Playing Cowboys & Indians

The idea of MISSION'S MERCY is to have the lily-white tropes of the Old West seen in early television and film coexist with a strange and chthonic brutality rooted in the grand spiritual ideals surrounding America's foundation and later western expansion (i.e., THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.) There has already been much deconstruction and reimagining of the worlds created by RAWHIDE, THE MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALENCE, HAVE GUN WILL TRAVEL, and others. But where DEADWOOD and UNFORGIVEN, for example, have kicked much-needed realistic dirt on honorable men in clean white hats and sparkling tin, MISSION'S MERCY seeks to preserve noble (if somewhat naive) ideas like "nothing comes between 'pardners'" and "a man is only as good as his word." The fun bits come in when this idealized Christian Masculinity and its code of ethics and behavior are challenged by both supernatural and mundane menaces that are veiled representations of real world historical atrocities that early 20th century television and text books ignored or defanged. And the true challenge lay in not belittling or undermining the essential "Goodness" of gentle God-fearing folk or the teachings they live by.

MISSION'S MERCY: So Many Souls To Consider

 

(From Annalynne Tuckle's lesson plan for Iris Henrich)

THE TRIBALS

   When early man first set out west from the relatively safe confines of The Alabaster City to slake his curiosity and thirst for opportunity, he found The Tribals already waiting for him.

These early explorers believed that if they were to encounter humanity out west it would be of the savage variety: animals wearing animal skin with spears as their only means of defense. Imagine their surprise when they found them with polished shoe leather, tailored suits, and repeating rifles of their own making slung across their backs. Now compound that shock with the discovery that these tribals lived in settlements of ornately carved stone and bronze with beautiful marble sculptures of men and women in various states of ecstatic suffering.

If these early explorers and settlers had treated The Tribals with the respect due to those who have mastered civilization, this world might be a very different place. Unfortunately, this was not to be. Envy is what drove these settlers to reject whatever Tribal kindnesses were offered, for the Tribals inhabited lands with fertile soil, bodies of water plentiful with fish, and hills that were rich in gold and silver. Envy. Nothing more. And thus began three-hundred years of bloody fighting known as THE STRUGGLE.

The Great Graces of The Alabaster City never officially endorsed war against the native population. But when the ranks of the SETTLER EXPEDITIONARY FORCES suddenly included members of the Sturmblade clan, everyone knew The Great Graces had given their tacit endorsement of the conflict for the Sturmblades do nothing without their masters’ say-so.

In the ensuing battles, heroes emerged on both sides. The greatest Tribal champion was a fifteen-year old acolyte named CYRIL ALEXANDER who was unusually gifted in the prayer and sorcery of his faith. During THE BATTLE OF SORROW FALLS, Cyril bested an entire Sturmblade cavalry regiment with a stone-plated rifle and a successful SACRAMENT OF ALL WOUNDS.

On the side of the Settlers, there were no more-feared combatants than the father and daughter pair of GRATTUS and LUSITANIA STURMBLADE. Quick, even by the demonic standards of Sturmblades, they could fell a dozen warriors and their horses before a man could reload his rifle. Lusitania was known among The Tribals as “DEATH TEATS” for it amused Grattus to make his daughter fight naked. For centuries afterwards Lusitania would become a desired sexual companion who men were willing to pay a fortune for. Many were eager to bed “The Struggle’s Great Whore” and Grattus was not about to let an income-generating asset go to waste.

One by one the great tribes fell before gunpowder and fang. All of these tribes are now found only in history books: THE TENPENNY HAWKS, THE OLIVE BULLETS, THE FIERCE SKIES, THE FAMILY FISTS, and many, many more. Still there was one tribe able to match the violence and horror of both settler and Sturmblade: THE RED GALLOP. Merchants by nature, The Red Gallops found themselves unnaturally gifted at warfare. They were strong in the True Faith (called THE ONE FAITH back then) and so were strong in magic. Under the leadership of their newly appointed FATHER, Cyril Alexander, they consolidated the surviving tribes under one banner and with the help of their ancient allies, The Skookum, were able to beat back the advance of the Expeditionary Forces all the way to the borders of The Alabaster City.

