La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Post by **aflycon** » 28 Aug 2012, 05:40

La Hierba del Diablo
(The Gunslinger)

Disclaimer: Expect strong language, violence, and other mature themes in this thread.
Note: With the exception of this introduction, English will be used almost exclusively among characters in the thread. This is simply for the purpose of ease of reading. You may find subtitles for the introduction at the bottom of the post.

May 8th, 1887
Approx. 7:35pm
Southern Texas

"Euh.. Monsieur Baudin?"

The French bartender looked up from the oaken planks he had been polishing, locking eyes with the duster-clad bandito standing in the doorway of his establishment. The man wore a dirty black Stetson hat and a bandana across his nose and mouth, further stifling his heavily-accented voice. His left hand rested on his hip, gently clenching the fabric of his overcoat, while his right was poised outward, ready for anything the bartender might throw at him.

"What do you want?" Baudin barked, his beady eyes glancing about the bar. The sun was setting and most of the tables were empty - only a few of the regulars remained, playing blackjack and continuing to down their bourbon. Baudin didn't recognize the bandito, but the man's voice struck him as being eerily familiar; cautiously, he slid one hand underneath the bar and gently grasped his Colt, leaving the other lying unassumingly across the oak.

The bandito took a two steps forward and then stopped again, now taking his turn to look around the bar. He noticed one man sitting by his lonesome to his right, and two shuffling cards to his left. The bandito pulled back his coat, revealing a holstered Schmidt M1882. With his other hand he drew the gun, first pointing it at Baudin and then at the man to his right.

"Get out!" The bandito yelled, his English a bit slurred. The lonely - and presumably very drunk - man looked at him for a moment, but remained seated and drew his eyes back to his drink. But once he heard the hollow click of the Schmidt's hammer, he looked back at the bandito and jumped up, stumbling out the door through which the masked man had just come.

He then looked to his left, where the two card-players were already standing. One had his hand on another holstered revolver, while the other looked away from the bandito.

"You too." He uttered, and while the second gunman hesitated, he and his companion too left the bar.

Now, the bandito approached Baudin. Having been distracted by the bandito's audacity in driving the others out of the bar, Baudin had entirely forgotten to draw his own weapon while the bandito wasn't looking. It was too late now - the gunman's iron sights lined his vision with Baudin's nose, and he was cornered like a rat.

"What do you want?" Baudin repeated, maintaining his calm even while looking down the barrel of the bandito's revolver.

"Monsieur Díaz sends his regards, Baudin," said the bandito, before dispatching one of six golden bullets through the bartender's skull.

At the sound of the gunshot, a horse whinnied outside and the sheriff lying dormant in his office down the road jumped up, grabbing his bolt-action Mauser as he went. The bandito strolled casually back out of the bar, firing two shots through the sheriff's window in an attempt to subdue him. With a heavy kick, the sheriff opened his door and readied his rifle, quickly firing a shot at the bandito but narrowly missing.

The bandito slipped around the corner of the bar and took cover, leaning outward to fire one more shot. Recognizing his newfound danger, he sprinted across the dusty road to where he'd tied his horse, just barely avoiding another shot from the sheriff. He quickly untied the horse and climbed onto its back, digging the spurs of his boots into its sides. The horse reared and began to run back out into the street, where the bandito fired a fourth shot at the sheriff.

The sheriff cried out in pain as the fourth shot connected with his right knee, sending him sprawling to the ground. His rifle clattered into the dirt and discharged on impact, sending the bandito's horse rearing again. He smirked, trying to ignore the pain in his leg, and reached for his rifle. The bandito fired again, perhaps intentionally missing the sheriff's hand, and spoke before riding away into the desert:

"Manger de la merde, le Texan écume." (1)

---

May 10th, 1887
Approx. 10:15pm
A small town in Coahuila, Mexico - near the border

"Putain! Ne reconnaissez-vous pas le danger ici?" (2) A well-dressed Frenchman exclaimed, bringing his fist down upon the long table that he and six other men shared.

"J'ai fait cela pendant des années. Je ne suis pas inquiet, Monsieur Cousineau," (3) responded a Mexican-born man sitting across from the angry Frenchman, looking around the table calmly. He opened his mouth to speak again just as Cousineau raised his arm in another aggressive gesture, so the Mexican man withdrew and looked at Cousineau, indicating that he had his permission to continue.

Cousineau sunk back into his chair before doing so. "Nombreux sont ceux qui vous voulez sortir du bureau, ou pour le pire - mort, monsieur," (4) he spoke, trying to remain calm. Still jittery, the Frenchman twiddled his fingers under the table while the Mexican man stroked his thick white mustache, considering Cousineau's words.

"Je comprends. Que proposez-vous que nous faisons, alors, monsieur Cousineau?" (5) the Mexican man responded after a few moments of pondering.

Meanwhile, outside the stucco walls of the town,

Another Mexican-born man raised his revolver into the air with one hand, waving a lit torch with the other. Though the inside of the town was nearly empty, a crowd of about thirty other men and women surrounded him and his horse, chanting.

"Por la libertad de México!" (6) he roared into the night sky.

"Por la libertad de México!" the crowd repeated after him in unison.

"¡Adelante!" (7)

With the man on horseback leading, the crowd rushed through the gates of the town and into the square. Many held handguns and torches, some machetes, pitchforks, and blunt weapons. Hearing the ruckus in the square from the balcony of the rambling estate where Cousineau was speaking with the Mexican man, one armed guard turned to another and warned him: "Mira: los rebeldes." (8)

The mob tore through the town, climbing the hill to the estate with speed that was hard to believe. By the time the first guard had made it to the conference room, shots were already being fired. Both the guards and rebels fell, firing back and forth for nearly ten minutes. At long last the rebel leader and his six remaining men charged the estate, pillaging and smashing everything in sight as they went.

After a few minutes, the rebel leader reached the door of the conference room, which was barricaded from the other side. One guard and the seven men meeting were still inside, the guard pointing his rifle at the door.

The rebel leader rapped on the door three times, barely audible over the chatter of the other rebels.

"Abre la maldita puerta, cobarde!" (9) was the only thing the men inside could make of the rebels' chanting and yelling.

"Baje ahora antes de que llegue el refuerzo, escoria rebelde!" (10) the guard yelled back. The rebel leader saw through his bluff and began to pound harder on the door, calling his fellows to join him. The guard fired a shot through the door, downing a man just to the left of the leader, so he stepped back. The leader ordered the others to continue ramming and battering the barricaded doors, while he readied his own gun for whatever may lie in wait inside the conference room.

Only moments after the rebel leader pulled back the hammer of his revolver, the door burst inward and the rebels stumbled forward, but did not rush the men inside. Sensing that their leader knew what he was doing, they parted like a sea to allow him through. He trained his sights on the Mexican man Cousineau was conversing with, clearly the objective of the rebel attack.

"Su reinado termina aquí, el diablo francés," (11) the leader spoke. He fired three shots at the mustachioed Mexican, but Cousineau dove in front of him just in time to take them. He dropped to the ground and the guard began to fire at the rebels, quickly dispatching of two men standing behind the leader.

"Soy Aniceto Ortega, y voy a terminar esta noche!" (12) the leader exclaimed after diving behind a plump couch for cover, watching his men fall behind him as victims of the guard and Frenchmen defending his target.

As the last of his men were shot, Ortega leaped up from behind the couch just as the guard swung the butt of his rifle downward, sending the rebel sprawling onto his back. His revolver slid across the polished wood toward where one of his men lay, while the guard ran to him and drove his boot into his chest to keep him down.

"Esto no ha terminado, hijos de puta!" (13) Ortega roared as he was bound and dragged away from the conference room.

---

Subtitles, in case you don't speak French or Spanish (you scrub), or Google Translate isn't accurate:

Spoiler! :

---

Character Creation:

You can either fill out the following biography format, or use what is known as a "non-bio introduction:" introduce your character via a regular in-character post, doing your best to describe him or her and include all the categories specified in the biography format. You'll need to include your EL PICAS points as well, in a spoiler.

Biography Format:

Name:
Age:
Gender:
Appearance (both physical and general style of dress):
Personality (optional, but encouraged):
Weapons (if any - keep it period-correct and don't go overboard):
History (optional, but strongly recommended):
Other:

EL PICAS:

What is EL PICAS, you ask? Well, it's a special points system designed to distribute points into different skills that each character possesses. These skills are:

Endurance
Luck

Perception
Intelligence
Charisma
Agility, and
Strength

(What do you mean, "That's just the SPECIAL system from Fallout reorganized so that it makes a Spanish word?" No, it's not - I promise. Okay, it is.)

Each skill starts with a base of five points (making for 35 total). You receive an additional five points to add to whichever stat you would like, and you can also redistribute points that you already have. Basically, what this system does is give you an idea of what your character is capable of - since you are an omniscient controller of him or her, you know their limits and how they will act. Your character's Intelligence stat is only three? They're probably not going to get out of a gunfight by using their wits. Your Charisma is only four? You most likely won't be smoothtalking the bartender into a discount. It is effectively an honor system to limit each character in a unique and different way.

Please specify how many points you would like in each category (totaling 40 points) somewhere in your bio or non-bio introduction post.

---

Rules:

1. This one is honestly the most important to me - use proper spelling, grammar, and punctuation. If you don't, I will edit your posts so that they are proper. I won't take anything out, I'll just fix the grammar and spelling mistakes ... and be a bit frustrated.

