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Post by Cobraheart on Aug 28, 2016 0:37:57 GMT -5
Always wanted to role play a western on here. I have a couple plots we could try, or we could just wing it and see where it goes. c: Anyone interested?
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Post by ℜust ℜed ℜose on Aug 28, 2016 3:21:10 GMT -5
Hey there!
I'm certainly interested, depending on the plot. A western sounds like it could be a great deal of fun.
Do you have any sort of range that you like to fall in regarding post length? I'll generally match whatever you give me (anything between five sentences and ten pargraphs, really) but I'm curious.
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Post by John 3:16 on Aug 28, 2016 3:22:21 GMT -5
Hi
I gotta go to bed in a few but I'm in
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Post by Cobraheart on Aug 28, 2016 13:26:06 GMT -5
Alright, here's the first idea:
The town of Micah has been suffering for years. People go missing on a weekly basis, there's a robbery every month, and outlaws make up most of the population. It's all thanks to the drunken sheriff, character A, who can't be bothered to keep law and order, and has no one to keep him in check. Character B, an overwhelmed deputy, does what they can to maintain the peace, but it isn't enough.
Enter character C, a renegade marshal with a chip on his shoulder, come from back east to lay down the law and teach the sheriff a lesson.
There are other characters available too, like the bank tellers and outlaws. A romance between one of the lawmen and the criminals could be interesting. Lots of options.
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Post by John 3:16 on Aug 28, 2016 13:44:33 GMT -5
oo that sounds interesting im double in
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Post by Cobraheart on Aug 28, 2016 13:50:04 GMT -5
(sweet. /)u(\ Take your pick, I'm cool with any character.)
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Post by John 3:16 on Aug 28, 2016 13:56:05 GMT -5
(I'd rather wait for rose to get back on before I chose a charrie, if that's cool with u)
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Post by Cobraheart on Aug 28, 2016 14:04:32 GMT -5
Hey there! I'm certainly interested, depending on the plot. A western sounds like it could be a great deal of fun. Do you have any sort of range that you like to fall in regarding post length? I'll generally match whatever you give me (anything between five sentences and ten pargraphs, really) but I'm curious. (Yeah, no problem. I'm not in any hurry. And sorry, I totally forgot to answer your question. I usually write a couple paragraphs, sometimes a little less. Enough description to keep the plot going, but not so much that it drags.)
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Post by ℜust ℜed ℜose on Aug 28, 2016 14:54:51 GMT -5
[[Sorry about the poof!
I'm up for being anything, really, but if I had to pick I'd love the role of A. I never really take that sort of position; it'll be a nice change of pace from the usual dangerous outlaw I pick.
And cool, I'm about the same.]]
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Post by John 3:16 on Aug 28, 2016 14:56:34 GMT -5
( i think i'll choose b )
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Post by Cobraheart on Aug 28, 2016 15:43:39 GMT -5
(Awesome, that leaves me with character C. I can write a starter, unless one of you wants to. I'm happy to write a quick character description, too, but I normally just description through role play.)
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Post by John 3:16 on Aug 28, 2016 15:45:59 GMT -5
(i'd rather desc thru roleplay as well)
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Post by ℜust ℜed ℜose on Aug 28, 2016 15:52:47 GMT -5
Agreed.
And it's your plot; you'd probably do it the most justice.
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Post by Cobraheart on Aug 28, 2016 17:16:06 GMT -5
The summer had been hard on Micah; the city received little rain, and it was usually too hot to stay outside for long. Of course, the indoors didn't offer much respite from the sweltering heat, so most of the citizens were content with just lying in the shade. The outlaws were still at it, though, robbing both at night and in the heat of the day. They knew they could get away with it; no one had even tried to stop them.
Dust storms plagued the city in the dry season, and if it hadn't been for a neighbouring settlement--neighbouring, as in, fifty miles to the north--Micah would have been a ghost town. The city was just a pit-stop, it seemed, for notorious criminals, as they knew law enforcement wouldn't do much to bring them in. Really, they kept the city alive. Still, no one wanted the bandits around; it really put a damper on things.