It was then that The Great Graces became directly involved. They sent one of their own, LUVART, to warn the Red Gallops away lest they face utter annihilation. The Red Gallops responded with a hail of gunfire. It had no effect whatsoever on Luvart and The Great Grace once again asked them to depart, a bemused smile upon his face. It was then that Father Cyril offered a prayer to the heavens then took a blade to his own hand and severed it. Father Cyril then ate his own hand. And with every bite, Luvart, this arrogant Great Grace, screamed in agony as large chunks of his glowing white body were ripped away and torrents of shimmering crimson launched high into the air. It is said that the entirety of Alabaster City shook to its very foundations when Luvart finally died. 

With the death of this Great Grace, beings the tribe had heard were “invincible”, The Red Gallops planned a final assault on The Alabaster City itself to end this scourge of infidels once and for all. It was then that The Skookum announced that they had seen enough bloodshed and would no longer take part in the conflict. If The Red Gallops had simply let the Skookum depart their ranks they could have taken The Alabaster City. They still had an army that dwarfed any resistance the city could muster after all, and they had sorcery at their disposal capable of shredding a Great Grace.  Yes, all they had to do to secure victory was keep their eye on the prize. But Father Cyril took The Skookum for traitors. Worse, he took them for HERETICS. And so on the outskirts of The Alabaster City, tribal fought Skookum in a bloody internecine battle that lasted three days. This marks the SCHISM between Tribal and Skookum.

The assault on The Alabaster City never happened. The Skookum disappeared into the wilderness and vowed to shun all men from that day forward. The Red Gallops retreated back into the Fertile Wastes with the corpse of Father Cyril draped over a painted horse. And surely in Whiter Jubilee, The Great Graces smiled. Never again would there be a large scale armed resistance to settlers and explorers.

The Red Gallops are nearly all that remains of the great tribes of old. Yet there are still those that endure. THE ANOINTED ANKLES are one such tribe. They make their home on the winding banks of the great CUT YOUR LOSSES RIVER some fifty miles east of Freedom Beat. THE DOLOROUS BLOWS are another. They can be found in the snowy foothills near The Orchard. And finally there are the CROAKING WALTERS of the GREAT SOUTHEAST. The Croaking Walters never took part in The Struggle as they have successfully prevented exploration and settlements in their part of The New World for the better part of three-thousand years. How they have been able to exert complete sovereignty over such a large territory has been an enduring mystery. That this tribe actually exists is known only because of a solo expedition undertaken by the only person to enter Croaking Walter territory and return: Harriet Sneed. What she discovered, however, Harriet never revealed. Not even to The Great Graces if the rumors from Ponder Academy are to be believed.

You ever chance upon a tribal you treat them the same as anyone else. Same as we treat Augustine. They’re just people, after all. But just like anyone else you chance upon, you don’t take your eyes off ‘em.

MISSION'S MERCY: Hazards of the Fertile Wastes Pt.1

 (From Annalynne Tuckle's lesson plan for Iris Henrich)

Deejens are not mere bandits and villains though they occasionally behave as such. Nor are these men and women, though they look the part. Deejens are human flesh possessed by the spirit of pleasure itself. Everything they do, everything that drives them is in pursuit of pleasure. If it is pleasing to murder, they murder. If it is pleasing to rape, they rape. If it is pleasing to eat human meat, then they shall put you on a spit or consume you raw. And woe to those who ever cross a Deejen who finds pleasure in art. It is tempting to compare Deejens to animals in the bodies of men and women. But those who have confronted Deejens with this hypothesis snug in their skulls have quickly found those skulls hollowed-out and that hypothesis fucked.

In her widely acknowledged masterpiece, RIDDLING THE FERTILE WASTES: IN PURSUIT OF A MODERN PILGRIM’S GUIDE, Harriet Sneed accurately describes Deejens as those possessed by demonic forces (in the appendix, Harriet states that she hated labeling these powers “demonic”--preferring instead to find a natural cause for these individuals behavior--but the preponderance of evidence left her no other choice.) Since Deejens are demonic at their core they also possess an intelligence and cunning not found in wildlife. Yes, they raid and ambush like animals. But they also infiltrate and seduce.

Once upon a time there was a small community named MODEST GARDENS founded by missionaries of Appropriate Grace back when that religion still believed in spreading the good news about the divinity found in table manners and adhering to proper protocol. Two things happened after Deejens infiltrated this community: Modest Gardens disappeared, and The High Graces abolished missionary work.