2. You're free to get to know each other and develop friendships, relationships, story arcs, and the like among yourselves, but I will advance the main plotline on my own. Anyone is free to participate in it, and quite possibly have an effect on how it turns out, but no major changes will occur without my presence or approval.

3. Don't powerplay - for those of you who aren't familiar with roleplaying, this is basically just being a dick. It goes by several names, including Godmoding and powerplaying, and it includes being overpowered, killing other characters unrealistically (be wary that if you are to engage another player in battle, it's very possible for either of you to die), and just generally dicking around. It's not okay here.

4. Try to keep out of character chat to a minimum. If you do need to say something, at least have some in character post along with it, or just say it in IRC.

5. Be realistic! Seriously guys. Both be true to the time period and world view at the time, and play according to the stats you chose with your EL PICAS. Just use common sense and be fair and fun.

Sound good to everyone?

Character Summaries

Spoiler! :

Post by **Invunarble** » 28 Aug 2012, 06:05

ladiesss.jpg

Post by **Someguy42** » 28 Aug 2012, 08:11

I'd get a character ready but I'm too lazy and I won't be home till Thursday (Which is probably your silly American's Wednesday).

Post by **Invunarble** » 28 Aug 2012, 10:03

Name: John Carter

Age: 35

Gender: Male

Appearance: Very shady, has lots of cuts and stuff in assorted locations, wears a black overcoat with a mouth bandanna (whatever the heck that thing is called) and a cowboy-style hat.

Personality: He's a very quiet guy, has thick skin (means he doesn't get offended easily), also a presumed alchoholic (stays sober during most fights), doesn't like black colored horses, or "automobiles", loves to shoot things repeatedly and waste ammo (Out of combat, of course).

Weapons: a long-range experimental explosive rifle with a scope, also has dual custom made Smith & Wesson revolvers.

History: Not much is known about Mr. Carter.

Endurance: 5
Luck: 6
Perception: 5
Intelligence: 5
Charisma: 5
Agility: 6
Strength: 8

Post by **Someguy42** » 30 Aug 2012, 01:58

Name: Jeeves Charmington

Age: 36

Gender: Male

Appearance: A averagely tall man, not too muscular, wears a trench coat over his suit, has black hair and a gentlemanly mustache, wears a top hat.

Personality: A charming man who is well mannered and kind. Stands up for what is right and isn't afraid of speaking his thoughts on something.

Weapons: A colt model 1873 revolver (a reminder of his time in a war), a cane with a hidden blade at the end.

History: Not much is known about Jeeves except that a long time ago he bore another name and was highly respected in an army (which army we do not know). He appeared in Mexico one night and roams around the country staying in a different motel everyday. The locals call him the "Wandering Gringo".

Other: He is wealthy but nobody knows where he gets his money from.

EL PICAS:

Spoiler! :

Post by **Invunarble** » 03 Sep 2012, 15:36

This thread is dying.

Afly, post stuff!

Post by **aflycon** » 04 Sep 2012, 02:09

I was hoping a few more people would reply before I started it.

I was also hoping you'd make a legitimate application.

Stalke, I like yours. You can go ahead and make a starting post if you'd like.

Post by **Skunk_Giant** » 04 Sep 2012, 03:20

Crapcrapcrap. Forgot about this. I'll post now.

Post by **aflycon** » 04 Sep 2012, 03:37

Post by **Skunk_Giant** » 04 Sep 2012, 03:50

Name: Hamish Lyle

Age: 41

Gender: Male

Appearance: Has dark brown hair and brown eyes. He has slightly darker skin than most, but would still be considered white. He wears a grey jacket with a buttoned shirt and long black pants, which often gets him odd looks from people.

Personality: Hamish generally stays in the background, but if something really bugs him, he will make it clear to everyone involved.

Weapons: Enfield Mk II Revolver (Given to him by Alex Carose)

History: Lyle is looked upon with mixed thoughts by the people. When he was younger, he was undercover for the Department of Justice. Lyle rode with a gang led by outlaw Alex Carose, with the intent to inform the Department of Justice of any opportunities for an arrest. Lyle soon realised, however, that the gang weren't quite what they seemed. They only attacked the deserving, and they always saved the innocent. They would often use the money they buy to help starving families. When Lyle decided to join permanently, he broke contact with the Department of Justice. The Department of Justice ultimately believed Lyle's cover had been broken and that he had been killed, so when they learned later of the gang's plans, they organised an ambush. In the resulting firefight, most of the gang were killed, with Carose included, while the rest were arrested. Lyle survived, but as he hadn't taken part in the firefight, he walked free. Now, he is disliked by many who believe he was always informing on the gang and thus breaking honour while some others dislike him as they believe he was always working with the gang. Nobody really knows how he survived the firefight or whose side he was on.

Other: Since the disbanding of Carose's gang, Lyle has taken part in jobs (some legal, some not) to help feed the family of the arrested or killed members of the gangs. He constantly must watch his back, as he has had numerous death threats. Sometimes he is called in by the Department of Justice for other jobs, as they still believe he was always working for them.

EL PICAS:

Spoiler! :

Post by **Invunarble** » 04 Sep 2012, 14:16

aflycon wrote:I was also hoping you'd make a legitimate application.

What the shit is not legitimate about it? Do I need to change the name to LaShawndruh?

Post by **Someguy42** » 06 Sep 2012, 02:50

Was gone for a while, finally got a post up.

Jeeves sat there in a saloon by the name of "El Nido del Diablo (The Devil's Rest)" in the northern parts of Mexico enjoying him self a drink when he heard someone walk in. The saloon went quiet and it was as if time stood still for a minute.

"Well it sure has gone quiet ol chaps but I'm not quite sure why..." said Jeeves breaking the silence. The man who had entered started to slowly walk towards Jeeves. The others in the saloon quietly watching not sure what to expect.

"You should not be here gringo, you're kind is not welcome around these parts eh?" said the man with a deep and rough voice. Jeeves considered what this man was going to do. The man clearly threatened him and he probably wasn't just going to let him sit there.

"Well I am sorry if I have offended you my good sir but I don't really mind if people hate me," replied Jeeves.

"We'll see about that after I kill you GRINGO!" shouted the man and started to pull out his weapon. A gunshot went off and time stood still once again. The man who had entered fell to the ground and blood surrounded his body. There was gun smoke coming from Jeeves's gun. Jeeves observed the man. He was surely to be part of a gang as he had the outfit of a bandit. He couldn't stay too long in this town, he had to leave and really soon.

"Well I'm sorry for the trouble I may have caused you all, I suggest you all go to your homes and close your doors, things may get rough," said Jeeves and he left the saloon. He mounted his black mustang, Swift, and galloped out of town with dust clouds following his trail. The bandit's gang would soon be after him and he couldn't afford to be put in a firefight in a town full of innocents. He'd have to face them off somewhere else.

I'm not sure if this post was right but it was kind of a intro to my story/character.

Post by **Invunarble** » 06 Sep 2012, 14:19

Hm, so we have to write our own posts? Fair enough, i'll try getting something up soon.

Post by **aflycon** » 08 Sep 2012, 14:56

[Yeah, you make your own posts. I need you to make your application less of a joke - give him a real name, and change the history so it's, y'know, believable. The Federal Bureau of Investigation wasn't formed until 1908, and the Colt 1911 (what the "high-powered pistol" was based on) wasn't invented until the 1890s. Also, not every western is Red Dead Redemption - Blackwater isn't a real place.]

May 16th, 1887
Approx. 8:50am
A remote villa in Northern Mexico

The white-bearded Mexican sat at the head of a long, glossy ebony wood table under the already-hot Southern sun. Behind him to his left, a mariachi quietly strummed flamenco while two burly, armed guards stood at each side of the broad double doors leading into white-beard's villa. One arm of his off-white blazer rested on the table, next to a mug that smelled strongly of fennel, and the other was draped over the arm of the high-backed oaken chair in which he sat. He did not speak, but drummed his fingers on the table as if he were waiting for something or someone. Every so often, he took a sip from the mug, leaving a damp spot in his mustache.

At the other side of the villa, a carriage was arriving. After being stopped at the gate, a Frenchman climbed out of the carriage clutching a bandana in his hand. He spoke in slurred French to the man on the other side of the villa gate, and after a short discussion, the gate swung open and the Frenchman entered. The gate man gestured at the carriage driver, whom, with some difficulty, turned his carriage back around and headed down the dusty road.

The gate man closed the gate again, and escorted the Frenchman up to and through the main building of the villa. He declined a cup of exquisite Brazilian coffee but agreed to hang up his duster when asked. The gate man and Frenchman then stepped outside onto the Mexican's patio, at which point the gate man returned to his post. The Frenchman stood nervously while the Mexican stared him down, taking a long sip from his mug as he did.

"Put your gun on the table, Mr. Patenaude. And your hat - where are your manners?"

Patenaude removed his Stetson hat and drew his revolver, setting it down on the ebony table. He held the hat across his chest like he expected it to shield him from whatever came next.

"Monsieur-"

The Mexican cut him off. "You'll speak when spoken to, Mr. Patenaude."

He picked up Patenaude's revolver and rolled the cylinder, not surprised to find it empty. From his coat pocket he drew one round and slid it into the cylinder before setting the gun back down on the table.

"Will I be receiving any more trouble from Mr. Baudin? I expected him to accompany you," said the Mexican, sounding particularly unamused.

