Early occult memory systems of the Ohio River Valley
Jun 5, 2017 14:45:22 GMT -5
Sadistic, The Anarchist, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on Jun 5, 2017 14:45:22 GMT -5
The Black Hand knew the time would come, and that it would have to act accordingly if it was to get the chronology just right. And so it called upon its most respected dowsers, geomancers, diviners, and water witches, briefed them, and sent them on their merry way. They consulted their respective branches, pendulums, and plumb bobs, which led them along myriad paths. Some followed the churn of the earth’s core, others its web of magnetic fields, still others the underground network of water carving its way through dolomite and gypsum. The realm of karst spread out below their feet, an entire unseen world built from limestone. They each followed the lay of the land in their own manner yet all found their way to a peculiar spring nestled in the foothills along the world’s oldest mountains. The spring discharged high above a winding river.
Being the conduits and sensitives that they were, these vanguards came to instant and unanimous agreement that this was the location. They’d each been pulled here by a vortex of leftover creation energy, after all, and from their collective experiences they knew better than to question that. Who were they to argue with water and stone? They stacked rocks around the spring as a marker and sent word to the Council. The Council put out the call for colonists. Adventurers. The disenfranchised. The bored. A particular group attempting to eke out an existence at the world’s end leapt at the opportunity. They wearied of living under the specter of a Powhatan assault. Sand finding its way everywhere. Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Swamp rot, malaria, and elemental forces no one could have foreseen.
Thus was born Hangtown.
Consisting of the usual township accoutrements – fields of crops, a railroad, hardware store, taverns, miscellaneous mercantiles, potters burial ground, gallows, etc. – the town also served to further the Black Hand’s agenda. Namely, REDACTED.
The colonists almost immediately recognized a curious aspect of the location. A fortunate turn of events, really. Hangtown could not be located unless you were invited or they let you in. A select few have found themselves traveling the old straight track leading in and out of Hangtown…and even then, said person would pass through and return to his or her beginnings without knowing where they’ve been or what they’ve done. No compass could point the way. No map could show Hangtown’s relationship with the rest of the landscape. It was beyond, it was outside, the concept of orientation. Such that, were someone in the vicinity when one of these (mis-?) fortunate souls wound their way along this sylvan Mobius strip, they would see nothing more than a fellow traveler kneeling to drink from a spring, then rest on the stones piled around it. The scene would always appear to be some distance away. If the observer attempted to approach (and they wouldn’t) it would come no closer. Nothing but a weary traveler some ways off in the distance, a frozen image on a horizon beyond which mysteries transpired which had no effect on the rest of reality.
Usually. As could be the case with locales such as Hangtown, these places of intense concentrations of energy, be it emotional or material or metaphysical or what-have-you, well, the place could develop a ‘personality,’ if you will. The distinctive atmosphere of a place mingled with the power of the crossroads, simmered for a good long while, and you’ve got yourself an entity. A guardian. A protector. A genius loci. Thus Grimm emerged under an old amethyst sky one evening. He stood holding a candle…that is, a wick threaded through a fat oily petrel, flickering, attempting to shed the least bit of light on the great dark world. Grimm stood, watching from the edge of the map. Where dragons, gorgons, and here-there-be-monsters threatened.
All this to say, yes, Whitey Ford is correct in his assessment that Grimm has been around for a while. He just won’t quit. He’s outlasted the shining stars. His fire has burned the longest.
Seriously, Whitey’s words, not mine.
But he presents it as if the Lord of Misrule’s longevity is a negative thing somehow. As if following through on your commitments and holding to your word is something to be mocked.
The Hangtown Horror would disagree.
Someone with insight into human nature, into the psyche, might suggest that Whitey Ford protests so much because he has been anything but reliable.
“I…am…still…here.”
