Deadlands RPG Session Thirty
14 December 2009 08:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dime_novel_heroFrom: Mr. Zebulon Pike, Cimarron, New Mexico Territory
To: Mrs. Hannelore West, Kingsport, Mass.
November 1879
Dearest Sister,
I begin to understand why so many inventors choose to prostitute themselves to the magnates of industry. It is a simple matter of resources. Men like Smith, Robards, Barbicane, and even the hack Edison have all sacrificed a certain amount of independence, incorporating and prostituting themselves to investors, all for the sake of those precious resources necessary to advance their science. And those rare few like Narbon and Robur who have retained absolute control over their vision have done so by being able to operate in obscurity and with an initial cache of resources before unleashing their brilliance on an unsuspecting world.
On the other hand, I am continuously hampered in my attempts to advance science and technology for the good of all mankind by continuous interruptions from that same aggravating mass of humanity. Continuously beset by a veritable parade of brigands, assassins, simpletons and morons, not to mention the regular protecting of innocents and other mental deficients from a wide assortment of monsters, specters, demons, automatons and the ambulatory dead.
A case in point; several days ago Messrs. Bongiovi, Sombrero and myself were in some mining town, I'm not even sure it had a name, continuing our search to find a competent engineer and fireman to drive our train, as our efforts in more civilized locations have been unsuccessful. Almost immediately on our arrival we were embroiled in an altercation with some disreputable fellows who had the temerity to attempt to rape a young woman inside the local church.
Had Mr. Tobin been there, I’m sure the shooting would have begun immediately on his initiative and the three miscreants would have been dead quite quickly, unlikely to even have the opportunity to return fire. Instead, I still retain a slight amount of social decorum and, on our arrival, called upon them to cease and desist their criminal actions. I resisted the urge to begin firing immediately, for while I am reasonably competent with a pistol, I did not want the young hostage with a knife to her throat to be caught in the crossfire.
The villain took advantage of this by drawing the woman closer to shield himself while his companions drew their own pistols and fired upon us. By the wildest of probabilities, the bullet that would otherwise have struck either my stomach or intestines instead deflected off the pocketwatch in my waistcoat pocket. Even so, it knocked some of the wind out of me and I dropped to the ground where I took advantage of my unique vantage to take careful aim and shoot the knife-wielding villain in the ankle. His ankle broken, he immediately released the girl and fell to the ground, whereupon I fired several fatal rounds.
One of the others had fallen while another had been able to escape through a side door. I quickly scrambled out the front and around the side to prevent his escape.
Having seen me exit the building and fire several rounds into the back of a fleeing man, the local sheriff was not inclined to accept my explanation of what had transpired until the traumatized young lady corroborated our story. Even so, we had not made ourselves welcome and were encouraged to not stay any longer than was necessary.
A hotel room of the quality that was there would not typically cost more than a dollar. It certainly was not worth the usurious $15 they charged for a room but as the alternative was a communal tent and an insect-infested cot for a quarter, I chose the better, though overpriced, accommodations. The woman who escorted me to my room seemed intent on providing a more personal service, no doubt accounting for the highly inflated prices, but I was not interested in an evening’s companionship unless she was hiding a doctoral degree in her inefficiently laced corset.
She was not, so I slept.
In the morning, as we left the hotel to retrieve our horses and ride out of there, were were set upon right there on the porch by the band of desperadoes that were the rest of the so-called Kingsfeller gang who had come in search of their missing comrades. Caught nearly unawares, we were all injured in the first volley, a .45 caliber round cutting through the meaty portion of my thigh.
Armor.
That's what I was going to say when this letter began. Even though the month in Denver without the distractions of Mr. Tobin and company was the most productive of my time out here on the frontier, it was still insufficient to complete all the imaginings crowding every corner of my mind. The production of a lightweight and flexible armored fabric would have prevented or, at the very least lessened my injury. But the materials for such a fabric are difficult to come by and, even if I had the high-tensile threads, it would have taken an inordinate amount of time to weave them together. I would need to build a loom and for that I would need a space larger than the train car I currently have. I had the space in Deadwood but Hellstromme blew that up. I had neighbors in Deadwood that I might have employed as craftsmen or seamstresses but Hellstromme poisoned that well with his attacks.
I need to have what Hellstromme has. A fortified factory. Employees and assistants. Guards. Government contracts. Bribed local officials. I would change my plans from destroying Hellstromme's empire utterly to taking it piecemeal from him for my own purposes were I not so disappointed with the caliber of his current employees. No, better to destroy it all and have done with it.
Oh. Of course, we prevailed in the general melee on the streets of that hick town, I stitched up my relatively minor wound and we left the sheriff to bury another half dozen corpses.