"No, monsieur. He has been, euh, taken care of."

"How so?" the Mexican retorted. "I distinctly recall asking you to bring him here."

"I.. monsieur?"

"I asked you to bring Baudin to me, Patenaude. If he is not with you, how has he been, euh, taken care of?" the Mexican openly mocked Patenaude at this point, even imitating his accent.

Patenaude had no response. Now he only looked frightened.

The Mexican stood, taking another sip from his mug and then setting it down by the revolver. He ran two fingers across the gun's barrel before picking it up, and gesturing toward the patio's railing with it. The mariachi stopped playing.

"Walk with me, Patenaude," he said. Patenaude did as he was told.

The Mexican stopped short of the railing, leaving Patenaude to turn and face him with his back to the railing. A few feet separated the two men.

"Tell me what you've done with Mr. Baudin, if you will."

"I.. I shot him, monsieur."

"Interesting," mumbled the Mexican, pulling back the hammer of the Schmidt handgun with his thumb. "I had wished to speak with him. Perhaps you can deliver a message directly, then."

"Monsieur?" Patenaude struggled to steady his voice, and fear flashed in his eyes.

"Remind Mr. Baudin not to cross me, Patenaude. You might do well to remember the same." The Mexican brought his arm up and fired at Patenaude, killing the Frenchman the same way he killed Mr. Baudin.

"Take care of the poor bastard's body," said the Mexican as he sipped from his mug once more. The mariachi began to play again.

--

[Once Skunk and Invun make introductory posts, we can start to get your characters involved in the story.]

Post by **Invunarble** » 08 Sep 2012, 16:33

"¿Qué es lo que buscas, gringo?(1)"
"Un proscrito. Jesús Hermangez.(2)"
"Ah, cierto. Él vende un montón de lágrimas de amapola por la ciudad. Él tiene una villa privada hasta la carretera de Chubacapra.(3)"
"Muy bien, gracias.(4)"

Translation (you scrub):

Spoiler! :

Carter woke up from his distressful slumber. The air around his campsite was very wet, and he could see dew drops hanging from the curtain of his tent. Drowsily, he stretched and took a look outside. Judging from the position of the sun, he estimated it was around 6:00 AM. After changing into his proper attire, he took down his tent setup and compressed it back into the size of a small bag that fit with the rest of his bags on his brown stallion. Making sure his rifle was loaded, he lunged his spurs sharply into the side of his horse to continue the journey on to Hermangez's villa.

Noticing the well-paved asphalt roads in the area around Hermangez's villa, Carter glanced upwards. There, the majesticy of his large and expensive villa appeared before him. Knowing his personal belongings were still mounted on his horse, and this stallion happened to be a purebred, Carter tied his horse to a nearby large palm tree trunk. Glaring around the villa, he noticed an oddly large mound of dynamite by the shed near his house. He was aware that Hermangez was a large fan of controlled explosions, and often used much of his personal wealth to purchase large amounts of it to explode in bits of private property that he owns across Mexico. This pile of dynamite suggested he had received a fresh shipment.

Glaring around, Carter noticed not many people were within Hermangez's villa building. Besides the workers that had devoted their lives to keeping the villa looking as ship-shape as possible, the area seemed desolate. Hermangez was probably riding back from Chubacapra at this moment, which gave Carter some time to make final preparations before he arrived.

Walking over to the large mound of dynamite, Carter used his bowie knife kept sheathed in his waist belt to cut open a shipping crate of the explosive compound. Cramming as much dynamite as he could into his satchel bag hung across his shoulder, he cautiously advanced towards the back gate of the estate, and leaped over the fence that separated the front yard from the large pool within the back deck of the property.

Well aware that Hermangez often traveled in a posse of 5-10 hired mercenaries between locations, Carter crept into the back saloon-style door into the empty private bar tucked away in Hermangez's villa. Knowing the slaves working on the villa were often cleaning the upstairs floors, he carefully tiptoed into the main hallway. Since 5-10 mercenaries and Hermangez would be a ridicoulously overpowered gunfight, Carter needed a way to separate Hermangez from the rest of his mercenaries, then find an escape route. Taking note of the fancy columns in the main hallway, he placed a stick of dynamite in between the spiral arches on each side. Figuring this should be enough to make the main hallway collapse, he retreated into the main dining room.

Cautiously peering out the window, Carter looked down into the scope of his explosive rifle. Since it was still relatively early in the day, the sun was in the East, creating a large shadow over the front yard of the villa, and the window of the dining room that he had placed the barrel of his rifle on. Hearing the group loudly speak in slurred Spanish, Carter duck back down from the window, and hid behind a wall facing the main hallway. He heard a "click" from the handle of the estate's front door, and knowing this was Jesus walking into the estate, Carter slowed his breath down to a crawl. At this point, the area was so quiet a pin drop could be heard.

Readying his explosives, Carter pulled out the last stick of dynamite from his satchel, and pulled out his silver-engraved lighter. Flicking the metal wheel once, Hermangez became alerted to the sudden hissing sound he heard nearby as the stick of dynamite in Carter's hands suddenly became primed. Not even a few seconds before it exploded, he suddenly barged out of the dining room he was hidden in, and tossed the stick of dynamite at one of the support columns. The end result had effectively detonated all the dynamite stored above the support pillars of the estate. The whole front end of the upstairs of the villa suddenly came crashing down, effectively blocking off the front entrance.

Hermangez, stunned by the recent swirl of events, glared around for the cause of the sudden mound of rubble in front of what was once his villa's hallway. Out of the blue, Hermangez suddenly felt a cold blow to his face, and as he tumbled down to the floor right before losing consciousness, he felt his hands and feet suddenly being pushed together, and looked up to see a masked face stare down at his eyes.

Post by **aflycon** » 09 Sep 2012, 03:00

May 16th, 1887
Approx. 6:00am
White-Beard's Villa

Meanwhile, in another villa not too far from Hermangez', the rebel visionary Aniceto Ortega lay bound in a cell. Three of the walls in the cell were made of thick, reinforced stucco, with a small barred window at the top of the east wall that allowed inch-wide slivers of the morning sun to reflect upon Ortega's bruised and bloody torso. The fourth comprised of heavy iron bars and a gate, locked shut. A guard stood watch at the end of what appeared to be a short hallway filled with cells just like Ortega's. It seemed that the rebel was the only prisoner here.

After gaining his bearings, Ortega noted that his hands were still bound behind him with the same rope they had been in the conference room. He was drowsy, parched, and starving - how long had he been in this cell? He could not tell, but if his hunger and thirst were any indication his answer was several days. It was difficult to sit up, but as he did so, the sense of hopelessness that encompassed him was washed away. He felt a negligible but cold scratch against his groin as he sat up, reminding him of the pin in the seam of his denim pants. It took some effort, but after rolling around in the dirt and using the wall to pull himself up, he could feel the lockpick come loose. It bounced down his thigh and out onto the dirt, gleaming for a moment in the early morning sunlight.

Ortega sat back down on the ground, bringing his bound hands down around his buttocks and struggling to pull his legs out from between them so that his arms were finally in front of him. He fumbled with the pick for a moment before slipping it in between his wrist and the rope that bound his hands. Then he stood, approached the iron bars ahead of him, and began to bang his hands back and forth in between two of them.

"Sereno!" Ortega called out. "Did you hear that?"

There was nothing to be heard, but Ortega hoped he could manipulate the watchman into walking to the other end of the hall.

"Sereno!" He yelled again.

"¿Qué?" replied the guard, approaching the rebel's cell.

"A noise, down there," Ortega spoke quietly, attempting to appear in worse spirits than he was.

The guard looked him up and down, paused for a moment, and then headed toward the last cell on the block. Quickly Ortega pulled the metal pin back out from the rope binding his hands, and slid it into the lock on his cell's door. After years of experience it was easy for him to feel the tumblers of the lock and slide them upward until the tension for each of them was just right, and then slowly open the door. Now the watchman was facing away from him, looking up through a barred window at the end of the hall like that in Ortega's cell.

Ortega made a dash down the cell block and in one fluid movement, brought the rope between his hands up around the guard's neck, wrapped his right leg around the guard's to throw off his balance, and brought him tumbling down onto his stomach. Ortega put all of his weight on the guard's back and pulled him backwards by his neck, almost bending him in two while he sputtered and gargled, struggling to breath. After a good minute of being strangled the guard's eyes finally rolled back and his body went limp.

The rebel began to search the body for anything he could use to cut the rope binding his hands, quickly finding a short knife in the guard's back pocket. With some difficulty he managed to sever the rope, and once his hands were free he began to search more thoroughly. After pocketing the knife he found a shining Colt M1887 holstered on the guard's chest. With a smirk he noted that the guards here truly were supplied with the latest and greatest weapons for repressing the public.

Aniceto slid the revolver into his free pocket and dragged the guard's lifeless body back into his cell. There, he unbuttoned the man's shirt and pants as well as his own ragged trousers, putting the shirt over his own bloody chest and trading the pants for his. He then slipped into the guard's shoes and took the revolver back, checking the cylinder and pulling back the hammer. He thought for a moment about the best way to leave such an unfamiliar place without arousing suspicion, before standing and walking out of the cell block.