Deejens possess no unusual abilities. They do not exhibit any abnormal levels of strength or endurance. They cannot see in the dark or change their shape. They are mortal, even if the spirits inhabiting them are not. The only truly unique characteristic of Deejens is that they are reviled even by the most wicked and vile creatures this land has to offer. The only time you will ever see a Tribal, a Skookum, and a priest of the Divine Prospect make common cause with a Norant or a Sturmblade, or even a coven of MURDER MAIDENS from Audacity Springs is to take up arms against a hive of Deejens.

It is more or less a foregone conclusion that those abducted by Deejens never return. And while liberation from their demonic whims is a rare thing, it does indeed happen. The most famous of those survivors is woman named Magil who called herself “Lil” but every legend records her name as NANCY. Not only did Nancy manage to escape their clutches but she was able to do so unmolested. She was abducted late at night from the schoolhouse where she taught. She had been putting the final touches on an original Holiday Story for her students the next day--a reward for their good behavior and excellent grasp of her lessons. And while she enjoyed the way her voice reverberated off the school’s walls as she practiced her oration, she did very much wish an audience was present. And so, after Nancy was taken back to the Deejen hive and they approached her naked and engorged with naught but lust and evil in their eyes, she closed hers and began, “Once upon a time....”

Nancy told them her story of THE LONELIEST SKOOKUM.  There are those who are naturally gifted with the art of song and storytelling. Supernaturally so, even. Nancy was such an individual. She had not gotten further than the description of this tale’s hero when the Deejens paused their advance upon her body. And by the time she had recounted how the wind seemed to whisper “you are never truly alone” as this heartbroken hairy man trekked across a wilderness where the trees seemed to resemble those he had once loved who had long since passed, a most astonishing thing occurred: there were tears in Deejen eyes.

When she had concluded her tale the Deejens were inconsolable heaps of bittersweet misery. Whatever humanity remained in them Nancy had seem to touch. Or perhaps it was not even that. Perhaps even demons have within them the capacity to mourn for worlds that should be; to apprehend the power of hope. They cursed her and thanked her in equal measure as she walked quietly out of their cave. None dared impede her for fear she might once again “Once upon a time...”   

Nancy never told her Holiday Story to her students. Though she had escaped the Deejens intact, the experience had indeed changed her. Once she arrived back in town, she packed her belongings and set out for Audacity Springs.

Less notables have also escaped Deejens. Our very own MARTIN PARKS is one such individual and it is said that he even managed to rescue another who had fallen into their clutches. But this story comes to us from JIMMY WEEN and it is a difficult thing indeed to trust the word of a pervert. 

MISSION'S MERCY: The Strangers & Miss Kali Mantlo

 (From Annalynne Tuckle's lesson plan for Iris Henrich.)

THE STRANGERS

Even those who are Strangers themselves have no knowledge as to the origins of this organization. What little we do know comes from a small booklet published by ELWOOD CELEBRATION who claimed to have been a Stranger for fifty years starting shortly after the Great Struggle’s conclusion.

Elwood was a fat twelve-year old errand boy at a small barbershop in what was at the time the westernmost non-Tribal community; a mining town by the name of HARRIDAN’S FOUNDRY. Elwood was assisting his employer in sharpening razors when a trio of men entered the establishment and demanded all the gold within the barbershop’s safe. They were well-heeled with menace in their eyes and the barber quickly decided that discretion would preserve his life and resistance would end it. On this, he was mistaken. After handing over all the coin in his safe these men slashed his throat with his own razors while Elwood wet himself in the corner. These men then beat a hasty retreat. Elwood ran to his employer and was met with fierce, dying eyes. “A coward you are, boy,” were the barber’s last words.

Elwood then details the funeral of his former employer, the great grief of his family, and how the barber’s young daughter collapsed at his feet and wailed, “Won’t someone do something?” From here Elwood describes how we volunteered for the night shift at the mining company and how he spent great hours alone in the near total darkness taking pickaxe to stone and developing his body into more of the same.

Nights in the mine, days on the outskirts of town where he’d practice his marksmanship shooting squirrels and tracking deer with abandoned and broken rifles and guns he taught himself to repair.

Two years to the day after the barber was murdered, Elwood spied his killers laughing and singing outside of Merriwood’s Saloon on a moonless night; their faces lit by torchlight and Elwood’s unshakeable memory. For reasons Elwood does not explain, he walked past the three men and headed to an apartment above the barbershop where the barber’s family had been forced to relocate. Elwood told his daughter that he had found the men and asked what she would have him do with them. With tears in her eyes the young woman said only, “Kill them.”

