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Archive 29 / crimson-sunset
Triggers: violence, gore, existential horror, paranoia, animal death, human death, references to racism and genocide, trauma
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/12/2023 21:53
The dust settled at the bottom of the ravine. Whatever river of water had once flowed through it had long since dried up, though the blood and bodies were working hard to make up for it. Carts and wagons lay smashed apart on the ground, supplies scattered around or crushed beneath their debris. The oxen and horses hadn't fared much better, and the vast majority of human travelers even less so. Three months ago, the first among them headed set out to seek out the profits rumoured to be waiting in the west. Such positive outcomes were no longer in sight. A stray plank from one of the wagons tumbled from the pile, accompanied by the sound of coughing. As Ambrose pulled himself to his feet from within the wreckage, he swayed. There was no telling whether the dots of colour that taunted the edges of his vision were signs that he remained dazed, or the simple effects of the late afternoon sun beating down on him. He drew in a gasping breath, still hunched over. Dark hair clung to his forehead due to the mix of sweat and blood from a cut he'd acquired on his head during the fall. Despite every muscle in his body screaming in protest at the action, he climbed out of the wreck, placing his boots firmly in the dirt. A pained bellowing to his left caught his attention. One of the oxen. Barley, to be precise. His primary job throughout the journey had been animal care, and he'd named those whose actual owners hadn't bothered. He approached the large brown-and-white ox, favouring his right leg as he moved. One of Barley's hind legs had been pinned beneath a cart. The other had snapped at an unnatural angle, leaving the bull unable to lift his head. His companion hadn't survived the fall. .
21:53
A small part of Ambrose remained hopeful enough to kneel beside Barley and inspect the damage. Just closely enough to kill that shred of hope that the injury could be recovered from. "Shit." Even that word was spoken softly, like a surgeon reassuring a young patient as he reached for the percussion pistol holstered at his side. "I'm sorry, buddy." He was sure his elders would have had something more eloquent to say beforehand, something to show due respect and lend some ceremony to the grisly act of mercy. But he wasn't them, and what knowledge he'd had in youth had been beaten out of him during his school years. The gunshot rang through the space around them. It made things quick for Barley, but caused deeper pain yet for Ambrose. He told himself it was just the recoil but was not convinced. This wasn't his first time having to put down an animal in his care. It never got easier, but he had to carry on. He put the gun back and rolled back his sleeves. Too late to avoid getting them bloody, but it helped alleviate the heat around him for a moment. He set about the rest of the wreckage at hand, trying to find signs that someone else had survived. He told himself there was no way he could be the only one, even if the ache that consumed his entire spine reminded him that it was a distinct possibility. Ever now and then, he looked up at the cliffs above. Whatever had spooked the draft animals off that gorge, no sign of it remained, but he knew the animals were too smart to have run off without a good reason. "Anyone-?" He stopped as he spotted someone. Hazel, if memory served him correctly. He hadn't gotten on too well with most of his human travel companions, but that hardly seemed to matter now. He extended a hand to help if it was needed. "If you want to try and salvage anything, you might want to make it quick." He squinted up at the shadows of scavengers circling overhead. "No animal survivors. Sooner we find a town, the better." .
21:53
Beneath their feet, a line of the dirt remained just dark enough compared to its surroundings to be recognizable as some form of pathway. Ahead, the shadows of buildings could just barely be made out by someone with sharp enough eyes. It only took a couple minutes of travel to come upon the sign proclaiming where they were. Welcome to Crimson Cross. Population: 400 "Cheerful name for a town," Ambrose remarked, but walked ahead. The moment both Ambrose and Hazel had passed the sign, the wood shifted ever so slightly, almost imperceptible save for the difference in the words. Welcome to Crimson Cross. Population: 402
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Hazel ?̴?̶?̴ ̴?̶?̵?̷?̵?̶?̵ BOT 12/13/2023 10:44
Hazel sat up on folded legs in the dirt beside her family's covered wagon in stupefied silence, too shocked and dazed to cry out their names as she gasped for breath, heart racing and head and arm throbbing after tumbling down the cliff. She could only stare at the limbs bending at unnatural angles inside or under the crushed and overturned wagon, amongst the dead oxen, carts, heavy crates, and luggage, all smashed. Their items for the long journey were strewn across the ravine, slowly being stained by the red seeping through the earth. Her Papa, her Mama–even Samuel, their slave who'd been driving their oxen–all dead. She couldn't tear her sight away from what was clearly her Papa's arm jutting out of the wagon, on his wrist the prized Vacheron Constantin, which he had always polished and wound at regular intervals each day, now dripping with blood. The glass was miraculously uncracked. She gaped at the ticking item in disbelief, not noticing her own skirts dampening beneath her. .
10:44
The sudden, loud crack of a pistol close by badly startled the young woman out of her stupor. She gasped and jerked, then immediately winced at the pain in the back of her head near her neck, rubbing at it, then gasping in pain again as her hand touched a cut beneath her tousled, black braided updo. She crouched near her family's wagon, hiding behind a cart in case of danger, with her hand near her belt holster, until she saw an injured man calling and limping towards her, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with blood and sweat. Green and honey eyes with dark limbal rings–her namesake–stared up at the caller with surprise and relief. There was at least one other person alive. His name had started with an A; she'd heard another man call it out in camp one night. She couldn't remember it now. Nevertheless, she was grateful for the hand he extended, and she hauled herself to her feet with his help. "Thanks," she mumbled. She noticed now that her mouth was dry from the dust, and that her legs were trembling. . (edited)
10:46
With shaking hands, she rummaged swiftly through the surrounding wreckage to salvage miscellaneous valuables and essentials, stuffing them into the canvas crossbody satchel she already wore, and into her apron and skirt pockets. Then, holding her breath against the smell of death, gritting her teeth, she stepped up and went through the caved-in opening of the covered wagon, her bruised and sprained arm flaring up in protest as she pushed aside the broken wood. She rummaged through her Papa and Mama's pockets, finding their coins and bank drafts, tucking them securely in the inner pockets of her satchel. Finally, she removed the watch from her Papa's wrist, wiped it on her apron, and let it slip into her bag. When she rushed out, panting to breathe in the stale air, she stumbled several steps away from the ruined wagon and leaned on her knees, trying not to retch as tears brimmed in her eyes. She closed them briefly, but her parents' faces remained gawking at her even behind her eyelids. They had to find help, she thought, as she followed the dark-haired man and adjusted her wide apron over her satchel to make it more inconspicuous. She was supposed to have traveled to the gold mines in California, and now she was stranded. She didn't know whether she should continue by herself or find a way home. No, she had to go home. She had to send an electric telegraph to the rest of her family, and to her Papa's work, if the town ahead even had that service. .
10:49
As Hazel and the man came upon the wooden sign, her brows furrowed slightly in distaste at his remark, wondering how he could find humor in the situation. Had he not lost anyone, or was he just in denial or deflecting? She squinted into the distance, looking for any tall buildings with crosses, assuming that the town had been named after a place of worship. When they passed the wooden sign, she tried to speak, but had to cough and clear her dry throat first. She tapped the man on the shoulder lightly. "The town might be named after a church. A church might have folks willing to help, as opposed to the first place we see. Have to tell 'em what happened to our wagon train," she said to the man. "Have to find a general store to send a telegram, too, and lodging before sundown," she added, trying to think ahead to keep her pain and panic at bay. The young woman half expected the man to ignore her suggestions, however, due to the combined reasons of her race, which could not accurately be described as White or Black, and her gender. If the man had a bad attitude about those, she'd split and get back home by herself. As she walked, briefly glancing at the man, her fingers rubbed at the smooth edge of her leather holster out of nervous habit.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/13/2023 14:10
On the way to town, Ambrose had been silent, trying to piece together what information he could remember about the other survivor. Not much, to be sure. They had never talked. He recalled that her parents had been slave owners, common enough for the wealthier families down south, but less so where he'd come from, and a fact that had given him reason to steer clear of them. But she wasn't entirely White either, and seemed polite enough, so he could set aside his distrust for a moment. He led the way into town with an odd feeling of numbness pervading him, so he startled at the sudden tap on his shoulder. As he turned to face her, he mentally chastised himself. Of course it was just her. Absurd of him to be so jumpy; he was taller than average for a man, and had built up plenty of muscle from years of physical labour. He had absolutely no reason to be scared of a young woman from a well-off family. He looked back at the town as she spoke, though no building itself stood out as a church. The various wooden buildings all stood at a similar height, all fairly nondescript from where he stood. Maybe it was just further into the town. Most towns had one, so she was right to point out the possibility. "It could also be named after a crossroads, if two paths converge here, but it's worth seeing what we find anyway," he agreed, though the feeling only served to increase his unease. The churches back east with their preaching about assimilation into White American society had done more harm than good, in his experience. But he'd learned from them, no less. With his hair cut short enough, he might be mistaken for a colonizer with a deep tan and be welcome. "Maybe a town doctor, too, in case you're hurt." Never mind his own injuries. "That fall itself was also concerning. Draft animals might not be the smartest, but they don't spook like that without reason." .
14:10
The roads were quiet within the town, strangely empty for midday. Any movement occurred within the houses, windows opening briefly so the inhabitants could look out at the newcomers then quickly shutting once more. The skin crawled at the back of his neck as he observed the subtle signs of life. Signs of suspicion. For a moment, he rested his hand against his holstered pistol as though to make sure it was still there. He silently hoped he wouldn't have to use it. As he realized he would only set the town's residents more on edge if he kept his hand by his gun, he moved it away for now. A building held a sign that had once said 'General Store', but the letters were poorly maintained, leaving it to instead proclaim the presence of a ' e era S ore'. Enough to get the point across, but leaving the question open of how much life really remained in the town. Still, there was movement behind the leaded windows of the building, the motions of a shopkeep going about his daily tasks. Though the cames that supported the small glass panels obscured the view, some key features remained visible. He was an older man, possibly in his sixties, balding and heavyset with pale skin. He leaned over the counter, seemingly sorting something not quite visible through the building's window. Ambrose stopped in front of the building and looked over at Hazel. "You wanted to find a general store, right?" he asked. "We might also see what else we should pick up, whether we're staying here or continuing on after. I've got nothing waiting back east, but if you have family to contact, now's your chance. A new map would also be good." He frowned as a realization dawned on him, a memory of the maps he'd looked at before. "The ones I saw didn't say there was a town anywhere near here." .
14:10
All he'd really had going for him had been his job caring for his boss's livestock, and now they were all dead. He'd worry about the future later. For now, he walked ahead to the door. The bell rang overhead as he opened it, holding it for the young lady. Inside the shop, shelves held a variety of goods. Most of the foods came in tin cans, though there were also a couple of baskets of fresh fruit. Anything resembling organization seemed entirely arbitrary, as though making it easy to find items had been an afterthought. What drew Ambrose's attention the most was the display behind the counter. One of the shelving units held a variety of soaps, the other several different tobacco products. Between them, the shopkeep had seen fit to display his rifles. One on the wall would have been normal. Five seemed excessive. The shopkeep in question didn't look up from his task, meticulously counting the bent and rusted iron nails in front of him.
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Hazel ?̴?̶?̴ ̴?̶?̵?̷?̵?̶?̵ BOT 12/14/2023 00:01
The man seemed decent enough, thought Hazel, so it might be good to stick together. She felt a little less anxious as he spoke to her without pretense. He mentioned seeking a doctor for her injuries–something that had slipped from her priorities in the horror of her situation, and she realized that she still had a throbbing headache, not even originating from the cut on her head anymore; it was making her hold her neck and shoulders stiffly. Dizziness and mild nausea continued to wash over her in waves, but she chalked it up to the afternoon heat, dehydration, and her dire plight. She looked at the blood on the man's forehead and how he was favoring his right leg, all the while walking like his back was stiff and sore, despite his muscular build. He'd probably gotten hurt worse than her from the fall, she realized. She squinted up at the tall man who appeared around her age, maybe just a tad older, in his late-twenties. Perhaps it was the way the sun and shadows drew across him and the world at this time of day, but her vision was strangely a little blurry even though she thought she'd gotten over the initial daze of the spill. Therefore, she couldn't tell whether the man was exclusively White. "Finding a doctor's a good idea," she agreed. Unbuttoning her satchel again, she produced her flask of water and took a few gulps, then offered it out to the man in case he, too, was parched. "Need water? It's not liquor," she clarified. She'd have to find a place in town to refill it. She was starting to feel awfully tired. .
00:01
Hazel kept her fingers on her holster, stroking it nervously for comfort, feeling sweaty and exposed as she followed the man through the unnervingly quiet roads. She realized now that her gingham bonnet, which her sister Jennie Mae had made for her, had fallen off somewhere, and she tried to turn her face away from the sun to avoid getting darker and feeling more faint and fatigued. A lifetime of having to ignore people's assumptions and unjust treatment made her pay no mind to what the holed-up strangers in this creepy town might think. When the man said that this town hadn't been on the maps, a feeling of dread sank into her stomach. Maybe there was a reason why the mapmakers hadn't added it, despite the condition of the signs and buildings implying that the town had been here for a while. Maybe travelers weren't supposed to visit. No obvious churches could yet be seen. Was this an ungodly place for outlaws, run by a cult or criminals? Was that why the townspeople acted like they were scared or didn't want them here? "I've got a bad feelin'," Hazel muttered to the man as she trudged forward, her boots almost dragging in the dirt. "Y' saw that?" She gestured subtly with her good arm to where a curtain had just dropped back over a window, the eyes behind it disappearing. "Think we ought to find a church after the doctor–that's probably safest," she reiterated, unaware that the words were being formed somewhat slurred, as though there had been alcohol in her water, even though there was not. She didn't want to stay the night at all, but she had no choice. She felt so listless and weary, her body felt heavy, and she didn't know why. .
00:03
As the man held the general store's door open so that she wouldn't have to do so with her sprained, dominant arm, she thought again that he was rather polite. As he presumably looked around the disarrayed shelves for a map, Hazel wandered around unsteadily, somewhat swaying. She selected the first straw bonnet she saw and took it to the counter while taking out a few coins from her pocket. Through her oddly blurry vision which she tried to blink clear, she thought the older man reminded her somewhat of her grand-uncle counting silver coinage at his banker's desk. "'Scuse me, mister," she addressed him politely, moving so that he'd see her bloodstained calico apron. For some reason, her words were coming out more quietly than she expected, her mouth unable to enunciate them properly, and her own voice seemed to ring and echo in her ears. She inhaled deeply, fighting her dizziness. "I'd like this bonnet, please. And there was an accident with our wagon train, you see. Would you be able to send a telegram back east, and point us to a doctor?" Hazel moved to hand over her coins, but suddenly a sharp pain from her throbbing headache and a wave of dizziness and nausea made her flinch and double over, gasping. The bloodstained coins bounced and rolled across the counter, which her hand gripped onto for stability, scattering what the shopkeeper had been painstakingly counting. With her face close to the wood, she now saw the dark gray items up close. What she'd mistaken for tarnished silver were rusty, bent nails. She could only blink, perturbed, one of her pupils blown wider than the other in her unnaturally pale face, as bright spots and then darkness filled her vision. Her hand slipped, she fell to her knees, and then she collapsed unconscious facedown onto the floor.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/14/2023 12:21
Ambrose wished he could say she was the only one with a bad feeling about this. It would have made it so much easier. The problem was, she was right. Everything here was just a bit... off. He looked over at her every now and then, worried for her condition. Visibly, she'd seemed fine at first, but the further they went, the clearer it became that she hadn't gotten through it better off than he had, after all. He trusted her judgment of her own abilities for now, politely declining the water since he had his own. Once he followed her into the shop, he let the door shut behind him. It hadn't been a heavy door, yet it still seemed to slam with a certain finality. He glanced back, surprised, but soon went on his way, looking through the shelves. Nothing he noticed seemed to resemble a map, but it was hard to say in a place that seemed so hastily thrown together. He unhooked his waterskin from his belt, uncapped it, and took a drink as though that would help this make sense. It didn't. They could always return once they got their bearings, so for now, he walked back to join her by the desk. Meanwhile, the shopkeep didn't even look up from his work, as though the business of counting was the most important thing in the world. Defective wares, Ambrose assumed from the state of the nails. "Ain't got no telegraph." The shopkeeper's voice was quiet, just a bit gravely beneath the surface. "As for a doctor, you'll wanna see Old Man Irvine up by the old gallows." As she dropped the coins and scattered his wares, he finally did look up, his eyes blazing as though she'd destroyed a precious heirloom. Ambrose ran over to help catch her so she wouldn't hit her head on the way down. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her back from the counter as she lost consciousness. "Hazel?" Hell, was that even her name, or had Ambrose misremembered? "Can you hear me?" .
12:21
Behind the counter, the shopkeeper had turned around and grabbed the lowest rifle of the five. He leveled it at the two of them with the ease that could only come from someone with an inordinate amount of experience, that rage never leaving his eyes. His finger didn't quite touch the trigger, but lingered too close for comfort. "You think you can bring your drunk floozy in here and disturb my work? You're lucky I'm nicer than others, or I wouldn't be offering a quick death." The shopkeeer's voice was no longer quiet but, despite its intensity, he wasn't shouting, either. Ambrose held a hand up. "Please, Sir, she's injured." His own words came out rapid, rambling almost. "I'll bring her out of here and she'll never bother you again, just give us a moment. Please." It took all he had to control his breathing when he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Despite the fact that he'd had a drink of water moments earlier, his mouth had become a desert as he looked up at the shopkeeper, failing to keep the terror from his eyes. The tension didn't ease much as the stranger lowered his rifle and tossed the bonnet at them. "Get out." At this point, Ambrose would gladly oblige whether he was referring to the store or the town. He gathered the bonnet in his hand and stumbled to his feet with the extra weight of his travel companion. It would have been easier to leave her, but there was no way he was facing this place alone. For now, he carried her out, trying to keep her head supported with one arm while the other balanced the lower half of her body. He could feel himself shaking, but not from the physical strain. .
12:22
It was slow moving, but the old gallows stood tall enough that its general direction was easy to find. An odd sense of relief washed over him to see that they were empty. He wasn't sure he could handle more corpses. One of the buildings had two signs. One displayed a meat cleaver, but the one above it showed a rod with wings and two snakes intertwined around it. He'd seen it outside of hospitals before, though the first sign better resembled a butcher shop. A man sat in a rocking chair just outside of the door with a straw hat pulled over his eyes. Ambrose caught his breath as he approached. "Excuse me, Sir, are you Old Man Irvine?" There was no response, but the door swung open to reveal a woman standing there. Her leather apron was stained with red and brown, both new and old, as her blue eyes regarded them coolly. The town butcher, perhaps. "If you're here for a doctor, I'll be better than him." She lifted her chin as she looked at the old man, not even bothering with a full nod. "My father's mind is going, and he spends most of his time sleeping." She walked into the building, but left the door open. Ambrose took the hint and followed her inside, to a room with a small window, a recently-made bed, and a wingback chair next to it. He set Hazel down carefully, and looked back at the woman. The town's butcher, he assumed. "If his mind's going, why leave him outside?" he asked as he sat in the chair. "Seems dangerous for him." "Why does a hunter bother to carry ceramic ducks?" It was such an out-of-the-blue question that Ambrose couldn't begin to answer if he tried, so he fell silent and let her look over Hazel, answering what questions he could. "Sounds like a concussion," the woman concluded after a moment. "Where'd you two come here from?" "I met up with the wagon train around West Virginia, but I'm originally from New Jersey. Can't say where she was before," he said. "What's your name?" .
12:22
"Doesn't matter." The woman straightened up and turned toward him. "Call me Doctor for now." He was sure this lady had never been to medical school, but he accepted the shutdown of other conversation and allowed her to look over his own injuries. Just a cut to the scalp - not as bad as it looked - and a sprained ankle. He'd been lucky. Soon, she left the two of them to rest.
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Hazel ?̴?̶?̴ ̴?̶?̵?̷?̵?̶?̵ BOT 12/15/2023 01:29
Returning to consciousness as she heard the end of a conversation, the words of the two speakers still ringing slightly in her ears, Hazel half-opened her blurry eyes as she laid on the small and neat bed. She felt one of the speakers treating the gash at the back of her scalp and saying that Hazel had a concussion, that her bruised arm just had a light sprain. Hazel wondered whether she was going to receive any medication or instructions for the concussion, as she still felt the headache, but it wasn't as bad now that she was lying down out of the sun. "Doctor" did not say anything more about their injuries, however. In a flat tone, as though she had repeated it a hundred times before, she told the man that they could refill their water and wash off at the pump behind the building, and that they could rest in the room until she needed it again for another patient. .
01:29
Hazel slowly turned onto her back and felt around her person to make sure that all of her belongings were still with her, and peered over at the man, her blurriness gradually clearing. She didn't know how they'd gotten to the doctor's. He must have carried her from the general store. She realized that he must actually be quite a good person, for he could have left her outside the store for anyone to do anything to her. She considered herself somewhat of a burden, and definitely a liability, in her condition. The man had even brought along the purchased bonnet; it had been placed at the foot of the bed. "Thank you for helping me," Hazel said sincerely, meeting the man's light brown eyes, acknowledging that he could very well have saved her life. She was relieved that her voice didn't come out as slurred as before, though it was still hoarse. "I'll pay for the doctor for the both of us, and for our lodging, too." From her pockets, she took out what she hazily guessed were enough coins for the doctor, and set them on the sheets. The prices for most items and services seemed to have become more expensive the further west they'd traveled. Money was important to her–a way of proving her worth in society. Money, and her Papa's status, of which she acutely felt the loss. .
