The Stranger woke with the sun, which shined dusty and bright straight into his eyes from the window of the inn. He had no disoriented moment between waking and sleeping like so many others, but instead as soon as he woke up, he was entirely awake and aware of the world around him. He was fortunate that he'd yet to actually experience a hangover. The Stranger dressed quickly, brushing the dirt of the road and wrinkles from his clothes, and attempted to smooth down his black hair and make himself presentable in a small mirror before heading downstairs.
Only a handful of people were up, one being the craggy-faced and worn Miss Burns, proprietess of the inn. She had probably been up since before dawn, as already a small breakfast awaited those who had paid for it. The Stranger seemed the only one who did so, at his editor's expense of course.
He helped himself to some strong coffee and dry toast while Miss Burns puttered around, occasionally asking how his meal was, if he'd like anything more, how were things back east, in England, and so on. While everyone in the inn was a stranger in some regard to this little outpost-barely-a-town, the Stranger, going by Seldom Boggs this time around, was even more of an oddity thanks to his accent and mannerisms that he claimed came from England if ever questioned. Therefore, he was likely to have something more interesting to say than the folk from the east looking for gold or the cowpokes moving cattle.
Not actually being from England, he really didn't; and most anything else he could talk about would get him branded a liar, storyteller, or crazy. So he just made noncommital noises, thanked Miss Burns for the food, and made himself scarce in the -- he paused a moment to check his wrist, remembered he didn't have a watch anymore, then asked the time of a man opening shop -- hour yet before the train was due to leave.
He was supposed to be compiling information for the /Westport Herald/ about life out west to satiate the curiousity of the denizens of Westport, Missouri, who saw train after train of people heading that way. Unfortunately, the Stranger doubted Mr. Marshall wanted him to waste postage and paper on "gambled. Lost watch. Got drunk. Not necessarily in that order." Other towns had banditos or panthers or the likes. This one had curiously potent whiskey and clever men looking to make some easy money.
As the sun inched higher and burned away any night-time cool, the Stranger slowly meandered to the railyards, where crossties and beams were piled up to be shipped to the next unfinished bit of track. Nearby he saw the train, a great iron beast huffing steam as it was prepped, so the Stranger began idly casting his gaze about for something to pass the time. This meant that he was in prime position to see when a flustered man on a Paint came riding into town alongside the tracks. Another man came out from the small railroad office to greet him, and the Stranger inched closer, his journalist senses telling him that something of Great Import was happening.";
Only a handful of people were up, one being the craggy-faced and worn Miss Burns, proprietess of the inn. She had probably been up since before dawn, as already a small breakfast awaited those who had paid for it. The Stranger seemed the only one who did so, at his editor's expense of course.
He helped himself to some strong coffee and dry toast while Miss Burns puttered around, occasionally asking how his meal was, if he'd like anything more, how were things back east, in England, and so on. While everyone in the inn was a stranger in some regard to this little outpost-barely-a-town, the Stranger, going by Seldom Boggs this time around, was even more of an oddity thanks to his accent and mannerisms that he claimed came from England if ever questioned. Therefore, he was likely to have something more interesting to say than the folk from the east looking for gold or the cowpokes moving cattle.
Not actually being from England, he really didn't; and most anything else he could talk about would get him branded a liar, storyteller, or crazy. So he just made noncommital noises, thanked Miss Burns for the food, and made himself scarce in the -- he paused a moment to check his wrist, remembered he didn't have a watch anymore, then asked the time of a man opening shop -- hour yet before the train was due to leave.
He was supposed to be compiling information for the /Westport Herald/ about life out west to satiate the curiousity of the denizens of Westport, Missouri, who saw train after train of people heading that way. Unfortunately, the Stranger doubted Mr. Marshall wanted him to waste postage and paper on "gambled. Lost watch. Got drunk. Not necessarily in that order." Other towns had banditos or panthers or the likes. This one had curiously potent whiskey and clever men looking to make some easy money.
As the sun inched higher and burned away any night-time cool, the Stranger slowly meandered to the railyards, where crossties and beams were piled up to be shipped to the next unfinished bit of track. Nearby he saw the train, a great iron beast huffing steam as it was prepped, so the Stranger began idly casting his gaze about for something to pass the time. This meant that he was in prime position to see when a flustered man on a Paint came riding into town alongside the tracks. Another man came out from the small railroad office to greet him, and the Stranger inched closer, his journalist senses telling him that something of Great Import was happening.";
Draeval had been in this time more than long enough for him to have an established persona, Nicholas Halden the Pinkerton was known just enough to get jobs and that was about it. The mysterious dark haired man would breeze into towns in his official Pinkerton badge and suit and just as easily breeze out. He wasn't one to stick to any place very long and it'd gotten his supervisors considering him a ghost of sorts. For days on end he'd just slip off their radar and when he came back he was always a day ahead of them on a new case.
