> Fire off a round at Goodwin, then twirl that six-shooter, grip facing earthwards at Lyrebird. Let lead fly from your hip, all whilst dropping to the ground.
> Grunt lowly and tuck your pistol away. Paying no mind to her threat, pivot to meet Annette's gaze head-on. Inquire 'bout the chore that's got both her and her man stumped.
> Tell Lyrebird that’s where she be wrong, then swing that revolver 'round to yourself. Without hesitation, send a bullet through your skull to, once more, scatter your essence to the four winds.
> [Write In]

___________________________

> UPDATES?
Once a day.
> PREVIOUS THREADS?
https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Wanted%20Dead:%20A%20Western%20Quest
> OTHER QUESTS?
https://pastebin.com/raw/4sBYKVqL

> I welcome any additional comments or thoughts along with a selected prompt if you have any.

___________________________

Possessions:
Pricey Revolver:
Custom-built, with pearl grip just for your hand, a hair-trigger suited to your style, all polished up, engraved, and maintained proper. Cost a fortune.

Pocketsfull of Feeble Iron:
Feeble as their namesake, your pockets are full up with feeble iron. Forged with desire they are made into bullets or whatnot. You scrounged up enough to keep the bullets flying for a good spell.

Goldie’s Pocket Watch:
Manifested from Usher’s nail he gifted to the brat, it is a brass, gold and silver vest timepiece with a portrait of Goldie’s brother Henry inside. The hour pointer of it singles out Henry, while the minute pointer lays claim to Goldie.

Ashen Skeleton:
Marrow turned as black as the ace of spades after you had a drink from some watermill’s waters. It clings to your soul, keeping the ghostly flesh and bones knit together even when they’d normally split. You figure there’s a limit to the hurt it can bear, ashen bones or no, but you ain’t found it yet. It fades with the passing days, leaving troubles in its wake.

“Life’s Gasps” Cigarette:
Slim whiff wrapped up in glinting gold Perry “reward” to you from his self-imposed gamble for returning from the El Dorado Warren sound and well. Says when you touch it to your lips, it sparks up on its own, giving the smoking fella it a chance to have a gander at the living world for a spell; 'bout a nickel's worth of time.

___________________________

Pains:
Right Shoulder Wound:
A mark left by Goldie’s shot, Lucifer’s Lead binds you to this here Graveyard Frontier. Your right arm doesn’t take kindly to any other Lucifer Lead bullet in reach of it.

Prickling Pain:
Induced from some devilish cactus, Prickly Niceties, they call ‘em. Their needles left a stinging ache from their bite in your ghostly flesh that don’t let up, even long after you shook ‘em off.

Thirst:
The thirst comes on quick and there ain’t much to drink, water or alcohol, to take the edge off. It’s parching pain that Prickly Niceties brought on you, grates your throat raw, and only eases up for a spell after you find a swig.

Gashed Palms:
Cut up by the rusty blades of some windmill you had to crank, both your palms burn like they’re fresh wound.

Shard Stabbing Pain:
The aftermath of that weak rock blowing up the entire chamber. It’s like thousand tiny needles piercing your ghost flesh, a relentless, agonizing hurt.

Left Shoulder Wound:
A lead bite left by “Charred Bone’s” shot buried deep in your left shoulder. The wound's sealed up, but the hurt blazes like a prairie fire.

Mauled Wrist:
A ragged hunk of your wrist that was torn off by the scorched charred spectre left in Cassidy's leftovers.

Wolves’ Frayed Scar:
Cutting fiercer and biting harder than any splinters from the El Dorado are the gashes on your back carved by them hellish wolves' talons and the tears from their devilish maws.

>>5758309
> Tell Lyrebird that’s where she be wrong, then swing that revolver 'round to yourself. Without hesitation, send a bullet through your skull to, once more, scatter your essence to the four winds.
She don't know what she's messing with.

>>5758309
>> Tell Lyrebird that’s where she be wrong, then swing that revolver 'round to yourself. Without hesitation, send a bullet through your skull to, once more, scatter your essence to the four winds.

>>5758426
>>5758667

“I’m one bullet away, that’s true,” you said, swinging your iron to press it to your temple. “But not from damnation, but you—”

Before your sentence was finished, your hand exploded without presence of smoke or gunfire, as if the air in your spectral flesh had ignited within. Every fragment of your ghostly hand vanished into fading motes, the charred bones trembling from the shock. Your iron spiralled skyward, out of your reach, as if caught in the rise of campfire smoke under the starless sky. You grasped at your hand, dropping to one knee; the pain mild but stinging. Glaring up, you gaze meet Lyrebird’s figure.

She stood with hair cut short and unruly, a tangle of curly brown-copper curls cascading around her ears and forehead. The rest of her hair was intricately braided in patterns as unpredictable as Lyrebird herself, each different from the next. She donned the same off-shoulder white blouse you ended her in, though not as awash in river water or blood. The ruffled blouse was tucked into a lengthy skirt of deep indigo, reaching below her ankles, layered such that each tier cascaded wider than the one above, reminiscent of tussling waves she stood in when she took the lives of men. She was holding by a lacquered walnut clutch an ethereal shotgun; the contours of it were illuminated by a sunset-bright sheen while the rest was remained shrouded in almost invisible mist.

“I’d claim I have a second barrel left, but this one doesn’t fire slugs,” Lyrebird said, levelling the shotgun at your head and pulling back the hammer. “Enough of your theatrics, Aug.”

Peering down, you saw ethereal wisps begin to coalesce around your skeletal hand, the ghost smoke drifting back to you after their shimmer. “Once I've done your bidding, what guarantees you won't turn that gun on me, looking for some respite?”

She shook her head. With a delicate motion, she tucked an untamed strand of hair off her face, only for it to stubbornly return “I wouldn’t be able to, I reckon.”

Your eyes stared into the flames of her eyes, then darted to your iron resting a distance away on the moon-scorched plains.

“Ain’t the threat of becoming a Judged by my hand enough to motivate you, Aug?” Lyrebird nibbled on the corner of her lip. “Ain’t it not?”

“I know you don’t have, for whatever reason, your heart in it. I've no intention of entertaining an outlaw's whims.”

The wooden grip creaked in protest as her grip tightened around it. “August, always so shrewd and certain. Righteous, busy, and oh-so-sure,” she said. “You might think you've got me figured out, but it's been a long nine years. Maybe I yearn for some reprieve from the torments of the Down Below. But … let’s give it another go. How about a request of a mother, would you entertain that?”

> Cock an eyebrow. What's she driving at? Weren't it her that done in her own kin? What kind of motherly asking could she be mulling over?
> Make it clear: you'll only throw in with her if she lends a hand your way, and just sparing your life ain't no favour. [What do you think of asking in return?]
> Rise to your feet and give a firm shake of your head. Ain't in the business of dealing' with outlaws, living or dead. Lyrebird might've lost her marbles, but maybe not entirely, if she needs you. If she thinks 'bout pulling that trigger ... you can hope your charred bones can hold on and you can wrestle with her.
> [Write In]

>>5760232
> Cock an eyebrow. What's she driving at? Weren't it her that done in her own kin? What kind of motherly asking could she be mulling over?

>>5760233
> Cock an eyebrow. What's she driving at? Weren't it her that done in her own kin? What kind of motherly asking could she be mulling over?

>>5760233
>> Cock an eyebrow. What's she driving at? Weren't it her that done in her own kin? What kind of motherly asking could she be mulling over?

>>5760273
>>5760326
>>5760440

You cocked an eyebrow. “A mother’s plea? What in tarnation are you mulling about? I might not know much about mothers, but I’m pretty sure they don’t do what you did.”

Lyrebird let out a drained sigh; she eased the shotgun slightly, only to hastily realise that and raise the barrel back to your head.

“I told you to listen, not to accuse me,” she huffed, pushing her free sleeve-puffed arm over her hip. “So, will you? The request is … well … a Wendigo.”

“A Wendigo?” you echoed. “What does a Wendigo have to do with you being a horrible mother? You’re not making sense.”

“Might make sense if you let me finish,” she said, drawing another sharp breath. She then smiled, fluttering her eyelashes, either at you or the man behind you. “There is a devil of a creature here they call the Wendigo. If it feasts on you, piece by bite, your soul is forever trapped to reappear within its gut, to be gobbled up time and time again. Only way out for those inside is if the creature's put down, but those trapped can't do a thing to help themselves.” Lyrebird’s grip faltered. “I've got as much blood on my hands as you do, ‘Only Dead’ Aug. Been eluding those after me for near a decade. But this Wendigo? Even with Goodwin backing me, it's too strong. So I want you, the famed bounty hunter, to help me.”

By now, the cerulean smoke had fully enveloped your hand to shape the form of your fingertips.

“You're telling me that beast's got your children’s souls?”

“Yes.”

“And you aim to save 'em, just so they can pull a bullet in ya ... outta remorse?”

Lyrebird twisted the leather of her belt. “Yes, it’s guilt, but I also wasn’t in right mind back when I did it. You didn’t care, and don’t care, about my story, so why the sudden interest now?”

“I reckon I’m just curious.” You shrugged, casting a sidelong glance at the stoic man in the white hat behind you. Maybe you could take -his- iron once he’s in your reach?

“Get your fill of curiosity, ‘Only Dead’ Aug. I need to know, are you going to help me or I can consider all this talk for naught, and I shouldn’t waste my chances with you?”