01:30
A thought from her education as a proper lady nudged her to observe the proprieties. It would be good manners to ask for the man's name, to provide her own, and to share where on the route she'd joined the wagon train. It didn't seem important, though, as more urgent, somber thoughts shoved their way again to the forefront of her stress- and injury-addled mind. She took a deep breath and then propped herself up on the bed, pushing past her fatigue and brain fog, remembering with difficulty what the shopkeeper had told them before she had passed out. "No electric telegraph service here. There's got to be a post office, at least. I can read and write. I've got to send a letter to my family to let them know what happened." As she stared at the dark-haired man in the armchair and said this, her voice cracked, rising to a desperate pitch and volume as her face twisted in pain. It was loud enough to wake even Old Man Irvine outside, if he was truly asleep. "The others wouldn't want their loved ones to be rotting out there in the sun, either!" Hazel hunched over with her wet face in her hands and rocked herself, wailing loudly now, feeling terrible from the headache, the lethargy, and the strain and responsibility of the situation. "Someone's got to put those poor souls to rest! I can read and write and even do figures, so I've got to contact my family! We've got to find a post office or sheriff–someone!" The distressed woman repeated herself because of her concussion. The image of vultures picking at her Papa's exposed arm, with the blood-soaked sleeve rolled up, tan lines around the left wrist where she'd removed his watch, was making her sick to her stomach, and she nearly gagged into her hands, a jerking movement which exacerbated her headache and dizziness. "Someone, please help! I need to write my family," she sobbed. "Papa, Mama, Samuel... I can't just leave them like that!" (edited)
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/15/2023 02:13
Ambrose half stood up despite advice to rest. Now was the time to get a water refill, after all. The sound of her voice caused him to second-guess himself, and he sank back down into the chair. There was something wrong about this entire town, and their current host was no exception. It wouldn't do good for either of them to be here at all, but even less to be here and alone. He looked toward the window. The gallows were visible from here, an old empty noose swaying gently in the breeze. He wasn't superstitious enough to believe in omens, but it still sent a chill through his body. "Any decent person would've done it," he said, sparing a glance over at her. He thought back to the final moments of his encounter with the shopkeeper and contemplated whether or not to tell her how it had gone. Was it better to know and to worry, or to carry on in blissful ignorance? He shook his head and opted to keep the details quiet for now. "Lodging for one night, maybe, but then we have to find where the next closest town is." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Something here is... wrong. I'm not sure exactly what or why, but I don't think we'll be safe." Then again, when was the last place he'd felt safe? Had he been old enough to remember? He startled a bit, pulled out of his reverie as she sat up and started talking. He opened his mouth to speak, but she was still going on. He made sure to shut his mouth as he recognized the desperate emotion that grew in her voice with every word she said. Grief. He'd had nobody left to lose when the accident had happened, but of course she hadn't been so lucky. Normally, he'd offer to bury them himself, but neither of them was in a state for that kind of physical labour. Not to mention the state the deceased travelers would be in by the time they were. Nobody would want to bear witness to that, let alone the grieving daughter of two of them. .
02:13
"Hazel," he kept his voice low, but urgent. "Hazel. Please." He glanced over at the door and hoped against all hope that he had the right name and that they weren't being listened to. There was no sign of movement through the window, thankfully. "We'll find a post office, an undertaker, and a priest once you've rested," he promised. "You can send out a letter, then we'll show the undertaker and priest where the bodies will be. It's the best we can do for them now." He kept his thoughts on the matter silent: dignity was of little use to the dead, and the gesture would only keep them here for longer. If their first encounter had involved a gun in his face, he didn't want to see where the next few days here led. But unless they found another wagon, neither of them would get far in their current conditions. After another moment's thoughts, he sighed and stood up, slowly to avoid disturbing his sprain too much. He'd been advised to lay down, but he hadn't wanted her to freak out on waking up with a strange man sharing a bed with her. A lot of good that did, in regards to keeping her calm. From this room, he couldn't get a good idea of exactly how large the house was, but he'd gotten a decent idea of just how powerful her lungs were. "I can refill our water and see if our host has a pencil and paper you might be able to use," he offered. "But if I leave this room and you need anything else, you're gonna have to scream like hell, alright?" He held out a hand for her flask. Outside, the sun had begun to fade, the slightest hint of reddening having appeared on the western horizon. He gave the view a disapproving look, unsure how he felt about potentially staying at the butcher-doctor's house for the night. But he hadn't heard from any other patients here. Not even a shout telling her to shut up. So maybe it was just the two of them, plus the 'doctor' and her father. .
02:13
"We'll... figure something out," he managed to say. "For ourselves, and for the lost members of our party." To think just the two of them had survived. So much for safety in numbers. "You'll get that letter sent back east, and I'll..." He had no plan, beyond getting out of this town. "Well, I'll be fine. And so will you, long enough to find your way back home."
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Hazel ?̴?̶?̴ ̴?̶?̵?̷?̵?̶?̵ BOT 12/15/2023 05:11
No one but the man in the room responded to Hazel's desperate, anguished outburst. Her sobbing and wailing eventually quieted, and she wiped her tears with a handkerchief from her apron pocket as she listened to the man speak. His plan and his words brought her a small measure of comfort, and she was reminded that at least she wasn't utterly alone. She sniffled wetly and nodded, and handed the man her flask. "Sorry. Thank you..." When he left the room, she collapsed back onto the bed, curling up with her face in a pillow and rubbing at her forehead, even though it did nothing for her pounding headache. The man was right. They couldn't do anything at this moment; she could tell from the light entering through the window that the sun was low in the sky, nearly beyond the horizon now. .
05:17
Hazel waited for the man to find the doctor, pay with her coins, ask about sending a letter, and refill the water. It seemed he was doing everything for them both, and Hazel wasn't used to it, having been taught self-sufficiency and duty as the first of her siblings. Even her family's slaves had never waited on her hand and foot, so she felt frustrated and weak. She wished that time would revert to before the wagon train's fall off the gorge; maybe the accident could have been prevented. She took a deep, shaky breath, letting her remaining tears soak into the pillow. Strangely, there had been no other reaction in the house to her embarrassingly raucous whining and weeping. She wondered now whether the doctor was still in the house. She and the man might be able to stay here for the night, she realized. If that were the case, they'd have to share the small bed. She still felt uneasy about remaining in this town, so she kept her boots and satchel on, and sat up briefly to tie the bonnet by its plain ribbons to a strap of her apron. Afterwards, she shifted to lie supine on one side of the bed, gathering her skirts beneath her, trying to leave more than half the bed available. Sharing a bed with a non-relative to whom she wasn't married was highly inappropriate, but there were far greater concerns at the moment, and no one needed to know. In addition, she knew that his ankle should be elevated to reduce swelling and pain, so he shouldn't sleep in the armchair. With that, Hazel purposely moved the two pillows a few inches further apart to make it clear, she hoped, that the man who continued to help her should take half of the bed. She propped herself up slightly against the other pillow and the headboard, closing her swollen eyes and waiting for him to return.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/15/2023 23:42
Ambrose couldn't have been sure whether he was doing the right thing or not. Helping people was all well and good, but what would being here cost both of them, in the long run? Or maybe he was overreacting. He sighed and attempted to push those thoughts from his mind. For now, he could focus on making sure they both had enough water. There was a water pump outside right next to the building, not too far from the well itself. It took a few attempts, but eventually the water began to flow, a weak stream that was easy enough to redirect into the flasks. While he secured the caps again, he looked back toward the building. Odd, that her shouting hadn't even gotten an alarmed response from the doctor. It was easy enough to rationalize though - she had work to do, and possibly enough experience to know when there was an emergency, or just one person panicking. He still couldn't keep a shiver from running through his body. The plains got cold at night, and he hadn't brought a proper coat. Foolish of him to leave cold weather clothing behind. He glanced over at the figure in the chair. Old Man Irvine didn't seem much more prepared for the chill than he was. If he was going to be selfless today, he might as well help more than one person. He walked over to him. "Pardon the intrusion Sir, but it's looking like a cold night." He reached for his hand. "If you want to rest indoor-" He trailed off and looked down. There was an odd, almost waxen texture to the skin. In the grand scheme of things, the man's hand wasn't exactly ice cold, so much as it was lacking the warmth of a living human being. Ambient temperature. He lifted his own hand and looked at it. The streaks of apricot colouration on his fingertips matched the new stripes of white on the old man's hand. .
23:43
"Fuck!" He jerked his hand away as his mind caught up enough to process the fact that he'd been touching a corpse. The movement knocked the straw hat from the old man's head. The preservation was impeccably done, but the two glass eyes that stared blankly out from his sockets gave away the whole story. A million questions ran through his mind, most of which could be summarized as why? His breaths came out ragged, enough of a distraction that he didn't hear when the door opened and someone stepped out. The one thing he couldn't possibly ignore was the cool metal of a meat cleaver being held to his throat. Blood still stained the edge. His breathing stopped altogether for worry that the slightest movement of his throat might split it open. He stood perfectly still, silent. His only movement was that of his eyes darting toward the window of the room he'd been in. The one his one surviving travel companion was still in. Or so he hoped. "It's just cow's blood, not human." The doctor seemed to prevent his concerns as her voice came from behind him. Not quite in his ear, but below it. Her next words dripped with exhaustion. "And for the love of God, don't give me a reason to change that." "What-?" he managed to stutter out once he let himself breathe again, his mouth dry. "Why-? How-?" He glanced back at the old man. "It was natural, but we all have to take the chances we're given. I'm not your enemy," she said evenly. The blade near his throat gave him a distinct impression to the contrary, but he wasn't in a position to say that aloud. Instead, he remained still and silent and let her continue. "When I let go, you're going to put that hat back on my father's head, go to sleep, and not say a word of this to anyone. Understood?" .
23:43
His mind ran through his possible options. If she was reaching for his throat, she'd be easy to unbalance, to knock aside and possibly unconscious. If not for the blade poised to slice him open the second she lost her footing. Once she let go, he might have an opening, but he still wasn't going to gamble on physical force versus an actual weapon. There was his pistol, but he wasn't exactly the quickest draw out there. "Understood."
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Hazel ?̴?̶?̴ ̴?̶?̵?̷?̵?̶?̵ BOT 12/16/2023 02:10
From through the window, the young woman inside the spare room heard her travel companion shout an expletive. Her eyes flew open as her breath caught in her throat with trepidation regarding what could have been so shocking or upsetting. Almost immediately afterwards, the quick thuds of boots sounded past the room. That meant someone else–perhaps the lady doctor whose voice she'd heard but whose face she hadn't seen–had still been in the building, probably deliberately ignoring Hazel's shameful, panicked racket. She was somewhat grateful for that, wanting to put the sudden breakdown behind her. Gingerly, minding her headache, she slid off the small bed and followed the faint sounds of incomprehensible conversation. She kept her steps steady and cautious, and her hand trailed along the wall for support in case she swayed from the dizziness. She hoped that the man was alright. The front door was halfway ajar, so Hazel looked outside as she leaned sluggishly against the doorway, feeling the distinct lack of energy from the concussion and the day's inconceivable events. The dark-haired man and a stranger, a woman, were standing just outside the door. An old man, another stranger whose face she couldn't see, appeared to be sleeping in a rocking chair facing out, directly beside the two people standing. The now-familiar dark-haired man looked like he'd seen a ghost, adding to Hazel's confusion and sense of disquiet. .
02:14
When Hazel's eyes landed on the butcher's knife stained with blood that the woman held at her side, and her soiled apron, she nearly jumped. She tried to suppress the shudder of creepiness that had crawled down her spine. Butchers had to see doctors, too, she reasoned to herself. But there was an uncomfortable tension in the air, as though Hazel had interrupted something private. After a beat, when no one spoke and the woman's guarded blue eyes seemed to bore into her, Hazel cleared her throat and addressed the only familiar person on the porch, keeping her voice controlled and her tone polite, trying to enunciate and not slur. "Are you alright? Were you able to pay the good doctor and ask about writing a letter?" Looking down, there was a straw hat beside their shoes. Hazel leaned against the door frame to pick it up, and held it out to the two people standing. "Who dropped their hat?" she queried. The hat couldn't be her travel companion's, unless someone had just given it to him.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/16/2023 12:15
As the cleaver left his throat, all Ambrose wanted was to collapse to the ground and pass out as the adrenaline fled from his body. Instead, he continued to stand upright by some miracle. Or simply because the desire to not embarrass himself was stronger. It was a moment before he could find words, and another before he could form them, making his response a bit delayed. "I'm fine," he said, casting a sideways glance at the doctor. He chose his words carefully. "I refilled our water first. Took longer than expected." Judging from her lack of reaction to the corpse, he had to assume he was standing between her and its face. All for the better. With another breath, this one steadier than the ones prior, he dug into his pocket to get the coins he had been given. It felt too surreal, paying the person who'd just threatened him, but it was what it was. "Here. I hope it's enough to thank you for your help," he said, holding them out to the doctor. She nodded and took the coins. "It's plenty," she said, despite not taking a moment to count them. "I'll have some stationery supplies to you by morning, but you should get some rest... First, would you mind giving my father his hat back?" She explained to Hazel, "it fell off while he was sleeping, and startled your friend here so badly he might've woken half the town." Ambrose avoided making eye contact with anyone at that, face still slightly bloodless at the moment. "It's been a hell of a day," he muttered, holding his hand out for the hat. He had to be careful, to make sure the face remained hidden until it was put firmly back into place. As for the hand, he just had to hope. .
12:15
The doctor lingered by the doorway until the job was done, only walking back in once she was sure the man wouldn't start blabbering about what he'd seen. She had to be careful, or they might manage to leave before their time. That, or they would run off and get themselves killed. Her eyes remained on Ambrose, untrusting, until she turned and walked back into the house. They weren't the only ones who needed to rest. Ambrose sighed. "I know it's not that weird for one person to do two jobs in a small settlement like this, but butcher and doctor is still an odd combination," he commented, then shook his head. At least she hadn't injured him or kicked them out onto the street. Still, he held his hand to his throat for a moment, as though to make sure it hadn't bled. The skin remained unbroken, no sign of the threat there whatsoever. "Let's get inside. It's cold out here." His sprained ankle screamed at the rest of him in protest with every moment he spent standing, but even more so once he tried to move. He needed to stay off of it for a bit, maybe in the bed with a pillow or two to elevate it. For now, he was just glad to have been left alive.
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Hazel ?̴?̶?̴ ̴?̶?̵?̷?̵?̶?̵ BOT 12/16/2023 21:46
Hazel felt astonished when the man gave the woman holding a meat cleaver the coins, which the woman didn't even look at. So she had also been the doctor. The knife and apron now seemed to make sense, in a weird way. It seemed a tough living–the fact that the woman didn't have enough patients to work as a doctor full time and had to do an unrelated job. Everyone needed to eat, but not everyone got sick. But then what was with her not even counting the previous silver? As the doctor-slash-butcher provided a dubious explanation for the man's shout, Hazel felt more and more that something was off about this bizarre situation, and that both of the people in front of her were hiding something. Her travel companion seemed awfully shaken and pale for someone who had simply seen a hat fall off a sleeping old man's head. It didn't seem in character for him to curse only because of that, based on his pragmatic reaction immediately after the wagon train accident. Hazel tried to keep her bewildered reactions to herself. This wasn't difficult to do, as she had little control over how her brow remained naturally furrowed from the headache and dizziness, and how her eyes remained a bit swollen from crying, giving her an overall unpleasant appearance. She'd also forgotten that she herself had a bloodstained apron like the doctor's. .
21:47
"Thank you," Hazel called after the doctor as she left. Yet again, another fact struck her as odd: the daughter had decided to leave her father sleeping outside in the cold, after she had watched the dark-haired man suspiciously for a few moments. If the sleeping man had been her great-uncle, Hazel would have gotten a blanket for him, at least. Well, what did she know? She wasn't a doctor, and the woman was. Maybe the father was used to this cold after living in this land for so long, she thought, noticing the wear on the doorframe against which she leaned. Or maybe she was just making excuses to try to get past her current unease. She glanced at the now-behatted old man in the rocking chair, but the sunlight was dimming in the cool dusk, and her vision was still not the clearest due to her concussion. Hazel took back her water flask from the man with a small nod of thanks, her neck stiff from the headache, and then offered her arm to assist him back to their room, seeing that he seemed to be leaning even more heavily on his right leg. His sprained ankle, she guessed from experience, must be stiff and swollen after weight-bearing all day. Wrapping her arm around his back, she spoke quietly. It wasn't what she truly wanted to ask, because she still had enough of her faculties about her to wait until they made it back to the spare room. "I don't think you're fine." Then she said the following a little louder, in case anyone was eavesdropping, to try to make them think this was the only problem she meant: "Let's elevate your ankle on the bed." It now occurred to her that if the lady doctor had been silent, ignoring her emotional outburst, there could be others in the house, too, just listening. Perhaps they were bedridden patients, but perhaps not. As she shuffled towards their room, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong in this building, in this town.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/16/2023 22:57
The day was starting to catch up to Ambrose as its events replayed in his mind. It was a lot. Perhaps too much to keep a secret for long. Telling her could wait until they were in the relative privacy of the spare room, and even then he'd have to assume someone could be listening in. For now, he accepted her arm, in too much pain and shock to refuse the help. He made a valiant effort not to limp, but it didn't quite work out that way. His jaw clenched, and he winced every couple of steps despite every attempt not to show the pain he was in. At least the pace set was slow enough that it didn't become unbearable. For now, he nodded in response to her words. Once they were in the room, he shut the door and made it the rest of the way to the bed. It creaked slightly as he all but fell onto it, but remained stable enough that he wasn't too worried about it. At first, he was silent, simply grabbing one of the pillows on his side of the bed - he could take a hint when it was right there - and setting it closer to the foot of his bed so he could elevate his ankle as suggested. Finally, he'd allow himself the luxury of actually listening to the medical advice he'd been given. He hesitated for a moment before unstrapping his gun holster, setting it and his flask of water on the bedside table for now. There was no way he would be comfortable with them on. "As I was saying, there's something wrong about this town." He kept his voice low as he removed his boots. "Do you remember the general store? The shopkeeper who was counting the nails? When you passed out, I ran to catch you so you wouldn't hurt yourself worse and he pointed one of the rifles at both of us. For a moment, I was sure he'd pull the trigger. He said something odd, though." He paused, trying to remember the exact words. "Something like 'the others wouldn't be offering a quick death'." .
22:57
He hadn't taken the time to ask what the man had meant by that, for obvious reasons, but now that he thought of it, it had been an ominous statement about what awaited them in this town. As he considered who the 'others' might be, he brought his legs up to rest on the bed, elevating the left with the pillow he'd moved over. Exhaustion settled over him, nearly paralytic in its effects so that the most movement he could bring himself to manage was to look over at the other side of the bed. "Do you have enough space?" he asked. "Sorry about the whole having to share thing, but I'm not sure there's another room." He turned his head up toward the ceiling. "I don't think we've even been properly introduced, come to think of it." An odd thought, considering everything that had happened in the past few hours. "Name's Ambrose. I'd say it was nice to meet you but, well..." He closed his eyes and listened to any sounds around them. He couldn't hear anything outside of the room they were in, so either the house really was silent or the walls were decently thick. Better to assume the former, still. His breathing slowed, but his mind remained restless. A way out of town would be a high priority, once they took care of putting the others to rest. If that even remained a priority by morning. Would there be much left to bury? How many scavengers were out there right now? It would probably be for the best if neither he nor Hazel went far enough to see the state they were in. He hadn't been close to anyone there, but it would still be odd, seeing the faces he'd lived amongst for months no longer... well, living.
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Hazel ?̴?̶?̴ ̴?̶?̵?̷?̵?̶?̵ BOT 12/17/2023 00:50
"Be careful," Hazel muttered as they slowly went down the hall, trying to make her tone more comforting as she saw the expression on the man's face. "Take your time." In the room, she tried to appear calm as her injured travel companion spoke. She drank much of her water, knowing that she'd feel better if she stayed hydrated. She hadn't eaten since midday, but she knew she wouldn't be able to stomach anything in her condition or state of mind, anyway. "He what?" Hazel blurted out in shock, almost forgetting to keep her voice at a low whisper, when the man told her about the shopkeeper's actions. She stared at him in disbelief from the other side of the bed where she sat. Then she whispered, "Why would he do that? And why would the townspeople want us to die slowly instead of..." She trailed off, realizing how absurd she sounded, and she became unsure about whether the man was semi-delusional in his exhaustion and pain, since his movements appeared nearly catatonic now. Then again, what he said seemed to fit with the general feeling of paranoia that had exuded from the residents when they'd walked through the town's unusually empty roads. "What made you yell just now?" she whispered, keeping her voice at the minimum volume, wondering if it had been a similar scenario. Despite managing to stay composed in terms of her outward appearance, her heart was beating rapidly with fright. . (edited)
00:51
She laid down on the bed beside the man, adjusting her satchel, holster, and skirts again, and trying not to dirty the top covers too much with her boots. She had to shift her hips a little to lie more comfortably, but she was more afraid of what might happen if she woke up without her revolver and money. She felt that she could trust the man, and maybe the doctor–despite her odd and suspicious behavior–but not the residents of the town. Consequently, Hazel didn't dare remove anything from her person in this strange and unwelcoming place, hoping to avoid a repeat of that incident she'd been through several years ago. "Yeah, I've got enough space, thanks," she whispered, trying to calm her nerves down enough to rest. At least her head felt better now that she was horizontal. She, too, gazed tiredly at the dark ceiling, and when the man introduced himself, she carefully turned her stiff neck to look at his face. She felt a little bad for him, seeing how tired he was. She moved her hand to lightly cover one of his in a form of greeting, a substitute for a handshake, and then withdrew it to wrap her arms snugly around herself again. The air was cool, yet seemed oppressive and stale, so she felt a little chilly. The temperature and her anxiety made her shiver briefly. .