When he steered his horse to this town he didn't really have any ideas that anything was about to happen, he'd just plopped down in the middle of a Shanty a little ways away and then did what he did best. He stole a horse, stole some period clothes, and snatched another Pinkerton's badge. Because of all that he was riding a small stocky piss dun colored horse that had seen two decades and was working on it's third. The coat of the horse was molting off in splotches of grey and it contrasted poorly against the clean cut and well dressed rider.
When Draeval had seen the horse he knew he had to take it, he'd even renamed it D'artanian because he had the opening of the book stuck in his head. Despite his normal nonsensical behavior he was rather reformed now as he made the tiny steed canter down the main street. The train didn't catch the blue eyed man's attention, but the frantic nature of the one on the pinto did and so he spurred the horse in that direction. Which only made it kick up it's step from a slow crawl to a minutely slow crawl.
When he steered his horse to this town he didn't really have any ideas that anything was about to happen, he'd just plopped down in the middle of a Shanty a little ways away and then did what he did best. He stole a horse, stole some period clothes, and snatched another Pinkerton's badge. Because of all that he was riding a small stocky piss dun colored horse that had seen two decades and was working on it's third. The coat of the horse was molting off in splotches of grey and it contrasted poorly against the clean cut and well dressed rider.
When Draeval had seen the horse he knew he had to take it, he'd even renamed it D'artanian because he had the opening of the book stuck in his head. Despite his normal nonsensical behavior he was rather reformed now as he made the tiny steed canter down the main street. The train didn't catch the blue eyed man's attention, but the frantic nature of the one on the pinto did and so he spurred the horse in that direction. Which only made it kick up it's step from a slow crawl to a minutely slow crawl.
The town was as yet unaware of the commotion building, so the Stranger didn’t have any real way to sidle his way subtly into the problem. He opted for just walking into it and stopped his sneaking about to straighten up and approach with long, sure strides.
“Hello, gentlemen,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat in greeting. “Couldn’t help but notice you riding into town – is everything all right?” The Stranger was gambling that his abrupt self-insertion wouldn’t immediately make them shut down. This very well could be town folk problems and people got real protective of their own. He learnt that the hard way on his earlier forays for articles.
“Track’s been torn up ‘bout two miles back that-a-way,” the frazzled man said, still a bit breathless though the horse had been doing all the work. The Stranger let out a quiet huff at his luck. The railroad officer didn’t look pleased, though.
“Who’re you?” he asked, interrupting any further slips of information.
“Seldom. Seldom Boggs. Reporter for the Westport Herald.” He offered a hand. “And you two?”
“Johnny,” the first man said, even more enthusiastic now that the Stranger wasn’t just some random stranger, but a stranger who wrote for a paper. “McNaley. This ain’t the first time this has happened. “
“What happened?”
“Just some Indians taking up the track,” the officer said. “Don’t like us going through their land. Sometimes they get uppity. Pull stunts like this. Nothing to write home about, Mr. Boggs.”
The warning was clear, and just as clearly, the Stranger ignored it. “Unfortunately, mister… --“ As he got no reply, he continued, “That’s the sort of stuff I’m here to write about. People back east want to know all about living on the frontier.” He directed the last line toward Johnny, having no shame in taking advantage of people’s want for a bit of fame.
“God, another one of you,” the officer remarked, attention splitting from the Stranger and Johnny to regard the sole other person in town who seemed to have any interest in the ripples caused by Johnny’s entrance. The town was tiny and something was currently afoot, so any new face probably became “one of you” for the man.
“Hm?” The Stranger turned, following the officer’s gaze. The conversation died faster than a man lost in the desert as a horse on its last leg meandered toward them, rider perched on top.
“Hello, gentlemen,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat in greeting. “Couldn’t help but notice you riding into town – is everything all right?” The Stranger was gambling that his abrupt self-insertion wouldn’t immediately make them shut down. This very well could be town folk problems and people got real protective of their own. He learnt that the hard way on his earlier forays for articles.
“Track’s been torn up ‘bout two miles back that-a-way,” the frazzled man said, still a bit breathless though the horse had been doing all the work. The Stranger let out a quiet huff at his luck. The railroad officer didn’t look pleased, though.
“Who’re you?” he asked, interrupting any further slips of information.
“Seldom. Seldom Boggs. Reporter for the Westport Herald.” He offered a hand. “And you two?”
“Johnny,” the first man said, even more enthusiastic now that the Stranger wasn’t just some random stranger, but a stranger who wrote for a paper. “McNaley. This ain’t the first time this has happened. “
“What happened?”
“Just some Indians taking up the track,” the officer said. “Don’t like us going through their land. Sometimes they get uppity. Pull stunts like this. Nothing to write home about, Mr. Boggs.”
The warning was clear, and just as clearly, the Stranger ignored it. “Unfortunately, mister… --“ As he got no reply, he continued, “That’s the sort of stuff I’m here to write about. People back east want to know all about living on the frontier.” He directed the last line toward Johnny, having no shame in taking advantage of people’s want for a bit of fame.