The disguised Ortega climbed a dark stucco stairwell and found himself walking into a large open courtyard, with walls and balconies to each side of him. This early, the villa was still relatively quiet, but Ortega needed to be careful - a guard wandering the grounds could be suspicious. He scanned the edges of the courtyard until he found the largest door he could, surmising that it would lead him out to the outer grounds of the villa. Using the shade under the balconies as cover, Ortega quickly approached the doors and pushed them open, only somewhat surprised to find them unlocked.

He stepped out into the rising Mexican sun and took a final glance around the villa, noting only one guard standing with a rifle at the top of a partially-crumbling stone turret. Ortega waved half-heartedly at the guard, hoping to convince him that he was only going for a stroll. He prayed under his breath that he wouldn't be recognized as he walked down to a heavy gate, where a very foreign looking guard waited.

"Monsieur?" the guard asked, making brief eye contact with Ortega.

He responded in broken French, "Uh... Je pars maintenant ... être veilleur, uh, de monsieur," and the guard nodded, slowly pulling the gate open and freeing Ortega to walk out into the rising sun.

Post by **Skunk_Giant** » 09 Sep 2012, 03:34

Sorry, didn't realise we were supposed to make intro posts yet. I'll try and get it done tonight/tomorrow.

Post by **Invunarble** » 10 Sep 2012, 22:37

May 16th, 1887
11:43 PM
Ciudad Juarez, Mexico

Carter glanced at the horizon. In the distance, he could hear the commotion and noises coming from the town of Ciudad Juarez. This town was a busting epicentre of activity on the Mexican Frontier, with many passerby from the United States, Canada, even South America eventually making their stop in this town before continuing Northward/Southward. It was a massive social hub for many Mexicans in the area, even compared as the Mexico City of the Mexican Frontier.

However, Carter wasn't here to play blackjack or pick up a few prostitutes. He had business to conduct. Business involving Hermangez.

Not far from the town at this point, Carter thrusted his heel into the side of his horse to spur it onwards. The sooner he turned in Hermangez to the authorities in the town, the sooner he could take the pressure off from lugging him on his horse everywhere. While the scuffle to break into Hermangez's manor was not an easy one, it definitely payed off in the end.

The gentle slope of the cliff that Hermangez's villa was located on allowed for an easy back door escape route. Normally, the average Bandito would have large troubles climbing up a cliff of sheer size as such without any tools of assistance. However, once already ontop of the cliff, it is quite easy to slide off of the side of the cliff, without hurting yourself. At least it was in Carter's case, anyway. Hermangez wasn't as lucky as Carter when his bundled body went over the massive slab of stone. His nose collided sharply with a nearby boulder while tumbling down, presumably breaking it.

This resulted in the next few hours Carter hearing nothing but Hermangez squeal and whine about the excruciating pain his nose had. This didn't end in anything pleasant besides Carter gagging his mouth and bluntly connecting the side of his forehead to the butt of his explosive rifle.

Finally arriving on the heavily industrialized paved roads of Ciudad Juarez, Carter trotted his horse to the top of the spiral-based layout the city appeared in. The Government Palace on the top of the hill seemed to be appropriately located - the entire residential area was all based surrounding the hill at the bottom. This allowed for Mexican Loyalist troops to watch over the boundaries of the settlement efficiently.

For that matter, it was so efficient in observing the area, that a Loyalist soldier was able to spot the rebel visionary Aniceto Ortega's "mob" that intended to attack the city before they were able to make it into the palace. Although Ortega's army was well prepared, they weren't able to top the efficency and lethality Loyalist soldiers put behind their bullets. They used their knowledge of the streets and the element of surprise to take down loads of Ortega's soldiers before they could make it to the palace on top of the hill. With heavy losses ensured, Ortega retreated from Ciudad Juarez, and left to raid another town where he was presumably captured or killed.

The steep climb up to the palace ontop of the hill wasn't the easy one for his steed. The chipped brick steps that consisted of a road up to the summit were worn down by age and the environment, and his horse had many problems getting a holding on the stairs. Eventually, the steed slipped on the edge of a step, and tumbled over, knocking off Carter, Hermangez, and a few bags of his equipment.

"This isn't going to work, goddamit.", Carter murmured to himself as he put his bags back ontop of his steed. Dismounting the horse and walking it down the stairs, Carter hitched the horse to a wooden bench, and proceeded to lift Hermangez off of the horse and onto his shoulder to climb up to the palace. Of course at this point, Hermangez was unconscious from the numerous times Carter hit him over the head with his pistol during the trip.

"¿Hola? Abre, quiero hablar con el alguacil!" Carter demanded to the guard at the gate.
"No permitimos que los gringos en el Palacio. ¡Vete!" The guard responded sharply.
"Tengo algo Hondures puede interesar Hermangez." As these words rolled from Carter's mouth, the guard's jaw dropped in shock. Without any response or hesitation, the gate opened, and Carter walked into the main courtyard.

Translations: (From top to bottom)(You're still a scrub)

Spoiler! :

Since Carter was a man of basic manners and politeness, he did not walk into the main palace building uninvited, and instead waited out in the courtyard, after dropping Hermangez's body enthusiastically down in said courtyard. The guard jogged up to the palace, and went inside to look for the Alguacil, Hondures, who was in charge of looking over the government of Ciudad Juarez, unless the President decided to intervene in Hondures' affairs.

"Ah, John Carter. Welcome to Mexico. What brings you here?" Carter jumped at the sound of hearing fluent English from a Mexican, especially a Sheriff. It wasn't something you would expect to find every day.
"I am conducting classified business for an agency, but that isn't what brought me to your palace. I am here about this man, Jesus Hermangez."
"And what exactly is the importance of Mr. Jesus?" Hondures responded quickly.
"I suspect he has a significant role in supplying those rebels I have been seeing in the area lately - Ortega is the name, correct?"
"Si. Our Presidenté has been peculiar on where the rebels have been receiving their firearms, and more importantly - the mass amount of dynamite they use."
"Hermangez received a fresh shipment of dynamite - 6 kilos of it." Hondures' jaw dropped as Carter informed him of this.
"Where does he receive all this dynamite? and more importantly, where does he store his opium?"
"That's what I hoped you would tell me. Word tells me your Presidenté has some effective interrogation techniques. For a fee, I could turn him in, and he'd be all yours to beat."
"I'll offer you $4,000,000 USD from my Presidente if you leave him in my palace."
"$5,000,000, and you ha-" Carter was suddenly interrupted from the screams of a nearby guard as a chunk of shrapnel entered his left arm.

"Ahh, senior, Ortega's men are back..."
"Todo el mundo, las posiciones defensivas! (Everyone, defensive positions!)" Hondures barked to his men as they viciously exchanged gunshots with the rebels outside of the palace.
"Hondures, these men don't have the training and discipline the rebels possess." Carter pointed out "These are defectors."
"No matter, what is important is that they do not get Hermangez. Take my pureblood steed, and take Hermangez to Rojo Picas Canyon - They won't be able to follow you there" Hondures stated.
"Where do I go from there?"
"Get them away from your tra-" Carter was suddenly alerted by a rebel who managed to get up onto the wall, and had fired a 1882 repeater round into the ground beside his left foot. Hondures ran for cover behind a shipping crate, while Carter pulled his dual revolvers out and fired multiple rounds into two rebels that had just climbed over the wall. They both dropped down onto the floor of the courtyard, limp and lifeless.

"GO! My men will cover you!" Hondures bellowed to Carter.

In a desperate burst of energy, Carter grabbed Hermangez's tied-up body and threw it over his shoulders. In an extreme display of endurance, he sprinted to Hondures' horse while firing a few rounds in the general direction of a few rebels who had just scaled the wall. Another two fell down into the courtyard, while a third toppled back over the exterior of the wall. He then leaped onto a nearby crate, and jumped onto the saddle of the horse, while placing Hermangez down onto the back end of Hondures' horse.

Kicking his spurs into the horse's side, Carter galloped away on his steed into the Rojo Picas Canyon, which was not far at all from Ciudad Juarez. A few of the defectors, determined to get back their supplier, began pursuit of Carter onto the road. Shots whizzed by Carter left and right, and while occasionally turning back to fire an explosive round at his pursuers, he focused on the trail ahead, since it was considerably dark outside.

Finally arriving on the tight twists and swirls of the Rojo Picas Canyon, Carter banked a hard left on his horse, into a sub valley. Guessing that he lost his pursuers, Carter began to turn into a canyon on his right when suddenly, a bullet whizzed right through the skull of his horse, and the mass of meat and flesh collapsed to the ground, causing him to bang his head ferociously on the ground, sending him unconscious.

Recovering from the blow he took to the head, Carter dimly opened his left eye to see the empty canyon infront of him. However, the effort to keep his eyelid open proved to be too much to handle, and it closed again for what seemed to be hours. A moment later, and Carter mustered up enough strength to open his eye again, and oddly noticed a man in a top hat and a trench coat slowly walk towards him with a cane in his left hand. Each time Carter closed his eyes and opened them, the man walked closer and closer to him, until he realized this man could pose a threat.

Desperately glaring around, he noticed one of his revolvers laying on the ground a few meters from his hand. Carter attempted to pull himself closer to his weapon, but felt his left leg become stuck underneath what seemed to be the mass of his horse. Struggling and struggling, Carter finally managed to get his fingers around the stock of the gun, just to feel it be kicked away by the shoe of the man in the trench coat that spent what felt like hours walking towards Carter.