Nope, friend, not quite. You just decided to come back. After all, Whitey Ford did leave. Then he came back. Then he left again. Then he promised a return that took a very long time to finally happen. Not exactly the actions of a changed man, but for the sake of argument let’s say he is. Let’s try to ignore his dubious past. His dubious claims. That somehow the concept of him flipping from fan-favorite sycophant to selfish bastard to now flopping to rule-stickler even if it means he’ll lose…
Again, Whitey’s words, not mine.
…that this negates his unimaginable deprivations, the prolonged sneer he flashed all during his first few stints in PCW. Let’s say it does. Let’s agree he has.
So what.
Now, before any of this goes any further, let’s address the fact that anyone worth their salt knows these things are more palatable when you build up your opponent, if only a little, instead of insulting their career and lineage and their very existence. Consider this is not disparaging Whitey Ford’s abilities so much as it is providing commentary on his persona. Everything regarding his actual career…his abilities…his skill set…is there for the viewing on videotape and digital pixel-bits. The things he has said and done (or not done, as the case may be) can be referenced in the black and white of the printed page. And that goes for everyone, really.
So the hits and misses of Whitey Ford’s career speak for themselves. And only he can speak for this insistence on becoming a new man. Only he can decide why he’s out to prove all the things. Whether it’s to return PCW to its “former glory” or to grasp at a glory he himself has never truly had. Why he is seemingly so intent on validating his continued presence in the federation.
Mommy? Daddy? I’m your big boy, ain’t I?
Whitey Ford seeks revenge against his own circumstances but will eventually be devoured by his own ambition. His insecurities will ultimately bring him down. Such indecisions make for poor champions and poorer men. They only serve as reminders that one’s career is ending one moment at a time.
But I digress.
Such investigations are best saved for another time. For Whitey’s record speaks for itself. As does Grimm’s. In fact, the physical manifestations of his career abound in the woods around Hangtown. The stick manikins dangling from trees. Burlap poppets stuffed with hair and fingernails, ginger root and ginseng, tucked away in the hollows. The flotsam and jetsam of human wreckage stacked up against Whitey’s redneck anti-hero belligerence. His sound, fury and general noise.
But this match. Grimm holds a dwindling candle, all the better to see in Whitey’s face the relief and fear in knowing that, finally, his time has come. It’s what Grimm sees in all their faces just before he metes out a measure of violence in his bare-knuckled fury. Ignoring every tenant of the Geneva Convention.
No new mercies. Only a colder, more genuine killing frost.
No kingly thrones to aspire to, no shrines of solace to be found. Only locusts singing at the end of it all.
World titles, am I right?
Being the conduits and sensitives that they were, these vanguards came to instant and unanimous agreement that this was the location. They’d each been pulled here by a vortex of leftover creation energy, after all, and from their collective experiences they knew better than to question that. Who were they to argue with water and stone? They stacked rocks around the spring as a marker and sent word to the Council. The Council put out the call for colonists. Adventurers. The disenfranchised. The bored. A particular group attempting to eke out an existence at the world’s end leapt at the opportunity. They wearied of living under the specter of a Powhatan assault. Sand finding its way everywhere. Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Swamp rot, malaria, and elemental forces no one could have foreseen.
Thus was born Hangtown.
Consisting of the usual township accoutrements – fields of crops, a railroad, hardware store, taverns, miscellaneous mercantiles, potters burial ground, gallows, etc. – the town also served to further the Black Hand’s agenda. Namely, REDACTED.
The colonists almost immediately recognized a curious aspect of the location. A fortunate turn of events, really. Hangtown could not be located unless you were invited or they let you in. A select few have found themselves traveling the old straight track leading in and out of Hangtown…and even then, said person would pass through and return to his or her beginnings without knowing where they’ve been or what they’ve done. No compass could point the way. No map could show Hangtown’s relationship with the rest of the landscape. It was beyond, it was outside, the concept of orientation. Such that, were someone in the vicinity when one of these (mis-?) fortunate souls wound their way along this sylvan Mobius strip, they would see nothing more than a fellow traveler kneeling to drink from a spring, then rest on the stones piled around it. The scene would always appear to be some distance away. If the observer attempted to approach (and they wouldn’t) it would come no closer. Nothing but a weary traveler some ways off in the distance, a frozen image on a horizon beyond which mysteries transpired which had no effect on the rest of reality.