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/17/2023 00:53
"Ambrose... I'm Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt," she replied quietly. Her full name was a mouthful, but she said it smoothly, as though she had introduced herself plenty of times before. "My Papa is Otto Schmidt, the banker and gold mine investor," she automatically added, and then she stopped short. "My Papa was," she corrected softly. "We were going to check on the businesses he'd invested in, and see what else there was in California." She turned her head back towards the ceiling, letting her head and neck relax as she closed her eyes briefly. She wanted to ask why Ambrose had been on the wagon train, but supposed that should wait until tomorrow, when the both of them weren't so drained. "Let's just send letters tomorrow to anyone who might help," she whispered, again turning marginally to face Ambrose. "Letters to the sheriffs back home, to the newspapers–get the word out to the families. Gotta make sure they're actually sent, in case the townspeople at the post office try to..." She trailed off yet again, not wanting to speak more of death. "I don't think we can do anything for the bodies anymore. After the post office, let's go back east since we know that's safe–unless you want to go west." (edited)
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/17/2023 01:45
Ambrose shook his head at the question about the townspeople. "I don't know if I want to find out." His voice lowered as he addressed the other question, until he was barely audible even with her right next to him. "It really was the old man." He paused, thinking back to the incident. There was no way to explain it without sounding like he was losing his mind. Hell, maybe he was at this point, but if that was the case, it was because of what really had happened to him. "I tried to suggest that he move inside, but he's dead. His eyes... have you ever seen a taxidermist's work? The doctor said his death was natural, but she also said something about an opportunity." His eyes opened halfway as he felt her hand on his. An odd gesture, and one that was over quickly. He'd heard the name, of course, mentioned every now and then around the wagon train. He didn't talk to much of anyone, but he listened, he observed his surroundings, and he remembered the details. It hardly seemed to matter now though who her father was. Status wouldn't save her from anything that might happen out here, but he kept silent on the matter. Let her have that little sliver of normalcy for now. "Ambrose Scott, then," he added, if they were going to be on a full-name basis. He couldn't exactly say who his father was, since the information he could give was limited to what he knew. For a moment, he considered who he might send letters to. Even if he hadn't fallen out touch with his mother's clan years ago, he'd long since forgotten how to speak Munsee, and most of his family hadn't learned to read English. Hell, his own birth name didn't even feel like his anymore, with how long it had been since he'd been told to give it up. Any letters he wrote would be impersonal, and even then he wasn't sure where most people there had come from. .
01:45
"We'll focus on writing the letters first," he agreed quietly, closing his eyes again. "Maybe we'll be better off heading back east a bit and going to the post office in the first town we come to that way. That way we can wait out there until someone comes looking for you, and it's more likely they'll get sent." Surely, she would be missed by someone. Resting enough to get out of there was the first priority though, or as far as they could get in their current states. He felt a bit of movement next to him as she shivered. He could handle the cold for now, it it probably would make sleep a bit harder in the long run. He sat halfway up, looking down at the mattress. Of course he was lying on the blankets - he hadn't bothered to move them. "Do you need me to move so you can get under the covers? It'll only get colder, and I think it's a bit drafty in here." He glanced toward the window. The sun had set fully, but that shadow remained on the porch, rocking gently in the breeze. If only they didn't get the room with the corpse view.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/17/2023 03:35
Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head when the man said that the one in the rocking chair was a taxidermied corpse. For a few moments, she could only sit there in flabbergasted silence. He hadn't imagined it, right? If not, why would someone do such a thing to the dead? She wasn't a stranger to being around the deceased–deaths in the family and amongst their slaves–but she could not wrap her injured mind around why and how someone would even treat the body like it was a game animal for display. And had that been the work of the doctor on her own father?! She could only hope that the old man's soul was at rest... Hazel remained silent because of how quiet the man had been in telling her this information, and forced herself not to look out the window and give anything away in case anyone was watching and listening, somehow. What a thought. Why would people be eavesdropping on them? What would they want from newcomers? Who were "they," even? Her mind felt as though slowly going insane with the fatigue, headache, dizziness, and now this persistent sense of paranoia and insecurity. .
03:35
Several minutes later, while they were both lying down on the bed atop the covers, she whispered, "I don't think anyone will come looking for me if they think our wagon train's still on route to the gold mines, and I'm not going to write for them to come. I don't want to wait for a month in the last town we passed. I'd rather get a couple of mules or horses and go back myself, if I can," she whispered with some conviction, trying to sound brave. "I don't think we need an entire wagon, do we? But your idea about sending the letters in another town is good. Let's do that." She didn't trust the post office here to send anything, and wanted to stay away from the townspeople if possible. Plus, they hadn't passed the previous town too long ago--a couple of days, was it? It was difficult for her to remember now with the concussion. "Yes, let's both get under the blankets. It somehow feels colder here than it did in camp. Maybe it's because of the lower elevation where we fell," she whispered, sitting up slowly. In reality, it was probably the loss of the warmth of the family beside whom she'd slept. After a brief hesitation, she decided to unlace her boots and remove them, leaving them neatly under the bed, so that she wouldn't get the sheets completely dirty. . (edited)
03:36
Once settled under the blankets, Hazel closed her eyes, clasped her hands to her sternum, and decided to pray clumsily and silently for Papa, Mama, Samuel, and the dead man they could see rocking outside the window. She didn't often do this, so God probably wasn't listening, but she tried anyway, despondent as she felt. It at least gave her something to focus on, other than her own run-down condition and surroundings. When she was done, she felt a little calmer and totally exhausted. The room was not warm by any means, but it was still a relief to be resting under the covers in a bed with a mattress again after weeks in a cramped wagon. She unconsciously shifted closer to the warmer side of the bed as she started to drift off.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/17/2023 17:39
"We don't have the supplies to need a full wagon," Ambrose agreed, thinking about the route back. They'd have to get up that cliff somehow, which would slow them significantly, but there had to be some way back up. There was no way everyone who'd ever come to this town had fallen the way they had. "A couple of horses'll do. Traveling alone is a bad idea, so I'll go with you. Not like I've got anywhere else to be." The travel would be the challenging part, but once they got where they were going, he'd be fine to settle in somewhere, find new work, and carry on with his life like he'd never left anything behind. It was nice for a moment, to talk about something as mundane as where they were going and what they'd do when they got there. Better than worrying about this damn town. Even the chill was unusual, but it could have just been an ordinary change in weather. What mattered now was getting some rest. Despite his bone-deep exhaustion, he stood up on his one good leg. It took a moment to move everything around so the pillow that had elevated his injured leg was beneath the blanket but still placed properly. Still, he managed, and settled back down next to Hazel. He was used to being more distant from people, especially while he slept. He vaguely remembered sharing a sleeping space with half-siblings and cousins as a child, and occasionally with other students at the missionary school when the space couldn't keep up with the demand, but the memories were so far away they may as well have belonged to another person. Even so, it only distracted him for a moment before he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. As far as he could tell, the night was quiet outside of their room. .
17:39
In his dreams, the town never ended. Every step he retraced only brought him further from the sign that would have shown he had found the road out. An endless loop and he found himself, once more, alone. Or worse, not alone. The shadow ahead forever evaded him. Although he couldn't know if it was a threat or an ally, he couldn't stray from its path as it shifted in and out of sight. The ground trembled beneath his feet, the workings of some great but unseen machine. It turned endlessly and devoured all. The Earth split, the road became a flowing red river, and everything ceased to be. .
17:39
As he started awake, the early sun had begun to filter in through the window. His breathing remained ragged as he looked over to the side. Hazel was closer than he remembered her being when he'd closed his eyes, and he could only hope he hadn't moved enough to disturb her. Slowly, he sat up, his head and heart pounding. The pain in his ankle had faded overnight, but he knew that would only last for as long as he kept it immobilized. His terror began to subside as the dream already started fading from his mind. "Are you awake?" he asked softly, though he was looking toward the door. If they were lucky, they would be able to get those letters written and be on their way out of town soon. From outside of the room, he could pick up on the smell of eggs and bacon cooking. His stomach rumbled quietly, and he wondered when the last time he'd eaten had been. The previous night, he'd been too disturbed to think about hunger, but now it was impossible to ignore.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/17/2023 20:30
"No, 'm nah," she mumbled with her eyes closed. "Ten mo' minuhs..." The half-asleep woman turned onto her side towards the warm speaker sitting on the bed. She wrapped an arm around his waist, burying her face into his warm pillow behind him. Despite smelling slightly of sweat, the scent was kind of comforting. She inhaled deeply. Yep, comforting and appealing, in a masculine way. Wait, this wasn't a scent she knew. What in the world? .
20:30
Hazel peeked open her bleary eyes. When she realized with mortification that she was hugging the man who she'd met only yesterday, she shot up with a gasp, jerking her arm away. "Ow!" She immediately clutched her injured head at the sudden movement, and slumped back down on her side of the bed, curling up, her eyes watering from the lingering concussion-induced headache. The faint blush across her cheeks was just barely visible on her skin tone that fell somewhere between toasted marshmallow and pecan praline. Her braided updo had fallen apart during the night, with the fine combs, pins, and ribbons somewhere on the sheets, so her black waves fell in tangles over her pillow and shoulder. She blinked and peered around from her pillow, remembering where she was. The dead man was still sitting outside, casting a long shadow from the early sun. She could smell bacon and eggs faintly, and her stomach seemed to protest with a mild wave of nausea. Her body was telling her that her brain needed more sleep. "'M sorry," she told Ambrose, still somewhat slurring. "Was dreamin'... I'm tired..."
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/17/2023 21:24
The answer was... unexpected. Ambrose stared down at the arm wrapped around him, fairly certain she wasn't awake enough to be aware of her own actions. The warmth might have been a comfort, but he still felt fairly certain that he should say something. She didn't seem like much of a 'hugging near-strangers on purpose' type. He looked away and quietly cleared his throat. "Miss Schmidt?" he asked, falling back on formality despite their previous first-name basis. When she jerked away, he almost regretted it, realizing the sudden recoil couldn't have been good for her current condition. "Careful." It was too late to warn her, and he sighed. "You seem tired. Still, have some water and rest for a bit longer. I'll see about getting us breakfast in a few minutes." He settled back down on the pillow for now, not looking forward to the pain that would come once he tried to move his leg. His eyes flicked to where he'd set his weapon and his flask, and relief flooded over him. Those, at least had been left alone. This town may have been home to potential murderers and human taxidermists, but at least there didn't seem to be thieves in this house. Faintly aware of the absurdity of such a thought, he shook his head and looked up at the ceiling. "Travel's going to be slow, once we get going." Probably they shouldn't be traveling at all, but it seemed less dangerous than sticking around, as long as they knew where they were going. Faint memories of his dream rose once more, unbidden, and he shivered despite the warmth in the room. "You still got enough to pay for a couple horses? I have some money, but never had much." .
21:24
His boss hadn't paid well, despite having a cart full of goods sold for prices so excessive they may well have been criminal. But food and lodging had been shared on the trail, and he'd saved up a bit. About equal to a month's wages if he'd had a decent job, which might get them somewhere. Now that his employer was dead, he wasn't about to get more any time soon. He'd make do with what he had. The knock on the door startled him, causing him to sit up. His back protested, aching a bit from the position he'd slept in. Instead of answering right away, he reached for his pistol, making sure its holster was once more secure. He rested a hand over it just in case it might be needed, and looked over at Hazel. It could have heralded the arrival of breakfast, but he wasn't in a particularly trusting mood when it came to any strangers. And she really did seem like she needed to rest for longer. "Need a moment, or should we let our visitor in?" he whispered, hoping it was the doctor with no weapon in hand. Still, an irrational part of his mind questioned whether she had somehow found out that he'd told Hazel about Old Man Irvine.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/17/2023 22:34
At Ambrose's suggestion, Hazel stiffly propped herself up on an elbow, moved her satchel and unbuttoned it, and took out the water flask, taking a long drink, not looking towards her bedfellow due to lingering embarrassment. The cool water helped a bit to wake her, even though she still felt fatigued. She wiped her mouth with the back of a hand and capped the empty flask. "Would you point me to where you filled these later? I'll do it before we head out," she said slowly, trying to speak clearly, wanting to seem reliable, like the man was to her. She didn't want the man to continue walking around doing things for the both of them if she could contribute. "Yes," she murmured in reply to the question about paying for horses, eyes closed, lying back again beside Ambrose. She spoke slowly. "I've got plenty. I work for my Papa..." She paused, her face harrowed. "Worked." .
22:34
The knock on the door didn't startle Hazel as visibly as it did Ambrose, as all of her reactions were somewhat stifled from the fatigue and weakness she felt. She noticed that the man's back must be aching from the way he moved. For some reason, she automatically almost reached out to rub it, but stopped in confusion at her own reaction when her fingers twitched towards him. It must be the concussion making her not think normally–yes, probably just that. She also sat up wearily, moving her legs over the side of the bed to lace up her boots. Even though she knew she needed rest, getting word back home via the post at the previous town was more important than her own well-being. She couldn't afford to be the selfish, well-to-do young lady who she usually was. She didn't look like it, anyway, with the state of her torn and stained dress. "It's fine. Let them in," she whispered to Ambrose, noticing that his hand rested near his holster, and feeling more secure because of that. Surprisingly, she felt less paranoid than she had last night, and it was easy to stay calm as she moved her hands drowsily around the bed to collect her scattered hair accessories. (edited)
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/18/2023 12:08
Ambrose nodded over to her in acknowledgement, but still gave her a second to start collecting her things. He'd point out the water pump later, but didn't voice how relieved he was to be saved the trip. He'd always been self-reliant, so letting someone else tend to tasks he should have been able to do was an odd novelty. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. He took another drink of water, then spoke. "You can come in," he said, loud enough for whoever was on the other side of that door to hear. The door creaked open and the doctor stepped in. For the most part, she looked the same as she had the previous day - red hair bound neatly back and up, a clean dress - without the bloody apron this time - and that look in her eyes that managed to seem at once both appraising and disinterested. The change was subtle, a hint of exhaustion in the darker circles beneath her eyes regardless of the makeup used to make herself look more put-together. Maybe she did have other patients, after all. She carried a tray with two plates of food and a handful of utensils on it. Behind her in the hallway, a small oak box sat beside a pair of crutches leaning against the wall. "Eat." Coming from her, it sounded less like the caring advice of a medical professional and more like a command as she set the tray on the bedside table on Ambrose's side, closer to the door. "If you're not going to rest for a few days, you'll at least need to do something to regain your strength." Ambrose picked up one of the plates. The smell of food was stronger now that it was right there. As he held the plate out to Hazel, he picked up on the cloying scent of blood from the doctor as well, among a medley of smells worse, but not quite identifiable. He could only hope this all meant she had other patients. Still, he tried not to let it ruin his appetite altogether. .
12:08
"Thank you, Doctor," he said, but as he looked back, she had already turned away to fetch everything else from the hallway. She didn't address his thanks, and instead walked around the bed to set the box on Hazel's side. "There should be enough here to get a few letters written. Just leave it when you're finished." She never seemed to stop moving for a moment, alive with activity despite what Ambrose had assumed to be a lack of sleep. As she spoke, she left the crutches by Ambrose's side. "And keep your weight off that ankle or you won't be getting much of anywhere. Good luck." There was something to her tone he couldn't quite place. Almost like she didn't expect them to get anywhere to begin with. Ambrose studied her expression for a moment, but it didn't give away anything he hadn't pieced together the moment she had walked in. Just the obvious, then a closed door from there. He didn't get to look for long, as she had already turned to walk away.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/19/2023 02:03
As the doctor entered the room, Hazel kept her upper body and head facing away from the window so that she wouldn't give away the fact that Ambrose had told her about Old Man Irvine. She combed through her hair with her fingers and began braiding it as the doctor handed Ambrose the plates and then returned to set the stationary box as well as the crutches in the room. Hazel had been about to express her thanks as well, but the doctor continued speaking and moving around until she left. "Good luck" was a strange thing to say. Why would they need luck to send a letter? The doctor's curt, perfunctory tone, and her lack of explanation for the "father" in the rocking chair in plain view having "slept" in the frigid air all night, made Hazel suspect the doctor knew the two patients both knew that he was dead, and that something was wrong about this town. Again, Hazel wondered about the purpose of keeping a preserved body outside. Surely, any repeat patient of this town would realize that Old Man Irvine was dead. She finished pinning up her braids and tied her new bonnet around her neck, letting it hang for now. She then only ate a couple strips of bacon before setting her plate back onto the tray in case Ambrose wanted the remainder. "I can't stomach the eggs right now," she explained. She opened the stationary box, grateful to find that everything that she needed in there, barring postage. Laying the paper on the bedside table on her side, she had to try the manufactured steel pen a few times before the ink flowed. She closed her eyes and thought first, with difficulty, then began writing. .
02:03
Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt Crimson Cross, KS July 6, 1851 Noah Schmidt Lexington, KY Dear Great-Uncle, Please seat yourself before reading further. It's been less than a week since I last wrote to you and my siblings, but I have sad news. I'm writing from an unmapped town named Crimson Cross somewhere in the Kansas Territory. Yesterday, there was an accident with our wagon train. Papa, Mama, and Samuel are dead. A gentleman named Ambrose Scott and I survived. Don't worry, I was unharmed. There is no telegraph or post office in Crimson Cross. Ambrose and I will backtrack to the last town we passed, Lawrence, where I last wrote you, to post this letter. I must return home to help settle the business affairs, so please do not come looking for me in case we miss each other on the way. Please do tell the reputable newspapers so that the other families know of the accident. I'm enclosing the bank draft that Papa intended to redeem in California. With love, Hazel .
02:06
After this, she wrote a copy and addressed it to her siblings Jennie, Carl, and William, modifying the first and last lines. Then she folded both letters into envelopes, sealed them, and stashed them both into her satchel. She returned the pen to the oak stationery box and sighed heavily. She spotted a wash basin with a folded rag inside of it beneath the bedside table when she was closing the oak box, so she picked that up so that they could refresh their faces a bit. Then she stood and turned to her travel companion. "Ambrose, did you want to write a letter, too? Which way is the water?" She waited to see whether she had to give him the items from her side, so that he wouldn't have to walk around the bed. (edited)
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/19/2023 13:59
Ambrose watched the door even after the doctor had left. In truth, he wasn't sure whether to trust her or not. She had threatened him with a knife, but had also had every opportunity to harm both of them, and hadn't taken it. They'd made it to morning alive but, as a general rule, he opted not to trust anyone who kept another human being outside like some sort of hunting trophy. The memory of the previous night made any food seem less appetizing, but he needed to keep up his strength, so he ignored any unsettled feeling in his stomach. An 'opportunity' she'd said. Before, she'd likened Old Man Irvine's corpse to a hunting decoy. There was something in that, he was sure. He ate slowly, only briefly glancing back at Hazel as she set her plate on the tray. "If you say so. Just eat what you can. Get your strength up." He transferred the eggs onto his plate, but left any remaining bacon in case she decided to have a bit more. "A map still would've been useful, to find some way back up the gorge." Maybe they could stop and ask for directions. There was no way everyone in town could be out to get them, and if they were as distrusting of strangers as they seemed, he assumed they would want Ambrose and Hazel out of town sooner rather than later. The problem was, they had no way of knowing who was or was not a threat until danger presented itself. He dismissed the idea as riskier than finding their own way back up. He continued to watch the door while he finished his breakfast, opting to give her some privacy while she wrote her letters to family. He didn't suppose it was an easy task, explaining the odd panic of the animals that had led to the accident or the behaviour of the town's residents. Better to gloss over it entirely, he assumed. .
13:59
Her sigh drew his attention back to her, though she was already moving. "Done with yours?" He shifted in the bed, sitting upright a bit more. The blood flowed back toward his leg, causing it to ache in protest, so he settled back down for now. "I don't actually know anything about my old boss's family, and we met up with the others far from where we started our journey, so I can't think of anybody to write to," he admitted. At least he wouldn't be missed much. "We'll focus on sending yours out. But first, the water's just outside, lefthand side of the building if you're just stepping out the front door. It'll take a few tries before the water flows out, but it should work." He held his flask out toward her, but hesitated. Was it a good idea to send her out alone? If she was a decent shot with that gun, she'd likely be fine, but a concussion was bound to throw her off. But nobody had bothered him, and it wasn't like the water pump was far. He pushed his worries for this near-stranger aside, dismissing it as residual nerves from the previous evening. "I'll be ready to leave once you are, just need another moment." He was not looking forward to hobbling his way out of there, but they couldn't simply stay in town forever. Outside, in the distance, there was a crack of gunfire. Ambrose jumped, sitting up as he listened for more. It was far enough that no sign of its source was visible from the window. Maybe someone just outside of town or on a farm, hunting or putting down an animal. That was what he would have assumed under normal circumstances, but their circumstances were far from normal.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/20/2023 07:20
"All right, I'll try to eat the rest of the bacon later," Hazel replied after she set her plate back onto the tray. "When we're looking for a couple of horses, we could keep an eye out for another store that might sell maps." She hesitated before offering the next idea, presuming that Ambrose would dislike it. "We could also ask the doctor whether she has directions, or a map we could look at." When the man mentioned writing to his ex-boss's family but not his own, Hazel felt saddened that he couldn't think of anyone to write to, especially when combined with his previous statement about not having anywhere else to be. Surely he wasn't completely on his own and had relatives or friends who would miss him? She put his flask into the basin, and then set the basin at the foot of the bed as she secured the bonnet up over her hair, observing his reaction as she spoke. "Well, after we make it back to Lawrence, you could keep traveling with me back home," she offered. "I'm from the Bluegrass region of Kentucky. Lots of horses there, if that's the type of work you enjoy. My relatives aren't in that thoroughbred racing business, but they also have a small winery along with the bank. Just something to consider, if you're not intent on striking it rich out west." Her somewhat tired expression didn't betray what she wanted, and she picked up the basin and started towards the door. .
07:27
"Oh, make sure the crutches are the right height for–" Her sentence was cut off by the distant gunshot, and she flinched and turned to look out the window, hand automatically moving to touch her revolver in its holster. Like Ambrose, she also listened for more shots, and she looked towards his eyes, wondering whether they were thinking the same thing: had that gunshot been the result of an incident like the one in the general store? Hazel then looked away and steeled herself, taking a deep breath. She walked rather slowly to the door and out, through the hallway, to the front door. She did not look at the corpse in the rocking chair and steered clear of it as she swung left. Seeing the water pump near a covered well, she began filling the basin first. It took a few tries, as Ambrose said, and the flow was weak. She was quickly sapped of energy and had to pause to catch her breath between filling the basin and then the two flasks. Thankfully, she still didn't hear further gunshots while she was outside, though she glanced up to look in the distance every so often. .