"You aren't going to like this one bit at all, Mr. Carter." The man said as he looked down at Carter. Then, he placed his cane down on his shoulder and felt a sharp stab go through it. The immense pain was too much for him, and he soon blacked out and went unconscious.

Post by **aflycon** » 11 Sep 2012, 21:16

[Remember to pay attention to the dates and times at the beginning of each post. There will be some jumping around in order to set up or explain certain events, and even a difference of a few minutes can be critical.]

May 16th, 1887
Approx. 9:30am
45 miles southeast of Ciudad Juarez

This far south of the border, things were quieter. Ortega was now far from the bustle of the compound from which he had been liberated, but he knew that his absence would soon be noted - time was of the essence. His destination loomed on the horizon, tall and foreboding. Locking his eyes to its grand but slowly decaying wooden doors, he wondered to himself if his men had honored his posthumous requests. He hoped to walk into open arms and not a wave of hellfire.

The back of the stolen horse that he rode was fast becoming slick with sweat, and Ortega's followed suit. Realizing that he would both boil in his heavy shirt and be mistaken for a Loyalist, he shed the thick button-down and dropped it into the dust to his right. He ran his hand over the holster at his hip to ensure that the M1887 still waited for him there, anxiously, its hammer still set back. Ortega dragged his hand heavily across his forehead, collecting many a bead of sweat that had accumulated under the searing Mexican sun.

A knot grew in his chest as his destination drew closer. He noted the bravery - or perhaps stupidity - of his actions; if Ortega wrongly assumed that his army had followed his orders, or even remained a unified force once they thought he had perished, he would be walking into a hell worse than what he had escaped only hours before. However, he saw no alternative. He would not write to his successor, for he knew not how mail could reach him safely. He could not simply wait for the next move of his opponent, for at this point that party was assumed to have the upper hand. He needed to act now, and if it meant that he would confirm what his men suspected by walking into his death, so be it. Despite appearances, Ortega was a more selfless man than one might assume.

May 16th, 1887
Approx. 9:15am
Reyes' Prison: Ortega's Destination

Two men, strongly resembling the banditos of the vast Mexican plains, escorted a bloody and beaten third up a rickety wooden staircase. One of them held a bolt-action rifle while the other carried a rusty machete. The middle man's hands were bound tightly together. The man on the right muttered something in colloquial Spanish while the bloody man spewed slurs and profanity at both of his handlers, occasionally thrashing about in an attempt to escape their hold. Once they reached the top of the stairs, the bloody man looked over a tall wall to their left, staring out over the dunes until the bright sun forced him to blink.

The man on the left looked out from the balcony on which they stood, surveying the large open courtyard of what appeared to be an old prison. Men in Loyalist garb hung from gallows, and others whose hands and feet were bound lay in piles around the courtyard; it appeared each of these men had been executed by a firing squad. For the most part, women and children occupied what prison cells had survived the obvious siege of the prison, but some decorated Loyalist officers were being guarded in higher cells by men like those who escorted the bloody prisoner. The stench was absolutely horrible, and the sun only made it worse. Thankfully, not all of the bodies were yet exposed to its rays; hopefully the pyres would start that night.

The bloody man continued to struggle until one of his handlers brought his face into the wall and a loud crack brought him back to reality. He shouted out in pain but, fearing that his handler would do it again, submitted. The three of them continued into what seemed to be the tallest tower in the prison. After several flights of stairs they reached a reinforced wooden door with a heavy lock: the warden's office. The man on the left rapped thrice, and after a few moments of hollow clicks the door swung open.

Before them stood the cleanest, best-dressed man in the prison: Aniceto Ortega's successor, Alejandro Reyes. On his desk sat a large container of expensive-looking brandy next to a sheet of papyrus with a long, handwritten list of instructions on it. It looked to be signed by Ortega himself.

"Welcome to my office, Mister Guillory. I'm sure you're already familiar with it," Reyes spoke kindly. He looked at the bloody man before him, and then back at the high-backed chair from which he had just risen. Reyes took a glance out of the window behind it and smiled as he remembered Guillory was the man who occupied the chair before him. Reyes walked back around the desk and took a seat, looking at each of the men who had brought Guillory upstairs.

"Go ahead and untie him," Reyes smiled, "he shouldn't be any trouble." He laced his hands on his desk, looking around the room as his men obeyed. His eyes were lost in the painting of a white-bearded Mexican man on the wall above a fireplace when a shriek brought his attention back to the situation at hand. As Reyes' men had untied him, Guillory had quickly overtaken the man with the machete, kicked him to the floor, and brought the blade into the rifleman's chest. Quickly taking hold of the gun, Guillory lifted it up and bashed its rear into the machete man's face, then, still facing Reyes, kicked the door closed.

As he heard the door click, Reyes thought his fate was sealed. His guards were incapacitated, one of the most dangerous Loyalists in Mexico was standing opposite of him, and he was staring down the barrel of a gun. Though his heart pounded in his chest, Reyes was the first to speak.

"I thought you wouldn't be any trouble, Mister Guillory." Even facing his death, Reyes maintained a facade of lightheartedness.

"I want my prison back," the Frenchman said. One could easily tell he had come from Europe, but it seemed he had spent enough time in Mexico for his French accent to recede.

Reyes knew that Guillory was and had always been a brave man. Taking this prison from the Mexican people had been a bold move on the Loyalists' part, but Guillory taking the reins had been even bolder. For four years the Frenchman had run the place with an iron fist, until Ortega's men raided it just six days before. In the ensuing time any man inside who wasn't important had been slaughtered - hanged, shot, executed, or burnt to death - women and children had been locked up, and the high-ranking Loyalists were contained by the best of the rebels. It had been a swift and brutal takedown executed by none other than Alejandro Reyes, though planned by Ortega to be acted out in the event of his incarceration or peril.

Reyes also knew, however, that an attempt to take back the prison was futile, even suicidal. Guillory and his surviving men were vastly outnumbered by Reyes'. Even if Reyes was shot in cold blood where he sat, his men would bring the same fate to all the Loyalist soldiers in their cells thirty yards away - the only way Guillory would leave the prison was in a cart with the rest of the bodies to be burned. A broad grin crossed Reyes face as he realized Guillory was only bluffing: he had seen his chance to overpower Reyes' guards and taken it, but now had no leverage other than the gun in his hand. All Reyes had to do now was wait.

"I believe I took this facility from you, Mister Guillory, quite fairly and quite squarely..."

May 16th, 1887
Approx. 9:35am
Outside Reyes' Prison

A small cloud of dust surrounded Ortega's feet as they hit the ground. A single rifleman stood before him, and behind him stood Ortega's destination. Expecting the rebel to recognize his leader, Ortega simply smiled at him and waited for a reaction, but did not expect the one that followed.

The rifleman readied his gun and raised it to Ortega's chest, growling, "Who are you?"

The rebel leader was taken aback. "I am Aniceto Ortega," he replied, "leader of your people. Who are you?"

"Don't you lie to me!" The rifleman roared at Ortega. "I will shoot you like a dog!" He jabbed Ortega's chest, still bare and bloodied, with the tip of the rifle's barrel.

Ortega did not know how to convince the guard. He realized that most of his men had never seen him, and other than his highest officials, only those who had accompanied him to the white-bearded Mexican's conference room had been lucky enough to meet him. He almost found it funny that he had made it this far only to be stopped by his own men. A feeling of hopelessness sank over him, not dissimilar to that he had felt only hours before in his cell.

At that moment, one of Ortega's closest men leaned over the wall and recognized Ortega's tousled hair and gleaming dark eyes. "You live!" He shouted, unable to contain his excitement. "Still there is hope for this land! Let him in, burro!"

The rifleman's face grew red and he dropped his rifle, scurrying to open the gates of Reyes' Prison. As the man on the wall shouted down to his fellows, a roar of approval rose up throughout the courtyard at the sight of Aniceto Ortega, Liberator of Mexico.

Reyes' Office

Guillory heard the cheering in the courtyard and readied the bolt-action rifle to fire. "What is that racket?" He asked, sweating while his hands struggled to maintain their aim.

"I don't know," Reyes replied, "I just work here." He chuckled. The cheering slowly quieted down, but Reyes questioned its cause as much as, if not more than Guillory did. The only possible explanation for such an applause would be Ortega's return to the army, but Reyes thought he was either in custody of the Loyalists or dead. He had been told directly that Ortega had not returned from the attack on the Loyalist boardroom, but then again, no one at all had returned.

Mindless banter ensued between Reyes and Guillory. The Frenchman continued to bluff while the rebel continued to stall, effectively keeping an already-futile conversation at a standstill. Every few moments, Reyes' mind flickered back to the idea of Ortega returning to their aid, but he could only hope - until he heard conversation outside.

"No, nobody has been inside since the warden was brought upstairs."

A loud sniffling noise followed. Reyes now noticed that the scent of congealing blood rising from the gory machete wound was strong in the air.

"Reyes!"

A shout resonated through the heavy wooden door just moments before a thundering kick sent it flying open. Time seemed to slow down: Guillory spun on his heel, Reyes shrunk back into his chair, and Ortega drew his revolver and quickly fired at Guillory. The shot pierced his throat and he fell to the hardwood floor, sputtering and quickly bleeding out. For good measure, Ortega fired another shot into the back of the Frenchman's head before setting the M1887 on Reyes' desk and embracing his successor and close friend.

"I cannot believe you survived, Aniceto," Reyes said, grinning from ear to ear.