Memories stirred of old Bill mentioning the Wendigo, though he did little but mention it by its name. Lyrebird was desperate to save her children from the creature's clutches. If you did help, her offspring would be able to seek revenge on her, and then Lyrebird would, indeed, be helpless to rest her own soul after that. That’s one less soul to fret over. But there's always the chance you're different, marked uniquely by Goldie's Lucifer Bullet …

> Let Lyrebird know the deal: you're game to lend a hand, but she's gotta guide you to them Coffin Fields first. Got a hankering for a coffin nail, might be it holds the key to a way out.
> Prod Lyrebird a bit, does she know 'bout the rule? One soul gets their shot at vengeance, the rest are outta luck. If she's got two young ones waiting, well, she ought to do the math.
> Nod along, acting like you're in cahoots. But in your mind, you're scheming. Once that six-shooter's back in hand and the moment's ripe, you’ll aim at Lyrebird's head and pull the trigger.
> [Write In]

If you could, please name most memorable of your favourite moment in the Quest so far.

>>5761140
> Prod Lyrebird a bit, does she know 'bout the rule? One soul gets their shot at vengeance, the rest are outta luck. If she's got two young ones waiting, well, she ought to do the math.

>>5761142
Probably when we first got shot, the prickly niceties, or the mine.

>>5761140
> Let Lyrebird know the deal: you're game to lend a hand, but she's gotta guide you to them Coffin Fields first. Got a hankering for a coffin nail, might be it holds the key to a way out.

>>5761142
While the gambling scene was pretty kino I like the mine's ambience and mystery I still feel bad about letting what could of possibly been a bro die there. But who knows, nobody can really be trusted in this place.

>>5761200
Funny your memorable moment is the very beginning of the quest, that's probably good.
What moment in the mines? Or mines all together?
>>5761301
Same question for you. Yes, shame for that guy. *Ruffles papers* Shame for Landry.

>>5761140
>> Nod along, acting like you're in cahoots. But in your mind, you're scheming. Once that six-shooter's back in hand and the moment's ripe, you’ll aim at Lyrebird's head and pull the trigger.
>>5761142
it's difficult for me to chose

>>5761482
I'd say that part where Goldie was unconscious, if I remember correctly there was some trippy stuff happening.

>>5761140
>>5761301
I'll change my vote to
> Prod Lyrebird a bit, does she know 'bout the rule? One soul gets their shot at vengeance, the rest are outta luck. If she's got two young ones waiting, well, she ought to do the math.
To keep things moving.

>>5761140
>> Prod Lyrebird a bit, does she know 'bout the rule? One soul gets their shot at vengeance, the rest are outta luck. If she's got two young ones waiting, well, she ought to do the math.
>>5761142
the mines

>>5761200
>>5761301
>>5761484
>>5761496
>>5761540

You narrowed your eyes and tilted your head her way.

“You got two sons—”

“Daughters.”

“Your got two daughters, then” you said. “Word ‘round the Graveyard Frontier is only the first soul to settle their score finds peace. Set me straight, Lyrebird.”

Specks of worn mercury lipstick shimmered on Lyrebird’s bitten lips in the smothering moonlight. She shifted her weight, finding her footing anew with each sway. Pausing, she pushed down her head, letting it rest against her uncovered ghostflesh. She cast her gaze at your feet as she gathered her voice.

“So you’re privy to that much, huh?” she murmured.

“You don’t mean to say … You thought this through any? Were you even aware?”

Meeting your stare, her eyes kindled with a fresh blaze of blue fire. “Of course I was aware. Been racking my brain on how … Maybe they both stick their blades in me at once. I'll have both of 'em hold the iron they use to finish me off in their tiny hands.” She pointed behind you, at Goodwin. “Or, once they’re out, that coffin nail will conjure something to aid me.”

You spit narrowly missed her bare toes. “And here I reckoned you had a scheme brewing, but you are clueless,” you said. “I guess, one soul finding peace is better than none at all.”

Lyrebird, first glaring at you, uncocked the shotgun’s hammer. “I'll see to it both of 'em find peace.” She lowered the barrel, pointing the shotgun downwards, then spat a scant womanly amount into her stretchered palm. Her arm shot forward, fingers splayed and tensed. “Either way, that’s my problem to worry about. All I’m asking from you, Aug, is a plain answer.”

> Grasp her hand firmly, giving your word that you’ll help her.
> Nod in agreement, but keep your hands to yourself. After your tangle with the "Riddle Wrangler", best steer clear of any word-binding pact.
> Lay it out simple: you'll back her play, long as she does the same for you.
> Tell her straight: you're in, but only if the two of you can hatch a smarter plan for that Wendigo. None of this aimless wandering and blind firing.
> [Write In]

>>5761827
> Tell her straight: you're in, but only if the two of you can hatch a smarter plan for that Wendigo. None of this aimless wandering and blind firing.

>>5761827
>> Tell her straight: you're in, but only if the two of you can hatch a smarter plan for that Wendigo. None of this aimless wandering and blind firing.

>>5761827
>> Tell her straight: you're in, but only if the two of you can hatch a smarter plan for that Wendigo. None of this aimless wandering and blind firing.

>>5761827
> Tell her straight: you're in, but only if the two of you can hatch a smarter plan for that Wendigo. None of this aimless wandering and blind firing.

No update today, sorry. Thanks for all the answers to the question.

Update tomorrow, I promise.

>>5763856
I hope all is well, QM?

>>5761847
>>5762092
>>5762151
>>5762466

“Plain answer, you say?” Your eyes flicked to your hand, everything reformed and intact, bones charred yet whole. In deliberate motion, you curved your elbow and swept your hand past her open palm, withdrawing it to your hip after. It was sort of a long-distance handshake; after the Riddle Wrangler’s bout, you had no intent to gamble on the deals and pacts, be they sealed with riddles or handshakes. “Fine. Do you even know where this there Wendigo’s at?”

Lyrebird sighed at your reticent agreement, brushing off the spit against her indigo garment. “Not the Wendigo,” she said, her left hand reaching past her thigh and into an unseen pocket of her waving skirt. She pulled out a small cardstock frame, enclosing a barren tintype photograph. Narrowing her eyes, the blue flames flickering through her eyelids, she lifted the photo up to her face. She began to drag it slowly left of her, With slow, measured steps, she began to trace a circle, and as she did, the blank grain of the tintype darkened to reveal two young girls, as if her movement was brushing away the metallic sands within the grained depiction. The girls’ small forms grew more distinct with each subtle shift of the photograph. With her back turned to you, she said, "I know just where my little girls are at."

You let your eyes rest on the arcane tintype. “Well, that's something to hang yer hat on, leastways,” you said. “Ever eyeballed that Wendigo up close?"

“Only caught sight of it,” Goodwin said from behind. "The Wendigo is like a roaring dust storm; get too close, and it’ll gulp you whole.”

“So what do you want me to do?” you asked. “I’m a sure shot, but I reckon that alone ain’t going to be enough.” You glanced at Lyrebird, who hadn't taken her eyes off the photograph once. “Y'got any kind of … I don’t know, plan?”

“We got a couple aces we were pondering on,” Goodwin said, resting his hand on his wrist while his other still held the revolver. One of his fingers lifted off the gun’s grip. “One, we could use this here nail we got, hoping it'll summon something that’ll match up well against the Wendigo. Two,” he lifted his forefinger, “might lead that beast to a town, on the chance that it'll gorge itself to the point of incapacitation. Might work, might not. Even a critter that ornery's gotta have its fill hunger’s eventually.” Goodwin slid off his arm and waggled his smallest finger. “Lastly, there's the matter of the white buffalo."

“Folks been on the prowl for that thing for who knows how long; ain't no good of a plan, Goodwin.”

“Ah, it’s the best one, darling,” the man said with a relaxed smile, darting his attention from Lyrebird to you. “Heard tell of a solitary white buffalo wandering these godforsaken parts, only shard of purity in the Down Below. Few claim they've laid eyes on it, but I reckon most are spinning yarns. Them Chindi? Well, that white buffalo's 'bout the only thing could divert 'em from yer trail, seeing as they'd hunt for it.”

“And this there white buffalo’s gonna whup the Wendigo?”

“Likely as not.”

> Declare you're all in, whatever they’ll decide on.
> Let Goodwin know the score: hand over that nail and you'll conjure up something handy. If he ain't willing, then he best be leading you to them Coffin Fields.
> Reckon the white buffalo's the best bet, but does he have a lick of sense 'bout where to start tracking such a spirit?
> Feed a whole town to that Wendigo on the off chance it'll gorge itself to death? Twisted as it sounds, it's a way to dodge a straight-up fight, and it's got its own logic.
> You’ve got your timepiece that leads to Goldie, the immortal girl packing a bullet that just might put that Wendigo down for good … if you could sway her to pull the trigger.
> [Write In]

>>5764403
> Reckon the white buffalo's the best bet, but does he have a lick of sense 'bout where to start tracking such a spirit?
If only because I have no idea what to summon up to end a Wendigo, even with a coffin nail

>>5763880
Yes, just work.

>>5764403
>> Reckon the white buffalo's the best bet, but does he have a lick of sense 'bout where to start tracking such a spirit?

>>5764403
>> Reckon the white buffalo's the best bet, but does he have a lick of sense 'bout where to start tracking such a spirit?

>>5764417
>>5764445
>>5765700

You traced the hairs of your grey beard, mulling over Goodwin’s words.

“Figuring the white buffalo’s our best bet. Where do we start looking for it?”