07:27
She decided to take a long drink of water first and then refill her flask. More water never hurt when one was ill. Then she crouched and washed herself using the basin and rag, so that she could both keep some sense of decorum around her travel companion and refill the basin with fresh water for him. After doing so, and catching her breath again, she returned to the building quite tired. Again, she was uneasy about being so close to the corpse, so she pushed herself to hurry past, and returned to the room. She set the basin and Ambrose's flask onto his side table. She looked a little different now, maybe prettier, with clean skin. The ribbons of her bonnet were damp because she hadn't bothered to untie it while she washed her neck. "Here, it's fresh water to wash with. Something's wrong with that pump." She went to her side of the bed to sit heavily on the edge facing away from the man so that he could have some semblance of privacy as he washed, and she rolled her dirty, stained sleeves back down for sun protection. There were still tears in her skirts and at one of the elbows from the accident. Too bad she hadn't salvaged any of her luggage, but maybe she could purchase a new outfit somewhere, if it was convenient.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/20/2023 19:24
Ambrose wasn't sure another store would turn out much better than the first, and found himself wishing he'd taken the time to gather more supplies from the wagon train. Looting the corpses of the dead had seemed like a ghoulish possibility in the moment, and a damn sure way to end up haunted by their angry spirits, but now that he looked at the moment in hindsight, now that the reality of their survival situation really began to set in, it just seemed practical more than anything. But hindsight was useless, and it was far too late to change what he'd already done or failed to do. He wasn't about to go back into what would surely be a nest of scavengers feasting on carrion by now. "I... guess the doctor will know more about this area than we do," he conceded, despite his hesitation. "Not sure how much I'll trust her directions, but a map at least would help." It wasn't his favourite plan in the world, but it made a certain practical sense. He listened to Hazel's offer as she began to move, considering his options. Staying where he knew nobody, going home where he'd only had loose acquaintances, or continuing on with one person he sort of knew. Of course, it would be different in Kentucky, where the confines of social status would guarantee they still occupied different worlds. But that only meant it would be normal, what he'd been used to from the start. He couldn't tell which of his options she would have preferred, and that hardly mattered anyway when the choice was his. It just wasn't one he was going to make at a moment's notice. "I appreciate the offer," he said neutrally. He had worked with animals for the past several years; he was good at it, and got on with them better than a lot of people. Livestock didn't bombard him with the expectations other humans did. "I'll think about it on the way there, but making it to Lawrence is more important for now." .
19:24
He considered suggesting that she stay indoors, just in case, but kept silent as she walked out. If that was what she wanted, she would have thought of it, herself. With her out of the room, he reached a hand out to grab one of the crutches, then the other. He moved slowly, not wanting to knock himself off balance. With their support, he stood up. They were a bit short, so he had to lean down slightly, but that much was to be expected. Even growing up, he'd been jokingly compared to a tree by his cousins. He took a few steps to test them, and decided they would do just fine. They took the weight off his injured leg, and didn't strain his back too much. He'd just have to keep his foot out of the stirrup when they got the horses, and be extremely careful with dismounting. Satisfied, he sat back down on the edge of the bed, not wanting to spend too much time moving around. It took a while for Hazel to return, but he reminded himself of his own struggle with the water pump. She was probably fine, just fighting a stubborn piece of equipment. He stared uneasily at the door as it opened again, but it was just her. She'd already cleaned up a bit, and he had to admit she'd done so nicely. He said nothing at first, turning his attention toward the basin of water so he wouldn't stare at his companion as though she'd become an entirely different person. "Yeah, I noticed there was," he agreed after a moment, picking up the rag to wash his own face and neck with. Without a razor, he couldn't do much about the patchy stubble taking over the lower half of his face. It was a problem he could solve in Lawrence, since he already knew he was more presentable when clean-shaven. "Thanks for getting the water." .
19:24
He dipped the rag into the basin once more and wrung it out, so it wouldn't drip dirty water everywhere. Now clean of dirt, his tawny skin seemed much clearer, looking more like his normal self. The air around him even felt better, now that the grime of the previous day was gone. He ran his fingers briefly through his hair, pushing it back from his face. It felt fine; he wouldn't have to worry about washing it until a bit later. Drops of water had made it onto the collar of his shirt, but it wasn't like that was the worst his clothing had gone through in the past couple of days. "The crutches will be fine," he commented. "An inch or two taller would be even better, but if this is what's here, it'll do." He gathered them back up and stood again, keeping the weight off his ankle. "We'll ask for a map first. Or at least if there are other stores in town. But if she's with another patient, we might be better off carrying on than interrupting."
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/21/2023 04:27
She rested sitting on her side of the bed, and reached around to pick up the remaining bacon strips and eat them while Ambrose washed. She was still tired, but her head wasn't so sore anymore, so she was probably starting to recover. She wondered how her cut was healing under the bandage beneath the bonnet, hoping that it'd be fine to wash her hair whenever she got an opportunity. The fatigue wouldn't be a big deal if they could find horses quickly instead of walking in the sun all day. When Ambrose spoke of the crutches and got to his feet, she pushed off the bed and went around it. Upon seeing his refreshed aura, her hazel eyes curving in appreciation as they took in his face, she automatically smiled a bit, maybe for the first time since the accident. "You look better," she complimented without thinking. "I remember now: You and your boss were far ahead of us in the wagon train, but Mama pointed you out as one of the tallest men in camp when we were having supper one night. She said your shadow from the campfire was the longest." Her smile faltered and grew a bit sad, then faded as she averted her eyes. "Anyway, the two of us don't both need to find the doctor. Just elevate your ankle until I'm back," she said, walking past him towards the door without waiting for an answer. She intended to ask the doctor for directions, too, if there was no map. She left the door open a crack and went down the hallway to look for the doctor. .
04:30
Hazel soon spotted a door that was cracked just a centimeter; perhaps it had been left that way by someone who had been carrying an armful of supplies without a free hand to close it completely. Curious, she walked to the door quietly and peeked with one eye through the tiny crack, expecting to see either a patient or the doctor. She saw both–on the floor. The doctor's back was blocking most of the patient's body from view, and she was doing something near what appeared to be his groin. When the doctor's hand came away, the morning light glinted off the blade of a pair of bloodied shears. Hazel's eyes widened and she soundlessly clapped both hands over her open mouth. She took a few silent steps backwards, then turned and walked quickly, almost tiptoeing, back to her own room. She rushed into it and closed the door, looking at Ambrose with eyes huge with shock and fright, her face pale. "The doctor's indisposed at the moment," she blurted out. "She's operating on a patient's–on this–" She gestured to her crotch region. "This part, with scissors!"
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/21/2023 15:50
That small smile was a bit infectious, Ambrose couldn't deny. It was odd to hear, though. He'd never really thought about other people talking about him without ever having spoken to him. It hardly mattered now. The hint of a smile faded from his face as he picked up on her moment of silent grief, and he looked down. She was right about only one of them needing to go so, despite his distrust of the doctor, he followed Hazel's advice. The mattress wasn't exactly comfortable as he lay back down, but it had served just fine through the night and would do just fine now. "Right. Thank you," he said, in regards to both the compliment and the fact that she was the one leaving the room so he didn't have to strain himself more than strictly necessary. "I'll be right here if you need anything." Because he couldn't go anywhere else. While she was out of the room, he let his eyes slide shut, as though that would help him be any more comfortable. Maybe it did, for a moment; he could almost convince himself he was anywhere but this strange town that didn't appear on any map. He tried to rationalize that part. It was out of the way unless someone deliberately avoided the cliffs, and maps of the western territories weren't always the most reliable. A bad map, perhaps. The explanation would have made sense, if matters of navigation were the only unusual things about their current situation. He listened for any signs of trouble, but the house remained silent. Even the sound of Hazel's footsteps didn't reach, like she was treading lightly. Carefully. He couldn't blame her for the abundance of caution. .
15:50
Then the door opened in a hurry, and he bolted upright, wincing slightly as the movement jostled his injured ankle. He ignored it, noting the finality as she shut the door, the look of fear that crossed her expression. Shit. His mind ran through a hundred worst-case scenarios in a single second, because she seemed far too shaken for it to have been something harmless. Had they stayed the night at a murderer's house? Were they next? He half expected something to start pounding on that door next. Her explanation was almost worse. His face was never pale, but it certainly turned bloodless as he heard her. His gaze followed her gesture before he decided it was better to not stare at a woman's crotch, even if it was concealed by skirts. His eyes returned to her face instead, the apprehension in them clear. "I... don't think you'd perform most surgeries with scissors, especially if it's that, um... delicate of a procedure..." Which left considerably more horrifying explanations, particularly for him. He cast a worried look at the door, but it remained silent on the other end. "She didn't..." He lowered his voice. "You don't think she knows that I told you about her father, do you?" Sucked to be the guy she was 'operating' on at the moment, but he had himself to worry about. He grabbed his crutches again and stood up. He wasn't going to risk it. "We're better off getting out of here, I think."
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/21/2023 18:49
Hazel winced when Ambrose used the word "delicate." Then she walked over beside him to whisper. "I think she knows, and doesn't care." She gestured subtly at the behatted corpse in the rocking chair outside of their window. "That man was sitting there all night, so there's no way we wouldn't have realized he's dead." She straightened, also wanting to leave as soon as possible, still speaking in a low volume. "Yes, let's find our way back to Lawrence even if we're not healed up yet. Let me dump this water first." She picked up the used washbasin and hovered by the door, listening for footsteps in the hallway, not wanting to face the doctor–or anyone else in this town, for that matter–before leaving. After she heard someone come in the front door and step past their door, she waited a minute, then slipped out and quickly went to dispose of the used water into the dirt just outside the porch. Hazel returned to the room they'd stayed in and set the basin back where she'd found it, then took a moment to straighten the bed, both out of habit and courtesy and because she didn't want to give the doctor any reason to be upset at them. Then she went to the door and held it wide open for Ambrose on his crutches, and closed it behind the two of them. She wasn't sure where one would normally keep horses in a small, unmapped town such as this one–maybe closer to the outskirts where there might be farms or an inn for travelers? She watched Ambrose to make sure he could navigate down the front porch steps, then looked up at him. "I'll follow you," she said. She trusted him to lead them wherever he thought best, because they could both do with as little exertion as possible in their injured and weakened conditions.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/22/2023 02:21
It sounded suspicious, but she was probably right. "The question is, why insist on my secrecy if it wasn't going to matter in the morning?" It was a question with few answers, and none of them particularly welcome. "You go on and get the water. I'll make sure we've got everything we need." There wasn't much anyway, since they hadn't brought much with them in the first place. Still, once she was gone, he hobbled around the bed, checking the nightstands and the floor under it for signs of anything dropped by one of them or potentially useful but forgotten by the house's owner. As expected, there was nothing, but he didn't like to feel useless, so he checked anyway. He'd already finished the small, nearly-pointless task when Hazel returned to the room. He followed her out, thanking her for holding the door, and continued to the front door. Briefly, he glanced over at the door to the other room, suppressed a shudder, then continued to the porch. Despite his apprehension at the corpse, he paused to take in a breath of the fresh air. He hadn't noticed how stuffy the air inside had been until now. Or maybe it was the oppressive atmosphere of fear that had settled on him since his corpse discovery. Either way, they wouldn't have to worry about that doctor anymore once they were out of town. Or any of the other strange, vaguely threatening denizens of Crimson Cross. He didn't wait for too long before carefully picking his way downstairs. .
02:21
"We should look for a farm. Either they'll have horses or they'll know where to find one," he commented, remembering the farm he'd worked on after leaving the school. There was a certain level of community between farms, he'd found, a tendency to know who had what for which prices. Maybe this town would at least be normal in that regard. The question was where to find one. The streets remained hauntingly empty, so he squinted up toward the sky. The sun's position would be enough to navigate by, as long as they kept track of time. "We'll pick a road and a direction to start with, then keep on that way." Since he hadn't seen signs of any farms on the way into town, he headed west, in the opposite direction from where they'd come from. Nothing much had changed from the day before, aside from the scenery. He continued walking without complaint, not bothering to comment on the occasional suspicious face looking out through a window. It was expected at this point. His balance between the crutches improved with each step as he started to get the hang of it, though the physical exertion failed to get any easier. Without warning, the ground beneath them began to tremble, breaking that balance he'd worked so hard to achieve. He lurched sideways, throwing a hand down to catch himself so his head wouldn't hit the ground. The window shutters of the houses around them slammed shut, crashing audible from inside the nearest buildings. Dust kicked up from the road, creating a near opaque cloud that caused Ambrose to cough. Then, as quickly as it began, it was over, the earth steady once more. No explanation presented itself, only a denser silence than before.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/22/2023 04:00
Hazel followed Ambrose west without complaint. The two made rather slow progress, for the woman was fatigued with a mild headache, and the man was hopping on one leg using crutches that weren't perfectly fitted. When the ground shook and Ambrose fell over, Hazel fell to her knees, and the crutches bounced off the ground, one of them narrowly missing her spine. She, too, coughed from the dust and put her sleeve to her nose and mouth to breathe through it. Luckily, she hadn't fallen hard enough to cause further injuries. "What was that?" She choked out, startled and confused, but also a little frustrated that they'd already been walking for nearly half an hour now with no sign of a farm or horses, and now they'd had this tumble. When the dust was beginning to settle, she collected the crutches under an arm and went over to Ambrose, holding out a hand in case he needed help standing again. "Are you alright? Is your ankle okay?" Nervously, Hazel checked the road for cracks or any places that appeared unstable where they might trip or even fall through the earth, but saw nothing different. She then looked around at the scenery, at the buildings where she'd heard objects rattling or crashing over, and at the closed shutters. She couldn't tell if they'd been closed by the earth trembling, or slammed shut by the buildings' occupants who had somehow expected the quaking–meaning that it might be a regular occurrence. Then she spoke to her companion. "Look, I think that's a shop. Should we try asking about horses and the shaking there?" She squinted and pointed to a small building in the distance across the road, its sign now visible: Smit 's D y G ods.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/22/2023 15:15
In an attempt to preserve some of his pride, Ambrose didn't accept the help. Which only made standing back up more of a challenge, but he got there sooner or later. Surprisingly, his injured ankle had been unaffected. At least, it didn't feel any worse; his arm and hip had absorbed most of the shock from the fall. The dust cleared while he took the crutches back to stand up once more. The quake had been weird, but not unexplainable, or so he told himself. "I heard earthquakes are pretty common out west. Usually short ones," he commented, though the warnings had been about the west coast, not where they were now. "I'm no worse than before; I'll be alright." He looked ahead, recalling his last shopping experience. He didn't have high hopes for this one. Was it paranoid to expect hostility, or realistic at this point? He squinted, but couldn't pick up on any more information about the shop from this distance. Maybe it would help, maybe not. Only one way to find out. He took a few cautious steps forward, as though the ground might cave in beneath him. A part of his mind recalled his nightmare from the night before, and he suppressed a shudder. Coincidence, of course. Hopefully. "We can try, if you want," he said, still uncertain. "At the very least, whoever's there should have a better idea of what's happening than us." It was just a matter of how forthcoming they'd be with information. "If we're lucky, we might even manage to find a map, and maybe some extra ammunition." His expectations remained low. Fortunately for him, there were no porch stairs to climb this time, the doorstep laying flat to the ground. As he was starting to think all things should be. He looked at the sign again, to see if he could make out the missing letters this close to it. He couldn't see anything unusual through the window, but that may have been because the layer of dust that covered the outside was so opaque, like nobody had bothered to clean it in years. "After you," he told Hazel.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/22/2023 18:01
Hazel stepped to the door, wanting to be out of the heat and dust for a moment. As she got close, she heard the raised voices of two men inside, even though the contents of their speech was muffled by the door. She rapped politely on the door first to give a warning, so that those inside wouldn't be alarmed by the two strangers' intrusion. Her hand hovered near her holster, but she decided to rub at her apron near it instead in a nervous gesture. The voices inside paused, and then resumed at a quieter volume, although the tone was still argumentative. Now that she was fairly sure she wasn't walking into an ongoing physical altercation, Hazel turned the doorknob and pushed forward, stepping to the side of the door to hold it for her travel companion. .
18:02
She glanced first in the direction of the two men, looking around the store from the entrance, her eyes sweeping the inside. It appeared to be a small dry goods store, as the sign in disrepair had suggested, and Hazel presumed that the heavyset, mustachioed, blond young man behind the counter was Smith, or perhaps a younger relative. It looked as though he was cleaning a partially-disassembled rifle on the counter. The man across from the counter was short, thin, and middle-aged, with a full brown beard. They barely spared a glance towards the newcomers at the door and continued to argue at low volume, the bearded man pacing and occasionally leaning against the counter with his palms, and the blond man glaring and snapping retorts as he polished his rifle. Displayed on the wall behind the blond shopkeeper were over a dozen hatchets, axes, pickaxes, hammers, and cleavers, the last being similar to the one the doctor-slash-butcher had carried. It seemed an excessive amount for such a small dry goods shop, the display giving the impression of a crowded home hardware store instead. Firewood was stacked beside the counter as though to provide a semblance of explanation for the various tools. Warily, Hazel thought it likely fooled no one, but she kept her expression neutral, still hopeful that someone might provide information to her and Ambrose. . (edited)
18:02
She chose not to interrupt the two men at the moment, figuring that she might have better luck asking for directions if she purchased something. As she walked towards one of the cluttered but few aisles of close-set, dusty shelves that stored textiles, ready-to-wear clothing, and foods without moisture such as flour and sugar, she kept an eye out for a map or the ammunition that Ambrose had mentioned. On the floor were piles of wooden planks—the kind one might use for fencing, or for boarding up windows—and dusty canvas bags of stale coffee. The only lighting came from a lamp on the front counter and the opaque front window. All in all, the disorganized clutter in the dim store made the walk through the aisles a tight fit, with barely enough room for Ambrose's crutches. There was lots of ammunition. Unfortunately, it seemed to be everywhere amongst all the other items. As Hazel carefully made her way down the claustrophobic aisles, she pulled out each box she spotted to the front so that Ambrose could look at it without taking his hands from his crutches, since she wasn't sure what caliber he needed. . (edited)
18:03
There was a folded parchment beneath a tin of snuff tobacco. When Hazel pulled it out and unfolded it, she was a little disappointed to see that it was only an unprofessionally-sketched, not-to-scale map of the town itself, with certain buildings thrice the size of others. It seemed like a one-off that a resident had drawn and then sold to the shopkeeper, the cartographer's signature with a year of 1849 in the bottom right corner. At least there appeared to be a few farms, if the cross-eyed animals with phallus-like udders and spots scrawled alongside giant, speckled eggs were any indication. Hazel held out the parchment for Ambrose to look at, standing in front of him with the map facing them in the narrow aisle. She knew he could read over her shoulder because she was only slightly taller than average height for a woman. Is this useful enough to buy? Hazel wondered silently. Tiny dates and phrases were marked all over the map, illegible in the dim lighting. . (edited)
18:06
Harsh whispers were drifting to them from the two men at the counter, their voices growing louder again, as they had perhaps forgotten about the two browsing, even though the aisles were set up perpendicular, not parallel, to the counter. Phrases carried to them: "uncle's still laid up," "he stabbed my brother first," "shorted him with the last delivery." Hazel froze. She slowly turned to stare up at Ambrose as she automatically lowered the map, clutching it to her apron. Her right hand drifted to her holster, fingers on the revolver on the side that wasn't facing the arguing men. (edited)
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/23/2023 17:34
Ambrose followed in cautiously, glancing over at the two men but not speaking. With what he'd seen already, he was fairly certain that any interruption would get them pulled into the fight, whatever it may have been about. He squeezed between a couple of the aisles, extremely wary of the possibility of knocking something over. The phrase 'nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs' came to mind, but he tried to ignore himself by inspecting the various boxes of ammunition Hazel presented him with. "That one'll do for me," he said, once he saw a box of .44s. He kept his voice low, glancing nervously in the direction of the two men as though the slightest indication that someone else was there and talking might set them off. "Might want some ammunition for your revolver too, just in case." Then he spotted the map, such as it was. He leaned down to read, though the writing was small, faded, and less than ideal in terms of penmanship. That some of them were dates were obvious enough, but he could only catch glimpses of other bits of information. Something that looked like Thomas, a word that looked suspiciously like 'flayed' elsewhere on the map. It was enough that he found it safer for his own sanity to stop straining his eyes in an effort to read it. Dates, names, causes of death... like someone was either grieving or keeping score. Still, he could make out the general direction of things they might need, and the store they were currently in. It looked like the doctor's place was also marked, by what was barely recognizable as a failed attempt to draw the caduceus symbol, where the cartographer had simply given up, scribbled it out, and drawn a syringe instead. He straightened up and nodded to Hazel, a signal that the map might come in handy, if only for however long it took them to get out of the town. He hadn't seen any horses on the map, but maybe it didn't reflect the full variety of livestock on the farms. .