It was late in the week when a brave soul, Whitaker Blackwood, the teller, ventured outside and shoved the sheriff's office door open. Coming directly from the crime scene, he hadn't bothered to replace his stolen cuff links or tie. His cheeks were red, either from the heat or the anger he harbored toward the sheriff. "Do you know what's just occurred?" Straight to the point today, no courtesy. He was too shaken for politeness. "I was just held at gunpoint in the bank and the blackguard stole my watch, not to mention half the vault! And where were you so-called 'police officers'? Nowhere to be found."
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Post by ℜust ℜed ℜose on Aug 28, 2016 17:48:53 GMT -5
His office was empty, as it usually was. No teary eyed woman telling him how some man broke in and took everything she'd had. No impatient gentleman telling that things were out of hand. No. No nobody. It was what he could have called a perfect day. He didn’t want to deal with drama, never had and never would. His job wasn't to handle town drama. It was to be the sheriff. After all, Clifton Allen Daniels was a busy man with a busy job. Or, at least he would have been, if he actually bothered to do it. The man leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet up onto his desk. He was perfectly content with how things were. He could do what the heck he pleased and there was not a soul could say about it. No sir.
He took a large drink from his mug and set the thing down on the desk. He let out a satisfied sigh, staring up at the ceiling. Same darn ceiling. Same darn town. And, oh the same darn hangover. Every day had begun to feel the same as the last by now. The same heat, the same dried up, dusty little place. Yes, by now every day had blended one into the other. It made it hard sometimes for him to pay attention. It was crime every day, and crime every night. He’d ignored the complaints for so long that they just stopped coming. The sheriff sat back, his hands behind his head. He could sleep if he wanted to. Nobody would even care.
All that wonderful peace and quiet was interrupted when door was flung open wildly. Clifton Daniels opened his eyes, raising an eyebrow at the gentleman man who had entered. “Well now, son,” he said, nice and slow, his brown eyes drifting to the door. “Calm down a bit. Close that there door an’ have a seat, why don’tcha?” He waved lazily at the stiff wooden chair in front of his desk. "We ain't savages now."
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Post by Cobraheart on Aug 28, 2016 18:31:58 GMT -5
"That's where I disagree." Whitaker always spoke more with his hands than he did with words, particularly when he was angry. Right then, standing before the sheriff, he'd become rather animated, almost to the point of flailing. "The thief took off on horseback not five minutes ago. You could still catch 'er, but you're not leavin' that chair, are you?"
There really wasn't much reason to think this robbery would be treated any differently than the others, but Micah had taken an enormous blow to its finances. It suddenly struck Whitaker that the sheriff did, in fact, have reason to care. Taking a deep breath, he tugged on his loose sleeves and folded his arms. "I don't think we'll have enough money left to pay most of the people in this godless town; I'll have to go without a paycheck, the mayor will have to sacrifice his, and you, Sheriff Daniels. What are you going to do without a salary? We'll have to--heaven forbid--rely on the charity of others for a half-decent meal."
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Post by ℜust ℜed ℜose on Aug 28, 2016 19:13:22 GMT -5
This was the same old game he always had to play with the folks here. It seemed it would never end, no matter how many times he played it. Someone would always have to wander in and start talking nonsense. He hated it. There wasn’t anything that could be done or somebody would have done it already. That was basic common sense. It didn’t matter to him whatever this man said, it was always the same nonsense and he had had enough of it. This little rat seem just as annoying as the rest of them. Waving about like a wild dog, he was. Made himself look like a darned fool doing that. Didn't matter what words went with it; Clifton wasn’t exactly lucid enough to pay anything much attention anyway.
What caught his attention, though, was the comment on money. Clifton adjusted his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, eyes narrowed. He took a long moment to think it over, staring past the man and at the wall. Finally, he gave a small shrug. “Go get ‘er then. ‘S your stuff ‘n all.” There was another pause and he looked at the gentleman curiously. "You want a drink or somethin'?"