With a spin of the trigger guard, Goodwin holstered his shining revolver into his shoulder rig, seemingly content that Lyrebird’s shotgun alone was a sufficient threat.

“Folks I figured weren’t spouting wind about meeting that redskin ghost said much the same. Chindi or some other hell-spawn chasing ‘em when that white buffalo came out of the twilight, bright as a rival moon. Just like that, it stole the beasts’ gaze, and the tellers were able to escape. That's all they recall, and where I reckon we oughtta begin.”

You gave a throaty cough, spitting onto the parched sands. “So your idea is to call down the Chindi or some worse, and pray the white buffalo shows up ‘cause it will?”

“That’s the up and down of it.”

Your neck made a loose crack as you stretched it out, your eyes drifting to the trim frame of your iron laying at a distance.

“That buffalo never showed its hide when them hellhounds were mauling at me,” you said.

Goodwin leaned on his knees and, blinking, said, “You got eyed by them black fur beasts?”

Your eyes turned slits. “And if that be the case?”

“Then they’ll be hot on your trail,” Lyrebird spoke, a tinge of resentment in her tone. She looked over her shoulder, at the horizon past the green ruins. “Then they'll follow you until the end of days, 'Only Dead' Heart. That’s what those beasts do, hunt. They run your soul ragged, wearing it down until there’s nothing left. Maybe, just maybe, they had their sights on another, one that ain’t returned since it met their fangs and claws, and you were just a wagon snack. But were I you I wouldn’t gamble on it.”

“And what if I weren’t alone when them beasts set eyes on me?”

“Who?” Lyrebird asked.

“That ‘who’ ain’t important. They going after me or the ‘who’? First one they set eyes on?”

Goodwin adjusted his white hat. “That might be so, it's the one of the two who done made the chase more interesting for ‘em?”

Delighted their hunt, he said. Goldie was regenerating the lost limbs of her soul in seconds, that would make her the ultimate prey for those wolves, wouldn't it? Not that you cared, but how did she escape?

“Seeing as you're like to be chased by them black fur beasts, reckon we might catch the eye of that white buffalo without even trying,” Goodwin said, his smirk twisting more.

"That ain’t no kind of plan," Lyrebird retorted, her ethereal shotgun’s barrel still aimed on you.

You pointed your fingers at the luminescent outlines. “You aiming to lower that Winchester anytime soon, Lyrebird? Ain't we done shaking on it?” you asked.

“You're no cowboy if that's yer idea of a handshake,” she said, echoing her earlier spit. She eased the hardwood grip, everything around it beginning to dissipate, the ethereal form melting into the cold air.

Goodwin whistled in the air through his teeth .“If we can call up some Chindi too, 'twixt them and the hellhounds, that white buffalo will have no choice but to show itself to ‘rescue us’. What say you?”

> Roaming the Graveyard Frontier just hoping hellhounds'll tackle you ain't exactly what you'd call a plan. More like a last-ditch gamble, and a risky one at that. Maybe ponder a different way?
> Might be worth finding out if them black-furred devils have marked you for their prey. Suggest to Lyrebird and Goodwin that y'all team up and mosey along, to see what’ll happen.
> If Goodwin's yarn 'bout the white buffalo holds water, drawing' some Chindi spirits might boost your odds of crossing' paths with the white buffalo spirit.
> [Write In]

>>5766364
> If Goodwin's yarn 'bout the white buffalo holds water, drawing' some Chindi spirits might boost your odds of crossing' paths with the white buffalo spirit.
Maybe we can find a mixed-blood in this Hell, half-White and half-Indian, or an Indian turned Christian or something, and get some advice or lore from them?

>>5766364
> If Goodwin's yarn 'bout the white buffalo holds water, drawing' some Chindi spirits might boost your odds of crossing' paths with the white buffalo spirit.

>>5766364
>> Roaming the Graveyard Frontier just hoping hellhounds'll tackle you ain't exactly what you'd call a plan. More like a last-ditch gamble, and a risky one at that. Maybe ponder a different way?

>>5766377
>>5766407
>>5767029

“I reckon that’s our best shot for crossing trails with the spirit,” you said. “So, how are we fixing to call up more of them Chindi?”

“There ain’t one way,” Goodwin said. “It’s often something you’d rather steer clear of.”

“Well, I already had to deal with a few,” you recalled; thinking back when Goldie struggled to shoot any with your Colt. You glanced about the spectral wreckage. “Let’s just mosey on out into the open, like I done before to rustle up their notice.” Your finger singled out the sand not far from Lyrebird. You looked at her. “You’re going to let me pick that piece, or what?”

“Fine,” she said.

Lyrebired turned around on her toes and neared the weapon. As she leaned for it, her layered skirt lifted and swayed like the inviting warm waves of the sea. Grasping the iron by the hilt, she studied its form. “Y’ever set foot in the Coffin Fields yourself, ‘Only Dead’ Aug?” she asked before tucking the gun under her blouse and then pitching it at you.
You caught it mid-air with a short, firm snap, sliding it into your holster. You drummed the engraved pearl-grip for a short spell before withdrawing your hand off it.

“No, ain’t never been there,” you said. “It's mine; had it on me the whole time.”

“Someone bested the great bounty hunter in a shoot-out?” the man said, eyeing your firearm with newfound curiosity. He kicked at the ground, shifted his saddlebag over his shoulder, and, with a nod, started walking away.

You grimaced. “We were both armed,” you said the truth, tilting your head at the ruins as you trailed him. “What exactly went down here, and how many days ago it happened?”
Lyrebird shifted too, shadowing you to form a chain with you in the middle.

“Who is keeping tabs on the days in this purgatory?” Goodwin laughed it off. He put the fingers of his free hand to his lips, licking the tip of each in turn. “More than five … Ten days, no less, ‘Only Dead’ Aug.” Goodwin wiped his wet fingers on his coat. “As for what came to pass, weren’t here to see it unfold myself, but ain’t hard to piece together. An Evergreen came back, and it was sore as a boil finding souls using its shedding to cobble together a town. Y’see, one of them Evergreens sheds its parts to sprout from them anew, but that can’t happen if souls repurpose it first. Now, if an Evergreen gets a whiff of that, it’ll come down on the town in a fury, and considering its size, y’can reckon the mayhem.”

Your gaze swept over the roofs and walls: wrecked in every single house, all equally laid to waste by the Evergreen’s wrath. You stepped cautiously over the charred floorboards.

“So what’s next? There here ruins gonna birth a new Evergreen?”

Goodwin looked your way, the brim of his white hat as if illuminating his eyes. “Who’s to say? They’re still just floorboards and timbers, aren’t they? Maybe if no one troubles it for a few years …” He paused, eyes closed, and let out a low chuckle “Ah, shoot, reckon it’s too late? You, Annette, and me done riled it up. Add a few more years, suppose the tree’s luck has run dry.”

Behind you tinkled a dainty laughter. You turned your head, but Lyrebird had already muffled her mouth behind her palm, her faux-furrowed scowl wrinkling her forehead.

Your eyes remained still on her for a spell. What was so funny? Clearing your throat, you rolled your eyes and turned away.

“I was pondering, maybe we could go looking for half-breed Injuns? f we're on the hunt fer a redskin spirit, wouldn't it stand to reason to find someone versed in the myths of it?”

Goodwin scratched at his whiskers. “Sure enough, them half-breeds wind up here same as any cowboy. It's only the full-blood natives who get... who knows what? Their tailored-for paradise?”

“But if you die from a grizzle bear or the consumption, don't matter if you're red or white, y'ain't gonna land in the Graveyard Frontier? I recall hearing something like that.”

“Odd, ain’t it? The Down Below's a place fer cold-bloods, 'less you a Native, of course” he said. “Until you figure how to bend them here rules, you’ll have play by them.”

Rules, by who? Shaking your head, you dismissed the thought. "Do you know of any half-bloods, then?"

Goodwin shrugged. “All my time here, I’ve crossed paths with a few, or more that I’ve meet a few. Y'won't know they's half-breeds 'til they say so, same as y'won't know a black or a Chinese ...”

“I know of one,” Lyrebird said. Her hand fell away from her mouth and her brows smoothed out, returning to how they were before.

You squinted with one of your eyes. “One that you killed?”

“Someone -you- had killed. Do you not recall?”

“Who?” Your knuckles brushed your brow. “I’ve done in a half-Injun? When did that happen?”

Lyrebird lips pulled back in a tight snarl. She held down a sigh. “Maria Stillwater. Went by ‘Papoose’? Did that mended your forgetting?”

You nibbled on your lip. “‘Papoose’? … That suppose to mean she’s a half-breed? I’ll take your word for it … You met her?”

“Yes. Long before you showed up. She found me, asked 'bout the both of us, and gave me a beaded bracelet. I still got it, though it, but ain't 'round my wrist.” She gestured to Goodwin's shoulder, where the saddlebag was. “Now that I think about it, reckon she meant for me to wear it if I ever crossed trails with you ... or maybe force you to wear it.”

> Holler at Goodwin to halt and unbuckle the saddlebag. Fish 'round for that Papoose's beaded bracelet, then strap it onto your wrist. See what shakes out.
> You ain't keen on getting cosy with one you've put six feet under. Drop a hint that Lyrebird was likely the one asked to wear the trinket. Suggest she go ahead.
> You ain't looking to pile more of your past wrongs onto the mess you're already in. Decline that beaded bracelet and stick to Goodwin's heels as y'all exit Ruetown.
> [Write In]

>>5766377
Smart thinking!