And that is just what Elwood did.

The details of the slaughter are not important.

What is important is that afterwards Elwood took all their coin, broke into the barbershop, and placed all the coin upon the safe.

The next morning Elwood woke up in the bed he had placed within his cousin’s stable only to find that the sun was red and the skies were black. Outside the stable stood the most beautiful horse that he had ever seen and upon this horse was a woman with long black hair, a gambler hat, a white duster, and a checkered shirt. She dismounted her horse and approached Elwood. She asked him if he felt he had contributed to “The Great Good” by avenging the barber. Elwood answered in the affirmative. She asked if his aim was true. Elwood had heard that phrase all his life yet never quite understood what it meant. Nevertheless, he again answered in the affirmative. She tipped her hat to him, mounted her horse, and rode away. Elwood suddenly felt heavier. He was now wearing a checkered black and red cotton shirt and two shining guns now hung in holsters about his hip. And at his feet was an ancient and beaten book.

From here Elwood’s story becomes odd. He speaks of being “drawn” to certain areas across The New World. He describes a horse named AMELIA who erupted from Marigold Stream when he once thought to himself, “I’m gonna need myself a ride.” He recounts how his guns began to “talk” to him. And he details a visit to Shane When in order to discover exactly what he had become. It was Shane who told him he was a Stranger and that his only duty was to be “the hammer of the impotent.” It was Shane who told him he had the ability to wield magics older than sorrow. And it was Shane who told him about HALCYON SKIES. 

Halcyon Skies  is a meeting place for Strangers. Like The Wilds of Thought it too is a Wandering Locale. Though said to be found somewhere in the great mountains of the unexplored Northwest it has on occasion appeared in the dead center of the Enameled Plains. No matter where it appears, Halcyon Skies has a strange peculiarity hovering over it: PHANTOM GRASSLANDS--a whole ‘nother ghostly landscape suspended in the air and stretching to every horizon. Upon these transparent grasslands thousands of horses gallop and graze. These spectral horses are capable of frightening speed and endurance though their stamina is not infinite. They also have the ability to, when necessary, take on the form of man or woman depending upon their sex.  When a Stranger is in need of a horse, no matter where this Stranger may be found, a steed dematerializes from the grasslands and then reappears in close proximity to that Stranger in a place of earth, air, water, or even fire.

Halcyon Skies itself resembles a tiny town with only the barest essentials: a saloon, a hotel, a barber, a tailor, and a smithy. Elwood Celebration only had one occasion to visit Halcyon Skies and, according to his booklet, he found it rather unremarkable (save the astonishing shimmering landscape hovering above it.) He did however recount that in the middle of Halcyon Skies is a complete and fully legible Obelisk of All The Laws. He did not transcribe them, nor did he record how many they were, and for this Harriet Sneed vowed to strangle Elwood should she ever meet him in the afterlife. Elwood also failed to mention if those who manned the barbershop, saloon, smithy, etc. were Strangers themselves or if there were those without the black and red who inhabited the community (this lack of clarification marked the first time ever that Harriet Sneed threw a book against a wall in disgust.)

We know more about Strangers from tribal bedtime stories and settler folk tales. We know they often appear where a great injustice has taken place. We know they are much stronger than the average man or woman--their physical strength nearly on par with the average Skookum. We know that they can withstand great injury, but we also know that they are not immortal. We know that they can suddenly appear if those in great need possess something of The Stranger’s (an article of clothing, a coin, a lock of hair.) And we know that fifty years ago The Great Graces, without any notice, held a memorial service at THE CENTRAL CHURCH OF APPROPRIATE GRACE for RACK GALADOR, who they claimed was “The Last of The Strangers.” The Great Graces eulogized not only Rack but The Strangers as a whole, lamenting that these “stalwart guardians of The Fertile Wastes” had all fallen in battle attempting to avenge the wickedness of a Croaking Walter raiding party that had slain an entire exploration caravan. They even gave a name to the confrontation: THE NEVER COME AGAIN.

They lie, Iris. Weren’t no such Stranger as Rack Galador. Weren’t no such caravan. Weren’t no Never Come Again. But once the story was churned through the printing presses and seeded through the land, that lie became irrefutable fact, and any dangerous ideas like once more setting out to find what lies Southeast were extinguished.