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Post by John 3:16 on Aug 28, 2016 20:35:18 GMT -5
(Sorry for the poof, I'm doing a lot today)
(Will have a response up later, still really busy)
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Post by Cobraheart on Aug 28, 2016 20:50:13 GMT -5
"What I want, is--" Realizing he'd raised his voice again, and to no avail, Whitaker heaved a sigh and sat down opposite Sheriff Daniels. "Sure. I'll have a drink." The crime in this town wasn't his problem; he had to remind himself of that daily. In fact, Whitaker was considering riding out of town the next week; he was sick of Micah. Certainly, no one would go looking for the missing teller. He was just an obstacle to overstep when it came to the money. It would be a long trip, but any time away from Micah was well-spent, in Whitaker's eyes. "So, Sheriff, other than drinkin' yourself blind, what you been up to?" Blackwood thought he knew the answer: there was nothing else. Law in his city was a joke. The mayor was the same way. Last election, he was the only candidate, voted into office by default. Micah's biggest issue was its lack of pride, but nothing had been accomplished since its establishment. Only a few years old and it was already wasting away.
(No problem. Do you want us to wait for you?)
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Post by ℜust ℜed ℜose on Aug 28, 2016 21:05:16 GMT -5
[It’s fine! Reply whenever you have time.]
“Mm,” was his response. When the man sat down he took one of the large bottles that sat on his desk and poured the man a rather generous glass. Drunk or not, Clifton still had manners, ...or what he considered manners. He slid the glass over to the man and finished the rest of the bottle himself. He set the bottle down at the question, his expression a combination of mild amusement and dull confusion. “‘Course I do things,” he said defensively, and tried to think of a good example. The man frowned down at his desk as if it would provide him with an answer. He gestured to the random loose papers that were strewn everywhere. “Like, auh… the paperwork?” It sounded more like a question than an actual answer.
After a few more moments of looking at his papers he glanced back up at the man sitting across from him. “What’s your name, fancy?”
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Post by Cobraheart on Aug 28, 2016 22:02:27 GMT -5
(Clifton is my favourite. I just realized we should probably bring an outlaw into the mix, too, make things interesting before character C comes into play. What do you think?) "'Fancy'? That's a new one." Whitaker picked up the glass and downed its contents in one go, then, satisfied, set it down on Daniels' desk. "It's Whitaker. Surprised you don't know me; Micah ain't that big." He felt considerably more relaxed now that poison flowed through his veins, not so angry at the sheriff any longer. "You, uh, you need some help with that paperwork? I'm pretty good at organizin', accountin', and such. Say, where'd all your deputies go? I swear there were five of 'em at one point, now I only see that lone badge. Kinda sad, if you ask me. That deputy's out there doin' his best to protect the town and you're in here, havin' a drink with Mr. Fancy. I betcha get paid more, too. Y'wanna trade careers with me?"
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Post by ℜust ℜed ℜose on Aug 28, 2016 23:36:22 GMT -5
[[He’s quickly growing on me. Heh heh.
That’s probably a good idea (maybe the one who stole Whitaker’s stuff? If either of you wants ‘em go right ahead.]]
Now, if Clifton had been a sensible man he probably would have commented on how that would be doing all of his work for him. But he wasn’t; he was Clifton. “Well I won’t stop you,” he muttered, rooting around in the drawers of his desk for more alcohol. He didn’t really any attention to the folks in town, much less their names. Frankly, the man didn’t know why he bothered asking. “Pro’ally left,” he commented sourly, half slamming the drawers shut when he came up empty handed. “Don’t miss any o’ ‘em anyway.”
"Trade?" He frowned, staring at Whitaker blankly. He glanced around his office uneasily. "Rather like what I'm doing now. The paperwork 's fun. Mm. Paperwork." The sheriff let out a long sigh and sat back, taking his legs off the desk. "Can't get enough of the darn paperwork."
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Post by John 3:16 on Aug 28, 2016 23:50:10 GMT -5
The deputy's walk was brisk from the crime scene to the sheriff's office, his long and boney fingers holding paperwork with a crushing grip as his greeny-hazel eyes read through everything on the page. Except, he was too tired and too stressed to retain much from the boring sentences. Reading it was useless. He felt like he was useless. Deputy Sterling Ryder wasn't doing much to help the case, because he really couldn't, and now he had become a messenger boy. Delivering messages from person to person, his high rank in the police force completely ignored. The glittering silver badge adorning his jacket was turned a blind eye. All because he was overloaded with other things. It sort of pissed Sterling off, but he knew if he voiced his anger he would get fired.