“God, another one of you,” the officer remarked, attention splitting from the Stranger and Johnny to regard the sole other person in town who seemed to have any interest in the ripples caused by Johnny’s entrance. The town was tiny and something was currently afoot, so any new face probably became “one of you” for the man.
“Hm?” The Stranger turned, following the officer’s gaze. The conversation died faster than a man lost in the desert as a horse on its last leg meandered toward them, rider perched on top.
Draeval's slow ride made it where he wasn't privy for the conversation already going on but at some point after he'd noticed the three sets of eyes on him he reined in the comical horse. Dismounting and tying the animal up he took his time, letting them take him in. Up close it was obvious that he carried a Pinkerton's badge on his right hip which was unusual for the time. Most carried their's on their lapel.
It was also obvious that his suit was a bit big on him, but it was able to conceal the weapons beneath very easily. He turned and offered a toothy smile to the three men. "Mmmm, I zeem ta 'abe mizzed an intereztin conberzation." His accent was off, but it was easy to assume that he was of Yankee origin simply because of the way he presented himself.
He let his oddly colored orange eyes go over the man with the pinto, the train foreman, and then the stranger. They were an odd group for sure but he wasn't about to speculate on the comings and goings of the townies. These people were weird, even by weird's standards. And he was pretty sure he fit in on the weirder than weird's standards chart. But alas, that was his life.
"Antying I can be ub azziztance far?" He could be useful yes?
It was also obvious that his suit was a bit big on him, but it was able to conceal the weapons beneath very easily. He turned and offered a toothy smile to the three men. "Mmmm, I zeem ta 'abe mizzed an intereztin conberzation." His accent was off, but it was easy to assume that he was of Yankee origin simply because of the way he presented himself.
He let his oddly colored orange eyes go over the man with the pinto, the train foreman, and then the stranger. They were an odd group for sure but he wasn't about to speculate on the comings and goings of the townies. These people were weird, even by weird's standards. And he was pretty sure he fit in on the weirder than weird's standards chart. But alas, that was his life.
"Antying I can be ub azziztance far?" He could be useful yes?
The Stranger shrugged at the accusatory glance thrown his way while the old horse was tied and the man dismounted. Just because he was a stranger didn’t mean he knew every other stranger in town.
The officer’s gaze zoomed in on the badge almost as soon as he could feasibly spot it. Pinkertons had been hired by his own employers before for protection, and therefore this must be someone he assumed he could trust, especially as there was nothing to be gained here. No money, no reward (yet).
While the Stranger had no familiarity with Pinkertons, one of those little nuances that made his own story just that less believable, he did notice something different. From his brief time here on this earth he could glean that orange was an unusual colour for eyes around these parts. And that accent, even his wasn’t that pronounced. Before the man had approached close enough to spot that, he’d been thinking some poor vagrant or another with the sad, sad horse and the oversized clothes, but now this person wasn’t just one of the destitute.
“Johnny here –“ he motioned to Johnny, who had shrunk a little to the side of the conversation when the others had started talking and whose eyes had likewise slid to the glint of the badge. Johnny waved. “Johnny says track’s been torn up –“
“About two miles that-a-way,” Johnny supplied. “It’s real bad, all twisted and mangl’d. Some of it’s missin’, too. And the ground, woowee!”
The Stranger gave Johnny a mildly hurt glance. He hadn’t gotten that much information. Apparently that badge opened doors and mouths. Or Johnny just liked the cut of this man’s jib more. “Yeah. I was going to investigate it. Care to join us, stranger?”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the officer said, catching both of their attention and shutting them up. Without either prattling over one another, he addressed the Pinkerton. “Yes. I believe you can be. Did headquarters send you?” he asked, a hopeful lilt in his tone despite the officious airs. “I sent a letter about the incidents two or so months ago, and haven’t heard back yet. Was beginning to think our little corner of the world had been forgotten.” The officer laughed somewhat awkwardly, since all evidence thus far suggested exactly that.
The Stranger was likewise awaiting the response. He had his suspicions about this newcomer, but rather liked the idea of someone just as out-of-place as himself (if not moreso! Generally one had to get a bit too close and personal to notice his black-eyed peculiarities) complicating things further.
The officer’s gaze zoomed in on the badge almost as soon as he could feasibly spot it. Pinkertons had been hired by his own employers before for protection, and therefore this must be someone he assumed he could trust, especially as there was nothing to be gained here. No money, no reward (yet).
While the Stranger had no familiarity with Pinkertons, one of those little nuances that made his own story just that less believable, he did notice something different. From his brief time here on this earth he could glean that orange was an unusual colour for eyes around these parts. And that accent, even his wasn’t that pronounced. Before the man had approached close enough to spot that, he’d been thinking some poor vagrant or another with the sad, sad horse and the oversized clothes, but now this person wasn’t just one of the destitute.
“Johnny here –“ he motioned to Johnny, who had shrunk a little to the side of the conversation when the others had started talking and whose eyes had likewise slid to the glint of the badge. Johnny waved. “Johnny says track’s been torn up –“
“About two miles that-a-way,” Johnny supplied. “It’s real bad, all twisted and mangl’d. Some of it’s missin’, too. And the ground, woowee!”