With the Strangers “gone” there was no reason to think of them when horror darkened your doorstep. And if you don’t think of them, they don’t come. Because that’s the thing, darlin’: unless you track one down, Strangers don’t bring remedy less’n you have them in mind. You ask me, they’re still out there. Might be one who makes their home outside Freedom Beat with a spectral dog named “Tolliver.” Might be another who wanders the wilds of the Great Northwest in the company of Skookum and PENELOPE LONGLEGS. Could be a few more dotted across the Enameled Plains who haven’t spoken to another living soul in centuries. Without any right to wrong and justice to dispense, these Stranger are probably all wondering why the land suddenly got so peaceful-like.

Can a Stranger stop being a Stranger? Good question. They can, darlin’.It’s as simple as taking off the black and red, folding it up all nice, and laying guns over it.  Yet very few have ever done it. KALI MANTLO was one. She was a Miss Wizard with mahogany skin that’d take your breath away. Kali had laid down for a nap at a Suffer Swap she was attending. While she slept--and the slumber of a Miss Wizard is deeper than Glory Tale Lake--the swap was raided by DEEJENS who had somehow enlisted the services of not one, but two DEATH SHERIFFS. She awoke just as they were riding away loaded with gold and the corpses of her wizarding sisters--no doubt to keep as playthings until they spoiled.

Kali then did what no Miss Wizard outside of Glory Tale City has done since. She washed away her red and blue face paint, exposed that mahogany to the world, and tracked the trail of those scoundrels across desert and grassland all the way back to their subterranean outpost near the foothills of GREAT MAIDEN MOUNTAIN. Any who dared to impede her for no other reason than the skin that could take your breath away had theirs stolen twice as swift, for Kali Mantlo’s inexorable march to vengeance would brook no small, hateful minds.

It is unknown what magics Kali worked in the bowels of the New World that day to cleanse it of a horde of Deejens and their two infernal avatars of death. What is almost certainly a fact, however, is that The School and the Miss Wizards have been less than truthful when it comes to disclosing the full measure of their abilities.

When Kali emerged from the earth, missing an arm and a foot, she was met by two riders wearing the black and red. Kali knew they were Strangers and she said nothing when they put the black and red around her shoulders and pulled her new gun belt tight. When they offered her a book she stepped forward and took it with both hands, not in the least bit surprised that her arm and foot had returned. For the next fifty years Kali Mantlo traveled from town to town as she was needed and acted as the hammer of the weak. And even those who withdrew in fear and disgust at her skin came to begrudging affection when she brought remedy to their anguish. Her guns were named STARSHINE and BRANDY. Her horse was named BILL RACCOON. She was known as The Greatest of The Strangers.

Kali disappeared shortly before The Never Come Again was announced by The Great Graces. Starshine and Brandy were found crossed over her black and red a little ways outside Mountain’s Majesty. Some like to think she’s still out there somewhere, either giving relief to those in need or living peacefully where silence is the sweetest music of all. At least I do.

MISSION'S MERCY: The Lonely Boy

Annalynne Tuckle had nothing but the stars above her, a dead Corkscrew Willow tree at her back, and a fireglow before her that seeped into the vast, invisible expanse that made up night on the Thriving Wastes.

Little Shithead, her loyal friend and only cat, was dead. There weren't nothing to be done for it either. No deals with great forces dark or otherwise. No miraculous cure for the all too common malady that all but the miraculous suffer from. Little Shithead was old. Little Shithead is dead.

It seemed a shame to throw out the rat jerky that her miserable cat enjoyed so much and so Annalynne tears pieces off and lets the salt and submerged juices flood her mouth. Surprisingly good, she thinks. She should have believed him.

Movement catches her eye at the edge of the fire's glow. She draws her pistol with the speed of frightened lightning and points it deadly at a form she can barely discern.

"Step on outta there and get yerself close, less you demand a chimney in your belly."

A young pale boy steps forward. His eyes large but drained of the energy native to the young. Clothes are dirty, feet bare, but not a bruise or scratch on him.

"And who might you be, little one?" Annalynne puts away her pistol and tears off another piece of jerky.

"A boy."
"Yeh don't say. And what brings a boy in the dead center of fucking nowhere?"

"My family. I'm supposed to bring them safe."

