Over the harvest fields forsaken
Nov 4, 2019 13:15:06 GMT -5
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Dollface, The Anarchist, and 1 more like this
Post by Grimm on Nov 4, 2019 13:15:06 GMT -5
Most of the crows had dispersed, flitting off to other business of the black feathered kind. A few lingered, though, gliding from branch to branch as they trailed the two figures in the woods. The much larger of the two kept a wary eye on the birds as he followed the other. The crows were oddly silent, but there were other noises there in the woods. Echoes of howls and whispers. Unnerving, yes, but only the ambient soundtrack of this land. They passed the rest of the trek among the trees and briars unmolested and emerged into a clearing.
They followed a hollow way worn through the soil and sandstone which no doubt led to Hangtown. But first, they came upon a smattering of markers along the way. Headstones of marble, granite, fieldstone, and slate, spread as if cast willy-nilly by an unseen hand. Stones in various stages of weathering and disrepair, all depending on the relative ages and means of those who had erected them. A few mounds of dirt marked freshly dug holes. And there, off behind the farthest stones, stood a single crooked oak. Strands of rotted rope swayed from its branches. It was one of those trees, but it was not the tree.
Dominic James Atkinson stopped. “What is this place?”
Phinehas Dillinger took a few more steps to the ruined remains of what had once served as a gibbet. There among rusted nails and strips of corroded metal, bits of cloth and bone and teeth, leaned a shovel on the stump that had served as the scaffold.
Yes, it was that shovel.
Phinehas took up the shovel in hands that were just as much tools themselves. Something like objects carved from root and stone and brought down from the hills. Hands that had built things, and broken things. He pointed the shovel at the graveyard.
“This is unconsecrated ground. For folks who for whatever reason couldn’t be buried in the churchyard in town. But it’s still Hangtown all the way down. So there’s that.”
Those empty holes…those graves waiting on their dues…rested there as empty promises. Answers and lives and potentials that were never fulfilled. Now, it could be said that some evils – some demons -- faded if they were ever buried deep enough, for long enough. But for some it would have to be very deep, and for a very long time indeed.
Phinehas returned to the path. Bone fragments crunched underfoot as so many fallen autumn leaves. Dominic followed in step, his long shadow falling on his guide as the sun sat low in a pewter sky. They walked in silence, with only the occasional gust of wind to break up the monotony. Gusts of wind that carried with them some of those very sounds from back in the woods.
They crested a rise and looked down upon Hangtown. Phinehas took a deep breath and smelled the season’s first frost. The killing kind, with its silent syllables whispered and revealed to this Dillinger as traced the path down into his hometown.
As the pair did so, leaving plumes of breath trailing behind them, what Phinehas could have said, what Dominic most likely would have preferred, was something of substance regarding the Hangtown Horror, or his family, or their roles in this place. He could have told Dominic about the Order.
The Order, you say? But…
Yes, the Order. Not your Chronological Order. Just The Order. No affiliation. Adversarial, though, and from as far back as the concept of thought went. The Black Hand and the Order had been tangled within the oldest conflict in the history of humanity. Murdoc and Eira had been the foremost representatives within the federation, and had been quite the thorns in their sides.
But they were gone now. And Grimm remained.
Phinehas could have explained how the Black Hand, and the Dillingers in particular, really were aware of much that had gone on, and would go on, at least as it pertained to them and their home. Granted, their actions, or inactions, could seem arbitrary. Phinehas and Granny and Ruth and William often appeared a mercurial bunch . The Dillingers displayed an ineffable reasoning at the best of times, but reasoning it was. They worked in mysterious ways.
As Phinehas and Dominic continued through town, he could have passed along the legends surrounding him and his brother that would have explained why children scattered at their presence. Or why shopkeeps and charwomen shut and locked their shutters. After all, the Pure Class Wrestling aspect of their existence was no part of nothin’ as far as the townfolk were concerned, so grim(m) and sadistic were just two more in a litany of adjectives used to describe the brothers and their acts. In hushed tones, of course.