17:34
He straightened up to start toward the counter, but stopped and froze as he could finally make out snippets of the conversation. Some sort of feud between families, and something he preferred to stay out of. He stepped back, returning Hazel's gaze. Interrupting the conversation seemed like a bad idea. They could just leave, but if their presence hadn't been forgotten, of course there would be penalties for stealing. It was too risky with the blond man facing them. Ambrose mouthed the word 'wait' as a silent cue to do exactly that. His silence proved pointless. The brown-haired man said something Ambrose couldn't quite make out, voice low but tone threatening. Whatever response he was aiming for the result was explosive. The blond reached back, picking up a pickaxe from where it hung on the wall. "Say that again," he said, in the confrontational tone of someone who had understood perfectly and not liked what he'd heard. In an instant, the man with the brown beard had his revolver pointed at the man behind the counter. Ambrose's sense of common decency said to intervene and try to de-escalate the situation. Common sense said this was their cue to leave. "We need to get out," he whispered to Hazel. The moment he started toward the door, both men turned their attention to the pair of customers. One hoisted his pickaxe, while the other pointed his revolver at Ambrose and spoke. "You two got a problem?" he challenged, hands steady. "We're not looking for trouble," Ambrose said, but dropped one crutch in order to draw his pistol, because this seemed like a bad time to not have a weapon drawn, no matter now much his ankle protested. "And we're not looking for witnesses," the blond countered.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/24/2023 00:16
Hazel winced at the noise as her travel companion dropped his crutch and it went crashing against the shelves near the door, knocking over some cans that went bouncing and rolling. Ambrose was standing between the aisle and the door, still partially within the aisle, aiming his percussion pistol at the short, bony, brown-haired man, and Hazel was behind Ambrose, backing up slowly. "Wait!" Hazel called, trying to keep the adrenaline-fueled trembling in her body from affecting her voice. "We don't want to be witnesses, either! We just want to buy these and leave." The heavyset blond behind the counter craned his neck to try to get a look at her, since no one was aiming at him. It was an awful situation, Hazel thought, as cold sweat sprung up on her palms. The two men aiming firearms were not even ten feet away from each other in the small, crowded store, so if anyone fired, there was an almost certain chance that someone would be fatally wounded. The heavyset blond with the pickaxe looked too large to vault over his own counter, so he'd probably have to go around, making him less of a threat. The slim man with the revolver pointing at Ambrose scoffed at the interruption, jerking his sidearm briefly at Hazel. "Git, then," he snarled. "You womenfolk got no business meddlin' in our affairs." He issued a warning to Ambrose with a derisive sneer. "You best keep an eye on your old lady. We don't take kindly to uppity high yellows." It wasn't an insult that Hazel hadn't heard before, but she seethed as she continued to walk backwards down the aisle while keeping her eye on the man with the revolver. .
00:19
"Don't tell my customers to git," snapped the heavyset blond. "Let 'em pay. I gotta make a livin' since you folk are intent on ruinin' my uncle's business." "Shut it, kid," the short and bony man barked without looking at the blond, a muscle under his eye twitching. He continued to stare at Ambrose's pistol, addressing him next. "If you ain't got a problem, then git." Unbeknownst to the brown-haired man, but visible to Ambrose, the heavyset blond who still had a look of cold fury on his face was creeping around the counter with the pickaxe, trying to sneak within striking distance behind the man who had threatened him. He was outside Hazel's line of sight, and she kept her eyes on the man with the revolver. "We'll pay," she called, trying to keep the man aiming at Ambrose distracted. She shakily took the box of .44s from the shelf with the same hand that was holding the map. Once she had backed up to the end of the aisle and was out of sight, she let the items fall into her front apron pocket, and drew her Baby Dragoon from its holster, then made her way quickly towards the counter from between the last aisle and the back wall. . (edited)
00:21
"Drop your gun," Hazel yelled, intending to aim her revolver at the thin man aiming at Ambrose, as she quickly stuck her revolver and her head from behind the aisle. She was shaking with both fear and anger, and it was visible in the twitching of her sidearm. She didn't expect to see the blond man in front of the counter and in her way, and in her panic, she hadn't considered Ambrose potentially being in her own line of fire. She faltered, her sweat making her grip on the revolver slippery. But she didn't have a chance to do anything, for as soon as the skinny man wheeled around in exasperation, the blond raised his pickaxe, and used all of his weight to swing it down into the collarbone of the brown-haired man. Then the man and Hazel both screamed as shots cracked deafeningly in everyone's ears. (edited)
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/26/2023 18:04
Ambrose kept his firearm trained carefully on the brown-haired man, trigger finger twitching but not yet pulling as he spoke. The rising of his own annoyance was obvious to himself, in the desire to just squeeze that trigger and shut the man up. The realization that such thoughts were disproportionate lagged a bit behind, but the situation was too dangerous to reflect on just what was wrong with him. He noted Hazel's movement, and opted to keep the brown-haired man's attention on himself. "She's right, though. We just want to pay," he said. He made it a point not to look directly at the blond. A part of him wasn't bothered by the thought of him taking care of this guy for them. "Then we'll leave, unless you want to create a problem." Everything that followed happened at once. He was vaguely aware of Hazel holding her revolver, of the crack of a pickaxe breaking through bone. The screams and gunshots nearly drowned everything else out. From the deafening effects, it seemed he'd fired at least one of them, but didn't keep an eye out to see if it landed anywhere as adrenaline kicked in. Ambrose lowered his head, air pungent with gunpowder as a bullet blew past him, mercifully missing. He picked up a crutch, but didn't use it as he ran from between the aisles. The protests from his injury were almost entirely muted by the need to get out of there. Blood poured from the blond's cheek and arm. It didn't break his focus. He raised the pickaxe and swung down again. The second blow was heavier than the first, and the screams seemed endless. "We have to get out of here." Ambrose made his way over to Hazel as he pointed out the obvious, unsure whether he'd even been heard. Although he had ignored the pain, his injury still slowed his movements. Especially combined with the fact that he looked over his shoulder as he started toward the door. If one of them was following, the last thing he wanted was to get caught by surprise.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/26/2023 23:44
The bullets from Ambrose and the brown-haired man both tore through the blond's flesh on his cheek and arm and through the items on the shelves feet away from Hazel's head. On instinct, she fired in response at the brown haired man, fueled by panic and an inordinately strong sense of indignant irritation caused by the earlier sexual and racial slights against her. Her sprained arm couldn't absorb the recoil from her Colt model 1848, so her wrist and elbow twisted as the bullet narrowly blew past Ambrose and lodged into the wooden wall behind. She cried out as the sidearm nearly jumped out from her grasp. The heavyset blond was wheezing with effort and pain, the sound almost resembling satisfied mirth as he swung his pickaxe heavily again and again into the brown-haired man, while the latter, still screaming in agony, managed to unload another deafening bullet into the former's abdomen. Gaping, Hazel backed away up the aisle, switching her revolver to her left hand. When her upper back bumped into Ambrose, who had made his way over to her, she gasped loudly and spun around, aiming at him. But then she grabbed his hand with her clammy right one, and ran the way they'd come from, perhaps even hauling him towards the exit in her frantic rush to get out of the store. She only had the sense to let go and pick up Ambrose's other crutch because she tripped on it in the aisle. She shoved that under her left arm horizontally, and grabbed Ambrose's hand again. The crutch banged against the doorframe as she flew out of the shop. In the corner of her eye, before the door closed, she glimpsed the two men, covered with red and sagging against each other, both now wheezing and gurgling as the puddle grew larger on the floor beneath them. .
23:45
She did not stop running–potentially pulling Ambrose along by the hand, his ankle and her concussion having been forgotten–until she was sure that the dry goods store was out of sight. After she stopped in the shade of a lone tree by the side of the road, her sweat-soaked hand slipped from his, and she suddenly dropped both the crutch and her revolver, collapsing onto her folded legs, panting. Her head throbbed and she felt a little sick to her stomach. She was in disbelief that the argument had escalated in such a way. Even for a generations-old family feud, that altercation hadn't seemed normal, and neither had her sudden anger at being insulted; she should be used to that. Hands still slightly trembling, she inhaled and exhaled deeply to try to calm down, even though the warm, dusty air made her mouth even more dry. Then she took the box of .44s and the map out from her apron pocket. A part of her felt bad that she hadn't paid for the items. She reloaded one bullet into her Baby Dragoon and re-holstered it, then looked towards Ambrose, setting the ammo and the map between them. "Are you okay? Your ankle?" she asked, this time keeping the tremor out of her voice.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/27/2023 00:40
Ambrose followed behind to the best of his ability, not wanting to face the pain or humiliation of having to be dragged instead. They made it out of view of the dry goods store. His adrenaline dropped, and so did he, landing on his backside beneath the tree as he caught his breath. His injured leg was on fire now, the pain of regret hitting hard. He looked back to ensure they weren't being pursued, then lay down, propping his ankle up against a root that jutted up from the dirt. While on the ground, he checked his gun, then slid it back into its holster. "I'll live. Just give me a moment." His voice remained steady; he'd learned long ago that bad situations only got worse if he let his fear show too publicly. He put the box of ammunition into his pocket. He didn't mention his odd moment of anger. It was probably the fear of the moment, mixed with indignation at the other man's comments about Hazel. "Are you alright? Did you get hit by any of the bullets?" Fortunately, both crutches had made it out. He gathered them up, not wanting to stay out in the open for too long. They had places to be, namely out of there. He didn't fully sit up yet, but propped himself halfway up on his elbows so he could look over and not have her appear upside-down. At least they'd gotten what they needed. Sure they hadn't paid, but unless the blond survived, that was hardly relevant. And theft seemed a far lower crime than murder, if he had to choose between the two. Was there any concept of crime here? He'd seen a poorly-drawn star on the map that could have been a Sheriff's office, but wasn't sure he'd trust anyone there after what he'd seen treated as normal behaviour in this town. None of the farms had appeared to have horses, but he wouldn't dismiss the possibility. .
00:40
"Can we have another look at that map?" he suggested, then squinted up at the sky. "I'd like to try and see if we can read more of it, now that we've got full sunlight on our side." Oddly enough, the map didn't show any roads out of the town. The closest path that could have been one was the road they had taken in, but even that stopped abruptly at the first house they'd passed. Ambrose assumed it was just a matter of bad cartography, and a disinterest in mapping out the area outside of the town.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/27/2023 01:32
"I'm fine. Sorry for nearly shooting you," Hazel replied quietly, sending a quick and silent thanks up to the heavens that both of them were none the worse for wear. She glanced at Ambrose's ankle, wondering what she could do about it, if anything. Her ears had stopped ringing, so she was able to calm down more. She wiped her hands on her apron, then scooted close to her travel companion, sitting beside him and laying out the map on her partially-bent knees. "Maybe these go on," she said, using a finger to trace the roads that stopped abruptly, imagining them going off the map. "Here's that general store... The doctor's house, and the gallows... Here's the dry goods store. And it looks like we're near this farm; we could buy horses there." She peered at the small writing, and what she saw made her freeze, her eyes darting around. 'William J., scalped, 09/1848.' 'John Henry L., boiling tallow, 06/1846.' 'George B. Jr, shot, 01/1849.' Robert S., adze, 11/1847.' It went on. A chill ran down her spine, and she looked away from the map and at Ambrose's face to see his reaction. Why would someone record causes of death and their locations on a map? Hazel looked down at it again. At least there were no deaths between here and the closest farm–none recorded before two years ago, anyway. (edited)
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/28/2023 11:51
The absurdity of that sort of apology would have made Ambrose laugh, had he not still been shaken from the entire encounter. Instead, his expression remained serious as he leaned closer to Hazel to read the map. It was more legible now, but not for the better. It was as bad as he'd suspected, and he wondered again why this information would be mapped out. He frowned as he looked over the names, dates, and causes of death. The earliest seemed to be from 1845, but that didn't mean there were no deaths before then - only that that was when the cartographer began recording them. "Maybe it's a record of what to avoid in town?" he suggested, because the main alternative haunting him was that they were keeping track of their own kills. "The best way to find out would be to ask whoever made this map, but I'm not too keen on that idea, myself." He looked up at her, trying to lighten the mood. "All of the names seem to be men though, so maybe you're safe." Probably not. Not if this was only a portion of murders that occurred in the town, at least. The man in the gun from the dry goods store definitely hadn't talked like she was safe, nor had the general store's shopkeeper. Not wanting to dwell on the risks to either of them, he slowly pulled himself back up to his feet. The crutches were harder to use as leverage on the soft ground, but he managed, then looked ahead toward the direction of the nearest farm. It was already visible in the distance, a shadow but a visible one nonetheless. "No point sitting around either way. Let's keep on going." A distant sound reached them from the farm's direction, like a scream but not quite human. He'd heard it before, but it took him a moment to place it, and by then the sound had stopped. "Did you hear that?" he asked Hazel. "I... it sounded like it could've just been chickens. In a frenzy." Not too reassuring; those animals could be vicious when scared, and there was the question of just what had caused their panic.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/29/2023 07:46
"That'd be a lot of places to avoid," Hazel replied. "Maybe it's places that are safe to go–in case whoever killed there wanted to move on to kill somewhere new?" She winced at how insane that sounded spoken aloud. "Anyway, this seems too much to be the doing of one man... Right?" Actually, she was hoping that was the case and that the killer had died. Otherwise, they had the whole town to worry about, if they didn't already. Hazel gave Ambrose a strange look at his attempt at lightening the mood. Clearly, the women weren't safer than the men, based on the likely-now-dead, revolver-wielding, brown-haired man's comments. In fact, Hazel thought with trepidation, maybe the women had all been the first to die, before 1845, and the remaining women had stayed inside since then, which might explain why the two hadn't yet met a woman besides the doctor. Another crazy conjecture, she hoped. Maybe the explanation was as simple as the generally high men-to-women ratio in the West, or maybe the cartographer had simply not thought it important enough to mark any women on the map. All of this thinking was making Hazel's healing head hurt. She gingerly rubbed her right forearm that had been strained again from the recoil of her revolver. That didn't help, either, so she sighed. .
07:46
Hazel was left to tuck away the map and stand up as Ambrose slowly pulled himself up with the crutches. She would have tried to help him, but figured that his pride might be injured more for it, since he'd refused during the earthquake. In her opinion, this wasn't the time to mind such things. Her clothing was still bloodstained and torn, and no one had even cared to ask if they needed help. They were on their own in this town, and with the way things had been going, they had only each other to rely on. She wasn't sure Ambrose had realized that yet. Then again, she wouldn't rely on herself, either, with how poor of a shot she'd been in the previous situation. When she heard the scream, she turned towards it, and then looked up at Ambrose, standing closer to him. "A pig being butchered?" she guessed weakly, even though it didn't seem the right season for it. "Do you still want to go, or look for another farm?" She'd follow him either way.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 12/31/2023 01:10
Just about everywhere in Crimson Cross seemed like a place to avoid, no matter what the map said. "I don't know. None of the violence we've seen seems... Planned." He looked over the map once more anyway, as though trying to find patterns in the locations of the murders. It all seemed like random, senseless violence, but surely something had to be driving it. "I don't plan on staying long enough to find out, though. Let's still check the farm, but keep your hand near your revolver just in case." He kept close to her as he started down the road, toward the nearest farm. It had gone quiet, but soon he could see a short figure lumbering around, just outside of a large wooden barn surrounded by a fence. It was impossible to determine gender, from the thick layer of leather that appeared to be heavily padded underneath. Their face and head were covered by a brown leather hood, and a mesh of plain wire further concealed the face. They didn't appear to be armed, carrying only an empty bucket with a few stubborn pieces of grain and molasses sticking to the rim. The stranger stopped to watch Ambrose and Hazel approaching. They watched, then glanced back toward the small farmhouse slightly further back, before turning fully toward them. "What brings you strangers here?" The voice was somewhat high, melodious. Most likely a woman, then, though it was somewhat muffled through the strange armor. Ambrose glanced over at Hazel, but spoke up instead of waiting. "We're looking for a place in town to buy a horse," he explained. The woman's attention focused on him for a moment as though studying him, trying to see past some sort of ambiguity. He couldn't see her expression clearly enough to hint at what exactly was going through her mind. Maybe she was tense, maybe it was just the protective layers covering her. Another flurry of faint screams managed to escape from the barn, muted by the thick walls but clear enough to tell they weren't human. Ambrose could relax a bit. .
01:10
"Why'd anyone keep a horse in this town?" she asked, as though genuinely confused. But she didn't want for an answer. "We got animals for food, none for riding. Getting on a horse is good as suicide out here." Her gaze swept over Hazel, then focused on Ambrose again. "Besides, I thought your kind just stole horses, no worries 'bout buying em." At his usual, reasonable level of thinking, Ambrose would have been disappointed, but not surprised to hear it. Now he found himself wanting to reach for his pistol, hindered from doing so only by the crutches. She didn't wait for anyone to say anything, but turned toward the pile of wooden logs nearby, attention on an axe buried in a stump.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 12/31/2023 08:02
Hazel kept her hand near her revolver as Ambrose suggested, even though she really hoped that she wouldn't have to use it again, for more than one reason–the least important one being that she didn't want to wrench her strained right arm again. When she saw that the figure they approached didn't seem to be armed and sounded like a woman, Hazel let her hand fall away from her revolver so that she didn't look like she was coming to rob the farm, what with her bloody apron and skirts. Why was the woman dressed like that? What she carried looked like an empty pail of fermented chicken feed, but the sounds... Were they really breeding vultures here instead? It might make sense, given the amount of corpses they'd encountered so far... No, how could she even think about that? Humans feeding corpses to vultures? Really? Next she was going to guess that the humans here ate other humans. She must have hit her head too hard. Her indignation flared up on behalf of her travel companion when the woman on the farm suggested that Ambrose was a horse thief. Even though it hadn't been long since the travel companions had been stuck together–almost 24 hours, in fact–she didn't think he had that kind of character. Why would someone have hired him to take care of the wagon train's animals if they didn't trust him? The woman probably assumed Hazel was a slave or an indentured servant, too. Her brow furrowed in irritation. .
08:03
Was there not even a mule or a donkey in this town? Come to think of it, she'd seen no signs whatsoever of animals, not even dogs, except for the screams of whatever the woman had been feeding, and the blood on the doctor-slash-butcher's meat cleaver. She hadn't been looking at the sky to see whether there were birds. Regardless, it was inconceivable that the people in this town wouldn't keep animals for riding. How did they even get to this town, deliver their post to other towns, or visit their relatives back east? It was still early afternoon. If Hazel and Ambrose couldn't manage to find their way out of Crimson Cross and back up the cliff to the wagon train trail before nightfall, then they would soon need to find a place to stay and come up with a new plan. "We're new here, clearly. Please enlighten us. Why would it be suicidal to ride animals?" Hazel asked coldly, fingers stroking the holster of her Baby Dragoon.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/03/2024 01:53
Ambrose kept an eye on the oddly-dressed farmer. He kept his right elbow propped on the crutch instead of holding it properly, his hand creeping toward his own holster as he watched her pick up the axe. She held it up in both hands, and for a moment he was sure she would try to approach them with it. A part of him silently hoped, after that sleight. People had a way of growing far more insufferable the moment they pieced together some hint of his heritage, but if she attacked he'd have an excuse to draw his weapon- He quickly moved his hand back to the crutch, wondering why his mind had gone that far. The young woman swung the axe down, splitting one of the logs before saying anything. A harmless gesture then, grabbing that axe. Paranoia really was getting the better of him. His eyes flicked over toward Hazel to see her hand near her revolver as well. It seemed they were both on edge, but he wasn't about to tell the woman who was being rudely ignored to calm down. She had a right to be annoyed. "Were you traveling with animals?" the farmer asked instead of answering Hazel's question directly. She looked back at them over her shoulder, turning that surreal mask of wires toward them. Ambrose frowned. "We were, yes, but they didn't make it," he admitted. "Panicked for no reason and fell down the cliff into this gorge. We can't exactly ride them out of..." He trailed off as it dawned on him. "Do they all act like that around here? Is something making all of the animals panic?" She pushed the split logs aside with her boot before pulling down another log to split. "Smart," she commented. He would have objected to her patronizing tone, had she not continued to make it worse. "For a savage." His hand twitched, torn between wanting to silence her with a bullet and not wanting to risk her final thought being that she had a point. "Cut the snide commentary," he managed to say through gritted teeth. "How do we get out of here?" .
01:53
She swung the axe back down, splitting the next log and kicking the results aside with her foot. "This should do for the fire," she commented to herself, before answering. "You don't." Her voice was almost too chipper as she spoke. "You're welcome to try walking, but you'll just tire yourself out and end up on the other end of town. From what papa says, nobody's left Crimson Cross alive since its founding. Course he's still laid up from his last argument with Farmer James's wife. Apparently she's got quite the skill with a knife. So he's not good for much more'n telling stories right now." The axe returned to its stump and she leaned against it for a moment as though exhausted. "Since you're both here, mind making yourselves useful? The empty feed bucket has to go back in the shed, and this firewood has to come back to the house." She shrugged. "We've got no meat until the chicks and piglets get a little older, but we can repay you in eggs and a spare room for the night." Ambrose's immediate instinct was to refuse. She had a lot of nerve, acting the way she had and then requesting that they do her work for her. But now he found himself hyper-aware of his every reaction, questioning what it was that had his blood boiling like this. He looked over at Hazel instead, half to see what the best course of action was and half to check if she had her temper any more in check. Was it him, or this place?