"And where's this family?"

"With me."

"Don't see 'em. Where you bringing them?"

The boy reaches into his pocket, "Mission's Mercy. They're right here."

The boy pulls out a glowing orange orb. Its light is soft and there are what appear to be tiny shadows moving within it; tiny shadows in the shapes of women, men, and small children.

"You know where you're going?" It's a stupid question. Annalynne knows damn well the boy is tethered to his destination by ancient and forbidden Familial Sorcery. Of course the boy knows. He has no choice but to know. She just needed a bit of space in the exchange, so stupid question launched.

"I know."

"Yeah. Figger'd as much. I'm Annalynne Tuckle. Your welcome to my fire for as long as you can resist the pull of where you're going."
"Thank you. I'm...my name is..."

"You're a Lonely Boy. You ain't got no name no more. That part of you died the day your family decided to sacrifice you to expedite their cowardly journey to safety."

The Lonely Boy is silent for a moment as he steps closer to the fire and holds his palms out. No amount of fire will ever warm him again, Annalynne thinks. He's a child courier of "love" and "duty" with naught but oblivion in his future.

"I have to go now," he says.
"Safe journey, Lonely Boy. As if you have a choice."

And then Annalynne does something that is very much not like Annalynne Tuckle at all. She shoves her jerky and blanket in a sack and stands up, "I'll wander with you a spell."

The Lonely Boy is not grateful nor is he annoyed. The Lonely Boy feels nothing as he walks back into shadow.

Little Shithead would have talked her out of this pointless distraction. He'd have told her that there weren't nothing to be done for a Lonely Boy. Once a family performs the ritual the child is little more than a husk, a mockery of life. And then Annalynne would counter with the fact that the same was said of Death Sheriffs and it is a fact most certified that they can indeed come back from the pull of mindlessness. Then Little Shithead would delay her with more arguments and the trail of the Lonely Boy would be lost.

But Little Shithead is dead. All she has are her memories of him.

And so she slings the sack over her shoulder and sets off in the footsteps of the animated memory of a child.

MISSION'S MERCY - The Ballad Of Annalynne Tuckle

Annalynne Tuckle had scars all over her body. Clad as she was in rawhide breeches, cotton shirt,and beat-to-death leather duster the only visible reminders of wounds past were found on her hands, neck, and face. But if a devil's wind were to up and rip her to birthday suit: pale scars all over.

She keeps her back to the camp as she whittles a piece of driftwood into a telephone. The refugees gathered around several pots and fire pits; hunger the only need that held absolute sovereignty at the moment. She could smell rabbit and horse flesh along with the shit, piss, and infected pus that surrounds any desperate gathering of the lost.

"Whatchya doing?"

Annalynne looks up with a smile, she has to look up with a smile, who knows when the next wound will be her last. A thin, malnourished girl holding a shredded doll in her arms looks down at her whittling ways.

"Woodcasting," Annalynne replies.

"What's that?"

"Using wood for the magics. Cutting it fine and whispering secret words. Reckon I do this and I might be able to get you and yours safe passage to Mission's Mercy."

"Ain't no such place as Mission's Mercy. Pa told me it was all lies."

"And what did your Ma say?"

The girl hesitates, "She said it's real and true. But no easy secret."

"Just so. Wise woman your Ma. What's your name, little one?"

"Zona. Zona Hear."

"I'm Annalynne Tuckle. And I'm gonna do everything in my power to help all these people, y'hear?"

Zona smiles.

And then a stray mark appears on Annalynne's cheek. It opens and blood falls along the curve of her face.

Zona clutches her doll, "You alright?"

Annalynne hides her face, "Some folks back east don't like me very much. Run along, Zona dear. I'll be fine."

She had to smile at the child even though she strongly dislikes children. She had to talk to her and give her hope even though she despises chit chat. And she has to be nice when she'd rathe be left the hell alone. Because every time someone talks ill of her it literally cuts her open.

She should have killed the bastard that did this to her when her gun was in his throat.

MISSION'S MERCY: Civilization As A Sharp Object

There is always sound, not simply noise but always sound, throughout the Alabaster City. Carriages stream like silt through a classifier for less-than precious metals and with them are always the popping shock of shod beast hooves reverberating off tall windows and throughout slick alleys.