The Stranger gave Johnny a mildly hurt glance. He hadn’t gotten that much information. Apparently that badge opened doors and mouths. Or Johnny just liked the cut of this man’s jib more. “Yeah. I was going to investigate it. Care to join us, stranger?”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the officer said, catching both of their attention and shutting them up. Without either prattling over one another, he addressed the Pinkerton. “Yes. I believe you can be. Did headquarters send you?” he asked, a hopeful lilt in his tone despite the officious airs. “I sent a letter about the incidents two or so months ago, and haven’t heard back yet. Was beginning to think our little corner of the world had been forgotten.” The officer laughed somewhat awkwardly, since all evidence thus far suggested exactly that.
The Stranger was likewise awaiting the response. He had his suspicions about this newcomer, but rather liked the idea of someone just as out-of-place as himself (if not moreso! Generally one had to get a bit too close and personal to notice his black-eyed peculiarities) complicating things further.
Draeval had become accustomed to the wonders of the Pinkerton badge. While in some places it was a brand of good faith, in others it could be dangerous. Despite that he enjoyed the few luxuries it offered, such as never wanting for something to do. Be that running from crazed townsmen or running towards some sort of task. This sounded very much like the latter.
He offered a broad bright smile to the men as he approached and tucked his hands in his pockets. He listened to the tell of Johnny, which sounded like a bad joke but he kept the snickering internal. "Mmm zoundz like I got 'ere juz in time den e'?" He offered another softer and more work driven smile, and there was a glint in his eyes that said he was curious and ready.
He nodded to the question, 'Dey did, juz took me a bit ta get 'ere. Ran inta zum trouble a ztate ober an welp...' He pointed to his horse, "Dat fella dudn't mobe ta fazt." Which had been extremely obvious when he'd lumbered into town. He offered a little shoulder shrug, "But dat 'orze can 'aul azz wen it zeez food, go figure."
"Iz been a bit zince I read doze letterz, mind bringin me back up ta zpeed on da incidentz dat ya fellaz 'abe 'ad?" He twisted his orange eyes to the Stranger and quirked a brow, "Dun tink I caug't yar name Mizta." He looked back between the three men gathered, "I'm Nick, Pinkerton Agent Nic'olaz 'alden."
He offered a broad bright smile to the men as he approached and tucked his hands in his pockets. He listened to the tell of Johnny, which sounded like a bad joke but he kept the snickering internal. "Mmm zoundz like I got 'ere juz in time den e'?" He offered another softer and more work driven smile, and there was a glint in his eyes that said he was curious and ready.
He nodded to the question, 'Dey did, juz took me a bit ta get 'ere. Ran inta zum trouble a ztate ober an welp...' He pointed to his horse, "Dat fella dudn't mobe ta fazt." Which had been extremely obvious when he'd lumbered into town. He offered a little shoulder shrug, "But dat 'orze can 'aul azz wen it zeez food, go figure."
"Iz been a bit zince I read doze letterz, mind bringin me back up ta zpeed on da incidentz dat ya fellaz 'abe 'ad?" He twisted his orange eyes to the Stranger and quirked a brow, "Dun tink I caug't yar name Mizta." He looked back between the three men gathered, "I'm Nick, Pinkerton Agent Nic'olaz 'alden."
The Stranger stayed back with Johnny this time, trying to get a feel for this newcomer to the conversation. He realized he probably should have done that before inviting him along, but he didn’t want to go with just Johnny. Nice as he seemed, he came across as a bit flighty. Not that this Nick fellow seemed any less or more, but the Stranger wanted to stack the odds (and possibly increase the targets) when they encountered whatever people were ripping up the track. And no reason to not make it a party.
The officer accepted Nick’s answer with an ease that spoke of desperation, especially now with the press nipping at his heels, though the Stranger was more interested in figuring out what was going on than writing the story now. The man gave a short, courtesy laugh at Nick’s comment then glanced at the Stranger before returning his attention to Nick. “Perhaps we should discuss it inside my office, Mr Halden? I’m Sherwood, by the way.” He motioned toward the small wooden box of a building that served as house and office to him.
The Stranger rocked back and forth on his heels indecisively for a brief moment. He could barge his way into the invitation, but that might get him forcibly removed from the town. He could start wandering his way up the tracks by his lonesome (with Johnny, but in essence alone), but that might get him shot full of lead. Ah, the third option. Since Johnny was just a fount of information, he’d talk to him.
Tucking his hands into his pockets, the Stranger slouched back, everything in his posture suggesting he was content to stay right where he was. Not gonna make no trouble for no one. “Seldom Boggs, reporter for the Westport Herald,” he answered, offering a hand, before the officer – Mr Sherwood, he noticed Nick got that bit of info, too – could usher Nick away. "Nice to meet cha."