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/03/2024 23:51
Hazel's lips were pressed tightly together, her teeth biting the insides to keep herself from shouting obscenities as soon as the farmer had called Ambrose a savage. Now she was confronted with the reality as to why Ambrose hadn't seemed so keen on taking up her offer to head back to Lexington, where the horse-racing business was booming. It must have been precisely due to people like this. These were exactly the sort of people who had intentionally 'mistaken' her for a slave until her father and brothers had found her and beat the men within an inch of their lives. It was exactly for situations like these that she'd diligently practiced shooting with her 1848 Colt pocket pistol, whose handle she now found her fingers curling around. A fat lot of good that had done when she'd been in a real situation less than an hour ago. It'd be better if she came prepared against these bigots and preemptively– She grabbed her own right forearm before she withdrew the revolver from the holster. What was she thinking? She abhorred unjust prejudices, but it wasn't right to kill someone for them–unless it was to get even, of course. . (edited)
23:52
Disturbed by her own thoughts, she barely processed the first half of the airhead's unhelpful monologue as she realized that the padded outfit might not have been for protection against panicking animals, but against trigger-happy people going nuts, like herself. She forced her arms to press against her sides, cheeks colored with both frustration and shame. She didn't believe the gossip that no one had ever left town. In her opinion, most people hadn't worked as hard as she had to keep their status in life, so those people who had tried to leave had either walked as slow as molasses in January, or were as dull as dishwater, or...had gotten themselves killed. At least the woman hadn't asked them to chop more wood. Hazel wasn't sure how she and Ambrose would have managed to not hurt themselves, wobbling on one leg or swinging the axe with one arm. She now realized how empty her stomach felt, too, after having eaten only a few strips of bacon since the wagon train accident. . (edited)
23:58
Sensing her travel companion's gaze on her, she glanced up and nodded subtly. They might as well stay for the night since it was too late to find another farm and head out today. They could try to pry more information out of the woman or from one of the other mentioned parties. "Of course," Hazel said politely to the woman, but she was unable to keep the coolness out of her voice. She walked forward to collect the firewood, since she figured the other task would be easier to accomplish on crutches. She couldn't help but feel an undercurrent of irritation combined with anxious fear as she stooped over, for such tasks were typically the responsibility of her family's slaves. A part of her wasn't sure if this was a trap to separate her from Ambrose and rob them, but she followed the woman back to the house anyway, keeping her arm near her revolver, ready to scream for help and use it if need be.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/04/2024 12:18
Her body language was enough to give Ambrose his answer: he wasn't the only one starting to lose it. Combined with the claim that there was no way out, it was... troubling. He could only hope this woman was messing with them. The last thing he wanted to do was stay with someone who couldn't seem to breathe without saying something shitty. But he needed to rest, to think of a backup plan, and Hazel had already agreed. He regarded the stranger with suspicion, but gave a stiff nod. "Sure." He couldn't help but think that normally the more challenging task should have been his job. But there wasn't much he could do about it at the current moment, so he settled for giving Hazel an apologetic look before threading his arm through the feed bucket's handle and picking it up that way. "Which way's the shed?" The woman pointed it out and he walked to the small wooden structure she'd indicated. Its rusty hinges squealed in protest as he opened the door, and he gritted his teeth at the noise. Shadows of various tools occupied the back, with a bag of feed closer to the front. Judging from the sweet smell of molasses, it was meant for horses, not for the chickens or pigs raised on the farm. Whoever had gotten it had been either clueless or unable to acquire anything more suitable. He set the bucket down next to it, and glanced toward the tools in the back. Most seemed old and in poor condition. A badly-dented shovel caught his eye. Just enough light reached to show red on its spade. At first, he assumed it was rust, but the colour was deeper than that. And rust didn't have strands of hair clinging to it. He all but slammed the door shut and scrambled backwards, nearly falling in the process. "Shit," he breathed. "Why did I leave Hazel alone with her?" .
12:18
Meanwhile, Dottie led Hazel to the farmhouse. Three steps up to the narrow porch, then she opened the door. "Papa, I brought guests!" she announced, almost singsong. A harmony that continued as she hummed to herself, stepping aside to let Hazel in as she set her gloves and odd helmet on the side table. Her chestnut hair had been tousled by the covering on her head, but fell back into place as she shook her head. Freckles dotted her pale skin, and she seemed to be around Hazel's age. Nobody answered her call, which seemed to be normal enough, as she simply shrugged. "Still asleep, I guess. He'll be out in a bit. Come on." She toed off her boots then led the way into the sitting room. A fireplace burned against one wall, and she pointed at the dwindling pile of wood beside it. The sound of hurried, uneven footsteps could be heard on the porch outside, but she ignored them. "Set it there," she said, pointing at the small firewood pile. The door exploded open and she jumped, looking toward the entryway. Ambrose stood there, his look of panic turning to one of relief as he saw Hazel. He caught his breath, since she seemed to be fine. That didn't mean he trusted them enough to want to stay, let alone to leave his travel companion alone with this woman. One would inevitably kill the other. He made his way over to Hazel's side, though she didn't seem to need any help at the moment. "Everything alright here?" he asked, looking over their host. She looked like she was unarmed, at least. She nodded. "Course. I was just showing your, uhhhhhhhh..." She trailed off as she tried to determine what their relationship was. The man didn't seem wealthy enough to own slaves or hire servants. Her hesitation didn't last long enough and wasn't quiet enough for Ambrose to fill in the blanks. "Wife? Yes, I was just showing your wife where to set everything."
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/04/2024 21:17
Hazel was heading over to the fireplace to deposit the split logs in her arms when Ambrose burst in with panic on his face. She gave him a worried, questioning look when she saw his expression, but she couldn't ask him what was wrong in the presence of their presumed host. She cleared her expression and went to stack the logs in the firewood pile, then brushed off her hands on her apron, standing next to the fireplace. She was glad that Ambrose had moved close beside her, and she nodded yes to his query that everything was alright...so far, and as much as it could be in this creepy town with their racist host, anyway. She wanted to give this farmer the benefit of the doubt and think that she was deciding between "friend," "cousin," or "wife," but she had a feeling that wasn't the case. Even with the dried bloodstains and rips, her dress was too high quality in handiwork, subtle details, and materials to be mistaken for something other than a proper lady's, and her boots were of fine, sturdy leather, even if they'd been scuffed on the journey. Her annoyance rose again until the woman hesitantly decided not to say "servant" or "slave." But then wasn't she implying that Ambrose didn't have the ability to own those? .
21:17
She again interrupted her own negative thoughts, managing to keep the frown off her face, resulting in a wooden, flat expression. "Yes," she lied, putting a hand on Ambrose's back at the level of his waist, and glancing up at him with a tiny smile, to try to seem like a convincing wife. She went with the false assumption because it'd be best to share a room and stick together. Then she waited for the woman to show them more around the house, or for the 'Papa' she'd called to come, or for supper, whatever came first. "What else can we help with?" She asked with a tone that she thought sounded gracious, hoping that she wouldn't be assigned to any outdoor work. She stood up straight with practiced poise and forced a small smile at the farmer, in part to reinforce the impression that she was a proper lady and not beneath anyone else in the room, but also to stay on their host's good side, given Ambrose's panicked expression when he'd rushed in. She really wanted to ask him what he'd seen. Her right forearm remained by her skirts where she could feel her sidearm behind it, and her left hand remained on her travel companion's back, unconsciously stroking it up and down with her fingers in the self-soothing movement that she normally performed on her holster.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/05/2024 01:55
Ambrose looked down at Hazel as he felt her hand on his back. So, fake marriage it was, then. He kept his hands to himself, since he still had to hold onto the crutches. Instead, he smiled back and let his gaze linger, as though affectionately. Better to go the route that involved the fewest follow-up questions, after all. If they were to be sharing a room, he'd rather not draw any more judgment than she was already giving them. Dottie looked up, considering for a moment. "Hm... we're about done with chores until I start cooking. I guess I could show you around the house?" She glanced over at Hazel. "Just don't take anything that isn't yours." Her expression brightened. "Oh, I'm Dottie by the way. Dottie Cullingworth." Worth culling alright, the... nope. Ambrose kept his expression pleasant and his thoughts to himself. "Ambrose Scott," he introduced himself. "Thank you for the offer of a tour, Miss Cullingworth. However, I am curious, so do tell... what exactly was it that prompted you to tell my wife not to steal?" There was no threat to his words, but his voice held a cold edge that gave Dottie pause, just enough of a challenge to decide she didn't want to answer honestly. "Oh, uh... just something I tell all guests. You can never be too careful in this town." She smiled awkwardly, then gestured around the room. "We're in the sitting room here." He looked around at the chairs in the room, furniture clearly intended for sitting. The room's identity was fairly obvious, in that regard. Dottie led the way through a doorway and into a tiled room, where a small iron stove could be seen through the entryway. The kitchen, an obvious fact that he was certain she would point out when they arrived. He followed anyway, nodding to Hazel as a gesture to indicate she could go ahead of him if she wanted. "The kitchen is here," she said, predictably. There was a small table with four chairs settled into one corner. "We eat our meals here, too."
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/05/2024 19:51
Hazel almost scoffed in a mixture of disbelief and exasperation when Dottie implied that she, like Ambrose, was a thief. Why would she have the need? Her Papa's heirloom Vacheron Constantin alone was probably worth more than all of the assets on this farm combined. Speaking of which, she mentally noted that she should sleep with her bag worn on her person again, in case anyone in this house or this town was a thief, with how frequently the farmer was mentioning it. At least Dottie didn't discriminate: she was equally racist towards everybody. That knowledge made her no less annoying, but it did decrease Hazel's urge to silence her in a disproportionately drastic way. As she and Ambrose were taken on a banal tour of the house, she continued to wonder whether Dottie was truly harmless, and whether the next room they walked into would be introduced by the statements, "And this is the murdering room here. We rob our guests here, too." .
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/05/2024 20:04
She had to take a risk to see how dangerous this farmer was, and create a chance to talk in private to her travel companion, since she was still concerned about his previous expression. Hazel shook her head lightly when Ambrose offered for her to go ahead of him. She smiled a bit and touched the small of his back again, pretending to gesture for him to go ahead, but when her hand moved away and their host wasn't looking, Hazel patted it against the back of his holster to try to give a warning. Then she feigned dizziness, and stumbled back from the doorway between the sitting room and kitchen. "Oh, dear!" She swept her left arm out and grabbed to pretend that she was trying to catch hold of something, intentionally making a piece of furniture bang and scratch against the wall before she fell to the floor, right hand on her revolver beneath her skirts as she propped herself up on her right elbow. She remained half-sitting there with her left hand to her forehead, squinting up at the two people as though they were blurry, blurting out an excuse that she'd heard ladies around her mother's age say. The tremor in her voice was not entirely fake as she recalled how easily ticked off the men in the shops had been. "Oh, dear. I'm terribly sorry about your chair; we can pay for it. It must be the heat outside. Would you mind if I laid down somewhere dark and used my smelling salts?"
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/06/2024 16:58
Ambrose felt the intended warning, but it was so ambiguous there was no way he could have interpreted it in time not to be a bit concerned when Hazel, known concussion-haver, pretended to faint. "Hazel!" He turned and tried to catch her, but she'd already landed on the floor, one of the dining chairs knocked onto its back. Dottie turned toward them, her mouth twisted into a grimace of annoyance. How dare she disturb the perfectly clean floor like that? And interrupting her very important house tour in the process! She took the poker from its place beside the wood stove, but Ambrose stepped between them. Every instinct in Ambrose told him to shoot her before she could do anything. Instead, he stood there. "Please. My wife is not feeling well. We can take care of the chair later, but first she needs to rest." Dottie narrowed her eyes suspiciously, her grip on the poker tightening. "Are you two even really married? I don't see a ring, and if she's not a thief, she had to get her wealth from somewhere. And it definitely wasn't from you." And here he'd hoped she was as dumb as she acted. "No, it wasn't," he admitted. "That's why we had to elope; I'm just some stablehand. A man of her father's wealth and status never would have approved." "That's..." Dottie trailed off, considering his excuse for a moment. She raised the firepoker, then placed it back where she'd found it, her eyes watering. "...So romantic!" she all but squealed. He relaxed a bit, though he was left to wonder how much of her airheadedness was genuine and how much was an act to get their guards down. He shuddered at the memory of that shovel. He was sure he hadn't imagined it. As Dottie moved to help Hazel up, he kept a close eye on her. She didn't seem armed, but likely knew how to use tools as weapons if needed. There had been intent behind her picking up the poker, that much was certain. .
16:58
"Come on, we have a spare room you two can use." She shot Hazel an annoyed look as she walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway. "I'll go tell Papa we have guests, then fetch you when dinner is ready." She opened the door to the room. "Oh, but I'd love to hear your full love story when you're feeling better," she gushed. "It's like something out of a romance novel!" The room was small and modestly decorated in earthen tones. The bed was definitely intended for one person, and there was a lack of other comfortable furniture. If not for the porch corpse, Ambrose would have missed the doctor's house. He stayed close to Hazel as he addressed Dottie. "Thank you for your hospitality, Miss," he said. "I'll make sure she's alright from here." The door shut, leaving the two of them mercifully alone. He walked over to sit on the bed and lowered his voice. "We'll have to tread lightly." He didn't even like the idea of staying here for the night, but where else could they go?
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/07/2024 02:43
She'd been expecting such a response after experiencing what had happened in the dry goods store and after hearing Ambrose's account of the general store's shopkeeper. A normal response would have been to immediately help a guest who was unwell, without anger or accusation. There was something wrong with every single resident in this town, and it might be rubbing off on them, too. It didn't seem real, but neither did her own suddenly rising irritation at Dottie's violation of basic common courtesy. How dare she grab the poker instead of showing concern? At least she hadn't drawn a firearm. Hazel rubbed at her mild headache as her other fingers tightened on her revolver. Then she relaxed as she mentally commended Ambrose's quick thinking when he told their host that they'd eloped. As Dottie helped her to stand, Hazel murmured, "Thanks, Miss Cullingworth." She walked slowly to keep up her fainting act. Their host seemed as crazy as popcorn on a hot stove, the way she switched so quickly from annoyed to cheerful and gushing. Hazel could only hope that her father wasn't the same. "Yes, I look forward to chatting at supper, too," Hazel agreed with a tired smile. A romance novel... So Dottie knew how to read advanced texts beyond a functional level, despite being a farmer in a country with a 25% illiteracy rate. She was smarter than she had let on, and they had to make sure their excuses were airtight. .
02:43
Since Hazel was indeed still recovering from a real concussion, she was relieved to be able to lie down to rest her head, even if the bed was small. She propped herself up slightly on the pillow and sipped water from her flask, surveying the room from her position. There was a window, but it was closed, and the curtains were drawn nearly all the way, so she couldn't tell what it faced. "I agree," she whispered to Ambrose at the comment that they should tread lightly, aware of how their voices might carry in such an eerily quiet space. "What did you see when you took the pail to the shed? Were there really chickens and pigs?" Or hidden horses, vultures, or humans? She didn't want to stay in this house and risk being poisoned at supper or robbed in her sleep, but they were essentially stranded, so she didn't know what else to do. It was frustrating, to say the least. Their first full day here was almost over, yet she felt no closer to her goal of notifying her family about the wagon train accident. If she weren't so worn out from the concussion, and if she were alone in her own bedroom, she could have screamed in frustration into a pillow and childishly kicked her legs to blow off steam. .
02:45
"Let's ask plenty of questions to keep the attention off of us during supper." Folks usually liked talking about themselves. "We could ask about the town, how they ended up living here," she whispered. "I'll ask about Dottie's love life." "We should practice, though," she added, somewhat shyly holding out her hand for Ambrose to take, not wanting to admit that it might help ground her, as she might be losing her mind. "Where should we say we met, and how did you propose?" Maybe they should make up a fake town in case their hosts were well-traveled, or maybe they should have met on the journey, left the wagon train, eloped in a small town, and then gotten lost... In any case, they should make the story dramatic enough to be worthy of being the plot of a romance novel, Hazel decided.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/07/2024 22:28
Ambrose let Hazel have most of the bed, since there wasn't space for two people to lie down without being stuck right up against each other. "I didn't check the barn itself, just the tool shed," he admitted. "No humans, definitely no horses, but I didn't want to stick around and try to figure out what species the blood and hair on their shovel belonged to. Not exactly a standard way to slaughter a pig, in my experience." He considered ways to distract from any questions about them. Dottie had mentioned that her father told a lot of stories, so they could use that to their advantage, and possibly learn more about the town in the process. There had to be some bit of information that would let them get out of town. Or at least figure out how to not get killed. But first, they had to get their own story straight. He took Hazel's hand in his as he considered, giving it a gentle squeeze intended to reassure himself as much as her. At least he wasn't dealing with it alone. "We should keep in mind what might be disprovable," he said. "I still want to keep the story of the wagon train crash as close to the truth as possible. Even if it's true that nobody in the town can leave, it's possible some other new arrival might pass through the crash site, so if we say we made it here alone, there'd be reason to doubt." He looked down at their joined hands, trying to remember what he'd told people already. "We met in Lexington," he said, remembering where she'd addressed her letter to. "I was working for your family as a farmhand." The sort of work he was used to, and one that might make him too useful to kill. Or to make a widower; he didn't only have his own safety to worry about anymore. "I didn't expect I'd be distracted all the time, but your beauty guaranteed I would be..." .
22:28
He trailed off, trying to decide where to lead with the story. "I know she compared it to a romance novel, but I've never read one, so I'm not sure what counts as a story worth that comparison. But something had to move our relationship beyond just a worker and his employer's daughter... I guess the question to ask next is, why did you approach me? Realistically, I'd know better than to be the first to cross that line." It was a good question to delay thinking of how he would have proposed. It had to be a good story, something memorable that got the same reaction as the claim that they had eloped. Sentimental, something with personal meaning... except he didn't know much about her life before, and neither did Dottie, so that didn't help much. He'd never even been to Lexington. Better to keep his half vague and let her fill in the details. "We had a spot where we'd meet up, away from your family's eyes. Nighttime, so we could both sneak out unnoticed. Somewhere quiet, where we could enjoy each other's company. Still as close to a proper courtship as the situation allowed - I don't want to ruin your reputation, especially in a town of murderers - but alone. Unknown to you, I was saving up for an engagement ring, but then your dad found our meeting place. I was worried we'd never get to see each other again, so in the spur of the moment, I proposed without it and asked you to run away with me. We made it to a small town, where we eloped, then joined a wagon train headed west."
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/08/2024 01:33
Hazel frowned as Ambrose described the shovel. It wasn't polite to snoop, but she might have been curious enough to if they didn't need to tread lightly here. Were there corpses being kept on this property, too? She didn't voice her paranoid, morbid thoughts, however. She also chose not to tell Ambrose about the sudden urges she'd had to silence Dottie, not wanting him to think of her as having sustained enough brain damage from the concussion to alter her executive functioning and become a violent person. But what if that had really happened? Should she bring it up? No, there wasn't anything she could do about it now. But it did make her afraid of what might happen if she and Ambrose got into an argument. The light squeeze from his hand was a comfort, and she sighed with relief and squeezed back, gazing at him with appreciation. She wasn't sure how she could have made it this far without him. He'd essentially saved her life in the general store just after their arrival. She could use an element of that in their fake romance plot. .
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/08/2024 02:14
Hazel chortled at the beginning of Ambrose's plotting, then turned onto her side to smile at him, shifting so that her holster wasn't digging into her hip. She was still holding onto his hand and speaking in a quiet voice, though her tone was amused. "Let's change 'beauty' to 'family-oriented'. I don't think our host thinks anyone who's only 3/4ths White could be beautiful, and let's not say 'brains' either, or I won't be able to do the fainting feint again." Her smile cleared as she thought about his question of how their romance started. "I approached you to thank you. You rescued me from a group of drunks who held a grudge that my Papa–Otto Schmidt–didn't approve their loan to start a new mining company. They kidnapped me, for ransom, and played house with a 'new slave.' You were the first to notice that I was gone, you told my family, and you were the first to find me. You cut the ropes. Here, see." Without removing her right hand from Ambrose's, Hazel pulled up the ruffled, bloodstained sleeve at her wrist to show him barely visible, faded scars from two years ago. Being rooted in reality, the story would be easy to remember. . (edited)
02:14
Hazel pulled her sleeve back down and took a deep breath, putting herself back in the present. "Anyway, classic tale of knight and princess, except that I was to be wed to the son of another banker across town. Let's call him...uh, Anton. Oh, and my siblings are Jennie, Carl, and William, in that order. We're all two years apart, so just count down from my age of 24 if it comes up. When you rescued me, I was struck by your protectiveness, kindness, moral righteousness, and...dark and handsome looks." She broke eye contact as she spoke the last sentence, and her voice got quieter until she was nearly mumbling the last part into the pillow, her grip on her travel companion's hand tightening in mild embarrassment, as this, too, was an admittance of the truth rooted in reality. She looked up again as Ambrose described the proposal scenario, impressed again by his quick thinking. "That sounds good. You're a smart boy, huh? Let's make the meeting spot romantic. How about in the branches of the big oak tree under which my grandmother was buried, in the middle of the vineyard, because we knew she'd approve of you even though you'd only been working with my family for a month? That'd explain why we don't know much about each other. My Papa found me sneaking out at night because I hadn't been returning Anton's letters and his father wrote Papa. After that, we can ask Dottie where we can buy a ring in this town." All the plotting made Hazel's recovering brain tired, so she sighed and closed her eyes briefly, unconsciously tugging Ambrose's hand a little closer to herself for comfort as she held it. She was sure there were details they'd missed going over or would have to make up, but she knew she could trust him, like her real family who she missed dearly. (edited)
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/09/2024 00:24
"Right, of course. She may not be as clueless as she acts, but she still wouldn't be happy to hear the truth." The words slipped from Ambrose before he had time to think them through, and the implication that referring to her as beautiful or intelligent would have been the truth. But no matter how much of his survival had hedged around telling others what they wanted to hear, Ambrose had never much liked dishonesty, so he didn't bother to take back the indirect compliment. Blood aside, he couldn't deny she was lovely. He looked back at her as she explained their fake meeting, and the rescue. His gaze shifted to her wrists as she showed off the old scars the ropes had left. The anger rose up once more, not at her, but at whoever saw fit to treat another person like that. Probably better to leave one detail out of the story: that if it had happened, her kidnappers wouldn't have made it out of there alive. Catching his thoughts going down another violent road, he blinked and looked away, wondering where that had come from. Righteous anger was reasonable, he supposed, but he'd never been one to daydream about killing people. He fought to listen to her talk about her siblings, recognizing it as information he should know in order to keep their story straight. He looked back over at her, smiling slightly as she described him as handsome. Just from the perspective of their fake relationship, of course, but it was still nice to hear. His thumb brushed reassuringly over her knuckles. "'Smart boy'?" he echoed, amused. "That sounds like how I'd speak to one of the sheep dogs at my last job. But yes, that sounds good. The pressure of an upcoming marriage to someone else makes it sound like we had even more reason to elope, too." .