His black combat boots clunked on the packed ground road beneath him, his long black coat, which normally reached his ankles, billowing out behind him as his brisk walk turned into a jog, and then into a run as the office came into view. One finger was removed from the paperwork and positioned on the bridge of his glasses, Sterling not wanting them to fly off of his face. His almost weirdly coloured dirty blond hair fell into his eyes as he ran, and he sighed and brushed it back, to only have it fall back down again. He shook his head, ignoring it, before slowing down in front of the dusty old sheriff's office. He quickly opened the door and let himself in, walking over to the sheriff's desk and slamming the papers down on his desk, not seeing the newcomer sitting in front of him.
"There you go. Yet another errand for you." Sterling spoke with a slightly deeper voice than was expected out a thin guy like him, and with an accent that was clearly saying that he was from out of state. He was from more to the East of the United States, and had to move here because of job reasons. But his thick accent was starting to fade, which did worry Sterling to an extent. But he discarded these thoughts before they could plague his mind. "Anything else you need?" Sterling's tongue was slightly sharp, signalling he was annoyed. He was indeed annoyed with the system, and what it had become, and everything else in between at the police force. Messenger boy... he would gladly punch whoever came up with that idea.
And then suddenly, Sterling's eyes removed themselves from the sheriff and snapped onto the newcomer in the room. Sterling's cold eyes narrowed at him, crossing his arms and jutting out his hip. "Who's this?" Sterling said, looking over the unfamiliar person. Sterling clicked his tongue and looked back over at Sheriff Clifton with a raised eyebrow. He pushed up his glasses and brushed his messy dirty blond hair out of his eyes, blinking slowly at the both of them.
(Sorry that took so long! I was really busy and my data is out rip)
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Post by Cobraheart on Aug 29, 2016 0:29:06 GMT -5
"I think the question is, who are you," Whitaker slurred. Not one of his high points. For a young, healthy man, the whiskey had hit him hard. His normally bright blue eyes were glazed over, and he didn't think he'd very well be able to keep his balance if opportunity to stand arose. If Whitaker couldn't do anything about the robbery, though, he might as we'll have tried forgetting about it. The alcohol had washed his cares away, leaving only bliss in its place.
"Need I remind you, ociffer, I was here first. Sit down, have a drink with us. You look like you could use one. Stress kills, ya know," another side-effect, of which Whitaker was unaware, included his affinity for rambling. He thought his words to be insightful, of great value to all listening parties. And he liked to hear himself talk. "What kinda funny accent is that, anyway? You from back east or up north? One of those Caleefornians?" Whitaker's drawl, usually not that noticeable, grew worse with time. It rarely reared its ugly head, but oh, when the accent emerged, he was almost unintelligible.
(In the next couple posts, I'll introduce our villain. c: )
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Post by ℜust ℜed ℜose on Aug 29, 2016 0:33:59 GMT -5
The sheriff looked up when the door opened, rolling his eyes and leaning back in his chair when he spotted Sterling. He didn’t miss the man anyway; although it was nice when he didn’t even have to get out of his chair. Clifton didn’t bother to glance at any of the papers set on his desk; there were a lot of them, too. Going through all of those would be a waste of time. They probably weren’t important anyway. Papers were boring. Paperwork was boring, too, but he could just say that now could he? Oblivious to the Deputy’s tone, he waved a hand to the empty bottle of alcohol resting next to him. He didn’t say a word, just arched an eyebrow, his implications clear.
Turning back to face the gentleman seated in front of him, Clifton hesitated. He had already forgotten whatever this one here wanted to be called. He was never a man for names, nor remembering. All the drinking didn’t help him that much “Fancy,” he decided firmly, as if that settled things. “Man came here to…” the man trailed off, peering at Whitaker. The sheriff jerked his head in Sterling’s direction, expecting ‘Fancy’ to finish his sentence for him. The sheriff threw his hands up in exasperation. He had already given himself quite the headache, and the day was nowhere near over. Of course, he’d never blame the drinking for that.