The officer accepted Nick’s answer with an ease that spoke of desperation, especially now with the press nipping at his heels, though the Stranger was more interested in figuring out what was going on than writing the story now. The man gave a short, courtesy laugh at Nick’s comment then glanced at the Stranger before returning his attention to Nick. “Perhaps we should discuss it inside my office, Mr Halden? I’m Sherwood, by the way.” He motioned toward the small wooden box of a building that served as house and office to him.
The Stranger rocked back and forth on his heels indecisively for a brief moment. He could barge his way into the invitation, but that might get him forcibly removed from the town. He could start wandering his way up the tracks by his lonesome (with Johnny, but in essence alone), but that might get him shot full of lead. Ah, the third option. Since Johnny was just a fount of information, he’d talk to him.
Tucking his hands into his pockets, the Stranger slouched back, everything in his posture suggesting he was content to stay right where he was. Not gonna make no trouble for no one. “Seldom Boggs, reporter for the Westport Herald,” he answered, offering a hand, before the officer – Mr Sherwood, he noticed Nick got that bit of info, too – could usher Nick away. "Nice to meet cha."
Draeval let the officer talk to him and he offered a wily grin at his words, "I'd zay yez but I'be learned ta let da prezz in on it early, if not dey'll juz make zumtin up." He looked at the Stranger and gave him a little nod, "I'm azzumin yar prezz, ya got dat feel about ya, nuttin wrong wit dat but I prefer ta keep ya cloze if ya dun mind. Lezz me gibe a proper report ta 'eadquarterz on containment." He looked back to Sherwood and gave a grin, "Nice ta meet ya Z'erwood.
And then the Stranger introduced himself and the name made Drae quirk a brow, "Intereztin name ya got dare, probably great far a lead line e'?" He'd shake his hand and then turn back to Sherwood, "Zo wat da ya got far uz?"
And then the Stranger introduced himself and the name made Drae quirk a brow, "Intereztin name ya got dare, probably great far a lead line e'?" He'd shake his hand and then turn back to Sherwood, "Zo wat da ya got far uz?"
The Stranger pouted a little at the slight at his integrity. He would never make something up, except when absolutely necessary as determined by a highly subjective methodology which only he was privy to. But aside from that, never. Nonetheless, he took the offered hand in a firm grasp before tucking his own into his jacket pockets. “People definitely remember it,” he agreed.
The officer didn’t look too pleased, either, for entirely different reasons, but he just wanted his solved. With a very pointed glare at the Stranger, he resigned himself to Nick’s request. Johnny, though, didn’t get the free pass and got waved away as Mr Sherwood turned and began walking to his office.
“Really it’s as Johnny said,” he admitted as they traversed the short distance to the small building and closed the door behind them. Three was definitely a crowd when added to a desk, two chairs, and shelving. Waving for Nick to take the seat opposite him, Mr Sherwood settled into his own, somewhat plusher chair.
“People have been damaging the tracks. Guessing the natives. Not too happy with us building through their land. It’s been going on for about four months, now. Really picked up this past one. The workers’ve been going out armed and with escorts, but they make themselves pretty scarce when we’re actually there.” He said the last bit with a mild sort of contempt, rather a fan of fair retribution so long as it was in his favor. “Though…” Mr Sherwood trailed off.
At about that time the Stranger remembered that he was a reporter and supposed to be reporting on just this sort of thing.He rummaged around in his pockets for a stub of a pencil and a small journal crowded with curiosities (some very curious indeed) and notations in a varied, illegible scrawl. Flipping through the pages, the Stranger found a blank one toward the end, settled on the corner of the desk, and began writing.
“Though what?” he prompted, not looking. Thus he missed the disdaining expression that flickered on Mr Sherwoods face. The hesitation before the man continued though, looking pointedly only at Nick, was audible.
“Also like Johnny said, the tracks have increasingly been… mangled. Twisted and bent and even thrown in ways I have trouble explaining. These tracks, Mr Halden, are meant to support tons of weight flying across them repeatedly. They don’t bend easily.”
The officer didn’t look too pleased, either, for entirely different reasons, but he just wanted his solved. With a very pointed glare at the Stranger, he resigned himself to Nick’s request. Johnny, though, didn’t get the free pass and got waved away as Mr Sherwood turned and began walking to his office.
“Really it’s as Johnny said,” he admitted as they traversed the short distance to the small building and closed the door behind them. Three was definitely a crowd when added to a desk, two chairs, and shelving. Waving for Nick to take the seat opposite him, Mr Sherwood settled into his own, somewhat plusher chair.
“People have been damaging the tracks. Guessing the natives. Not too happy with us building through their land. It’s been going on for about four months, now. Really picked up this past one. The workers’ve been going out armed and with escorts, but they make themselves pretty scarce when we’re actually there.” He said the last bit with a mild sort of contempt, rather a fan of fair retribution so long as it was in his favor. “Though…” Mr Sherwood trailed off.