>>5768080
> You ain't keen on getting cosy with one you've put six feet under. Drop a hint that Lyrebird was likely the one asked to wear the trinket. Suggest she go ahead.
No hinting. "Probably a trap, then. If you don't want to risk losing me before we get that wendigo, best I don't wear it until we know it's safe."

>>5768080
>> You ain't keen on getting cosy with one you've put six feet under. Drop a hint that Lyrebird was likely the one asked to wear the trinket. Suggest she go ahead.

>>5768080
>> You ain't keen on getting cosy with one you've put six feet under. Drop a hint that Lyrebird was likely the one asked to wear the trinket. Suggest she go ahead.

>>5768080
> You ain't looking to pile more of your past wrongs onto the mess you're already in. Decline that beaded bracelet and stick to Goodwin's heels as y'all exit Ruetown.

Very much sorry, I overslept today and just have a hour before work now. And tomorrow my working hours are shifting so I'll try but can't guaranteed a reply ...

>>5769152
No worries, QM. Life happens!

>>5768108
>>5768472
>>5768642
>>5769071

“I reckon you shouldn’t force me to wear it, no,” you said. “Do you even know what that thing does? You willing to gamble losing me before we even square off against the Wendigo?”

Lyrebird shook her head. “I’d rather you tangle with the Wendigo first. Just putting it plain, if you’re hankering for the company of a half-breed, there’s one yonder, and she even set aside lil’ gift for you.”

“Her true gift, I reckon, being a shiv she can stick me with,” you said, stepping over the fallow soil and the splintered woodwork, an ethereal smoke-lit glow exuding from within the planks.

“Of all the ones you’ve sent here, ‘Only Dead’ Aug, how many you got to cross paths with?” Lyrebird asked, the azure flames within her eyes crackling in tune of her words.

Brushing your forelocks away from your eyes, you said, “Maybe one, not counting you. Had lead sent my way in this very town, but didn't linger long 'nuff to catch sight of the shooter. How’d you know I was here?”

Lyrebird slanted her skull, her gaze drifting past you to Goodwin. He glanced over, touched his steepled fingers to his chin in thought, and then splayed out his hand, palm open.

“Right there,” she declared, pointing her finger upwards the sky.

Your eyes followed her gesture, climbing higher until they met a macabre sight. Suspended high above, thrice as the height the former structures of Ruetown stood, dangled a hatless man in faded denim garments. Looking up from the ground, he appeared no larger than your thumb. His head was thrown back, his neck stretched taut by an unseen rope, his body writhing as though still capable of drawing breath. He flailed his arms, grasping at the empty air. You squinted, turning your eyes back to Lyrebird.

“That fella?”

“Who now?” Lyrebird echoed. She lifted her gaze, her mouth opening an inch before she pressed her lips shut. “That wasn’t what … I was trying to point at.”

Goodwin halted following you and Lyrebird. He tipped the brim of his hat back to afford himself an unblocked view. “Be that … Chuck?”

“I-is there someone there?” an almost inaudible voice drifted down from above. “Lend me a hand, for the love of God” the spectral figure followed with a faint mutter..

“He was the one who couldn’t crack that Riddle Wrangler’s riddle, ain’t he?” you said, gripping your iron. “I reckon I got just the way to cut you loose, partner!” you yelled.

“Wait! Please … no … hold your fire,” the man said, the thunderous storm clouds drowning out his distant feeble voice. “The pain. I don’t want to be saddle with that kinda of pain for eternity.”

> Turn a deaf ear to the feller's pleas and let loose a single round. He's like to dangle there till Kingdom Come if you don't intervene, seeing as his only other ticket out is unraveling one of Abel's conundrums.
> Holler at the man, asking just how long he's been strung up like that, and maybe poke 'round 'bout what confounded riddle from Abel's got him in this sorry state.
> Offer up the notion to leave him hanging. If he's aiming to dodge the pain, you ain't got another way to free him from Abel's noose. He can do whatever.
> [Write In]

>>5770887
>> Turn a deaf ear to the feller's pleas and let loose a single round. He's like to dangle there till Kingdom Come if you don't intervene, seeing as his only other ticket out is unraveling one of Abel's conundrums.

>>5770889
> Holler at the man, asking just how long he's been strung up like that, and maybe poke 'round 'bout what confounded riddle from Abel's got him in this sorry state.
It's probably not solvable but, if it is, maybe we canbfree him that way. If not, well, it is what it is.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>5770905
>>5770908

>>5770905
>>5770908

“Well, I ain’t got another way of saving you,” you said, moving your eyes away from the iron’s crosshairs. “How long have you been dangle-hanging there, anyhow?”

He let out a hushed whimper. “I’m … I can’t reckon the time no more. Riddle Wrangler, he... he paid me two visits, and I still can’t cipher his riddle.”

“Oughtta known better than to tangle with that devil to begin with,” Goodwin said, using his knuckles to smudgen his grin. “Ain't heard of a soul figuring one of ‘em.”

Your gaze shifted back and forth between Chuck and your iron. Chewing on the cold air, you said, "Well, darn it, how else are we supposed to get you down?"

Goodwin lazily waved his hand through the air. With a stifled chuckle, he imitated Chuck, "The riddle—"

“The godforsaken riddle,” Chuck said, almost as through straining his voice. “I've lost all reckoning of time, and I still can't come up with a response, an answer, he'd take. Give it a ponder!”

Your fingers grazed your throat. “Who's to say you ain't aiming to pass your curse onto us? I don’t want another of them noses over my neck again.”

“Again?” Lyrebird said, her eyes shifting from the man to you; her eyes narrowed when you held your tongue.

“Wouldn’t worry about it,” Goodwin drawled. “During my last sojourn, heard tell that Chuck's been yammering his riddle to everyone passing below him.”

“Then even if he tells us, we’re just wasting time.” Lyrebird looked at you as if staring down a rattlesnake. “You don’t seem to be the riddle-cracking type anyhow, ‘Only Dead’ Aug.”

Your brow creased. Locking eyes with the man, you said, "Well, spit it out.”

Chuck jerked his head, the invisible noose around his neck twisting it like a bent nail. “What is” —he clawed at his throat— “the question that dreads of its answer?”

> Mull it over some, then offer up yer best answer'. [What?]
> Give a loose shrug; you're in the dark as much as he is. Let Goodwin and Lyrebird take a stab at it, though they don't seem all concerned 'bout the man's predicament.
> 'stead of a reply, toss out the offer to put a bullet in him one more time. If he turns you down again, mosey on. How Abel figures folks should untangle his twisted questions is beyond you.
> [Write In]

Sorry for the sporadic update.
Thank you all for playing so far, I really appreciate it.

>>5772469
> Mull it over some, then offer up yer best answer'. [What?]
"Am I dying?" might be one.

>>5772469
> Give a loose shrug; you're in the dark as much as he is. Let Goodwin and Lyrebird take a stab at it, though they don't seem all concerned 'bout the man's predicament.
I can't think of anything that.

>>5772469
>> Give a loose shrug; you're in the dark as much as he is. Let Goodwin and Lyrebird take a stab at it, though they don't seem all concerned 'bout the man's predicament.

>>5772469
>> Mull it over some, then offer up yer best answer'. [What?]
Weither or not there is a Higher power?

>>5772469
Ooo, >>5773284 is a good one, too. Building upon this, and mine at >>5772536, maybe the answer is:
>Do I really deserve to be here?
If the answer is 'yes', that is existentially terrible. If 'no', then it's even worse.

>>5772536
>>5773090
>>5773257
>>5773284
>>5773286

Goodwin held his gaze on Chuck for a moment, then turned to you, his lips curled into a smirk. “So, ‘Only Dead’ Aug, you aiming to respond to that feller or what?”

You loosely rolled your shoulder. “Hell if I know,” you said. “Riddles like these could’ve more than a hundred answers, but mark me, Abel would claim ‘em all wrong.”

Humming a tune through the tight set of his teeth, Goodwin pulled at the bottom of his alabaster gloves to adjust the fit. “Figures it’s all just a trap to snare your windpipe.”

“Ain’t so, I reckon,” you said, sinking your fingers into the ghostflesh of your neck, where the noose which you neither seen nor felt used to hang around. “He wants them riddles solved.”

“How you figure?” Lyrebird posed, one of her hands resting on her belt and the other, on top of it, rubbing at the chaffed mercury lipstick.

You sighed, long and slow. “What does it matter? I’ve met him, I’ve done speaking with him, I’ve answered one of his riddles, and ended up wearing his noose. No more, but still.”

Lyrebird’s sigh mirrored your own, her hand dropping to adjust her skirt. The indigo fabric rippled in the windless air like a sudden but brief downpour. You licked your lips. Damn, you could feel your thirst returning; so soon? Your eyes left Lyrebird and the imagery of rain her skirt was evoking. Instead, your thoughts returned back to the damn riddle.

“Then I guess I was spot-on 'bout you not being much for riddles,” Lyrebird said.

“Lots of yammering, Lyrebird. If you ain’t going to add your two cents, then shut it.”

“Don’t be telling my wife to shut it, ‘Only Dead’ Aug,” Goodwin said.

