Post by ♠Rafiki♠ on Apr 24, 2008 19:48:54 GMT -5
Theme: This is a “Life In The Old West” style Rp. Anyway, since this is a pretty broad scenario to work with, a lot of things can be done, and much experimenting done.
Plot: This is set in old America, during the time of lawless-ness that makes up the westerns we know and love. Indian raids are frequent, there are bandits almost literally @ every turn, and lawless-ness is widespread. The few people that DO uphold the law are restricted to the cities, the few that there are. Some towns are literally one-horse-burgs!!
The object is to set up a good character, and try and simply survive the old west. Be a lawman, Indian, bandit, or what not. Lawmen will labor to bring justice to the world, Indians will be constantly trying to fight and get back their lands (unless they are the peaceful type) and bandits will be laboring to raise bandit empires.
Roo’s:
-No enemy fraternizing, plz.
-Be realistic. It’s the old west, people.
The sun was blood-red against the red-hued sky; it sank more and more toward the horizon, which was lost behind titan-like mountains, perpetually looming in the distance. It couldn’t have been later than 7:00, yet already a shadowy figure galloped into town at full speed. The town itself was not even worth curling a nose at; the entire down-town district of San Jose Texas was simply two 500’by 30’ buildings facing each other, interrupted at odd intervals, by short, wide alleys and at one point, an old wooden water tower. The town, though negligible, was a semi-important stopping point for Bison and cattle herders, heading westward. Being in the very northernmost fringe of the panhandle wasn’t without it’s dangers, though. Indian raids were frequent, and deadly.
The lone Figure atop his enormous mount bore a grim expression, though his low-tipped hat, and the handkerchief masked it, since it was draped over his nose, cheeks, and mouth. His trusted horse, an abnormally large Clydesdale, kept his pace easily, without tire. She was a beautiful thing, copper brown with white patches and a billowing white mane. Though Clydesdales were known for their fuzzy feet, her “Socks” were kept short as any other patch of fur on her sides. He urged her onward, as he traveled north, right up the main boulevard of the town. Coming to a stop outside one of the two largest buildings in the town, he’d hopped off before the horse had even skidded to a stop in the hard-packed, sand-covered floor. He stomped up the wooden walkway and pushed through the swinging doors without a second thought, after he tied his horse up.
Being the only current Deputy Sheriff was hard, thankless and of course dangerous work, but he did it without hesitation, complaint, or grudging. His boots hit the wood floor hard, jingling his spurs and eliciting a triple C above high C jingle. His garb was unnasuming: A faded white cowboy hat, a faded red Kerchief (now off his face and around his neck), a pinkish-red shirt, a worn leather vest that his tarnished gold badge clung to, his bandolier of ammo across his left shoulder, a gun belt with other equipment on it, some faded blue leggings mostly covered by a pair of thick, worn leather chaps, and a pair of unassuming brown snakeskin boots.
He threw himself into the chair and began scribbling a letter/note in his tidy handwritting at once, pausing once only to listen to the sound of a passing carrage.
"Deputy Sheriff Alejandro Guadalupe to Dodge Houston City sheriff. (Stop)
Found more dead bodies today. (Stop)
Please send more help; too many to handle alone. (Stop)
Getting desperate. (Stop)
Townfolk worried; may cause town closure. (Stop)
Reguards. (Stop)"
With that, he finished writing the telegram and stood, sweeping his hat off and rubbing his leathery sun-beaten face. His complexion was loose, too red to be fully mexican, yet too brown to be fully indian. His skin color earned him heavy scorn wherever he went; he was used to it though. Even though the badge had it's limitations, he got by. Too bad people couldn't see passed his skin color...
Plot: This is set in old America, during the time of lawless-ness that makes up the westerns we know and love. Indian raids are frequent, there are bandits almost literally @ every turn, and lawless-ness is widespread. The few people that DO uphold the law are restricted to the cities, the few that there are. Some towns are literally one-horse-burgs!!
The object is to set up a good character, and try and simply survive the old west. Be a lawman, Indian, bandit, or what not. Lawmen will labor to bring justice to the world, Indians will be constantly trying to fight and get back their lands (unless they are the peaceful type) and bandits will be laboring to raise bandit empires.
Roo’s:
-No enemy fraternizing, plz.
-Be realistic. It’s the old west, people.
The sun was blood-red against the red-hued sky; it sank more and more toward the horizon, which was lost behind titan-like mountains, perpetually looming in the distance. It couldn’t have been later than 7:00, yet already a shadowy figure galloped into town at full speed. The town itself was not even worth curling a nose at; the entire down-town district of San Jose Texas was simply two 500’by 30’ buildings facing each other, interrupted at odd intervals, by short, wide alleys and at one point, an old wooden water tower. The town, though negligible, was a semi-important stopping point for Bison and cattle herders, heading westward. Being in the very northernmost fringe of the panhandle wasn’t without it’s dangers, though. Indian raids were frequent, and deadly.
The lone Figure atop his enormous mount bore a grim expression, though his low-tipped hat, and the handkerchief masked it, since it was draped over his nose, cheeks, and mouth. His trusted horse, an abnormally large Clydesdale, kept his pace easily, without tire. She was a beautiful thing, copper brown with white patches and a billowing white mane. Though Clydesdales were known for their fuzzy feet, her “Socks” were kept short as any other patch of fur on her sides. He urged her onward, as he traveled north, right up the main boulevard of the town. Coming to a stop outside one of the two largest buildings in the town, he’d hopped off before the horse had even skidded to a stop in the hard-packed, sand-covered floor. He stomped up the wooden walkway and pushed through the swinging doors without a second thought, after he tied his horse up.
Being the only current Deputy Sheriff was hard, thankless and of course dangerous work, but he did it without hesitation, complaint, or grudging. His boots hit the wood floor hard, jingling his spurs and eliciting a triple C above high C jingle. His garb was unnasuming: A faded white cowboy hat, a faded red Kerchief (now off his face and around his neck), a pinkish-red shirt, a worn leather vest that his tarnished gold badge clung to, his bandolier of ammo across his left shoulder, a gun belt with other equipment on it, some faded blue leggings mostly covered by a pair of thick, worn leather chaps, and a pair of unassuming brown snakeskin boots.
He threw himself into the chair and began scribbling a letter/note in his tidy handwritting at once, pausing once only to listen to the sound of a passing carrage.
"Deputy Sheriff Alejandro Guadalupe to Dodge Houston City sheriff. (Stop)
Found more dead bodies today. (Stop)
Please send more help; too many to handle alone. (Stop)
Getting desperate. (Stop)
Townfolk worried; may cause town closure. (Stop)
Reguards. (Stop)"
With that, he finished writing the telegram and stood, sweeping his hat off and rubbing his leathery sun-beaten face. His complexion was loose, too red to be fully mexican, yet too brown to be fully indian. His skin color earned him heavy scorn wherever he went; he was used to it though. Even though the badge had it's limitations, he got by. Too bad people couldn't see passed his skin color...