At about that time the Stranger remembered that he was a reporter and supposed to be reporting on just this sort of thing.He rummaged around in his pockets for a stub of a pencil and a small journal crowded with curiosities (some very curious indeed) and notations in a varied, illegible scrawl. Flipping through the pages, the Stranger found a blank one toward the end, settled on the corner of the desk, and began writing.
“Though what?” he prompted, not looking. Thus he missed the disdaining expression that flickered on Mr Sherwoods face. The hesitation before the man continued though, looking pointedly only at Nick, was audible.
“Also like Johnny said, the tracks have increasingly been… mangled. Twisted and bent and even thrown in ways I have trouble explaining. These tracks, Mr Halden, are meant to support tons of weight flying across them repeatedly. They don’t bend easily.”
Draeval caught the pout but let it slip past his thoughts, perhaps this reporter wouldn't be like the ones he'd dealt with before. For the most part he'd found the reporters in this era were...a bit loose. Just like a lot of the Pinkertons though, he thought. When Boggs said people remembered it he gave a flashing grin, "I bet dey da, juz like people remember da accented Pinkerton." Well? It was hard to forget that thick and odd voice of his.
Draeval snorted at the displeasure of the officer and tucked his own hands in his pocket offering a bird tilt of his head, that seemed to ask why he was so annoyed. But Drae always had his reasons for everything, even if he wasn't quite aware of them at the time. Off they went to the office and while the Officer was speaking he was listening, not just to his words but between his words.
At the offered chair Drae slipped into it and crossed his legs with his arms folded in his lap, sitting there even if not in the chair of authority he held himself with it. Head high, shoulders back, back straight, he knew how to walk to the walk. Talking the talk though was a bit out of question with his rough vocals.
He took in the description of what had been happening according the Officer and tilted his head when he trailed off, "T'oug'?" Boggs beat him to it and while that disdainful expression registered to Drae he pushed it aside as well, something more sounded to be going on and if he was to help he had to know everything.
Drae reached up and subconsciously scratched his chin, "Bent..." He was contemplating it, and rushing through what he remembered about strange occurances in the past. It wasn't happening, probably because it hadn't happened -yet- to him. Running his fingers through his hair he let himself relax some, "Any cauzlatiez ya kno bout? Udder ztrange tingz? Animalz mizzin? Lack ub birdz in da area? Dat zort ub ting." They may seem like random questions, and Draeval could easily say that it was an Indian ritual and not have the officer suspecting more than likely at least but still to help he had to know everything.
Draeval snorted at the displeasure of the officer and tucked his own hands in his pocket offering a bird tilt of his head, that seemed to ask why he was so annoyed. But Drae always had his reasons for everything, even if he wasn't quite aware of them at the time. Off they went to the office and while the Officer was speaking he was listening, not just to his words but between his words.
At the offered chair Drae slipped into it and crossed his legs with his arms folded in his lap, sitting there even if not in the chair of authority he held himself with it. Head high, shoulders back, back straight, he knew how to walk to the walk. Talking the talk though was a bit out of question with his rough vocals.
He took in the description of what had been happening according the Officer and tilted his head when he trailed off, "T'oug'?" Boggs beat him to it and while that disdainful expression registered to Drae he pushed it aside as well, something more sounded to be going on and if he was to help he had to know everything.
Drae reached up and subconsciously scratched his chin, "Bent..." He was contemplating it, and rushing through what he remembered about strange occurances in the past. It wasn't happening, probably because it hadn't happened -yet- to him. Running his fingers through his hair he let himself relax some, "Any cauzlatiez ya kno bout? Udder ztrange tingz? Animalz mizzin? Lack ub birdz in da area? Dat zort ub ting." They may seem like random questions, and Draeval could easily say that it was an Indian ritual and not have the officer suspecting more than likely at least but still to help he had to know everything.
The Stranger gave a nod-shrug of agreement. Couldn’t argue with that assessment. He definitely would remember the accent until this entire place faded with long, long time and distance.
As Nick asked the actually relevant questions, he nodded like those were exactly the questions he was going to ask, too, Nick just happened to get to them first. He jotted down in messy shorthand the questions as they poured forth and their respective replies as they, with much less sharp enthusiasm, trickled out.
“There have been a few... oddities,” Mr Sherwood told Nick, pulling out a handkerchief to daub at his forehead as he answered the questions in a slow, calculated manner. The questions were a bit odd, though he had never had problems with Pinkertons before, he had had problems with strangers, two of whom were sitting in his office. The instinct to not say anything warred with the one to give as complete a history of the situation as possible.
“I don’t know about birds or anything like that, but there have been a few cattle drives that’ve passed through here and reported animals missing, but it happened at night and isn’t an entirely untoward thing to hear about. Rustlers, Indians, just the dumb brutes wandering off and falling down ravines. The sheer numbers lost was odd, I suppose, and they never turned up…” He leaned forward and opened a drawer. “A few of the workers on the tracks, too. Never found the bodies, though the Indians like to leave them for us to find. We doubled the guard and got a few reports back, but it’s all nonsense – here.” Mr Sherwood handed over to Nick a sheaf of papers with a neat, officious scrawl filling the pages. Incident reports with dates and details. He settled back to let Nick leaf through the papers at his leisure.