00:24
A part of him wanted to question if that part, too, had been rooted in truth. She hadn't brought up a fiancee previously, so maybe not. He tried not to think too hard about the mild relief he felt at the thought that Anton wasn't real. Instead, he simply let his hand be pulled in as she closed her eyes, apparently to get some rest for the evening. There was no way he could have relaxed enough to rest if he tried, though, and it was possible they could be better off if one kept watch. "A ring's a good idea," he agreed. "Fewer questions to answer if we have to deal with other people." They would be better off keeping their story as consistent as possible. Which meant that, as long as they were trapped in Crimson Cross, they were husband and wife. Allegedly. Only in public. A knock on the door disrupted his thoughts. Had it been that long? "Dinner's ready, you two," came Dottie's voice from the other side. At least she'd knocked instead of walking in. "One moment," he responded, then tapped Hazel's shoulder with his free hand. "You awake?" he asked softly. "Time to find out whether Dottie and her old man are gonna poison us or just butcher us for their next meal." It would have been funny, had the two not been equally likely possibilities.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/09/2024 06:58
Hazel was pleased upon hearing Ambrose's indirect compliment, and she smiled a bit more, because she hadn't felt very pretty ever since the wagon train accident had ruined her clothes. She was used to sincere compliments from her family, and insincere flattery from suitors shamelessly trying to inherit part of her family's wealth, but she believed that Ambrose genuinely meant what he said. She blushed and buried her face into the pillow, unconsciously gripping his hand tighter in embarrassment when he pointed out that her compliment about him being smart wasn't quite appropriate for a grown man. "Sorry!" she exclaimed into the pillow, muffled. "I got used to saying that to my younger brothers and Samuel when I tutored them. I just meant that you're clever, that's all... Sheep dogs are cute, though," she muttered. Kind of like you. Wait, what was she thinking? .
06:59
When their host summoned them, the sun was hanging low in the sky, and rays of orange and red were just beginning to filter through the curtained window. Hazel opened her eyes and nodded to Ambrose, finally letting go of his hand. She gave him an amused grimace for the cynical joke as she sat up, because she'd also had those exact thoughts. At least she felt refreshed, ready to socialize graciously and tell tall tales after lying down for a couple of hours. "Thanks, Miss, we'll be right out," called Hazel towards the door. She wondered whether it would appear too paranoid to take all of her belongings with her to supper. If they somehow needed to run away, she'd want her bag. After a moment of deliberation, she left the bonnet on a bedpost but kept her bag worn, since it was light and barely had anything in it besides essentials. She couldn't lose the heirloom watch or the letters with the bank note. She shifted her apron so that it covered her holster and revolver. Then she went to the door to hold it open for Ambrose's crutches, ready to place her hand on his back again like a doting wife as they walked to the kitchen. She pressed her lips together nervously as she turned to close the bedroom door, hoping that they could pull this off.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/09/2024 15:29
Ambrose's inability to walk normally without pain was starting to grate on him, he had to admit. But since he had nobody to blame for it, his annoyance at his near-helplessness mercifully remained an internal irritant, rather than a source of murderous rage. He'd have to deal with it. He stood up and made his way over to where Hazel was opening the door for him, pausing to offer an appreciative smile that he hoped also came across as affectionate. Dottie led them through the hallway and into the kitchen. The table had been set for four. A loaf of sourdough bread was in the middle, alongside a pot of some sort of soup in it, with greens, chunks of potato, and a few poached eggs floating inside of it. A gaunt, elderly white man sat at the table, and it was apparent what Dottie had meant when she referred to him recovering from his injuries. Stripes of cotton bandage poked high up on his neck from beneath his shirt collar. The palm of one hand was heavily bandaged, and his stiff posture indicated more bandaged wounds out of view. A scar ran down the left side of his face, rendering that eye white and unseeing. Despite this, he smiled at the guests. "How kind of you to join us. Help yourselves," he said, already reaching for the ladle to scoop some of the soup into his own bowl. Ambrose relaxed slightly, noting that they were all sharing from the same batch. Less opportunity to poison it, he assumed. "Thank you, Sir," he said, holding a chair out first for Hazel. Even impeded as he was, he was determined to make sure she was comfortably seated before him. All the better to play the part of the loving husband. "My wife and I are both very grateful for your hospitality." Dottie set to work slicing the bread. "Yes, well, I did say we'd repay you for your help." .
15:29
The elderly man - presumably her father - nodded. "On the ranch back home, we had all sorts of help. When we moved out here, half of em died when the horses stampeded, and the rest turned against us a few years after Dottie was born." Ambrose wasn't sure that timing was worth mentioning like that, but he didn't comment. "My wife died in that slave revolt. So now we've gotta take care of what's left all by ourselves." He prepared a bowl of soup for himself, unsure how to feign sympathy. From what he'd seen, slave revolts tended to be pretty well-deserved, but he had to bear in mind what his hosts wanted to hear. He settled on a simple "sorry to hear that", managing to resist the urge to say anything cynical.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/09/2024 22:22
Hazel returned Dottie's father's smile, feeling a twinge of sympathy for his condition. She wondered how he'd survived a knife fight at his age. Judging from the extent of the bandages all over Mr. Cullingworth's body, Farmer James's wife must have been mean enough to eat off the same plate as a snake. She quickly cast aside the frightening thought, and turned her smile to Ambrose, mouthing a quiet "thank you" in appreciation as he pulled out the chair and pushed it in for her despite his sprained ankle. Even though their older host had a genial manner, Hazel still glanced down at her spoon and bowl subtly as she sat, checking for hints of powder or liquid while the others spoke. She waited for everyone else to serve themselves first, finding it a little awkward that the father might have implied that Dottie had been a troublesome child, or a terror. "I'm very sorry about your wife, sir," Hazel said genuinely, choosing not to comment on the slaves. She could imagine how they'd been treated, given Dottie's earlier comments, and she could also imagine them flying into a rage if her own urge to silence Dottie had risen just from a few comments that she should be used to. Given Dottie's childhood trauma, Hazel could now almost understand her aggression, especially if she hadn't had positive interactions with non-White folks to help remove their association with murder and home robbery. But that topic was neither here nor there. .
22:24
"My husband and I will help as much as we can while we're here," she added sincerely. She'd make an effort, even though she didn't trust Dottie, and it was too soon to make a judgment about the father, besides the fact that he'd angered a woman enough for her to give him what looked like near-lethal injuries. In the back of Hazel's mind, a part of her was anxious that they'd somehow end up taking advantage of her if she offered to help too much, but she was armed, and so was Ambrose. She ladled some soup for herself and took a slice of the sourdough. "These smell wonderful," she complimented Dottie. "I'll help clean up afterwards, alright?" And risk the other woman's ire by doing something wrong or not to her standards–but still, it was better to show her manners and offer. Then she turned to the elderly man again, hoping to steer the mood towards romantic nostalgia while gathering information about the town. "Why did you and your wife decide to move out here? Miss Cullingworth was telling us, too, that it wasn't safe to ride horses here. How did you and your wife send your letters back east?"
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/10/2024 17:18
Ambrose sat still, waiting for Dottie and her father to start eating first. To his relief, they did, and they didn't immediately keel over. There was nothing unusual about the soup in front of him, at least as far as he could see. He nodded in agreement with Hazel's offer, to be polite. It wasn't as though he could help too much, but he'd at least offer to make an effort. And be careful to watch his back the entire time. Dottie nodded at the offer too, as though she had expected nothing less. Her father gave her a warning look, and she spoke. "Thank you for the assistance, then," she added, now that she had been silently reminded of manners. She didn't quite see the point in returning courtesy when they were already offering a place to stay and a meal, but she and her father both knew that being polite was a good step toward not being murdered in this town. The old man's eyes sparked as he was practically asked to talk about the past, clearly a preferred topic of his. "Ah, that feels like a lifetime ago. We started out in Arkansas. The pastor in our hometown, Father Bishop, set to putting together a train of educated, respectable folks to settle in the unorganized territories here, to bring civilization out west." Ambrose managed not to scoff at the description, but a look of annoyance flashed through his eyes. Mr. Cullingworth continued, apparently not noticing. "We were promised plenty of land to grow our business on, away from the regulation of the states. Course, the lands out west were flooded with..." He trailed off, glanced at Ambrose, and chose his next words carefully. "...Natives, but we found this gorge that they seemed to avoid. So we set out there." Dottie appeared concerned, though she'd heard this story many times before. "Maybe the fact that they avoided it should have been a warning," she admitted, then looked at Ambrose. "Is there any reason they'd avoid a certain area of land?" .
17:18
Ambrose could only shrug. "The people out here? I can't say for sure," he admitted. "I'm Lenape, so I wouldn't know." He caught the blank stares Dottie and her father gave him, then clarified. "I'm from out east. We didn't speak the same language or tell the same stories as the nations out here would. Sorry to say, I can't offer any insight on the matter. Maybe they thought it was dangerous." "It was," Mr. Cullingworth admitted. "When we entered the gorge, the animals all panicked. There was that stampede I mentioned, but that was the least of it. I remember Mr. Thomas's hunting dogs were the first animals to panic. Attacked his young daughter and everything - she was lucky to survive, but we had to put all the dogs down after. Heard she still got a nasty bite scar on her arm and everything." He realized he was on a tangent and steered himself back on track. "Anyway, we set up a town not far from where the stampede happened, since we weren't getting much further on foot. That was twenty-five years ago. As for sending letters back east, we haven't." The old man paused to take a large bite of sourdough, chewing and swallowing before he continued. "We tried to make it to the closest town on foot, but never could get out of the town. Strange thing, that."
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/10/2024 21:00
Hazel, too, started on her food once their hosts began to eat. She appreciated having hot soup again, even if it was a bit bland and too egg-flavored for her taste. She listened carefully, nodding along as she spooned and ate the soup neatly and slowly, despite being hungry. She kept the wince off her face as Mr. Cullingworth sidetracked to a story about beloved animals suddenly turning on their families and owners. If her stately aunt had been at the table, she'd have frowned and sternly cleared her throat to get the men and boys to switch to less violent topics, reminding them about the more delicate sensibilities of the women. This conversation didn't have the tone of romantic nostalgia that Hazel had intended, but at least they were learning new information and keeping the attention off her and Ambrose. "How terrible for your God-fearing group," she murmured, half-genuine. She'd caught the flash of annoyance on Ambrose's face and didn't like their hosts' attitudes any more than him, but at least the father seemed more civil than his daughter. She assumed that no one had ever found out why the animals would panic, so she didn't ask about that, and tried to suspend her disbelief for the next few questions, wanting to come across as open-minded and amicable. "It's fascinating to hear about the origins of this town, Mr. Cullingworth. So, what happened when you tried to travel to the closest town? And did anyone ever try to make a map of the town and the surroundings to figure out why you couldn't leave?" She tore a small piece off of her slice of sourdough and ate it with a sip of the soup.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/10/2024 23:10
"We found ourselves right on the opposite side of town," Mr. Cullingworth explained. "You could walk straight in one direction forever and never leave this town, like you're walking round in circles. There've been a few maps of the town, but nobody's been able to get out to map the area around it. Furthest east we've managed is the boulder where we put the town limit sign, furthest west is the..." He trailed off and frowned, as though just now realizing there were two ladies in his presence. "Well, you don't want to hear what's on the west limits of town. Not really something we talk about at the dinner table. North and south are closed in by cliffs on either side, but nobody's been able to climb them, even with all the right equipment." He shook his head sadly. "Lots of falls from those cliffs." Ambrose listened intently, but it didn't make any geographical sense. Unscalable cliffs were reasonable enough, but the rest of the town being a spatial loop brought up more questions than answers. Was he messing with them right now? Trying to scare them, or lend them a sense of hopelessness? If that was the case, the question remained of why they would choose to stay here, when the residents they'd met were almost universally hostile. It wasn't the usual racism of outside the town, judging from the fight they'd witnessed at the dry goods store. This was something else, something that he worried may have been affecting him as well. .
23:10
"That's terrible to hear," he commented, making a note to catch Mr. Cullingworth alone later and ask about what was out west. "Do you have any good maps of the town?" After all, the one they had gotten from the dry goods store was poorly-drawn, and the text disturbing enough that he didn't really like thinking about it. "My wife and I were actually wondering if there was a jeweler anywhere around town." He smiled over at Hazel, trying for all of the affection he could muster. He found it wasn't that hard to do. "I want to finally get her the ring she deserves."
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/11/2024 06:30
Hazel tried to shift her expression of disbelief to one of surprise and interest, raising her eyebrows as their host told them about ending up on the other side of the town if one walked straight in one direction. That made no logical sense, yet the man seemed to be speaking honestly. She glanced over to Dottie as she continued to eat her supper, checking the young farmer's reaction for a sign that Mr. Cullingworth might be telling tall tales. Further west could be anything: brothels, saloons, gambling joints, a place where they kept criminals, or where people who were unwelcome had been driven off to. Hazel could list an array of unsavory choices, but she was curious, even though it sounded like the elderly man was discouraging travel there. What if something there allowed them to get out of the town? She reacted appropriately to Ambrose, pretending to be surprised and delighted as she turned her bright eyes towards him. "Oh, darling, you were still thinking about buying that ring for me this whole time even after we got stranded down here in this gorge? I told you already: just being beside you is enough for me, but if you insist..." She reached out and covered his hand with hers on the edge of the kitchen table, returning his affectionate smile with a genuine one of appreciation for his great acting. .
06:30
She'd had plenty of practice being charming or persuasive in both her training as a proper lady and in business dealings, but there hadn't been a risk of being murdered for lies or flattery. She unconsciously squeezed Ambrose's hand for reassurance as she addressed Mr. Cullingworth and Dottie, turning her smile to a sadder one and letting it fade tragically. "We had to elope, you see. My father didn't approve of Ambrose. Ever since we ran away to get married in a small town, and then joined a wagon train headed west, I've only sent one letter back to my family to explain. I miss them, and still want them to accept my husband." Hazel sighed, letting the grief that was real make her doleful expression all the more convincing. "That's why we were curious about the post. But if we're to stay here in this Godly community, then having a map would be very helpful."
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/12/2024 00:39
Ambrose let her give his hand a squeeze, offering a slight nod intended to reassure. He was used to harsh punishments for lying. It was exactly what taught a child to grow skilled at deception, regardless of their feelings on the matter. He just hadn't realized it would prepare him for an even more serious life-or-death situation later on. "We'll find a way to get word to them of where we are," he promised softly. The promise wasn't empty, even if he remained aware that it might prove impossible to keep. "I can see what I can find in storage after supper," Mr. Cullingworth promised. "They may be out of date, though. This town's always changing." Anything to scale would be an improvement over what they had, at least. "Even so, we'll appreciate it. Thank you." Dottie thought about their other question. "There's a jeweler not too far from here. Most of it's stolen, mind you - not an assumption, he is very open about his background - but I can assure you that the prior owners won't be missing their goods. He sells some lovely things, you really should check him out." She sighed wistfully and looked at Hazel. "You're so lucky. There aren't any eligible young men in Crimson Cross." Ambrose... had no clue how to respond to that. It was technically helpful information, but horrifying the moment he gave it a second thought. Wouldn't miss them... had the jewelry been stolen from corpses? More importantly, had the jeweler killed his 'suppliers', or simply found them and seized the opportunity? Either way, it hardly seemed an appropriate source for an engagement ring. Hazel deserved better than some grave goods robbed from a corpse, even if it was for an act. And even if just a day prior, he'd been considering whether he should have looted the dead from the wagon train. He tried to think of a way to politely decline without incurring their host's wrath. .
00:39
"I'm sure there's always hope," he told Dottie, taking a different conversation instead to seem encouraging. Though it wasn't surprising to hear about a lack of good men in a murder town. "Thank you kindly for the recommendation, but I think it's best to consider all of my options. It's no small choice to make, after all. Are there any artisans in town that might have something, too?" Mr. Cullingworth shook his head. "There was, but he had the nerve to overcharge the Sheriff, of all people, and well... we don't have a jewelry-maker in town anymore, I can tell you that." Thanks, I hate it here. Ambrose kept his thoughts to himself and nodded in false understanding.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/12/2024 01:41
While Hazel listened to the conversation, she kept an eye on Mr. Cullingworth and Dottie's soup bowls and bread, making sure that she ate at the same pace as them, as she'd been taught, so that she could finish her meal at the same time without annoying her hosts by looking like a glutton or a slowpoke. Hazel kept her expression neutral and vaguely pleasant as Dottie recommended the jeweler with stolen goods, though she was repulsed by the idea of someone stealing things to resell and being open about it. That practice didn't seem ethical or fair to whoever the jewelry had been stolen from, and she immediately ruled out the shop in her mind as a potential place to visit for a ring. What if the merchandise had come from corpses? But what if the jeweler knew a way out of town and regularly scavenged from the dead travelers who fell into the ravine near the town? Had anyone ever successfully taken that wagon train path past the town? She gave Dottie a sympathetic look and nodded in agreement when Ambrose told her that there was always hope, quietly adding with a small smile, "Thanks. I am lucky. And I'm sure you'll meet someone who's destined for you." She did try to mean it sincerely, even if she didn't trust the other woman. She didn't believe in fate for herself, and thought that meeting Ambrose had been chance rather than destiny, but they'd gotten along surprisingly well so far, fortunately, given the circumstances. .
01:42
The gaunt, elderly man's comment about the Sheriff and the jewelry-maker was unnerving. "Well, that's unfortunate," she murmured sympathetically. All this talk of death at the dinner table–would it be like this everywhere? And what use was a Sheriff, anyway, in a town where murder seemed so frequent? Hazel remembered the wooden sign with the population counter that they'd passed when they'd first spotted the town. "When your group founded the town, sir," Hazel said to Mr. Cullingworth, steering the topic to the past again, "How many people were there? And why did you name it Crimson Cross? Because of the name, the first thing my husband and I looked for here was a church." Recalling that, she suddenly felt self-conscious acting like a polite guest at supper while wearing her bloodstained dress and traveling apron, feeling somewhat like a fraud. She really had to bathe and try to get the stains out of her clothes sometime soon, and she wouldn't want to impose on this family. Maybe she and Ambrose could find a boardinghouse or hotel to stay at once they had a map, so that they'd have someplace stable to return to while figuring out how to return to Lawrence.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/12/2024 14:15
Ambrose could relax slightly, grateful for the shift in conversation away from reasons they needed to get out of there. He could only imagine what a Sheriff would be like around here. He doubted 'we don't have a jewelry-maker in town anymore' meant the man had simply been arrested and lost his job. He noticed Dottie finishing off her soup, and allowed himself to focus on eating as well, even if the old man had spent so much time talking that he still had a decent amount left. "Hm... how many?" Mr. Cullingworth tapped his chin as he thought back, searching through his memories. "I'd say around eight hundred when we entered the gorge. Oh, but then there was the stampede. Seven hundred or so when we started building the town. Course, we've had new folks like you come in now and then." Recalling the population sign, Ambrose dropped his spoon in surprise. It landed in the bowl with a clatter, and their hosts turned to look at him. "Sorry," he said, trying to think of an excuse that wasn't 'I was shocked to hear you've managed to kill off nearly half your population since then'. Better to be neutral than insulting. He picked up the cloth napkin at his place and dabbed up the droplets of soup that had splashed out onto the table. "That's a lot of people, isn't it? I can't even imagine trying to manage." It was short of the largest he'd heard of, but enough that he could pretend that was what surprised him. Mr. Cullingworth narrowed his eyes, more openly suspicious of him, but nodded. "Letters were sent out to property owners further east looking to expand, and they joined. We also picked up a few stragglers from smaller trains along the way," he explained. "As for the name, it came after we built the church in the middle of town. At sunset, the cross on the rooftop would seem to light up a deep red, like a beacon you could see from all over. It was beautiful." He sighed wistfully. .
14:15
Ambrose thought back to their pathway there. If it was in the middle of town, he would have expected to have noticed some sign of it by now. There hadn't been, which indicated that something must have happened since then. He refrained from asking for now, wanting Mr. Cullingworth to have some time to finish dinner so he wouldn't have to wait for his to go cold. He looked over at Hazel to see if she was regarding the story with as much concern as he was.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/12/2024 21:30
In terms of pacing her food intake, Hazel was matching with Dottie more than with the father, because she'd already been on thin ice around the former, and Dottie was perhaps also more likely to successfully harm her or her false husband, with her youthful and uninjured condition. Though, now that Hazel thought about it, she couldn't see whether Mr. Cullingworth was carrying a sidearm because he was sitting directly across from her. Anyway, paranoid thoughts aside, Hazel also wanted to finish around the same time as Dottie so that she could help her with the post-supper chores and get on her good side. Eight hundred?! Her eyebrows shot up. So, seven hundred to four hundred people in twenty-five years meant a net loss of a dozen deaths per year, give or take, assuming a linear func— She blinked, the figures in her head evaporated by the sound of Ambrose's spoon clattering against his ceramic bowl. She pretended not to notice his shock to not draw further attention to him, because she was still looking towards the elderly man and saw his eyes narrow. It gave her a sense of trepidation. Why had Ambrose's reaction annoyed Mr. Cullingworth? "That description of the church sounds lovely," she murmured with a small smile. Considering the level of her host's soup in his bowl in combination with his quick irritation, Hazel turned to Dottie instead to give the father a chance to eat. .