"I could say the same," Ortega told him, stepping toward the large window that overlooked the prison. He struggled with the handle of the door next to it, which lead out onto a small balcony, before pulling the door open and stepping out into the sun. He fired off another shot into the sky to garner the attention of his men.

"My people!" Ortega began, "Today marks the beginning of the end of the tyranny of Porfirio Díaz!"

End Prologue
Begin Act 1: Porfirio's Paper Trail

Post by **Someguy42** » 12 Sep 2012, 06:22

May 17th, 1887
12:35 am
The middle of nowhere

Jeeves was taking a nap when he heard footsteps. They were close and he knew if he tried to stand up they'd probably shoot him. He opened an eye and slowly moved his hand to his revolver. The camp fire had gone out so it was dark and the owner of the footsteps probably couldn't see clearly. Jeeves aimed his gun through it's holster at the man. He would have to get a new one as there would be a hole in his one soon enough.

"Bad luck trying to jump a gentleman eh," said Jeeves just before he pulled the trigger.

'Click'

Jeeves thought for a second. He always kept his gun full of ammo and ready to be fired. It was revolver so the chance of it being jammed was unlikely. These bandits had obviously emptied his gun and tried to make him think he had been played.

"Well it appears I have been out played. Very well you may take me," said Jeeves to the man standing in front of him.

A man picked him up from behind and took him to a horse tied to a tree. Jeeves was placed on the back and the man mounted the horse.

"You're going to a nice old rusty cell gringo," said the mounted man. It was the only thing he heard before someone knocked him out from behind.

Who is Jeeves's kidnappers, will he die, will he survive and escape? Find out in the next post later when Stalke isn't tired!

Post by **Skunk_Giant** » 12 Sep 2012, 07:14

May 16th, 1887
9:32 pm
"Lark's Land" - West of Ciudad Juarez

James Wolfe sat down with a laugh, smacking his drink on the table. He smiled a drunken smile and looked up at Lyle, who stared back, unamused.
"You don't need to act like an idiot, Wolfe. Nobody's watching you here."
"I'm not acting, Hamish. I love it here. What'd you say they call this place?"
"Lark's Land. It's the type of place that would probably lose you your job if people knew you were here. Everything here is illegal."
"Damn, these Mexicans really know how to drink, Lyle. I can see why you came here now. Anyway, onto business-"
"I already told you," Lyle interrupted. "I'm busy."
"But you haven't heard me out yet!" Wolfe explained. "It's a simple job. We just need the guy. Alive." Wolfe burst out laughing. "But seriously, can you do it? People are starting to get pissed with you, Lyle."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, after the big Carose incident, the Department of Justice still trusted you. They knew you. Now, we've got this whole new generation of guys coming, and when they hear your name, they instantly think of all the stuff their bloody parents told them about you. The rumours, y'know? You do this job for them, they might just trust you a bit more."
Lyle sighed. "Who is it?"
"Well that's the thing, we're not so sure," Wolfe admitted. "You hear about the incident earlier? Some guy blew up a villa and kidnapped someone. A bandit probably. Anyway, the Department wants him." Wolfe took another drink, the beer greying his white moustache.
"What makes you think people are gonna respond when I start asking questions about it?"
"Because people don't know you as well in Mexico," Wolfe said with a grin. "They don't hate you!"
"Great," Lyle said sarcastically.
"The further into Mexico you go, the less people know, and therefore hate you. Anyway, I've got some Blackjack to play, but the most recent witness we have says he was heading towards that big city... What do they call it? Ah, I dunno. The one to the west. Anyway, we don't need him immediately or anything, so you can do whatever business you have to do first." He got up to leave, before adding with a whisper, "Just don't let me find out about it. I'd hate to pull you in," he said with a laugh that destroyed any cover he could have had.
Lyle sighed and looked towards his bag. He had a long journey ahead of him, but he was heading that way anyway.

Post by **Invunarble** » 13 Sep 2012, 16:00

[My mind is boggled right now. Somehow we jumped into the past by two days, so i'll edit my predeceasing post to something a bit less derpy]
March 25th, 1864
8:31 PM
New York, United States

"John, close the curtains! Make sure the windows are locked!"

Panic and chaos gripped across New York City during the night. In the climax of the American Civil War, rioting had broken out across New York. Confederate devotionals would frequently gather in public locations and lead massive protests throughout the streets of NYC. Since President Lincoln had devoted most of his volunteer army to the frontline of the war, many large cities on the East Coast had no form of crowd control. If you weren't part of the riot, you are probably bound to be affected by it negatively.

And such happened to be the situation this night. The Carter household was inconveniently located on Wall Street - the home to most economic aspects in New York. Tonight, the rioters felt the best way to show independence from the Union would be to destroy everything near Wall Street.

"John, I told you already, cover the damn windows!" Joe Carter bellowed to his 12 year old son as he rushed downstairs to grab his 12-gauge pump-action shotgun.
"I'm going, father! I'm sorry!" John retorted as he dashed to cover as many windows on the upper floors as he could. Peeking outside, he noticed Confederate rioters were going into household after household and killing the inhabitants, then proceeding to set their house alight. The Carter family had no intentions for their house to suffer the same fate.

"Joe, honey, they are coming near our house!" John's mother Sue yelled in panic as she noted the aflame torches of the protesters.

"Kids, hide in the cellar! They're getting closer!" Frank and George, the oldest of the three children of the Carter family that precedented John by three and five years respectively, dashed down into the hidden cellar that had a trapdoor-based entrance hidden underneath the living room rug.

"Mom! You need to come down here too! The rioters will kill you!" George yelled as he descended down the ladder into the cellar.

Suddenly, the metal tip of a large hatched poked through the wood door that protected the Carter household. In a mere number of minutes, the door burst into shreds. Five men poured into the household away from the main rioters, three armed with pitchforks, another with a torch, and the last one with a 6-bullet revolver of unknown making.

John watched in horror, hidden on top of the upstairs staircase as the men lunged at his father. Joe Carter had much experience as a lumberjack, and wasn't as small and scrawny as the rioters inside his household were.

Joe fired two rounds from his shotgun at the rioters. One blew the flesh and meat of a man's leg off, crippling him on the ground. The other round pierced the head of the torch-wielding man, causing his limp body to drop to the ground, while also extinguishing the torch.

"Get the fuck out of my house, you Confederate bastards!"

Suddenly, a revolver shot sound clipped through the air of the household, and a bullet pierced through Joe Carter's upper torso. Wheezing for air, Joe limped to the ground, and fired a third shot killing his attacker before slumping down to the floor, dead.

"DAD! NOOOOO!" George screamed as he popped from the hidden trapdoor hole, firing rounds from his father's hunting rifle, which was stored in the hidden cellar. A grand total of eight rounds (which was the size of one clip in the rifle) were fired at the last two attackers in what appeared to be milliseconds in John's eyes, effectively leaving the two last rioters in a puddle of blood.

"YOU BASTARDS!" George bellowed from the doorway, already reloaded his rifle. In pure rage, he discharged bullets into the crowd of Confederate protesters. One after one, they all tumbled to the ground, on the paved roads of Wall Street. This didn't go on forever though, and after loading a third clip into his rifle, a clean bullet went through George's skull, leaving his limp corpse outside the door of the Carter household.

Sue Carter dashed outside at the sight of her son's body dropping to the floor. Crumpled over his corpse, sobbing, two more rioters walked up to the doorway, noticing the physical beauty of Sue.

"Oho, you'll make a nice one for tonight. You're coming with us, whore." One of the rioters said as they both grabbed one arm of Sue, and dragged her into the crowd.

Counting the minutes gone by, John hid in his room, waiting, glaring out the window occasionally for the crowd to leave Wall Street and devastate another area of New York. After what seemed to be hours finally elapsed, he walked down to the staircase, and carefully peeked around to make sure the rioters had left the area.

Walking into the living room, John was devastated from what he saw before him. Seven men, including his brother George and his dad, all laying down in the house, lifeless. Glancing down at his feet, he noticed the blood that covered them, and subsequently covering the majority of the floor as well. The blood of his family.

John walked over to the living room, where he knew the cellar was located. Climbing down the ladder, he pondered on what he would do now that his family was gone. Searching the area consisting of the cellar, he noticed the grate that lead to the town sewers was opened, as well as his father's old revolver missing. This lead him to the only viable conclusion he could make, and that is that Frank Carter took what he could and ran from the fight, not even caring to defend his family's honour.

Infuriated, John grabbed the last weapon on the shelf, which was George's Smith & Wesson revolver that he normally kept on him often. Seeing nothing else of value in the cellar, he climbed back up to suddenly be shocked from what appeared to be a Confederate supporter that noticed the house had not caught aflame yet, and had returned to make sure it was a pile of ashes.

However, the Confederate rioter had not noticed John go into the vault, nor come out for that matter yet. While he was busy dumping oil on different locations in the house that weren't exactly easily flammable, John climbed out of the trapdoor and tiptoed towards him while his back was turned.

Sadly, the man was not as dimwitted as he appeared to be. Suddenly alert to John's presence, he flailed around and grabbed John's neck.

"We're going to have some fun, you little b-"

The man's words were cut off as a bullet entered his eye socket, instantly killing him. This bullet was the first one to ever be fired by John Carter.