The Stranger automatically reached up to grab it, but then suddenly changed course to press his fisted knuckles to his lips. He wasn’t exactly welcomed here and snatching paperwork would probably ruin any fondness Nick felt toward him. He dropped his head again to focus on writing what Mr Sherwood had said and surreptitiously glance at the documents.
Most of the information was the usual. Who stayed, who left, who caused trouble, how work progressed. But then there were a few strange remarks littered throughout. The papers described torn up trees, roots and all, laid across the tracks and large footprints that quickly vanished with the winds. Several made mention of seeing a single figure, hulking and taller than any man, silhouetted in moonlight. A few notations in the sides suggested that the reports were likely tricks of the eye, or many people clumped together, or just rumours being mixed in with fact. It was hard to prove something so ephemeral as already-gone footprints and nighttime visitors, though. The only solid, repeated evidence was what was done to the tracks or (occasionally) what or who was missing.
As Nick asked the actually relevant questions, he nodded like those were exactly the questions he was going to ask, too, Nick just happened to get to them first. He jotted down in messy shorthand the questions as they poured forth and their respective replies as they, with much less sharp enthusiasm, trickled out.
“There have been a few... oddities,” Mr Sherwood told Nick, pulling out a handkerchief to daub at his forehead as he answered the questions in a slow, calculated manner. The questions were a bit odd, though he had never had problems with Pinkertons before, he had had problems with strangers, two of whom were sitting in his office. The instinct to not say anything warred with the one to give as complete a history of the situation as possible.
“I don’t know about birds or anything like that, but there have been a few cattle drives that’ve passed through here and reported animals missing, but it happened at night and isn’t an entirely untoward thing to hear about. Rustlers, Indians, just the dumb brutes wandering off and falling down ravines. The sheer numbers lost was odd, I suppose, and they never turned up…” He leaned forward and opened a drawer. “A few of the workers on the tracks, too. Never found the bodies, though the Indians like to leave them for us to find. We doubled the guard and got a few reports back, but it’s all nonsense – here.” Mr Sherwood handed over to Nick a sheaf of papers with a neat, officious scrawl filling the pages. Incident reports with dates and details. He settled back to let Nick leaf through the papers at his leisure.
The Stranger automatically reached up to grab it, but then suddenly changed course to press his fisted knuckles to his lips. He wasn’t exactly welcomed here and snatching paperwork would probably ruin any fondness Nick felt toward him. He dropped his head again to focus on writing what Mr Sherwood had said and surreptitiously glance at the documents.
Most of the information was the usual. Who stayed, who left, who caused trouble, how work progressed. But then there were a few strange remarks littered throughout. The papers described torn up trees, roots and all, laid across the tracks and large footprints that quickly vanished with the winds. Several made mention of seeing a single figure, hulking and taller than any man, silhouetted in moonlight. A few notations in the sides suggested that the reports were likely tricks of the eye, or many people clumped together, or just rumours being mixed in with fact. It was hard to prove something so ephemeral as already-gone footprints and nighttime visitors, though. The only solid, repeated evidence was what was done to the tracks or (occasionally) what or who was missing.
Draeval was old hat at this sort of thing, and didn't seem to respond to Mr. Sherwood's reluctance. He pursed his lips and crossed his legs listening to the description, 'Zo nuffin ya'd consider weird in one or twa inztancez but wit eberyting pilin up it juz zeemz outta place...could be nuffin could be zumtin...' He was mumbling the last part letting the details wash over him.
When Sherwood offered him the papers he took them with that charming smile of his and leaned back in his seat, as he finished one he would pass it to Boggs. But each piece of paper was given it's due study and if Boggs managed to get a glimpse Draeval's eyes seemed to burn with that orange color, almost like it was swirling around.
Mostly because it was, he was trying to line up details like this through time. It was a failure, but he was at least trying to see if there was a reported instance of this at some point and just came up empty. It could be for a multitude of reasons, one that it was completely natural and never recorded. Two, anyone alive to report it met an untimely end. Three, Draeval's mere being here kept him from seeing it. He had a feeling it was a combination of everything but as he finished and handed the last paper over to Boggs he looked at Sherwood.
'I need ta zee it, da reportz...welp ya'be read 'em I'm zure ya get da zame feelinz I da bout dem. Bedder ta zee it maizelf. Az far da natibez, anyone 'ere wit a connection ta dem? Or da ya kno were I could find 'em? Zum reconizence wouldn't 'urt on dat front, juz ta zee if any ub deze tingz...end up dare.'
When Sherwood offered him the papers he took them with that charming smile of his and leaned back in his seat, as he finished one he would pass it to Boggs. But each piece of paper was given it's due study and if Boggs managed to get a glimpse Draeval's eyes seemed to burn with that orange color, almost like it was swirling around.