Phinehas could have pointed out the significance of places like The Rowdy Dwarf, The Owl and Eel, J.B.’s Mercantile & General Goods, and the Angry Catfish. He could have taken Dominic for a tour of Bad Omens Booksellers or asked Ruth to do the same at Black Hand Bottling. He could have shown him his hives, the cider press, Billy’s Wax Museum, or any one of the sites of the infamous Dillinger Brothers Christmas Brawls.
Today’s forecast: School is in session.
He could have. But he didn’t. Dominic would hear such things if he tarried in Hangtown long enough. If he were any account he would find out all these things for himself. Any member of the Black Hand – the honest-to-goodness, old-as-time Black Hand – would learn of their work…how they were the cause in cause and effect, the this in this, then that…when such lessons would serve in their greater good.
Dominic James Atkinson came here, to Hangtown, seeking knowledge. And he would have it.
Eventually.
When it suited him.
Instead, Phinehas took the road most traveled.
“So…South Texas Deathride, huh.”
“It appears so.”
“STD.”
“Mmm hmm. Because syphilitic insanity and oozing sores are hilarious.”
Dominic paused for a few steps. Then, against his better reason, went on to drag out their conversation regarding…wrestling.
“Is there a game plan of sorts? Do we need to come up with some kind of, I don’t know, strategy or something?”
The slightest of shrugs from the Lord of Misrule. “I supposed we do what we always do, regardless of who the opponent is.”
“Even if it’s an actual tag team and not some random pairing? Two opponents who assumedly have some kind of semblance of experience working together?”
And still they walked in the glow of the gas lamps, their boots clicking off the cobblestones.
“Here’s the thing, Dominic. For every 2Guys there’s The Iron Titans. For every Los Dos Amigos there’s a Faces of Fear. The Nobodies. The New Breed. We don’t know if STD is going to be a stalwart on the roster or a couple of washouts who disappear before the winter solstice. All we can do is what the two of us always do, which has served us quite well over the years. Make it swift and brutal and whatnot.”
“And keep an eye out for interlopers. Like Jason Willard. Or Gerard Angelo. Or Stormm, even.”
Phinehas nodded.
“Indeed. A shovel between the eyes wasn’t convincing enough for Willard, and given his current state of mind I wouldn’t put anything…and I mean anything…past him. And even though Gerard and Justin have each other as immediate targets, you’ve still got that title shot in the chamber. They know you’re an eventual threat, and both of them are not above ’sending messages’…or ruining matches, if I may speak plainly.”
Dominic looked down with a crooked eyebrow. “It could be an even more interesting night than we thought at first. Best to expect the worst.”
They walked on past all the establishments previously mentioned. Across the square where the tree which gave the town its name still stood in all its condemnatory glory. Stepping into the ring with Grimm was treading on hallowed ground. Those who took that lightly or otherwise soiled it with their meddling might be well served with a bit of a dance at the end of one of those bare branches.
It seemed like it might be time for a notice for those who had forgotten. A lesson for the ignorant among us. Those fancying themselves part of a Black Hand, be it three times removed from the original. The Chronological Order’s vision of what they thought the Black Hand was these days. A reminder that members could come and go as necessary. That members had come and gone.
Mr. Showtime . Dollface . Stormm .
Phinehas and Dominic came to the far edge of town. That bastard countryside where civilization, as it was, bled into wilderness. Phinehas knew Dominic was being bombarded with life-altering information on a daily basis and couldn’t be expected to know everything about a world he’d only recently discovered existed. But he was an intelligent gentleman, and he needed to know some things. And the Dillingers were nothing if not well-versed in teaching lessons.
“Hangtown has experienced its share of calamities, you know. And it’s survived them all.”
Dominic gasped in mock surprise.
“You don’t say. How many of them were caused by the Dillinger boys?”
Some.
