until Saturday, at the latest. I'm going camping as a graduation surprise trip thing.
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Post by Deleted on May 23, 2017 23:47:16 GMT -5
yo man it's chill!! ty for tellin me
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