Post by **Someguy42** » 14 Sep 2012, 03:07

May 17th, 1887
5:32 am
Reyes' Prison

Jeeves woke up. He wasn't sure how long it had been since he was unconscious but it felt like ages. He looked at his surroundings and realized he was chained to a wall. It a cell, he could hear crickets. It was close to morning. He walked as close as he could to the cell door and shouted for the guard.

"Guard! Where am I! May I at least know where I am being held captive?" shouted Jeeves. There was a yawn from somewhere. Soon after a man walked up to the cell who was presumably the guard. He looked sleepy.

"Well I am sorry if I have woken you up but I need to know where I am," said Jeeves shortly.

"Eh, you woke me up just for your location gringo? You're in Reyes' Prison and you're gonna get shot tomorrow for being a spy for the Loyalist scum," said the guard with a heavy mexican accent. He spat on Jeeves. "That's for waking me up from my what is it ehh 'beauty sleep'?"

"Well no need to spit on me ol bean, all I did was wake you no harm done," replied Jeeves as he returned to his straw bed. Things had gone bad, he had been captured by the rebels and he had heard news that Ortega, the rebel leader was alive and back in control. He could only hope Ortega was really a kind man unlike what the locals said about him.

Jeeves felt for a hidden sheath inside his boot.

"At least I've got the old trust hidden knife nobody knows about," he muttered to himself as he pulled out the knife. It was newly invented by a friend of Jeeves. It was not too long, it could easily fit in a pocket and it was very sharp with a curved edge. It was his last stand without his revolver.

P.S
Invunarble, is the man with the top hat and the cane me cause if so, I need to edit this post to fit what you wrote. I only realized it now and if it is me then derp but I can fix this solution.

Post by **aflycon** » 14 Sep 2012, 17:36

May 16th, 1887
Approx. 10:00am
Reyes' Prison

More than twenty minutes had passed by the time Ortega was finished rallying his men. When he walked back into the warden's office, two men stood cleaning the bloody floor while the man Guillory had overtaken was recovering in the corner; it looked as if his nose and jaw had been broken. The rifleman's body was no longer on the floor, but Ortega didn't know where it had gone. He did, however, know that Guillory's was surely being taken out to the pikes to be displayed as a warning to the Loyalists. Reyes awaited him outside in the corridor, holding a short glass of brandy in one hand and Ortega's stolen revolver in the other.

"Aniceto," Reyes began, "You always were the better orator." He smiled at his friend, extending the brandy toward him.

Ortega raised his hand as if to decline the brandy, but looked at his gun. "I suppose you're right," he said.

"I shouldn't have shot to kill, Reyes." Ortega seemed visibly upset despite the fact that he had just spent half an hour shouting praise and encouragement to the resistance. Reyes was puzzled.

"He wasn't important, Aniceto. You saved my life - that's what matters."

"He would have told us where Díaz will go next," Ortega said, sounding almost angry now. "Once he finds that I've gone, he'll run. He knows that we would come back for him if he didn't. Díaz and his men will be gone by morning."

"Do not worry," Reyes assured his leader, "we will get him. I promise you that, Aniceto."

"You're right. I don't think we could ready the men in time for an attack tonight. Either way, they deserve rest - and a celebration, I think." He turned back into the office, sitting down behind his desk while the other revolutionaries shuffled out. Reyes walked in again as Ortega drew a quill from an inkwell next to the brandy, and examined the list of instructions he had composed just weeks before.

"Once the men have had their fill, I think it's time we hit Díaz where it hurts," he said, his eyes falling down to the second-to-last item on the list. Reyes nodded, setting the M1887 down on Ortega's desk.

"What do you know of his drug habits? Or moreover, what does this John Carter fellow know of them?" Ortega circled the name with his quill before setting it back into its well, as Reyes began to speak.

He explained that Carter had quite recently orchestrated a raid on the home of a opium smuggler named Jesus Hermangez and turned him into the Loyalists in Ciudad Juarez. Ortega knew that a key ingredient in opium was refined to make heroin, and rumor held that Díaz secretly nursed a hard heroin habit. It may have been a long shot, but Ortega hoped Carter could lead him straight to Díaz.

"I want you to find John Carter and bring him to me."

Post by **Invunarble** » 14 Sep 2012, 19:20

[@Stalke - yes, maybe, possibly]

May 17th, 1887
8:14 AM
An unknown location presumably North of Rojo Picas Canyon, Mexico

"So, what do we do with him?"
"We're taking him back to DC. The Department of Justice has plans for him there."
"That's a pretty damn long train ride, don't you think?"

The words came out blurred and distorted in Carter's head. He was definitely conscious, that was a given. He felt his knees dragging across what he presumed to be a hot, sandy desert of Mexico. What seemed to be a massive amount of muscle was pulling his battered arms forward on the ground. He wanted to pull away from the unstoppable force that tugged his arms forward, but couldn't seem to muster enough strength to even speak to his unknown captors, let alone pull away from the force.

"Why does DC want his body? He's just a wandering bandito of Mexico."
"Not sure why they have such an interest in him, but I can tell that he's no ordinary bandito. That alone wouldn't drag the US all the way into Mexico to grab this man."

Feeling the humongous pressure on his knees suddenly lift from the sandy texture of the ground and back down onto what seemed to be a sheet of metal, Carter screamed in pain. He wanted to scream in pain anyways, but didn't have the energy to use his vocal cords to emit the sound.

"We're going to leave him in this cart of the train. It is covered with reinforced sheet metal, and although it isn't ideal for a man of his sorts, it definitely gets the job done. He'll be back awake in a few hours, and he'll be confused as fuck. Once he starts kicking, come back and quiet him down a bit."

As Carter's mysterious captors spoke these lines, he felt the pressure finally remove itself from his legs, and felt himself being sat down on a chair. His arms did not have the mysterious force at work moving them forward, and instead were tied behind his body together. The massive amount of movement that had been required of his body made him black out again, into the distant realm of dreaming.

May 17th, 1887
1:53 AM
Ciudad Juarez, Mexico

"Shit, they're blowing open the gates! Take cover!" A Loyalist Bodyguard yelled as the wrought iron gate of the Government Palace's courtyard suddenly exploded into shards of metal. Panicking, the guard fired a few more rounds into the breach of the wall, where he saw a few defector soldiers drop.

The bodyguards of Loyalists Generals were now commissioned each a semi-automatic Maudragorno Rifle that was finally perfected by a General bearing a similar name to the rifle, one Manual Maudragorno. Around the turn of the year in 1886, White-Beard decided the typical Bolt Action Rifles were becoming far too outdated for the army, considering the rather small clips they use, and the long amount of time they take to reload with frequent jamming issues.

Hearing that someone had finally perfected a weapon that was "similar to a portable and smaller Gatling Gun" as Maudragorno, White-Beard contacted him and purchased the blueprints for the weapon at a very high price, even offering Maudragorno a position on his Board of Advisors. Once he obtained the blueprints in 1886, they were mass-produced by his army, and by the end of the year around 5000 were successfully constructed and all distributed to the personal bodyguards of the Loyalist Generals. In Ciudad Juarez alone, General Hondures had requested fifty bodyguards all be commisioned with these rifles, and his request was met successfully.

As of now, this was paying off tremendously. The bodyguard fired some more rounds into the general direction of the breach, causing three more rebel troops to clatter to the ground. All this had required nothing more difficult then keeping his finger pressed on the gun's trigger. Emptying out the larger 30 bullet clip from his gun, he reached into his satchel behind the rock he used as cover, and pulled another clip out and snapped it into his rifle.

When the bodyguard peeked out of cover, though, he did not find something of much pleasure. Three soldiers were pushing a large wheel-mounted Gatling gun into the courtyard. Desperately, the guard discharged bullets at the Gatling gun, hoping to kill the rebels pushing the massive weapon to no avail. Once the gun had finally reached a considerable distance into the courtyard, a defector soldier ran towards the turret in an attempt to place the ammunition belt inside of the gun, but was suddenly interrupted when a whizzing bullet flew through the side of his skull.

Noting the brief cease in the rebel offence, the bodyguard popped out of cover and killed two more soldiers with his rifle. Sadly, this turn of events was not good for the guard as a bullet suddenly collided with his right forearm. Squealing in pain, he collapsed to the floor, dropping his gun in the process. Assuming that the defectors had recovered from the loss of their ammunition belt feeder, he pressed his back against the rock and squeezed at the wound in his forearm. The bullet seemed to be larger then normal, and was effectively blocking most of the blood from flowing out of his arm, but wasn't doing the job fully, and blood still gushed from his limb.

Suddenly, the guard heard a loud rippling noise as the Gatling gun rose to life, and started pelleting the surrounding area with bullets. Looking onto the courtyard, he saw his fellow soldiers and bodyguards drop by the hundreds. The ground in the surrounding area was violently ripped apart, while blood and gore from once Loyalist devotees littered the surrounding area.

"See you in hell, Loyalist scum" The guard suddenly turned to his right as he looked directly down the muzzle of a defector's revolver. Knowing the fight had been lost, he closed his eyes as he heard the unmistakeable discharge of a bullet into his forehead.

Meanwhile, inside the Government Palace of Ciudad Juarez...