Bodies in the river. Broken forms left at the scenes of their transgressions. As has been established, the Brothers Gruesome taught lessons. Some directly, some indirectly. And in this moment, Phinehas avoided a direct answer.
“Yep, they burned Billy’s church to the ground (yeah, Sadistic had himself a congregation for a bit – sound familiar?). Then the mayor’s House. The sheriff’s house. The pastor’s house. That Kelli Starr’s presence in town…she threw things off kilter there for a while.”
A slight frown dripped beneath his beard, but still he gave a terse nod.
“But we made it right. And here we are.”
They walked on towards another patch of woods. Or the same tract of woods circled around the other side of town. Dominic couldn’t tell. He could see the dark shapes of black birds settling into those trees, though. And he heard the strains of a
*STOMP* *CLAP* *STOMP* *CLAP*
faint on the air. It hung over the river, a tapestry of fear and confusion. Dominic James Atkinson checked one of his pocket watches. Whew, it still ticked. He tucked it away and turned to Phinehas.
“Calamities, you say. Sounds like the Black Hand does have some vulnerabilities after all. I’ll have to file that away for future reference. You know, to take advantage if the need should arise.”
Phinehas looked up at the Zenith. He turned those…wait, how many different ways can one describe those eyes of his before it becomes some cliché deserving of a quick skim? An iced-over blue, a fierce gale-driven intensity rushing across the tundra. You know, that sort of thing. Anyway, he cast them over the height and depth, the width and breadth of his partner.
“How big a boy are you?”
It was Dominic’s turn to look. I mean, really look. At a man with red hair, frozen eyes, a GingerBeard of Doom. A man of smoke and clay and root and fire. One whose body began where the hills ended, and vice versa.
“Seven feet, one inch. Why?”
Phinehas walked off toward those trees with the shovel on his shoulder, leaving Dominic to catch up. With his massive stride, it didn’t take long.
“Come on. I’m going to show you how to dig a proper hole.”
The crows rasped. It sounded like they were laughing.
~~~~~~~~~
Addendum: By the end of the night, it may appear that this and Dominic’s piece don’t line up exactly. On the one hand, we’re both adults who don’t always have the time to hammer out the finer points on crossover RPs. On the other hand, both of our RPs take place in Hangtown. It’s not always the case that visitors can recall anything at all from their time there, let alone record it with 100% accuracy.
They followed a hollow way worn through the soil and sandstone which no doubt led to Hangtown. But first, they came upon a smattering of markers along the way. Headstones of marble, granite, fieldstone, and slate, spread as if cast willy-nilly by an unseen hand. Stones in various stages of weathering and disrepair, all depending on the relative ages and means of those who had erected them. A few mounds of dirt marked freshly dug holes. And there, off behind the farthest stones, stood a single crooked oak. Strands of rotted rope swayed from its branches. It was one of those trees, but it was not the tree.
Dominic James Atkinson stopped. “What is this place?”
Phinehas Dillinger took a few more steps to the ruined remains of what had once served as a gibbet. There among rusted nails and strips of corroded metal, bits of cloth and bone and teeth, leaned a shovel on the stump that had served as the scaffold.
Yes, it was that shovel.
Phinehas took up the shovel in hands that were just as much tools themselves. Something like objects carved from root and stone and brought down from the hills. Hands that had built things, and broken things. He pointed the shovel at the graveyard.
“This is unconsecrated ground. For folks who for whatever reason couldn’t be buried in the churchyard in town. But it’s still Hangtown all the way down. So there’s that.”
Those empty holes…those graves waiting on their dues…rested there as empty promises. Answers and lives and potentials that were never fulfilled. Now, it could be said that some evils – some demons -- faded if they were ever buried deep enough, for long enough. But for some it would have to be very deep, and for a very long time indeed.
Phinehas returned to the path. Bone fragments crunched underfoot as so many fallen autumn leaves. Dominic followed in step, his long shadow falling on his guide as the sun sat low in a pewter sky. They walked in silence, with only the occasional gust of wind to break up the monotony. Gusts of wind that carried with them some of those very sounds from back in the woods.