This is becoming quite bothersome.
Eternally, your brother,
Zebulon
To: Mrs. Hannelore West, Kingsport, Mass.
November 1879
Dearest Sister,
I begin to understand why so many inventors choose to prostitute themselves to the magnates of industry. It is a simple matter of resources. Men like Smith, Robards, Barbicane, and even the hack Edison have all sacrificed a certain amount of independence, incorporating and prostituting themselves to investors, all for the sake of those precious resources necessary to advance their science. And those rare few like Narbon and Robur who have retained absolute control over their vision have done so by being able to operate in obscurity and with an initial cache of resources before unleashing their brilliance on an unsuspecting world.
On the other hand, I am continuously hampered in my attempts to advance science and technology for the good of all mankind by continuous interruptions from that same aggravating mass of humanity. Continuously beset by a veritable parade of brigands, assassins, simpletons and morons, not to mention the regular protecting of innocents and other mental deficients from a wide assortment of monsters, specters, demons, automatons and the ambulatory dead.
A case in point; several days ago Messrs. Bongiovi, Sombrero and myself were in some mining town, I'm not even sure it had a name, continuing our search to find a competent engineer and fireman to drive our train, as our efforts in more civilized locations have been unsuccessful. Almost immediately on our arrival we were embroiled in an altercation with some disreputable fellows who had the temerity to attempt to rape a young woman inside the local church.
Had Mr. Tobin been there, I’m sure the shooting would have begun immediately on his initiative and the three miscreants would have been dead quite quickly, unlikely to even have the opportunity to return fire. Instead, I still retain a slight amount of social decorum and, on our arrival, called upon them to cease and desist their criminal actions. I resisted the urge to begin firing immediately, for while I am reasonably competent with a pistol, I did not want the young hostage with a knife to her throat to be caught in the crossfire.
The villain took advantage of this by drawing the woman closer to shield himself while his companions drew their own pistols and fired upon us. By the wildest of probabilities, the bullet that would otherwise have struck either my stomach or intestines instead deflected off the pocketwatch in my waistcoat pocket. Even so, it knocked some of the wind out of me and I dropped to the ground where I took advantage of my unique vantage to take careful aim and shoot the knife-wielding villain in the ankle. His ankle broken, he immediately released the girl and fell to the ground, whereupon I fired several fatal rounds.
One of the others had fallen while another had been able to escape through a side door. I quickly scrambled out the front and around the side to prevent his escape.
Having seen me exit the building and fire several rounds into the back of a fleeing man, the local sheriff was not inclined to accept my explanation of what had transpired until the traumatized young lady corroborated our story. Even so, we had not made ourselves welcome and were encouraged to not stay any longer than was necessary.
A hotel room of the quality that was there would not typically cost more than a dollar. It certainly was not worth the usurious $15 they charged for a room but as the alternative was a communal tent and an insect-infested cot for a quarter, I chose the better, though overpriced, accommodations. The woman who escorted me to my room seemed intent on providing a more personal service, no doubt accounting for the highly inflated prices, but I was not interested in an evening’s companionship unless she was hiding a doctoral degree in her inefficiently laced corset.
She was not, so I slept.
In the morning, as we left the hotel to retrieve our horses and ride out of there, were were set upon right there on the porch by the band of desperadoes that were the rest of the so-called Kingsfeller gang who had come in search of their missing comrades. Caught nearly unawares, we were all injured in the first volley, a .45 caliber round cutting through the meaty portion of my thigh.
Armor.
That's what I was going to say when this letter began. Even though the month in Denver without the distractions of Mr. Tobin and company was the most productive of my time out here on the frontier, it was still insufficient to complete all the imaginings crowding every corner of my mind. The production of a lightweight and flexible armored fabric would have prevented or, at the very least lessened my injury. But the materials for such a fabric are difficult to come by and, even if I had the high-tensile threads, it would have taken an inordinate amount of time to weave them together. I would need to build a loom and for that I would need a space larger than the train car I currently have. I had the space in Deadwood but Hellstromme blew that up. I had neighbors in Deadwood that I might have employed as craftsmen or seamstresses but Hellstromme poisoned that well with his attacks.
I need to have what Hellstromme has. A fortified factory. Employees and assistants. Guards. Government contracts. Bribed local officials. I would change my plans from destroying Hellstromme's empire utterly to taking it piecemeal from him for my own purposes were I not so disappointed with the caliber of his current employees. No, better to destroy it all and have done with it.
Oh. Of course, we prevailed in the general melee on the streets of that hick town, I stitched up my relatively minor wound and we left the sheriff to bury another half dozen corpses.
This is becoming quite bothersome.
Eternally, your brother,
Zebulon