"This palace can't be held out much longer. Ciudad Juarez is lost." General Hondures pointed out.
"What do you recommend we do, Alcguacil?" A guard questioned in concern.
"There's a Gatling gun in the courtyard the defectors are using to mow down our troops. We don't have much hope hiding in the estate. We'll retreat to Rojo Picas Canyon - we can set up tent there and regroup with the other Loyalist soldiers for a counter attack"
"The Gatling gun will rip through our horses, besides can't they follow us?" The guard asked, bemused.
"We'll need to leave some of the guards behind to cover our escape." Hondures bluntly said to his bodyguards.

Suddenly, the sound of a door crashing and closer gunshots were heard from outside of the conference room. Knowing the defectors were fighting with the resistance inside of the Palace, Hondures turned to his fifteen bodyguards waiting inside of the conference room.

"Amigos, today you have fought a gruesome battle for your country. You all have contributed to the defence of this beautiful city in our homeland. Sadly, our contributions are not enough, and we are being overrun by these vermin. Although you have all fought, and many have died in this defence, the fight is not over! We may have lost this battle, but the war is not over! We will regroup, more powerful then ever! And when we do, all of Mexico will be free from the tyranny of Aniceto Ortega once more! TO BATTLE!" Almost immediately, Hondures kicked down the door of the conference room, and the last of his bodyguards poured out from the room with him.

The massive amount of manpower that suddenly appeared from the Palace baffled the opposing soldiers. Losing morale, they retreated from the balcony of the Palace back down into the courtyard behind cover. While a good 20 some guards waited and fought to the death against the defectors, Hondures and four of his men shattered a glass window on the side of the Palace, and climbed through it into the side of the courtyard. Since the only way to properly get out of the Palace was from the gate under rebel control, Hondures needed to leap over the wall. Thankfully, a ladder was left nearby, and his men slowly advanced upwards and on top of the wall.

"That's a long ways down, Signore. Are you sure this will be safe?" A guard blurted out in shock of the long drop from the hill the Palace was located on in comparison to the rest of the city.
"No, I'm not sure this is safe. Trial and error can be a risky business, this is one of those situations." Hondures retorted, as he tied a rope to a column of the wall. Ordering his troops, a bodyguard grabbed the rope and slid down into the streets of Ciudad Juarez. Noting that the escape path appeared to be safe, Hondures followed after his guard, and the other four proceeded after him.

This didn't go according to plan, however, and as the fourth guard slid down, the rope untied from the column, and him and the predecessor after him tumbled down the cliffside into the streets of Ciudad Juarez. The fifth guard managed to descend unscathed, but the succeeding guard was not as lucky, and landed on the ground with a broken leg.

"Signore! Signore! My leg! I think it's broken!" The guard exclaimed.
"Rodrigo, Juan, carry him to the horses." Hondures ordered as the two bodyguards lifted the third one from the ground.

The group proceeded through the streets of Ciudad Juarez, occasionally running into troops pillaging houses and businesses. A few minor gunfights occurred, and in the end only one guard was killed by the time the group encountered some horses.

"This horse... it seems familiar. I believe this was Signor Carter's steed that he used to arrive here. I didn't receive any word from him since he left to Rojo Picas Canyon, so it would probably be wise to look for him there." Hondures stated as the group mounted horses, including Carter's steed which had all of his belongings on it including a portable tent, looking back on the fires that burned through the streets of the city.

A few hours later...
Rojo Picas Canyon, Mexico

"Signore, I think this would be a good location to set up camp." A guard pointed out at a rather flat area of the canyon with a high elevation, allowing them to see the surrounding area fairly well.
"The question is, how do we get up there?" Hondures pondered.
"Signore! I found something! Come here!" Hondures heard one of his men bellow from the distance.
"Antonio, look for a way to get up to that flat area. I'm going to see what he is yelling about."

"Signore! Is this not your horse?" Antonio asked as Hondures walked towards the commotion. On the ground, he saw a collection of objects - the corpse of the horse he lent to Carter, drenched in blood, as well as a revolver of possibly Smith & Wesson making, with random scraps of what appeared to be some sort of fabric, and a boot with a metal spur on the heel.

"Carter must've been kidnapped." Hondures bluntly pointed out, as Antonio looked back at him in shock.

May 17th, 1887
Approximately 2:00-5:00PM
A train cart presumably heading North from Rojo Picas Canyon, Mexico

Carter suddenly gasped for air as he woke from his slumber of unconsciousness. Still drowsy from the recent flashback he had, he turned his head trying to get a bearing on his surroundings, but to no avail. The room he was in was very poorly laminated apart from a small lamp hanging from the top of the room. The floor seemed to occasionally bump, which lead him to the conclusion he wasn't in a building - he was on a train. How he got onto the train, is what he wanted to find out.

When attempting to stand up, his body suddenly pulled back towards the chair he awoke sitting on. He now felt that his hands had been tied together on the chair, effectively keeping him stuck in his current position. Glaring around, he looked for an escape route. The entire room seemed to be covered in sheet iron, aside from some crates that had been stacked up in the back end of the room. The only possible entrance/exit was at a door in the front of the train car, which was locked with a doorknob and deadbolt pin lock.

In curiousity of having a possible wire on him to pick the lock, Carter looked down at his clothing. The linen button down long-sleeved shirt he had been wearing was tattered apart, with a few buttons ripped off. His right sleeve was ripped short of his forearm, and had a large hole in the area covering his left shoulder which was subsequently covered in blood. His jeans were also soaked in blood, and a small gash was revealed through the ripped material. His left pant leg was ripped near the calf, and his left boot was missing. Fumbling around in his pockets, Carter couldn't find anything of use - his captors had most likely searched him and took his belongings before tying him in this God forsaken metal box.

Before he could continue pondering ways to escape, a man dressed in a black tuxedo and dress pants unlocked the door to the room, and walked inside.

"Mr. Carter. What a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance." The man said.
"Who the fuck are you, and why am I bound to this here chair?" Carter retorted.
"Well, you seem to be quite joyous. All I will tell you is that my employer has an interest in you."
"Fuck you. You're not keeping me bound in here!" Carter yelled in defiance.
"If you truly think that way, then I shall leave on a closing note." The man in the tuxedo responded, then pulled out his Colt 1911 and fired it into Carter's left leg.
"The train will be at it's destination in eight hours. Have fun." Tuxedo man responded, as he turned on his heel and walked out the door as Carter screamed in pain.

Post by **Someguy42** » 15 Sep 2012, 02:51

May 17th, 1887
9:30 am
Reyes' Prison

It was quiet outside. There weren't any others in the cells except for a skeleton. Hopefully Jeeves wouldn't end up like the poor chap. Since the moment Jeeves had been captured, all he could do was think. Think about what was going to happen to him. Think about how this happened. Think about the man who he had stabbed before. His name was John Carter, he had heard about him before. Entire family presumably killed in the riots cause by the American Civil War. He had killed his first man when he was a little boy.

A flashback to the prior events

Jeeves had been somehow caught up in a firefight and was wondering away when he saw the man mounted on a horse with a man tied to the back of it. He thought he was a common bandit kidnapping someone important but it wasn't so. The man tied up was indeed important. It was a Mr Jesus Hermangez who was known for opium smuggling. He had taken a shot at Carter but had missed and hit the horse in the head. Carter fell off and seemed to be dazed. Jeeves dismounted and slowly walked towards the horse. He took a look at the man and recognized him from the newspaper. He wasn't sure what to do. He wasn't sure whether Carter was a bad man or a good man. He took his chances.

"You aren't going to like this one bit at all, Mr. Carter," said Jeeves before stabbing the man in the shoulder with his cane's hidden blade. Carter went unconscious and Jeeves looked at him. Carter wouldn't die but he'd be there for a while. He contemplated what to do. In the end he just mounted his horse and left. He reached a town and sent a message to the Department of Justice. They'd find the solution. As for Mr Jesus, he left him there. Whether the Department found him or not it didn't matter.

Jeeves left and found a nice area to camp in and went to sleep.

Back in the cell

Jeeves couldn't stand waiting. Normally he was a patient man but he had to take action. He called for the guard.

"Guard, guard! I wish to speak with your leader Reyes," shouted Jeeves. The guard approached and looked at him.

"Reyes is no longer the leader, Ortega has returned to us, I'll get him a message but don't expect much, you're a gringo and gringos like you don't deserve anything," said the guard before walking away. Well that went alright thought Jeeves. He could have received some saliva as a response but the guard was kind enough not to. He just hoped Ortega would take the moment to speak with him. Jeeves didn't really have something that he could use to leave his imprisonment but he'd figure something out. He always did.

P.S
Hope this helps clear up some stuff.

Edit: I added a part. Hopefully you can throw in some stuff to involve me Afly.

Post by **aflycon** » 16 Sep 2012, 17:13

[Stalke - Ortega's speech was made a full 24 hours before your post takes place. In fact, it seems Jeeves wasn't even taken until the night of the 16th, the day Ortega returned. If you can out the part about the speech, it will make sense. I'll have Ortega send his men out on rounds that night, and explain Jeeves' capture from the rebel side. Then you can speak with Ortega.]

Post by **Someguy42** » 17 Sep 2012, 02:55

Derp, I got the timing and date wrong, I'll fix it up aaaaand it's done!

Post by **aflycon** » 12 Feb 2013, 23:11

Would there be any interest in this thread (accepting new members, of course) if I were to restart it? I'd be changing a few things to make the action a bit more streamlined and user-friendly.

Post by **Someguy42** » 13 Feb 2013, 02:20

The return of Jeeves!

La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

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Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

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Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

Re: La Hierba del Diablo (The Gunslinger): an RPG

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