Your eyes rolled across the gradient sky. “Y'can join her in the silent company, if you’d like,” you suggested, a short hum slipping from your lips. What is the question that dreads of its answer—what in tarnation could it be? Your gaze lifted to meet Chuck’s. There he was, shaking in the air and struggling with his plight, begging you to solve his problems instead of just facing a bullet’s mercy. Unlikely the man ever killed a soul, making him exempt from being hunted by his killed. Yet that didn’t free him from the manifold of torments of the Graveyard Frontier, so he was playing safe, cowardly perhaps. Yet even his caution couldn’t escape Abel; or maybe he found him because of it. Would you be any different? What if you arrived here not because of Goldie, but from some other Darwinian death? You stay here has been short, but already, you’d been subjected through so much excruciating sufferings: a pain that’ll fester inside you until you’d find a way out. But if there was no escape for you, and you were like the rest of them, could you reach a point where you couldn’t suffer anymore? Would you become as spineless as this man?

“Anything, I beg you,” said Chuck, snapping you out of your thinking. “I just wanna feel dirt beneath my boots again.”

You spat, then hiked up your voice to reach the man. “What about ‘Am I dying’? Wouldn’t fancy hearing the answer to that one, would you?” you offered. “Maybe, ‘Whether or no there is a higher power?’. If there is, reckon it ain’t concerned about us none.” Your gaze dipped the dusty sands, then swung back up to him. “And lastly: ‘Do I honest to God belongs in this here place? Do I deserve to?’ And if the answer is yes, I’d be afraid to know.”

Goodwin guffawed, his knee coming up just so he could give it a loud slap. “You took your best swing, but how’re we to know if your answers are right or wrong? Ain’t no Riddle Wrangler around these parts to make it official.”

“No, no he ain’t,” you said. “He’s already paid Chuck a visit twice, he said. Likely to hear his answers.” You buried your face in your hand. “Fuck, reckon we’re just wasting our time, then.”

“What good's a question that ain't got no answer?” Lyrebird puzzled. “Can't say I got any liking for this Riddle Wrangler from what I'm hear—”

A sudden cry scrambled Lyrebird’s singsong voice. Chuck was plummeting from high above, no longer held nor lifted by an unseen curse, his body soon to meet solid ground.

> Sidestep outta Chuck's falling shadow and watch him take the fall. Whether Goodwin or Annette will try their hand at saving him, or if the impact ain't enough to do him in, it’s none of your concern.
> Step on up and outstretch yer arms to snag the plummeting man. Your bones being scorched and all should mean you could catch him and keep the both of you in piece, right? … Right?
> Draw yer shooting iron and put a piece of lead right between his eyes, clean as a whistle. A plummet like that'd be agony something fierce, so, you reckon, a bullet's a kinder way out.
> [Write In]

>>5773442
> Sidestep outta Chuck's falling shadow and watch him take the fall. Whether Goodwin or Annette will try their hand at saving him, or if the impact ain't enough to do him in, it’s none of your concern.

>>5773442
>> Sidestep outta Chuck's falling shadow and watch him take the fall. Whether Goodwin or Annette will try their hand at saving him, or if the impact ain't enough to do him in, it’s none of your concern.

>>5773442
>> Sidestep outta Chuck's falling shadow and watch him take the fall. Whether Goodwin or Annette will try their hand at saving him, or if the impact ain't enough to do him in, it’s none of your concern.
lol i dont want to get crushed.

No update today.

>>5773442
> Draw yer shooting iron and put a piece of lead right between his eyes, clean as a whistle. A plummet like that'd be agony something fierce, so, you reckon, a bullet's a kinder way out.

>>5773440
>Darwinian
So we're between 1859 and 1861, huh?

>>5773466
>>5773764
>>5774021
>>5774279

You retreated, your heels pulling in the dead land’s dust with you. Chuck’s shadow grew on the ground as he descended from the dizzying height, several dozen feet away to where you were standing. Crying out for help, his voice became mangled and contorted by the obstructing air tearing at his throat. For a brief moment, the silvered moonlight soaked his frame, bathing him like embalming fluid. Lyrebird gripped Goodwin’s hand and yanked him closer to you, away from the disaster.

With a sickening crash, Chuck hit the ground, the cacophony of his torn flesh and splintered bones ringing out like piano keys being smashes all at by angered amateur. Cracked splinters burst forth from within his body and marrow like squished out maggots, the blue ink of their insides hastily drying into dust. Chuck’s warped body lied helpless and still, the pulped mess of his spectral flesh and tendered skeleton smouldering and crackling, as thought he were a heap of autumn leaves burning slowly from within the heart. All at once, his entire body exploded into a torn cloud, a phantom blooming engulfing the remains of his form before it all and the rest of it mingled with the lingering mist.

You stooped, watching as the last whisps lifted from the ground, the shape of the man’s body imprinted upon the shoved white sand.

“He ain’t unfeeling that dirt any time soon,” Goodwin said, the saddlebag rattling in his hands.

Lyrebird’s lips twitched into a brief curve before she clenched her teeth, cringed, and sighed. She cleared her throat, grabbed Goodwin’s shoulder, and sank her nails into his pad.

You doffed your hat, then straightened up to meet the gazes of the wedded pair.

“What else were your finger aiming at?” you asked.

Lyrebird's grip tightened around Goodwin's shoulder, the man smiling at her, before she pushed him aside to lock eyes with you instead. She inched her finger, then instead squeezed her hand into a fist and pocketed it into her skirt, choosing instead to point up with her chin. There was no second figure dangling in the air, only the moon piercing through a stratum of obsidian thunderclouds like a snow-clad summit; an iceberg in the chilling abyss of the polar ocean. Pristine, unblemished, unlike the moon you could recall from your youth. Her surface appeared like a marble tombstone: smoothly polished yet untouched by an engraving chisel.

“The moon?” you finally asked.

She tousled her locks. “Ayep, the moon. I can see your husk there, the dead one you left, like some shadow play on the moon’s pale face.”

“My corpse?” You squinted at the celestial body, seeing nothing. “And what’s the sight? They give me a proper burying?” you asked.

She hummed a note. “Maybe. I’ll tell you all about it once my gals are freed, if you’ll be still willing to know.”

> Press on her to spill the beans, in as much detail as she can muster, 'bout what she's seeing right now.
> Quiz Lyrebird, ask if every other soul you've sent to the hereafter can glimpse yer mug on that there lunar face.
> No need for trouble. Tip yer hat in acknowledgement, then mosey on outta Ruetown to hunt down them Chindi and the white buffalo.
> [Write In]

>>5775299
> Quiz Lyrebird, ask if every other soul you've sent to the hereafter can glimpse yer mug on that there lunar face.
Walk and talk. Let's get moving.

>>5775299
> No need for trouble. Tip yer hat in acknowledgement, then mosey on outta Ruetown to hunt down them Chindi and the white buffalo.
So we missed out on something special. Seems like whenever we try to avoid things it backfires, but when we do things it also backfires.

>>5775299
>> Quiz Lyrebird, ask if every other soul you've sent to the hereafter can glimpse yer mug on that there lunar face.

>>5775349
>>5775523
>>5775802

“Why keep your tongue bit?” you asked, urging them both to get moving with a nod. “Even if I’m in the cold soil, I still don’t know the way to them Coffin Fields for a getaway.”

“You don’t, else you’d have made your pilgrimage already, coffin or not,” she said, stepping over Chuck’s imprint in the sand. Her finger traced a path through the air, just an inch shy off your beard, before she moved further. “Wouldn’t you fancy for there to be a prize? A lil' sugar on yer cornbread fer bringing down that Wendigo, in addition to my firm insistence?” She looked over her shoulder, her braids coiled around her scalp like serpents in a nest.

You hawked and spat. “Nah, hand over the payout,” you said. “Is there a grave? They come across my dead body? What else is on the picture, and who else can lay eyes on it?”

You three walked on, brushing past the surviving glistening wall of the final homestead on Ruetown’s outskirts, nothing but the fog-smothered desolate expanse beyond it. You shuddered at the memory, the mirage of red eyes flaring and then softening like drops of paint on a wet newspaper. You shook your head, and the mirage vanished into the fog.

Lyrebird caught Goodwin's eye and then brought her fingertips to her lips. She opened her mouth ever so slightly before pulling her hand away and began speaking, her voice reserved yet lilting. “You were indeed buried; looking at your rotting corpse ain’t pleasant, ‘Only Dead’ Aug. Man with a snaggletooth found you after a few days, if you care for the details.” There was a man like that: Clay, the moonshiner; he’d bring you the freshest cider to sell, and it wasn’t even half bad. “Feller rifled through your belongings first, house too, stashing his plunder in his cart's grain before heaving your carcass atop.” That bastard! “Your husk got hauled to the nearest town. Folks there dropped their jaws seeing you dead. But come burying day at the chapel ground, the crowd was sparse, and the preacher seemed 'bout as fired up as a wet match. Mind you, I can only see your body, but I reckon the man of the cloth tried at all, and I don’t think the Good Lord were listening in. Nonetheless, you got a grave, meaning you got a Coffin Field’s coffin, and the coffin nails in it.”en ways to say "Lyrebird resuming speaking", it's not a dialogue.

You scowled. “Yeah, yeah, don’t matter none. Was there anyone else they buried?”

She raised her brow. “Should there have been?”

You hesitated, then shook your head. “I was hoping the bastard that plugged me bit the dust too.”

“If he had, you’d see his body on the moon. Seems you finally lost at the quick draw,” Lyrebird said.

“Call it what you want,” you uttered, a scowl etching itself across your features. Your gaze settled on the indistinct horizon. “So, every fella I send this way gets a good long gander at my mug on the moon’s face, do I reckon right?”