“Yeah," he agreed, nodding at Whitaker. "You want a drink, Sterling?” he offered, not seeming to remember he was already out. Clifton probably also missed that the offer practically meant ‘you want a drink? Go get it.’ And, even if he did know, never in a million years would he care. Not listening any more, he focused on a bird perched outside the window, staring at it like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
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Post by John 3:16 on Aug 29, 2016 0:46:21 GMT -5
('caleefornians' help me)
Sterling sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'm from New Jersey, to be exact." Sterling answered, already getting irritated at this man's behaviour. The alcohol definitely was not helping the newcomer. "And the name is Ryder. Sterling Ryder. But that's Deputy Sterling to you." Sterling spoke, glaring down at the man with freezing eyes. This man better not dare to make him do errands, or he will end up with a free trip to the hospital. "And I'd prefer to stay sober, thank you very kindly." Sterling's voice dripped with obvious sarcasm. "I actually have a job." He said, his long black coat swishing slightly in the wind as Sterling stared down at the man.
Sterling, even though he wasn't from the state, almost hit his head on the sheriff's desk at the man's pronunciation of 'California'. "It's Cal-ih-fornia. Not Cal-eee-fornia." Sterling corrected, pushing up his glasses farther up his nose. "Jesus, I'm not even from the state and I'm offended." He said, closing his eyes and shaking his tired head. Sterling opened his eyes once more as he ran his hands through the dirty blond locks of his hair, messing it up even more than it already was. "Now we got that out of the way, who the hell are you?" Sterling inquired, his voice questioning, as if he was interrogating a criminal.
(For some reason I love the name sterling oh my)
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Post by ℜust ℜed ℜose on Aug 29, 2016 1:28:15 GMT -5
“Sounds like he said it right to me,” Clifton commented, watching as the bird outside flew off. It was probably as done with this place as much as the folks that lived here. Who would be?
He shrugged, glancing between the two men having completely ignored everything else that had been said. He gave Whitaker a clueless smile with a small shake of his head. Sometimes one just had to wonder how a man like him could function (and to be honest he didn’t really). All he managed to do was drink himself silly. It was basically his job. That gave him the painful reminder that he had to do something about all the criminals running around. He wouldn’t have any money left for alcohol if he just sat around doing nothing. But… then again, he hadn’t had any problems so far.
The sheriff fixed his hat so it was more centered on his head. It was always so hard to tell what he was thinking (or if he even was at all, frankly). His expression was constant boredom or exhaustion, and there wasn’t much in between. Anyone who had to put up with him deserved a medal; maybe that’s what the deputy badges were really for. Now that was a thought.
“Leave fancy alone.” Clifton didn’t want to listen to people argue. He frowned at the empty bottle on his desk, giving Sterling a reproachful look. “I’m gon get myself another bottle; don’t you try nothing funny while I’m gone." The man stood up, his chair making a loud, annoying sound as it moved across the floor. He pushed past Sterling towards the door. The sheriff was taller than one might have expected him to have been; he spent so much time in his darn chair it was hard to tell. And, bless him, he still had his gun at his hip as if he’d ever actually use it for anything more than looking pretty. He stopped in the doorway, looking over his shoulder. "Or you can come along with me.” He nodded at that, agreeing with himself. “Then you can’t do anything stupid.”
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Post by Cobraheart on Aug 29, 2016 15:37:33 GMT -5
(sterling is a hot name, I agree)
"Hey, 'scuse you, Ryder, but I happen to have a job. Just ain't much to do there right now, seein' as all the money's been stole. That's why I came to see Sheriff Daniels; I'ze hopin' he could help me, but in his regular fashion, he didn't budge. So I figured 'well, I got nothin' better to do,' and then Daniels offered me a drink and here we are, havin' a nice chat with good company." This was Whitaker, laid out for everyone to see. Not the usual Whitaker; the resigned Whitaker, the everything-is-hopeless-so-why-even-try Whitaker. He'd taken a liking to this new-and-improved version of himself. Life was easier this way. "Ahm the teller. At least, I was. Got robbed earlier tuhday. She was a pretty thing, let me tell you. If I weren't already scrapin' by, I might have just given her the money."
He could barely see out the window. It was just high enough that Whitaker had to sit up a little straighter and tilt his chin skyward for a clear view, quite a feet under the influence of alcohol. A little unsteadily, Whitaker peered outside, puzzled by what he saw. It looked as though the outlaw, now galloping down Main Street on horseback, had a twin sister with an identical steed. Or maybe he was just seeing double. "Why, that's her, right there. Watch your badge, Sterling. She likes to take anything shiny."