The Alabaster City used to be known as The York and before that something New and before that something to Damn and before even that a name lost to all save the half-dozen souls that have endured since the dawn of creation (though death is a great stranger to them still they refuse to relinquish this oldest of names, millennia of endurance unable to inoculate one entirely against fear.)

This is a place that fashions itself indestructible and we should not hold that against the location, after all do not mountains also have a similar self-assessment? But mountains are not arrogant. Mountains are not cruel outside of circumstance. And mountains do not regularly cull their occupants. 

There is a part of the city that does not tolerate noise of any kind. Those on the streets walk between tall buildings with either whispers or absolute silence upon their lips and some strange power causes even the beasts to step lighter than nature intended.

It is in this part of the city that we find the restaurant and bar, Lavished Precious.

Patrons in the establishment are refined and impeccably outfitted. When they eat, there are no crumbs. When they drink there are no stray drops. When they laugh or cough it is clear and dry. Patrolling the space between bars and tables is a young woman with hair partially free and partially shorn dressed like a trollop dipped in refinement. Elyse Clipton has many several responsibilities a handful of which include: smiling, keeping her garters on and high, listening, gently asking the impolite to leave, following the impolite out the door, slitting the impolite's throat as soon as they are five steps out the door, but smiling all the while. Always smiling.

And who does Elyse serve?

On the upper floor of Lavish Precious is a large private dining room  with a circular polished table in the middle. Every Wednesday at three o'clock men whose very breath could be used as currency sit at this table and decide the fates of men. These twenty men, these wicked, well-groomed men insulating themselves against general decency with the whitest of gloves, the sharpest of mustaches, and money, money, money are the New Pinkertons. These men, almost impossible to distinguish one from another as if the room held but one person and nineteen reflections. These cruelly respectable men. Let us listen a spell...

"Horman? What news of the harbor?"

"Arrangements have been made with the Millers and Donaldsons. Their rough trade should ensure further cooperation and mitigate against any further delays in shipment. The percentage they begged was absurd in its ignorance of the venture's true value."

"What was it?"

"Four percent."

The New Pinkertons voices rise as one in cold, immaculate laughter. "You could have given them twice that and they'd be happy for eternity."

"True, Sebastian. But I gave them half and their spirits were inestimably high."
One New Pinkerton leans forward and relights a long cigar. He is different than the others only in that his mustache is yellow and a red emblem is pinned to his jacket: a limbless rabbit of tin. "Enough of that which resists hardship. What of the hard work? What of expansion?"
"An excellent question, Governor Morrow. Excellent."
"Yes! A burning uncertainty which must needs consideration and careful action."
Governor Morrow leans forward impatiently, "Well? Are we to address it or simply stamp around the matter like feathered savages?"
"The Bone Market and their considerable resources and holdings are ours to use. The treaty was signed not two days ago. Similar terms have been extended to Mountains Majesty but they talk of special consideration."
"There will be no consideration, special or otherwise," Governor Morrow says.
"Of course. And this matter should be settled to our satisfaction soon enough. I would not worry yourself."
"And yet I do find myself vexed and, yes, worried over the matter. Do you endeavor to instruct me in feeling? Please, explain to me exactly how it is that I should feel?" hisses Governor Morrow.
There is silence. There is stillness. In this assembly of cruel and twisted men...there is fear.
It is Governor Morrow himself that abjures the quiet, "What of the prodigal? What of Kellwood?"
"He has not yet gained entry to Mission's Mercy. His desire is as foolish and futile as it was the week before."
"I hear tell he lost himself his Death Sheriff."
"I received similar intelligence."
"As did I."
"I have heard of this as well."
Governor Morrow taps the long ash of his cigar into a bone ashtray, "He'll get himself killed most like...but why chance it? I think the wisest course of action is to forego our promises and dispose of the prodigal one and for all. Merryweather? Send your man to his last known location."
"Sir...we did give him our word. Swore it on our sacred honor. And while that is easily done away with there are other considerations. There are rules, how do I say, 'greater than ours.'"
"Craven superstition. Kellwood requires a good murdering. Now..." Governor Morrow puts out his cigar, "...are we to eat or not, gentleman?"
The door swings open and Elyse enters carrying a fat, bloodied dead man at least three times her weight. She plops him on the table sending glasses and silverware to the floor.
The New Pinkertons rise, bow, bare their fangs and set their hungry jaws upon the body.

Elyse leaves with a smile. Very important to always smile.