Mostly because it was, he was trying to line up details like this through time. It was a failure, but he was at least trying to see if there was a reported instance of this at some point and just came up empty. It could be for a multitude of reasons, one that it was completely natural and never recorded. Two, anyone alive to report it met an untimely end. Three, Draeval's mere being here kept him from seeing it. He had a feeling it was a combination of everything but as he finished and handed the last paper over to Boggs he looked at Sherwood.
'I need ta zee it, da reportz...welp ya'be read 'em I'm zure ya get da zame feelinz I da bout dem. Bedder ta zee it maizelf. Az far da natibez, anyone 'ere wit a connection ta dem? Or da ya kno were I could find 'em? Zum reconizence wouldn't 'urt on dat front, juz ta zee if any ub deze tingz...end up dare.'
The Stranger took the papers gladly, transferring details with an efficiency that spoke of consistent and concise note-taking abilities. Occasionally though he’d have a moment’s break and would, instead of waiting patiently, try to read the papers still in Nick’s hands sideways. As such, he did catch an unusual thing that he knew Nick couldn’t see – his eyes. He squinted a bit at the curious ember-like appearance then skewed his glance toward Mr Sherwood, who was also looking at Nick. But either he hadn’t noticed or had a brilliant poker face, because he just seemed to be watching some middle distance, brown caterpillar brows knitted slightly.
With all the facts and rumours laid out thusfar, he handed the papers back to Mr Sherwood in a decidedly less tidy state than they’d been handed out previously. Mr Sherwood turned gave the Stranger a hard look, as though wondering if he was just intentionally trying to aggravate him. The Stranger just had a skill to create chaos where cosmos once was, and that unfortunately extended to paperwork, too. And he was maybe just a little bit intentionally making things sloppy.
Both however turned their attention to Nick as he began speaking. Mr Sherwood nodded along to the suggestions, but stopped short of agreeing that he knew of any connections with the natives. He actually looked a tad offended at the idea. “’Fraid I don’t know anyone, Mr Halden,” he said simply. “Not my sort of dealings, though you might find some encampments in the hills down south.”
After a moment’s contemplation, ruminating over the people he’d spoken to here, the Stranger offered a shrug as his own answer. He'd only met some of the townsfolk and people passing through thusfar, and hadn't bothered to inquire after the locals. He had, however, already flipped the ribbon in his journal over and closed it, though had yet to pocket it and its stub of a pencil away just in case. He looked ready to go, mainly because he now had a new lead more related to one Mr Halden than the tracks that he wanted to follow up on as well as doing his reporterly duty and investigating.
With all the facts and rumours laid out thusfar, he handed the papers back to Mr Sherwood in a decidedly less tidy state than they’d been handed out previously. Mr Sherwood turned gave the Stranger a hard look, as though wondering if he was just intentionally trying to aggravate him. The Stranger just had a skill to create chaos where cosmos once was, and that unfortunately extended to paperwork, too. And he was maybe just a little bit intentionally making things sloppy.
Both however turned their attention to Nick as he began speaking. Mr Sherwood nodded along to the suggestions, but stopped short of agreeing that he knew of any connections with the natives. He actually looked a tad offended at the idea. “’Fraid I don’t know anyone, Mr Halden,” he said simply. “Not my sort of dealings, though you might find some encampments in the hills down south.”
After a moment’s contemplation, ruminating over the people he’d spoken to here, the Stranger offered a shrug as his own answer. He'd only met some of the townsfolk and people passing through thusfar, and hadn't bothered to inquire after the locals. He had, however, already flipped the ribbon in his journal over and closed it, though had yet to pocket it and its stub of a pencil away just in case. He looked ready to go, mainly because he now had a new lead more related to one Mr Halden than the tracks that he wanted to follow up on as well as doing his reporterly duty and investigating.
Draeval didn't pay attention to the Stranger staring at him, he was kind of used to it and it never was a good thing. But he couldn't mask his eyes, even the slightest bit of power use made them change colors at random and while he was keeping his magical aura from showing every place else it had to show somewhere. If he was found out, then it would answer a few of his questions about the Stranger.
As for the facts and rumors of this incident he didn't need to write them down, he had them in his mind and he had Boggs for that as well. Even if Boggs didn't know it yet. But when Mr. Sherwood answered his question he smiled, 'Datz fine, I can alwayz go a 'untin far dem ladder. But far now, we z'ould probably get ta da track w'ile we gotz time.' And daylight, but mostly time.
And with that he pushed himself up and brushed off his pant legs and waited for Mr. Sherwood to take the lead. It was time to get this show on the road.
As for the facts and rumors of this incident he didn't need to write them down, he had them in his mind and he had Boggs for that as well. Even if Boggs didn't know it yet. But when Mr. Sherwood answered his question he smiled, 'Datz fine, I can alwayz go a 'untin far dem ladder. But far now, we z'ould probably get ta da track w'ile we gotz time.' And daylight, but mostly time.
And with that he pushed himself up and brushed off his pant legs and waited for Mr. Sherwood to take the lead. It was time to get this show on the road.
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