Brazenly, the outlaw rode into the square and tied up her horse outside the saloon. Might as well take a break, if no one intended to come after her; Micah was the only city within fifty miles. It'd be awhile before she could pick up food and water.
She took off her hat, revealing locks of dark hair pulled into a messy braid. Sweat was beading on her brow and dust covered the outlaw from head to toe, but appearances didn't matter; Idoya was a cowgirl, not a lady.
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Post by John 3:16 on Aug 29, 2016 16:06:35 GMT -5
(I forgot to add that Sterling's face claim is Revenge Mikey Way because I'm original!!!1!1!!1!)
"You have a job? Well, you could'a fooled me..." Sterling remarked, rolling his eyes for want seemed like the millionth time just today. But when the newcomer verbally pointed out an outlaw coming into town, Sterling's eyes flitted over to the window to a cowgirl getting off of her horse in front of the local saloon. Sterling sighed in disdain, not feeling the same way as the newcomer as finding the cowgirl pretty. He wasn't into girls. Or really anybody, for that matter. He didn't find relationships interesting. But either way, he found his hand winding it's way to his pistol on his hip. He had two weapons, a knife and a pistol, with ammunition for it. The job called for both of them, for protection of course, and Sterling found himself to be a pretty good shot. "Got it, mister." Fast reflexes would prevent her from even touching the deputy. Let alone his badge.
Sterling knew what to expect from outlaws. They'll, when you least expect them to, out a gun to your head and demand all valuables to probably pawn off later with some creepy guy in the back alley for top-dollar. That's how they got rich. And Sterling could understand why. Jobs were hard to get, let alone make a good living to stay alive these days. But it still made him sick. That's why he turned to the police force. But this wasn't a good job for him, because he had no sense of authority about him, other than the pistol and the badge. Even though his boney complexion made his facial features sharp and almost stern looking, something about him screamed out soft, and totally ruined the strict face. It was probably how tired he was. People noticed the bags under his eyes and the way he laid his head down to rest almost every time he could get. He was overworked. He wanted to lie down and sleep for days. Weeks perhaps. But life wasn't fair.
"Should we go out?" Figuring this guy knew more about this cowgirl than he did, Sterling decided to ask her. His hands went to work on the pistol, loading it with a couple of rounds before sliding the safety on. He didn't want to blow off his foot accidentally. That would not do well for him. But maybe he could finally get some rest with it... Sterling quickly discarded those thoughts, thinking that thinking these would not do well for him as he did have a pistol in his hands.
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Post by ℜust ℜed ℜose on Aug 29, 2016 16:37:59 GMT -5
Clifton stopped in his tracks, his hand still on the door. He follow the other two men’s eyes to the woman riding into town. It wasn’t that he didn’t care what any of the outlaw were doing, but it was the going through all the trouble of catching them he hated. But this one? This one had just rode right back into town, probably not realizing what a mistake it was. That just made everything so much easier. No chasing around or nothing. Walk right up, deal with the lady and send fancy here on his way. Maybe celebrate with a drink. Yes sir, the sheriff liked the sound of that.
“Mm,” the man grunted in reply. He slipped out the door, about as gracefully as you’d expect him to be. He half stumbled, half pranced down the hall to the door. He checked his pistol, wiped off some of the dirt on the thing, and pushed the door open. Without checking to see if the others were behind him, he took a few more steps forward, aiming his gun and… promptly falling on his face. There was a dull thump as the sheriff didn’t even move to catch himself. He just fell flat into the dirt, dropping like a rock. One might have even felt bad for him, cursing and spitting out dusty. Not embarrassed in the slightest, Clifton got to his feet -althoughrather wobbly- and found a wall the lean on. “Whew!” he laughed, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the woman. “Quick one, she is. Thought I had ‘er.” The man put his hands on his knees, bending his head and staring at the ground.
All this chasing of outlaws was giving him a headache. Even a half reasonable man might have figured it was the whiskey doing all the headachin’, but this was Clifton. A small beetle crawling across the ground caught his attention. The sheriff smiled down at it, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. It proved difficult, and the man looked up at the square, wondering what the heck he’d missed. He looked at the pistol in his hand, a look of wonder crossing his face, as if he couldn't believe the outlaw had gotten away from him, despite how he had hardly even moved in her direction.
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