They crested a rise and looked down upon Hangtown. Phinehas took a deep breath and smelled the season’s first frost. The killing kind, with its silent syllables whispered and revealed to this Dillinger as traced the path down into his hometown.
As the pair did so, leaving plumes of breath trailing behind them, what Phinehas could have said, what Dominic most likely would have preferred, was something of substance regarding the Hangtown Horror, or his family, or their roles in this place. He could have told Dominic about the Order.
The Order, you say? But…
Yes, the Order. Not your Chronological Order. Just The Order. No affiliation. Adversarial, though, and from as far back as the concept of thought went. The Black Hand and the Order had been tangled within the oldest conflict in the history of humanity. Murdoc and Eira had been the foremost representatives within the federation, and had been quite the thorns in their sides.
But they were gone now. And Grimm remained.
Phinehas could have explained how the Black Hand, and the Dillingers in particular, really were aware of much that had gone on, and would go on, at least as it pertained to them and their home. Granted, their actions, or inactions, could seem arbitrary. Phinehas and Granny and Ruth and William often appeared a mercurial bunch . The Dillingers displayed an ineffable reasoning at the best of times, but reasoning it was. They worked in mysterious ways.
As Phinehas and Dominic continued through town, he could have passed along the legends surrounding him and his brother that would have explained why children scattered at their presence. Or why shopkeeps and charwomen shut and locked their shutters. After all, the Pure Class Wrestling aspect of their existence was no part of nothin’ as far as the townfolk were concerned, so grim(m) and sadistic were just two more in a litany of adjectives used to describe the brothers and their acts. In hushed tones, of course.
Phinehas could have pointed out the significance of places like The Rowdy Dwarf, The Owl and Eel, J.B.’s Mercantile & General Goods, and the Angry Catfish. He could have taken Dominic for a tour of Bad Omens Booksellers or asked Ruth to do the same at Black Hand Bottling. He could have shown him his hives, the cider press, Billy’s Wax Museum, or any one of the sites of the infamous Dillinger Brothers Christmas Brawls.
Today’s forecast: School is in session.
He could have. But he didn’t. Dominic would hear such things if he tarried in Hangtown long enough. If he were any account he would find out all these things for himself. Any member of the Black Hand – the honest-to-goodness, old-as-time Black Hand – would learn of their work…how they were the cause in cause and effect, the this in this, then that…when such lessons would serve in their greater good.
Dominic James Atkinson came here, to Hangtown, seeking knowledge. And he would have it.
Eventually.
When it suited him.
Instead, Phinehas took the road most traveled.
“So…South Texas Deathride, huh.”
“It appears so.”
“STD.”
“Mmm hmm. Because syphilitic insanity and oozing sores are hilarious.”
Dominic paused for a few steps. Then, against his better reason, went on to drag out their conversation regarding…wrestling.
“Is there a game plan of sorts? Do we need to come up with some kind of, I don’t know, strategy or something?”
The slightest of shrugs from the Lord of Misrule. “I supposed we do what we always do, regardless of who the opponent is.”
“Even if it’s an actual tag team and not some random pairing? Two opponents who assumedly have some kind of semblance of experience working together?”
And still they walked in the glow of the gas lamps, their boots clicking off the cobblestones.
“Here’s the thing, Dominic. For every 2Guys there’s The Iron Titans. For every Los Dos Amigos there’s a Faces of Fear. The Nobodies. The New Breed. We don’t know if STD is going to be a stalwart on the roster or a couple of washouts who disappear before the winter solstice. All we can do is what the two of us always do, which has served us quite well over the years. Make it swift and brutal and whatnot.”
“And keep an eye out for interlopers. Like Jason Willard. Or Gerard Angelo. Or Stormm, even.”
Phinehas nodded.