“Your corpse, yes,” she repeated. “Sits right there in the pine casket, ain’t no maggots to be seen yet.”

“Well ain’t that a comfort,” you said, sarcasm dripping.

Goodwin raised his palm to his forehead, touching the brim of his white hat, lifting it a hair's breadth. “I don’t see any black fur beasts just yet.”

“Y'even know what y'looking for, Goodwin?” Lyrebird said.

“Like wolves, don’t they?” he said—you affirmed with a curt nod. He squared his shoulders. “With a coal-black fur and sizeable fangs.”

Lyrebird turned your way. “Then you might count yourself lucky, ‘Only Dead’ Aug, and they decided to skip you as their one true prey, but that's not going to do you any favours with finding the white buffalo.”

“It’s too early to lower the iron; they ain't gonna pounce right outside of a town. Keep yer wits with you.” You sighed. “Got a clue how to trip over them leftovers?”

“You don’t find the leftovers, the leftovers find you,” she said.

“Fine, what do know of them? Anything to better our odds? Quicken this mess? A coot I’ve met said they they’re strewn across the Graveyard Frontier.”

Goodwin halted, setting down his sack. A plume of dust rose as it hit the ground. He squatted and pulled on the rope, starting to fumble through the contents.

“Favour lone strays over groups,” he said, eyes still on the bag.

Annoyed, you clicked your tongue. “So, we messed up right from the get-go.”

“No, ain’t that simple,” he added. “It just means they'll come at us like a horde, a pack big enough even a white buffalo would think twice to overlook.”

Your head tilted, catching Lyrebird's blue flames trained on you; their fiery depths burning at even length.

“I spilled about the moon, so tell me why your bones are black like they are,” she said.

“You aren’t in the dark about it yourself, are you?” Goodwin added.

A chortle pushed through from within her chest, her lips pressing together to hold it in. A muffled snicker broke through, followed by a short chuckle. Goodwin paused his rummaging to flash a self-satisfied grin.

Again, was there a joke that you missed? “You know about the ‘Charred Bones’, didn’t you share with her?”

Goodwin shook his head. “I -know- about the ‘Charred Bones’ outlaw, but I don’t know why your bones match his, and why they be like th— there!”

He yanked out a bundle of necklace ropes, twisted together like a nest of writhing serpents, each vying to break free. Jolting them in his hand, the chalky tips at the end floated skyward, resembling compass needles adrift without the metal shell, one angling towards Ruetown while the rest pointed in the cardinal directions, charting a path beyond the fog.

“Damn it, these here are a knotted mess. Can’t make heads or tails of ‘em.”

“Do we even need a course?” you said.

“It's better than meandering through the Down Below aimlessly. Might find ourselves needing to escape if them leftovers show up but there ain’t no white buffalo to save our hides,” Goodwin said.

Lyrebird pointed with her finger. “Look for the one with the white thread, Goodwin, that’s the one that points to the Next Stop, part chapel part station.”

“The train station?” Goodwin eyed the mentioned piece. “Let’s give that one a wide berth, my wife. Place be full of sanctimonious loafers, can’t expect a lick of help from them,” he said, his gaze shifting to another chalk. “This one's worn thin, reckon it's aimed at Grave Mercy.” He looked at you. “Another town, only it ain't in ruins last time I’ve been there."

> Give Annette and Goodwin the short end of the tale 'bout how you come by them black bones, how they're stuck to your soul tight, and leave it at that.
> Give Annette and Goodwin the long and short of it, every last detail about them charred bones of yours, and what sorta hell awaits anyone who'd lay you low whilst your bones are black.
> Seems they've lost their focus on your blackened bones; that's all to the good. Best keep yer trap shut 'bout it 'til they rustle up the subject again.
> [Write In]

> Let them two hash it out 'bout where to head next.
> Say that if they want your opinion, you’d rather go to the half-church, perhaps they’ll know of another way of dealing with a Wendigo, and maybe more for your purposes.
> Tell 'em, if they're hankering for yer two cents, you'd sooner mosey on over to the half-church. Reckon folk there might have a trick up their sleeve for handling a Wendigo, or something else useful-like for your own ends.
> Say, if they're confident on Grave Mercy being the place them chalk marks are pointing to, then that's where y'all oughta go. Might run into some old friends or stumble across someone new who's worth a hoot there.
> [Write In]

I am indeed using the myth of Chindi for those monsters but most souls in Graveyard Frontier would be calling them Indian leftovers, so I’m returning to that naming.

>>5777310
> Give Annette and Goodwin the long and short of it, every last detail about them charred bones of yours, and what sorta hell awaits anyone who'd lay you low whilst your bones are black.
Discourages betrayal,

> Tell 'em, if they're hankering for yer two cents, you'd sooner mosey on over to the half-church. Reckon folk there might have a trick up their sleeve for handling a Wendigo, or something else useful-like for your own ends.
If were going to find any Christianized Indians to ask about Wendigo lore, they'll be praying for salvation somewhere like that, I reckon. Maybe.

>>5777310
>> Give Annette and Goodwin the short end of the tale 'bout how you come by them black bones, how they're stuck to your soul tight, and leave it at that.

>> Let them two hash it out 'bout where to head next.

>>5777310
> Give Annette and Goodwin the short end of the tale 'bout how you come by them black bones, how they're stuck to your soul tight, and leave it at that.
> Tell 'em, if they're hankering for yer two cents, you'd sooner mosey on over to the half-church. Reckon folk there might have a trick up their sleeve for handling a Wendigo, or something else useful-like for your own ends.

>>5777340
>>5777399
>>5777853

You put your palms against your breeches. “Well, if you can’t make up your mind, here are my two cents. The half-church roost—you loudly snapped your fingers, gesturing toward the hovering chalk of the silver-threaded necklace— “bet them devout types might have a trick or two on handling the godforsaken Wendigo.” As for the town of Grave Mercy … who’s to say if Gadfly didn't visit every town in these parts? He’s in the Graveyard Frontier too, looking for you.

“Doubt them folks know a lick about such matters.” Goodwin pushed his nails between the knots. “I wouldn't be counting on them for nothing.”

“He might be into something,” Lyrebird said, approaching the man and gently tapping his upper arm. “We might not even need to set our feet on the ground.”

He met her gaze and sighed, separating the necklaces before looping the lonely cord around his neck. He threw the rest back into the bag.

Lyrebird sidled past Goodwin and cinched the saddlebag closed. “Perhaps we’ll even be able to hitch a train if we do decide to visit.”

“Moon falling from the sky seems more likely,” Goodwin laughed, picking up the rattling bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

As you distanced yourself, you glanced back. The glowing ruins melded into the burial mist to emerge as their former undestroyed outlines, the mist concealing the town’s grim fate. “There’s a watermill Cassidy lays claims to,” you began, sharing with both Lyrebird and Goodwin the nature of your blackness-infused marrow, how heavy and tight they felt, and how not even a fatal wound is not able to wreck your soul, for the bones grip at the ghostflesh like a newborn to a mother’s hand. “And if my soul kicks it, an angry wraith will be left where I stood.”

“Her bullets will be different,” Goodwin said. “It’ll make you a Judged, black bones or not.”

“You’re that certain?” you asked. “Any soul ever tried settling a score with Cassidy? Bet he's got a graveyard's worth waiting.”

“I’ve never met the man himself, but folk talk 'bout 'Charred Bones', and it's him and only him when they mention the black bones.”

“Now hear me. If a leftover's hatchet gets too cosy, or one of your bullets burrows too far, you two will be dancing on hot coals. Best keep an eye out for me.”

“How do you figure that?” Lyrebird asked.

You tapped your left shoulder, then lifted your left wrist by the sleeve. “I tangled with that bony wraith myself, when Cassidy came calling for my head.”

“All on your own?” he said.

You hesitated, skirting the mention of Goldie. “More or less. He might be a high outlaw around these parts, but when his charred bones ain’t playing importance, he's can be dealt with.”

Lyrebird eyed your carcass, the intense black colour burning through your translucent flesh. “His bullets might might not work, but charred bones or no, -I- can make you a Judged.”

You touched your neck, elbow pointing at her. “Well, if you reckoning y’know more than me. You sound cocksure, I reckon you must.” You chewed on your cheek. “Anyways, Chuck fell because we got the riddle, right? But I’ve just quick shot them answers, I don’t reckon which one was right.” You turned to Goodwin. “Seems Abel, that Riddle Wrangler, had his judging eye working. Dunno if that noose knew to bide its time, or if Abel was eavesdropping on the whole shebang.”

“You said he was in the dark himself?” Goodwin said.

“Yes. Rattled off saying he’s got a book of riddles without answers from his time alive, aiming to sort ‘em out now.”

“If that riddle’s the first cracked, and he’s listening in, then he might think you know the answer for more of ‘em,” Lyrebird cautioned.

“Long as your trap stays shut, reckon your neck's outta the noose.” Goodwin touched his beard. “What was the riddle he asked you?”

Scratching your cheek, you recalled. “What weighs more, a pound of hope or a kilogram of despair? His words.”

“It don't matter if it's feathers or figments, kilo's gotta weigh more than a pound, right?”

You closed your eyes and let out a sigh. “Just what I said, but he disagreed. Ain’t sure what he wanted to hear.”

“What’s on the scales,” Lyrebird hushed.

“Beg you pardon?” you asked.