Usually. As could be the case with locales such as Hangtown, these places of intense concentrations of energy, be it emotional or material or metaphysical or what-have-you, well, the place could develop a ‘personality,’ if you will. The distinctive atmosphere of a place mingled with the power of the crossroads, simmered for a good long while, and you’ve got yourself an entity. A guardian. A protector. A genius loci. Thus Grimm emerged under an old amethyst sky one evening. He stood holding a candle…that is, a wick threaded through a fat oily petrel, flickering, attempting to shed the least bit of light on the great dark world. Grimm stood, watching from the edge of the map. Where dragons, gorgons, and here-there-be-monsters threatened.
All this to say, yes, Whitey Ford is correct in his assessment that Grimm has been around for a while. He just won’t quit. He’s outlasted the shining stars. His fire has burned the longest.
Seriously, Whitey’s words, not mine.
But he presents it as if the Lord of Misrule’s longevity is a negative thing somehow. As if following through on your commitments and holding to your word is something to be mocked.
The Hangtown Horror would disagree.
Someone with insight into human nature, into the psyche, might suggest that Whitey Ford protests so much because he has been anything but reliable.
“I…am…still…here.”
Nope, friend, not quite. You just decided to come back. After all, Whitey Ford did leave. Then he came back. Then he left again. Then he promised a return that took a very long time to finally happen. Not exactly the actions of a changed man, but for the sake of argument let’s say he is. Let’s try to ignore his dubious past. His dubious claims. That somehow the concept of him flipping from fan-favorite sycophant to selfish bastard to now flopping to rule-stickler even if it means he’ll lose…
Again, Whitey’s words, not mine.
…that this negates his unimaginable deprivations, the prolonged sneer he flashed all during his first few stints in PCW. Let’s say it does. Let’s agree he has.
So what.
Now, before any of this goes any further, let’s address the fact that anyone worth their salt knows these things are more palatable when you build up your opponent, if only a little, instead of insulting their career and lineage and their very existence. Consider this is not disparaging Whitey Ford’s abilities so much as it is providing commentary on his persona. Everything regarding his actual career…his abilities…his skill set…is there for the viewing on videotape and digital pixel-bits. The things he has said and done (or not done, as the case may be) can be referenced in the black and white of the printed page. And that goes for everyone, really.
So the hits and misses of Whitey Ford’s career speak for themselves. And only he can speak for this insistence on becoming a new man. Only he can decide why he’s out to prove all the things. Whether it’s to return PCW to its “former glory” or to grasp at a glory he himself has never truly had. Why he is seemingly so intent on validating his continued presence in the federation.
Mommy? Daddy? I’m your big boy, ain’t I?
Whitey Ford seeks revenge against his own circumstances but will eventually be devoured by his own ambition. His insecurities will ultimately bring him down. Such indecisions make for poor champions and poorer men. They only serve as reminders that one’s career is ending one moment at a time.
But I digress.
Such investigations are best saved for another time. For Whitey’s record speaks for itself. As does Grimm’s. In fact, the physical manifestations of his career abound in the woods around Hangtown. The stick manikins dangling from trees. Burlap poppets stuffed with hair and fingernails, ginger root and ginseng, tucked away in the hollows. The flotsam and jetsam of human wreckage stacked up against Whitey’s redneck anti-hero belligerence. His sound, fury and general noise.
But this match. Grimm holds a dwindling candle, all the better to see in Whitey’s face the relief and fear in knowing that, finally, his time has come. It’s what Grimm sees in all their faces just before he metes out a measure of violence in his bare-knuckled fury. Ignoring every tenant of the Geneva Convention.
No new mercies. Only a colder, more genuine killing frost.
No kingly thrones to aspire to, no shrines of solace to be found. Only locusts singing at the end of it all.
World titles, am I right?