“Indeed. A shovel between the eyes wasn’t convincing enough for Willard, and given his current state of mind I wouldn’t put anything…and I mean anything…past him. And even though Gerard and Justin have each other as immediate targets, you’ve still got that title shot in the chamber. They know you’re an eventual threat, and both of them are not above ’sending messages’…or ruining matches, if I may speak plainly.”
Dominic looked down with a crooked eyebrow. “It could be an even more interesting night than we thought at first. Best to expect the worst.”
They walked on past all the establishments previously mentioned. Across the square where the tree which gave the town its name still stood in all its condemnatory glory. Stepping into the ring with Grimm was treading on hallowed ground. Those who took that lightly or otherwise soiled it with their meddling might be well served with a bit of a dance at the end of one of those bare branches.
It seemed like it might be time for a notice for those who had forgotten. A lesson for the ignorant among us. Those fancying themselves part of a Black Hand, be it three times removed from the original. The Chronological Order’s vision of what they thought the Black Hand was these days. A reminder that members could come and go as necessary. That members had come and gone.
Mr. Showtime . Dollface . Stormm .
Phinehas and Dominic came to the far edge of town. That bastard countryside where civilization, as it was, bled into wilderness. Phinehas knew Dominic was being bombarded with life-altering information on a daily basis and couldn’t be expected to know everything about a world he’d only recently discovered existed. But he was an intelligent gentleman, and he needed to know some things. And the Dillingers were nothing if not well-versed in teaching lessons.
“Hangtown has experienced its share of calamities, you know. And it’s survived them all.”
Dominic gasped in mock surprise.
“You don’t say. How many of them were caused by the Dillinger boys?”
Some.
Bodies in the river. Broken forms left at the scenes of their transgressions. As has been established, the Brothers Gruesome taught lessons. Some directly, some indirectly. And in this moment, Phinehas avoided a direct answer.
“Yep, they burned Billy’s church to the ground (yeah, Sadistic had himself a congregation for a bit – sound familiar?). Then the mayor’s House. The sheriff’s house. The pastor’s house. That Kelli Starr’s presence in town…she threw things off kilter there for a while.”
A slight frown dripped beneath his beard, but still he gave a terse nod.
“But we made it right. And here we are.”
They walked on towards another patch of woods. Or the same tract of woods circled around the other side of town. Dominic couldn’t tell. He could see the dark shapes of black birds settling into those trees, though. And he heard the strains of a
*STOMP* *CLAP* *STOMP* *CLAP*
faint on the air. It hung over the river, a tapestry of fear and confusion. Dominic James Atkinson checked one of his pocket watches. Whew, it still ticked. He tucked it away and turned to Phinehas.
“Calamities, you say. Sounds like the Black Hand does have some vulnerabilities after all. I’ll have to file that away for future reference. You know, to take advantage if the need should arise.”
Phinehas looked up at the Zenith. He turned those…wait, how many different ways can one describe those eyes of his before it becomes some cliché deserving of a quick skim? An iced-over blue, a fierce gale-driven intensity rushing across the tundra. You know, that sort of thing. Anyway, he cast them over the height and depth, the width and breadth of his partner.
“How big a boy are you?”
It was Dominic’s turn to look. I mean, really look. At a man with red hair, frozen eyes, a GingerBeard of Doom. A man of smoke and clay and root and fire. One whose body began where the hills ended, and vice versa.
“Seven feet, one inch. Why?”
Phinehas walked off toward those trees with the shovel on his shoulder, leaving Dominic to catch up. With his massive stride, it didn’t take long.
“Come on. I’m going to show you how to dig a proper hole.”
The crows rasped. It sounded like they were laughing.
~~~~~~~~~
Addendum: By the end of the night, it may appear that this and Dominic’s piece don’t line up exactly. On the one hand, we’re both adults who don’t always have the time to hammer out the finer points on crossover RPs. On the other hand, both of our RPs take place in Hangtown. It’s not always the case that visitors can recall anything at all from their time there, let alone record it with 100% accuracy.