Lyrebird's lips were a thin, expressionless line. “That’s my answer. What you load the scales with, what you measure, what matters to you, that weights more.”

“And if he throws in, ‘what if both are on put on the scales?’”

“Asking a follow-up question ain’t how riddles work, but … ‘What’s on the scales’ will still hold whisky.”

“Well, I'm ain’t one to debate riddles, but if you been doing that instead of drowning folks, I would let you be in the living world.”

Before she could respond, her eyes snapped open and she gripped her shotgun. A spectre loomed in the distance, its darkness swallowing the mist around it.

> Draw your iron and fire a shot towards it from a distance, not to kill but to seize its attention.
> Draw your firearm but hold it at your side for now without shooting, allow the Indian leftover to approach on its own accord.
> Refrain from drawing our iron just yet. Stand there where you’re at.
> [Write In]

>>5774279
>So we're between 1859 and 1861, huh?
perhaps.jpg

>>5775523
>So we missed out on something special. Seems like whenever we try to avoid things it backfires, but when we do things it also backfires.
Maybe you did maybe not. He was just Chuck.

>>5777340
>If were going to find any Christianized Indians to ask about Wendigo lore, they'll be praying for salvation somewhere like that, I reckon. Maybe.
Maybe, of maybe half-Indians are seething at Christians even more in the Graveyard Frontier.

>>5779736
>> Draw your iron and fire a shot towards it from a distance, not to kill but to seize its attention.

>>5779736
> Draw your firearm but hold it at your side for now without shooting, allow the Indian leftover to approach on its own accord.

>>5779736
>> Draw your firearm but hold it at your side for now without shooting, allow the Indian leftover to approach on its own accord.

Sorry, woke up with a headache today.
Had to take 4 paracetamols so far, also my salt grinder broke and I oversalted my food.
Thanks for reading my blog, no update today.

>>5780898
Rough one. Feel better soon, QM!

>>5780426
>>5780433
>>5780592
>>5780973

“That be one of them,” Goodwin said.

You snatched the cold steel from its leathery sheath, holding it close to your hip. The spectre eclipsed the churning mist, gaunt and adorned in tattered deerskin. Shredded threads of its torn garments fluttered in the roused gales, their original colours grimed and faded. Its fringes hung loosely below its waist, fraying thinner with each step. A raven feather nestled in its headdress, hanging askew atop its head.

The leftover jerked its shoulder, lifting a crooked hornbow from the fog’s depths. The brow’s frame creaked as it pulled on the rawhide string, letting loose an arrow that seemed to materialise out of thin air. As the bowstring snapped, a gust of wind swirled the fog around the figure—the flat gale flattening the rest— leaving only the sharp whistle of the arrow in its wake.

You flinched, taking an instinctive step back. “It’s armed with a bow?!”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Lyrebird said, falling down on one knee and propping her elbow on the other. “Them damn things are hunting for us, after all.”

The arrow zipped through the air, the gathering winds flowing through its fletchings. It’s obsidian tip glinting the moonlight before the arrow vanished, flying straight at your head. You threw your shoulder back as if you were elbowing someone behind you, tumbling onto your rear, and having the arrow narrowly miss as it cut through the air, sliced your beard, and lodged itself in the earth, sending the sand flying. You cursed, drawing back the hammer of your gun to cock it. A speck of your flesh flew back, mending the graze on your chin.

“And it got invisible arrow?”

“That, I don’t know why,” Lyrebird said.

> Dispatch the accursed thing with a bullet or two. You'll have an opportunity to find another leftover, probably, but one not armed with a bow.
> Commence walking away from the leftover, with hopes of creating a distance where it'll trail you but remain unable to reach you with its arrows.
> Venture closer to the leftover, narrowing the gap between you and it. Perhaps it'll summon others of its ilk like this. And, being armed with a bow, you'll stand a safer chance dealing with it at a close quarter, right?
> [Write In]

>>5782042
>> Dispatch the accursed thing with a bullet or two. You'll have an opportunity to find another leftover, probably, but one not armed with a bow.

>>5782042
> Dispatch the accursed thing with a bullet or two. You'll have an opportunity to find another leftover, probably, but one not armed with a bow.

>>5782042
>> Venture closer to the leftover, narrowing the gap between you and it. Perhaps it'll summon others of its ilk like this. And, being armed with a bow, you'll stand a safer chance dealing with it at a close quarter, right?

>>5782042
> Venture closer to the leftover, narrowing the gap between you and it. Perhaps it'll summon others of its ilk like this. And, being armed with a bow, you'll stand a safer chance dealing with it at a close quarter, right?
No guarantee they don't ALL have magic bows.

>>5782042
> Dispatch the accursed thing with a bullet or two. You'll have an opportunity to find another leftover, probably, but one not armed with a bow.

>>5782229
>>5782574
>>5782602
>>5782652
>>5783001

You aligned the sights of your revolver with the subtle contours of the spectre. You aimed at its head; the long distance having the crosshairs completely cover the silhouette, the pitch darkness of Graveyard Frontier’s perpetual night, the fog cloaking the horizon line, and the the raging winds drafting around the leftover, all blended to make it a trick shot. You steadied your breath, squared your stance, and pulled on the trigger: a shot spiralling forth from the rifled bore. Counting five seconds, the bullet zeroed it on its mark, banishing the leftover spirit as if it was exorcised. The wind died out with abrupt silence, as if an unseen hand had closed a window. You lowered the iron, a smoky swirl billowing after its barrel.

“God damn,” Goodwin said, his attention shifting between you and the spot where the bullet had vanished. “How in tarnation did you pull that off?”

With a deft flick you swung to unlatch the revolver’s cylinder, each bullet chamber empty of a bullet. Damnable distractions—you had lost count! Lucky that you finished the fight with the last one.

“Well, been carrying iron since the ripe age of six,” you said, slipping your left hand into your vest pocket to clasp a handful of feeble iron. “My pa’ gave it to me for finishing school. Reckon he was eager to have me start shooting people,” you said, only half-joking.

You shut your eyes, raising your left hand to your shoulder height, squeezing the iron in your palm. You shaped the bullets in your mind. When you unclenched your hand and opened your eyes, new rounds appeared, gleaming with a tender silver sheen. You chambered each bullet as if placing chips on a roulette wheel, snapping the cylinder shut before giving it a spin like it was one. You loaded six, not five—you had no time for a safe cowboy load.

“Why did you go and kill it? Did you forget we need ‘em kicking and chasing us to get that white buffalo’s attention?” Lyrebird said.

“And we will,” you assured, returning the Colt to its holster, “but not with a leftover with that sorta bow, that’s just fucking irritating to deal with.”

Lyrebird eyed you before letting out a yawn. “Suppose so. How long them dark bones of years you reckon will last?”

“Good stretch, I reckon. I don’t know how to keep track of time around here, but them bones held since my El Dorado Warren stint, and then some.”

“You’ve been to El Dorado?” she said. She smacked her lips, a fleeting dizziness briefly washing over you as she did so. “When did you manage to? You didn’t get trapped?”

You rolled your thumb over the grip. “Made it in and out just fine. Needed me some bullets, so I took a reckoned gamble … Went in blind, not knowing much about the place.”

Goodwin looked at you, doffed his hat, shook his head, and chuckled. “You went into El Dorado just to fetch some lead? Know you could just barter for it in most places?”

“Didn’t know,” you said. “And even if I did, ain’t had a red cent to barter with.”

Catching Lyrebird’s eye, Goodwin reached into his pocket and took out a small thin tin. He unscrewed the lid and pinched a wad of tobacco between his fingers, extending the offer to Lyrebird. She took the offered portion with gratitude and tucked it between her cheek and gum; Goodwin followed suit.

“Grit&Sour it says here on the tin,” Goodwin commented. “Turns your soul's aches into the tobacco's bite, giving y'some respite long as you keep chewing.”

“Alright? I’m happy you got it?”

"How about trading some for a pinch of your lead?" he offered.

You’ve been through the mill, how disgusting would chewing it turn out for you? But if it could end your ceaseless thirst for a swig, it might just be a welcoming break.

> Accept the proposition and trade a handful of feeble iron, worth six bullets, for some bewitched chewing tobacco.
> Decline, even though you possess ample feeble iron to endure a few more gunfights, their weight is becoming lighter.
> [Write In]

>>5783087
> Accept the proposition and trade a handful of feeble iron, worth six bullets, for some bewitched chewing tobacco.

>>5783087
>> Accept the proposition and trade a handful of feeble iron, worth six bullets, for some bewitched chewing tobacco.

>>5783087
>> Accept the proposition and trade a handful of feeble iron, worth six bullets, for some bewitched chewing tobacco.

>>5783087
>> Accept the proposition and trade a handful of feeble iron, worth six bullets, for some bewitched chewing tobacco.

>>5783093
>>5783269
>>5783280
>>5783296

You cleared your parched throat, pressing two fingers to your protruding Adam’s apple.

“Damn it, fine. Let’s barter it that way,” you said, drawing out a palmful of fragments out of your pocket. “You shape them into bullets yourself.”

He shook your hand, taking hold of the presented silvers, and then pulling back his arm. With his other hand, he snapped off a sliver of his smokeless plug.

“Square’s square,” he said, mirth twinkling on his teeth as he savoured the chew tucked beneath them. “No more, no less than then weight we’re gnawing.”

You snatched it from him, nestling the morsel between your cheek and gum, biting on it with your teeth. As you began to chew, the promised bitterness flooded your mouth. Your thirst vanished, replaced with an unpalatable saltiness. Gagging, you pushed a hand over your mouth. One vile taste coalesced into the next; as the bullet wound left by Goldie palliated, a cinammon-tinged sulphurous taste stung the inner linings of your cheeks. Awashing your taste buds and replacing the prickling pain came a sharp searing heat of a sunbaked chilli pepper. Your palms no longer gashed with agony, but the cyanide taste of bitter almonds and slimy vinegar of a spoilt orange marmalade swapped in its stead was no more favourable. When the worst of your pains, the stabbing explosion that engulfed and buried you in El Dorado, faded, you fought through the nauseating tobacco. However, once the trade-off of it came, you tasted the mush of rancid oily fish, the sharp bitter sting of a fresh nettle, and the pungent kick of crushed black pepper. Unable to stomach it any longer, you spat out the chewing tobacco and gasped for breath of moist cold air.

Smirking, Goodwin looked down at the spit chew. “Couldn’t handle it?”

The pains came back, obliterating any momentary relief; the noxious taste had mercifully departed. You glared at him.

Six brand-new bullets laid in Goodwin's open palm as he locked his eyes with you. He tucked them out of sight, smiling.

“I’ll be charitable, but only this once,” he said, proffering another sliver of the chew.

You took it, your gaze lingering before securing it in your vest. Maybe another try another time.

“Mighty fine, then,” Goodwin said, watching the way the chalk was floating towards.

You moved ahead, widening the chasm between Ruetown and your group as you journeyed deeper into the featureless plains.

Suddenly, Goodwin halted his step. He inhaled a shallow, tired breath and then covered a yawn with his hand. He shifted his knapsack from one shoulder to the other, his body swaying as he kept his footing.

“You alright?” Lyrebird asked, approaching him from the side. Her dulcet voice was muffled by the chewing.

Goodwin waved his hand. “Just need a spell to catch my wind, love. Feeling some weariness, is all.”

You levelled wary eye on the man. “Weariness? Ain't you supposed to need no shuteye nor rest in here?”

“Yeah,” he said, his shoulder bone cracking as he readjusted the saddlebag. “Ain’t that weird …”

“You been mixing with any ill-willing spirits? Touched hexed trinkets, or strayed into hoodooed grounds?” you asked.

“Ain’t none I recall,” he said. “It’s fine, I ain’t dying. Must be a why, but ain’t nothing we should fuss about right now.”

Unsatisfied with that, you assessed him from his white hat to his boots. Nothing seemed out of ordinary until your gaze landed on the joined triumvirate of your shadows. You spotted an eerie fault; there, the part of Goodwin’s shadow had a nebulous but abnormal look, bluish ripples moving through it like soft trembles moving through a trembling pond.

> Without uttering a word, lower your iron’s barrel towards his shadow and discharge a solitary shot into it.
> Step towards Lyrebird and whisper into her ear regarding the shadow, ensuring Goodwin remains quiet; place the burden upon her shoulders.
> Withdraw from both Goodwin and Lyrebird, then warn him that there's something awry with his shadow and how it’s looking.
> [Write In]

>>5785237
>Withdraw from both Goodwin and Lyrebird, then warn him that there's something awry with his shadow and how it’s looking.

>>5785237
>> Withdraw from both Goodwin and Lyrebird, then warn him that there's something awry with his shadow and how it’s looking.

File: OIG.jpg (142 KB, 1024x1024)

142 KB JPG

I got Bing to make Goldie.

File: OIG (5).jpg (236 KB, 1024x1024)

236 KB JPG

>>5785572
She should be hatless but Bing can't understand western without a hat. Maybe that's on me.

>>5785572
>>5785576
These look badass.

>>5785237
> Withdraw from both Goodwin and Lyrebird, then warn him that there's something awry with his shadow and how it’s looking.

>>5785237
>> Withdraw from both Goodwin and Lyrebird, then warn him that there's something awry with his shadow and how it’s looking.

>>5785351
>>5785447
>>5785593
>>5785712

You stepped back, the distance splitting your shadows like a razor’s edge.

Lyrebird turned to you. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

You pointed downward with the barrel of your gun. “Your shadow’s askew, partner.”

Lyrebird shifted her gaze to the soil, scattering the mist with the sweep of her hand. Her eyes widened as she saw the same thing. She slipped her hand inside her skirt, gripping at something hidden there.

“My shadow?” Goodwin echoed, staring at the rippling azure hues within his black penumbra. He crouched low, extending a white-laced glove toward the quivering blues.

Before he could touch the ground, Lyrebird fell by his side, driving the blade she was hiding into the dark sands. A murmurous essence weaved around the dagger, snaking towards Goodwin’s cowhide boots. A foreign shadow slithered up his legs, winding its slender sinuous form around him.

“What the hell?!” he yelled, reaching for his sixshooter only to suddenly stop, the alien shadow’s elongated arm reaching his fingertips with ephemeral grace.

The sinister veneer began to envelop him, clinging to his contours like a second skin. As part of it retreated from his arm, it left behind a dark resin seeming to seep into the very fibbers of Goodwin’s soul. A blackened crust hardened around his ghostly flesh, his hapless arm gripped in dark amber. Before he could flinch, the shadow stretched out to his neck, an inky hand swallowing his eyes, the blue flames within his eye sockets flickering, their azure colours dimming as if drained by the shadow’s caress.

> Approach Goodwin and attempt to wrestle with the dark shadowy spirit to pry it off as though it were a clinging dog.
> Aim a shot at the portion of Goodwin’s form enveloped by the dark shadow and discharge a bullet to ascertain if that'll be of any use.
> Maintain your distance and observe if they can resolve this predicament on their own accord.
> [Write In]

>>5786138
>> Aim a shot at the portion of Goodwin’s form enveloped by the dark shadow and discharge a bullet to ascertain if that'll be of any use.

>>5786138
> Aim a shot at the portion of Goodwin’s form enveloped by the dark shadow and discharge a bullet to ascertain if that'll be of any use.

>>5786138
>> Aim a shot at the portion of Goodwin’s form enveloped by the dark shadow and discharge a bullet to ascertain if that'll be of any use.

>>5786361
>>5787043
>>5787210

You lined up your shot, raising your sights on Goodwin’s shadow-wrapped shoulder, a place where a bullet wound would be painful but not fatal. You left hand slid across the blued steel, hooking back the hammer with a final flick of your wrist and then pulling the trigger with a delicate squeeze. A gunshot resounded through the moist, silvered air, its impact shattering Goodwin’s ghostly tissues into a midnight vapour. Goodwin’s eyes squared in pain, his torn shoulder bone gleaming in the moonlight. The bullet cracked the ebony crust left by the shadow but the sinister entity had twisted its shape to evade the shot, further wrapping itself around the man.

“You’re hurting him!” Lyrebird shouted, inching back her foot.

You pulled back the hammer, lining up the next chambered round. “What other option I’ve got?!”

Goodwin swung for his neck, but the stretched out darkness coiled around his hand, freezing it in a rigid grip. His saddlebag slipped from his hold and crashed down onto the ground. With last strength, he kicked it towards Lyrebird, the flames in his eyes shrinking to a feeble flicker. The white embroidery frayed at the seams, blossoming into winding patterns, and then a burdensome cascade of trinkets, relics, and ores—Goodwin’s accumulated treasures—spilled onto the white sand.

“Annette,” he gasped, “the bracelet.”

His body stiffened until he was as lifeless as a scarecrow.

With shaking hands and darting gaze Lyrebird wrung the knife and then frantically lunged for the bracelet. The shadow inhaled a swallowing breath, and when it did, even your thoughts stilled. The noises—the sky depth’s thunder, the lulling whisper of the moon, Goodwin’s futile struggle—all ceased, swallowed by sudden silence.

> Discharge a bullet towards Goodwin's cranium to obliterate his soul, scattering it to the winds for rebirth somewhere safer.
> Shoot at Lyrebird to startle her and then grapple with her for the Indian bracelet to claim it for yourself.
> Advance a few paces further from the duo and the shadow, and then beat a retreat.
> Maintain a secure distance and persist in observing the shadow's designs for Goodwin henceforth.
> Position a barrel to your mouth. Should the shadow seek to afflict you similarly, pull the trigger to rend your soul fore it can, or that’s the plan. With your charred bones, it might take a few more.
> [Write In]

>>5787536
>> Discharge a bullet towards Goodwin's cranium to obliterate his soul, scattering it to the winds for rebirth somewhere safer.

>>5787536
> Maintain a secure distance and persist in observing the shadow's designs for Goodwin henceforth.

>>5787536
>> Maintain a secure distance and persist in observing the shadow's designs for Goodwin henceforth.

Love you guys, I just wish you'd leave a comment with your reckonings (y'all) about the update from time to time.

No update today sorry.

>>5788400
Don't know what more to say about this one. Of we shoot him 'dead', Lyrebird will probably fly off the handle, and we don't know if that'll still leave us contending with an angry shadow monster.

>>5788852
No worries, QM.

>>5788400
I honestly dont have much to say.

>>5788400
I got nothing more to say and when I do it would be too short

>>5788400
I haven't been this interested in a Gunslinger story since I read The Dark Tower a few years ago.

I reckon (partner) that this White Buffalo shit is going to cause way bigger problems than it solves. Killing the spiritual symbol of the Native people so we can fight an even larger spiritual monster of native myth? Seems a good way to get on every Leftover's Radar and get spirit scalped.