21:32
"With a population that large, no potential suitors caught your eye by the time you were of courting age?" she probed softly, smiling at the young woman in a lighthearted manner. "What qualities do you look for in a gentleman, anyway, if you don't mind my asking?" After Dottie had responded to the women's quieter side chat, with Hazel pretending to give her full attention while imagining numbers and a graph in her head, she would turn back to Mr. Cullingworth. The death graph would probably become logarithmic after a certain point, assuming that the fewer residents there were, the less likely they'd be to murder each other. In fact, with the way it was trending, the population would probably be zero in around thirty-five years, or the mid 1880s, assuming that another massive wagon train didn't arrive. It might just crash into the ravine like theirs had. And then, when there was no one remaining, would the cycle repeat itself with a new group of pioneers? Was that why the Indians had known to avoid this land? No, what was she even thinking? Unless it was God's mysterious will... But she also wondered whether their hosts knew how much their population had dwindled, and when the sign had last been updated. "Mr. Cullingworth, how often does someone do a census to redo the town limit sign at the boulder? When we saw it, it said the population was four hundred. Is that still accurate?" "And what happened to the beautiful church you described? If it's not too sad of a story to share, of course." (edited)
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/13/2024 13:30
In regards to the church, Ambrose imagined a looming structure, its cross-shaped spire the colour of blood. A portent of what awaited the town's population, it seemed. He knew better than to say that out loud. Given the soft tones Hazel was using to speak, he assumed it was meant to be a private side conversation, and pretended not to be listening. He remained silent instead, providing time for their older host to focus on his meal. "I'd say kindness, for one," Dottie said, not bothering to keep her voice soft. "Someone peaceable, without much of a temper, but not too old. He can be older, but not ancient." She smiled, though there was a sadness to it. "I mean, it doesn't hurt if he's handsome and rich too, you know?" At that, Ambrose couldn't help a small pang of sadness on her behalf. The bar seemed low - it shouldn't have been too much to ask to be able to feel safe with another person - but he wasn't surprised it was still too high of a standard around here. Sure she herself was potentially violent and clearly close-minded, but there were some things nobody deserved. Her follow-up about looks and money just seemed like a deflection from how grim the prospect of courtship was around here. Would he become like the others in the town? The thought filled him with a sense of dread. Mr. Cullingworth looked up from his bowl as she asked about a census. "Huh?" He thought back, trying to remember. "Let me see... the last one was twelve years ago, I think. Most folks stay at home and don't take kindly to visitors, so there wasn't much point to it," he said. "The sign's never been updated. As for the church... yes, that is quite a tragic story." For a moment, Ambrose thought that might mean he wouldn't tell it. Then he kept talking. "So Father Bishop had the idea to come out here, said it was God's will to bring civilization out here. Then there were lots of things that went wrong." .
13:30
That sounded to Ambrose like God didn't want them to settle here, after all. "Like what happened with the animals?" he guessed instead, because hindsight wasn't about to help anyone. "And the slave revolts?" The latter still seemed pretty rational to him, but maybe there had been something pushing the tensions toward violence aside from people wanting their freedom. Mr. Cullingworth nodded. "Some of the townsfolk blamed Father Bishop for leading us out here and making all of those promises, and they turned against him. The church burned down years ago, and nobody has rebuilt it fully. There is a small house where it used to stand, where the Father's younger sister lives. You'd do well to stay away from there, though." Advice from someone who had lived in this town from the start to avoid a certain part of it wasn't advice Ambrose was about to take lightly. "We will try our best," he said sincerely, despite the small part of his mind that said they might find answers there. Answers weren't worth their lives, in his opinion.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/13/2024 22:49
It was a good thing that Mr. Cullingworth hadn't seemed to react to Hazel's mention of the town limit sign saying that only 400 people remained, because he told them that the sign had never been updated. She wondered whether he would have regarded her with suspicion or called her a liar if he'd noticed her claim that it had said 400 when it still said 700 in his memory. Regardless, someone involved with doing the census must have updated it, she assumed. A rancher couldn't know about all the happenings in the town, even if he was a valuable source of information. Hazel nodded solemnly as he described yet another example of the propensity for violence in Crimson Cross. Again, it was not exactly the most enjoyable supper conversation topic. Everyone seemed like they led rather lonely lives: Dottie, and the Father's younger sister, who must be a spinster or widow. "Thank you for that advice, sir," she said, nodding. She figured the woman must have lost her mind after her place of worship that she must have spent great effort to build up was desecrated. Based on Ambrose's deduction, their host's reply, and her own experience, everyone in the town would sometimes become enraged to the point that murder was a justifiable solution for their anger. In addition, there was seemingly no way to leave, despite the fact that no one in their right mind would choose to live here. She wondered whether everyone was actually miserable, holed up in their houses all day and night, being afraid of or resenting each other. .
22:51
She absolutely refused to stay here. A part of her was still in disbelief about what Mr. Cullingworth had said about the walking. She'd just have to try it herself and find out–once Ambrose's ankle and her own head healed, of course. How frustrating. She hoped that one of the relatives of someone in their wagon train party would be headed west by now to investigate, and would be able to look down from the cliff and spot the accident site and the town in this ravine. Surely, someone would soon notice the sudden stop in communication. That's right: there had been that ghostwriter, Clara Barnes or somesuch, who had written to her twin sister daily and had mailed a tall stack of letters at every opportunity. Not all hope was lost. Hazel chewed slowly, thinking, and pretended to be too lost in thought for conversation while staying aware of the elderly man's soup and bread consumption in her peripheral vision. After a minute of silence during which no one continued speaking of morbid topics, she decided to ask the next question to Dottie instead to give the father a chance to finish his meal. "Earlier, my husband and I were leaving an infirmary near a gallows when the ground started shaking. I'd heard of earthquakes happening further out west near the gold mines, but never here in the Plains. It was quite shocking. How often does that happen? Is it any real danger that we should be aware of?"
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/14/2024 00:59
"Once or twice daily," Dottie answered casually, seemingly glad that the conversation had steered somewhere a bit less dark. "We don't know for sure what causes them, but as long as you stay away from anything that can fall, you'll be alright. Oh, and away from the cliff faces at the north and south ends of town - when there's a bad quake, there's sometimes a landslide with it." The answer was, all things considered, not too concerning to Ambrose. It sounded like it could have been a natural phenomenon, aside from the fact that it seemed a geographical anomaly. At least it was something that was unlikely to kill them, as long as they weren't caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. He finished his meal around the same time as Dottie's father, timing it carefully enough. Trying his best to avoid the ire of others was going to be enough of an uphill battle that he might as well try to scale the gorge walls. How someone like Dottie lived an entire life here, he had no idea. It would almost have been an admirable feat, had she not accused them both of being thieves and threatened to stab Hazel with a fire poker. "Dinner was perfect as always, Dottie," Mr. Cullingworth said. "Would you and the young lady be so kind as to clean up?" Dottie's eye twitched in annoyance for a moment as he pretended it was a request rather than an order. Yet she smiled blandly, keeping it hidden beneath a veneer of courtesy. "Of course, Papa. Don't you worry about a thing," she agreed, her tone remaining cheerful. Though he picked up on some traces of tension, Ambrose took the opportunity to speak to Mr. Cullingworth, and hopefully to distract from whatever might be passing unspoken between the two. "Mr. Cullingworth, Sir, if you don't mind, I would be interested in a brief chat with you," he commented. "I've found your stories fascinating, and would love to hear more. I would offer to help but, well..." .
00:59
He trailed off, allowing the elder man to respond with a good-natured laugh. "Of course, of course! Your injuries." He offered a rather puzzling conspiratorial wink that Ambrose opted not to question aloud. "I would never ask a young gentleman to hobble around on one foot, tending to women's work. The two of us can have a chat in my study." The concern crossed Ambrose's mind briefly that he might have just offered to walk straight into a trap, set for both of them. Maybe he should stay with Hazel after all, but they both had more to gain in terms of knowledge by having individual chats, while neither party was as likely to be careful with their way of speaking. He smiled, but turned his attention toward Hazel. He had his sidearm, and she had hers; it was her choice whether she felt safe enough to go along with this. "If that's alright with you, dearest," he said, keeping his question of will you be alright? far more vague and trusting that she would understand. "Thank you for being so generous with your time and knowledge, Sir."
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/14/2024 08:26
"Oh, my. That's quite frequent. We'll keep it in mind," murmured Hazel to Dottie about the earthquakes, before Mr. Cullingworth requested that the women clean up post-supper. "Yes, of course," said Hazel graciously to the man at the same time as Dottie, but then she saw the latter wasn't happy about the request–or order–and began to feel a little worried. Would Dottie take her annoyance out on Hazel when they were alone? She also caught the wink from the older farmer after Ambrose asked him for a chat. The wink was really quite off-putting. What sort of men's talk was this going to be, exactly? Did Mr. Cullingworth intend to talk about the unsavory places in the west side of town and point Ambrose to a brothel, gambling house, or saloon? Was that what her travel companion wanted to ask about? Was he the type of man to indulge in such vices? Hazel almost narrowed her eyes in an unspoken warning at Ambrose as she felt a sudden jealous anger flash through her. .
08:27
She realized that she still barely knew this near-stranger and what proclivities he might have. It might have been presumptuous to think that she could trust him based on the happenings of a mere two days. But why would it bother her if her fake husband visited a brothel? It wasn't a good look for the wife, but it was still within a man's right. No, it was precisely because they had a fake marriage that it would be crucial for Ambrose to keep up appearances and not partake in any unsavory activities that would make people gossip that she was an unsatisfactory wife. No, no. What was she thinking? Ambrose was trustworthy. He'd been traveling near her for at least a month in the same wagon train, he'd saved her life, he'd reassured her, he was kind and smart and a gentleman, and they had to work together to get back to Lawrence. Whatever was causing people to be quick to anger in this town had affected her. She couldn't lose sight of the big picture. She barely recovered in time for Ambrose's question. Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, which still had a hint of jealous suspicion, and her tone came out cooler and more airy than she'd intended, a little similar to Dottie's falsely cheerful one. "Why, no need to ask me, darling. Always so considerate, aren't you? You two gentlemen go on and enjoy your men's talk." And you better tell me what you two discussed, she thought. .
08:33
Hazel then turned to Dottie as she followed her lead to rise from the table and start clearing it. She kept the apprehension out of her voice, and hoped that Dottie wouldn't want to talk about more death and violence, or treat her like a slave. "Since you already did so much and had to cook for double the usual amount of people, let me do the cleaning, alright? You can just guide me how you want things in your lovely home. It's just been so long since I've chatted with another lady around my age." She smiled, nervous inside, but her words were largely genuine. A part of her wondered how Dottie would have turned out if she hadn't grown up here. And, recalling Ambrose's description of the shovel as well as the fire poker incident, she didn't want to neglect her manners in a potential murderer's house. Then again, to her hosts, she might be a potential murderer, too.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/14/2024 21:48
Ambrose rested a hand on her shoulder and nodded. "Alright. Come get me if you need anything at all." Such as if Dottie suddenly turned violent again. The look in her eyes was strange. He'd thought she might be worried that getting separated was an idea as well, but that didn't quite explain the tone she took with him. He didn't ask, partially because of their hosts, and partially out of concern that anything resembling conflict would escalate quickly. "I'll be back soon." He gathered his crutches and stood up at the same time as Mr. Cullingworth, following him out of the kitchen and into the sitting room. It was a short enough trip, but any reassurance that proximity might have brought him were soon quashed by their host closing the door between the rooms. Ambrose tensed at the gesture, but sat in one of the armchairs anyway. At least he had his side arm, while the old man appeared to have none. Mr. Cullingworth sat nearby and leaned forward. "Being old has its benefits," their host commented. "Especially with a daughter capable enough of farm work. Or a wife, it seems." He gestured toward Ambrose's crutches. "Seems you know how to get what you want just as well, huh?" It took him a moment to catch onto what he was implying, but once Ambrose did, he couldn't help but imagine how the man's brain would look as a mush outside of his skull. "What exactly happened with Farmer James's wife?" he asked, not wanting to sound suspicious. "She did stab me. Twice, even." The bandages had indicated more wounds than that. At least, Ambrose had gotten that impression. "The doctor's assitant didn't want to bandage more than that, but she doesn't keep too close an eye on her supplies." .
21:48
Would anyone miss this guy? Really miss him? Ambrose closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself. "I am actually injured, and trying not to impede my recovery. It seems I am not nearly as crafty as you are, Sir," he said evenly, then opened his eyes again. Best to change the subject. "You mentioned not wanting to discuss the western edge of town at dinner, but I'll admit it just made me want to know more. What exactly is out there, if you don't mind me asking?" "Nothing too exciting," Mr. Cullingworth answered, sounding vaguely disappointed that he hadn't gotten the conspiratorial response he might have hoped for. "The bone mound is what most folks have taken to calling it. We don't have much use for human bones, so when someone dies, they get piled up out there, where newcomers to town won't see." A chill ran down Ambrose's spine. Maybe a part of him had hoped it would be something as normal as a gambling den, something he held no personal interest in but that wouldn't be out of the ordinary. Instead, the answer brought up more questions than he'd wanted to ask. He fell silent for a moment, trying to figure out just what to ask first. "Bone mound," he repeated slowly. "First of all, what happens to everything else on the bodies? And what about the town's cemetery?" "Butcher shop," Mr. Cullingworth answered casually, and Ambrose was suddenly glad for the vegetarian dinner, but cautious about the bacon. "Not the doctor's, the other one." Ambrose didn't want to ask anything beyond that. "As for the cemetery, we don't have one. The land doesn't like when people dig." Ambrose blinked. "I'm sorry," he said. "But what?" .
21:48
Dottie's annoyance at her father's behaviour soon faded with Hazel's offer to take care of the cleaning. She could even make sure it was done properly by guiding her! She did love when people knew their proper places. She smiled and nodded, agreeing easily to the arrangement. While the men were busy, she wanted to discuss a few other things, too. Perhaps she would have a proper ally here for once. "There is a fresh basin of water on the counter for you to wash the dishes first," she said. She looked over at the door her father had closed a moment earlier. "He thinks I believe he's as badly hurt as he claims. He's clearly moving just fine, but he's been constantly, conveniently injured ever since I've been a teenager, like I wouldn't notice. A shame ending his life wouldn't lessen my workload." She leaned back in her seat and eyed Hazel. "Are you sure your husband isn't the same way?" She paused her discussion of lazy malingering and pointed at a cupboard directly above the basin of water. "Bowls go up there."
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/15/2024 00:04
She nodded at Dottie's guidance and began washing the dishes in the basin of water, taking the time to treat each piece of ceramic and cutlery carefully so that she wouldn't break anything or splash water. It was rude for Dottie to remain seated and give directions from there instead of accompanying Hazel at the counter to talk, but the latter pushed down her irritation and disquiet about the situation. The most well-bred person in a room is the one who makes the fewest other people uncomfortable, she quoted to herself to calm down. Moreover, she couldn't blame the farmer who had probably been on her feet all day, and at least she wasn't speaking rudely. In fact, she was even confessing something strange about her own father. Hazel turned her head to stare at Dottie incredulously when Dottie mentioned that Mr. Cullingworth was not as injured as he might seem and that he had been faking injuries for at least a decade. But how could the young woman even jokingly entertain the idea of killing her own father, let alone speak about it so casually to a stranger? This young farmer might be the very definition of uncouth. Had she killed someone before, and would she not even mourn? If she only knew how Hazel's own Papa— No, this wasn't the time for that. Hazel turned back to the dishes, shaken and a little afraid. She took a deep breath. .
00:04
As for her fake husband... Given her current emotional state, she was somewhat glad to be separated from Ambrose for once. It was odd how being by his side for the past 48 hours hadn't grated on her, but all of a sudden, she'd wanted some space because of her jealous anger. A part of her was now wondering whether he was alright, though. What Dottie had just said about her deceitful father was cause for worry. But the older man had seemed to like Ambrose, so Hazel tried to push the worry out of her mind, focusing on the dishes and the current conversation. Ambrose and she did get along quite well, she thought, and if anything, she'd been the one unintentionally taking advantage of him because of her injury. "I didn't know my husband for long before we eloped, but I was sure that he was a good man, and I still am. He's reliable and kind. If you're referring to his crutches, he sprained his ankle during the wagon train's fall into this gorge, and I got a concussion. I think that's why I felt faint after walking from the doctor's in the sun." Hazel gestured to the bandage, partially hidden by a ribbon, near the base of her skull beneath her updo of wavy black hair. .
00:05
"And, about Ambrose... He's too self-sufficient and proud to even accept my help if he trips, like during that earthquake earlier. A bit too proud, if I must say, so I don't think I have to worry," Hazel told Dottie honestly, "but I appreciate your concern." She gave the other woman a quick smile. She dried each bowl after she washed it and put it into the specified cupboard above, trying to muster more sympathy for her boorish and potentially murderous host to keep the conversation going, as she'd been taught. "I'm sorry to hear about your situation, though. Why would your father pretend that he was more injured than he really was–to shirk work? Have you thought about leaving the town, or at least the farm, maybe staying in a ladies' boardinghouse or with a friend? What kind of lifestyle would be your ideal?" Hazel tried to steer the topic towards something more positive and light, and potentially romantic and dreamy, because it was the genteel thing to do, and because it might avoid trouble caused by resentment.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/15/2024 01:47
"The land," Mr. Cullingworth repeated. "It doesn't like when people dig. Not past the first five feet, at least." Ambrose couldn't keep the disbelief out of his stare. What did that even mean? Coming from one of his clan elders, he might have interpreted it as some form of spiritual statement about how the earth was not a dead thing to be studied and used for the benefit of men, but this man definitely seemed to mean it literally, given the context. How was he to interpret it through the worldview the school had pushed onto him? The old man said nothing further, apparently waiting for Ambrose to speak. "So... it's not that I don't believe you," he lied. "I'm just very confused. How do you know it doesn't like when people dig? Is there some sign I should be on the lookout for? Are there other things it doesn't like, and how would I know?" To avoid sounding like he was making a sarcastic mockery of the man's apparently genuine warning, he added, "I want to be sure my wife and I are as safe as possible during our stay here." "There were early efforts to dig graves here, after the first deaths," Mr. Cullingworth explained. "Once the holes got five feet deep, anyone who tried would say they got a real bad feeling from it, or would panic and stop working. At first we thought they were lying so they wouldn't have to work, but the same happened to everyone who tried. So we left the bodies on the west side of town, far as we could go, for the scavengers." He leaned forward and lowered his voice, apparently deep in the task of storytelling. "Then Father Bishop's sister lost her husband. Nothing could stop her from giving him a good, proper Christian burial." Ambrose had to admit, he didn't like the way he sensationalized talking about a real person's death, and the grief that must have followed. But he acted like he was absolutely riveted, leaning forward in his seat to listen intently. After all, a morbid part of him needed to know what had happened. . (edited)
01:47
Dottie listened to the way Hazel defended her husband's honour. Due to her complete lack of experience with relationships, that alone was enough to remove any lingering traces of doubt in her mind that the two were truly married. It explained her fainting, too. Not too surprising - all newcomers to the town seemed to have some sort of injury or another. She even returned the smile, though it soon faded as she asked about leaving town. Easier said than done, especially by outsiders. "I tried, like most everyone has. There's really no leaving this town," she said. "And I was born here, so I don't know anything else - you truly must tell me what the outside world is like sometime. Most visitors are too hostile to share stories, so all I have is what Papa remembers. With him shirking work though, I don't like spending too much time around him anymore. There's no boardinghouse in town, so far as I know, because putting a lot of people in one place will always spell disaster. There was a farm where a lot of women and girls lived together to get away from the violence of parents or husbands, but they all turned against each other; it's gone now, just like the old schoolhouse and the inn all had to shut down." That wasn't what she'd asked, though. Dottie had always been a big dreamer, so she looked up at the ceiling as she recalled what she had imagined for herself before. "I always wondered what city life was like. A place with lots of neighbours who weren't likely to kill you, close to where the rich and powerful gather to make choices. It sounds exciting."
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/15/2024 18:29
Hazel returned a concerned and sad expression when Dottie told her about the history of the town. The story about the women possibly killing each other might be one reason why there had been no women on the map that she and Ambrose had purchased–well, stolen. She still felt a little guilty about that. She turned to the dishes and kept the cringe off her face as Dottie described her likely dream of moving up in society to become one of the "rich and powerful" wives of politicians, lawyers, or businessmen. It made sense, though: the daughter of a rancher was relatively powerless, especially here. Hazel shrugged internally; she saw no harm in letting the young woman keep that dream. "You're pretty spot on, Miss Cullingworth. Life definitely moves faster than it does in a smaller town like this one where everyone keeps to themselves. There's always something to do," Hazel replied. "The bit about neighbors, though, might not always be accurate. The crime rate is higher in bigger cities because of overcrowding. The more people in one densely populated area, the more differences, and the greater chance of conflict, see? Still makes it exciting, though. But it's more likely that someone will witness thefts, robberies, and violence than murder. I'm not sure if anyone's ever told you, but in the outside world, people don't immediately think of killing someone as the first solution to a problem." She glanced at her host to see her reaction. "Crime is not always committed by non-Whites, surprisingly," she added. Then she sensationalized it somewhat to make the storytelling more interesting for Dottie. "Whites are just as likely to commit crimes, in my experience–especially those shameless street urchins who have something to prove to their new gangs. I'd say the city might be more dangerous for women, but it's also more fun." . (edited)
18:34
She put the last bowl into the cupboard and started washing the cutlery. "With so many neighbors, there's always news to talk about and social gatherings to go to almost year-round. I think you'd like the parties and dances for singles. You'd have fun dolling yourself up and meeting all sorts of eligible gentlemen at those events." She smiled, and chose not to mention the horse racing and breeding that was popular in Lexington, or the wineries, because Dottie likely had no experience with horses and probably didn't want to discuss anything related to farm work. "Where should I put the cutlery–same place as the bowls? And I'd like to toss out this water and get a fresh basin before the sun sets, so you don't have to worry about it later. There's something I'd like to ask you about afterwards, too."
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/15/2024 23:27
"Course, six feet is the standard for human burial," Mr. Cullingworth explained, as though that had been the interesting part of his statement. "Especially with all the earthquakes shifting the ground - less than that and we'd risk things getting unburied." It didn't seem to Ambrose that minor earthquakes, no matter how frequent, should normally have been enough to uncover something buried, say, four feet, especially since the buildings' presumably shallow foundations seemed unbothered. He kept any questions about that to himself as he listened. "She managed to get five deep, and didn't let that stop her. She continued through the day and into the night, even past the sixth. Nobody knows why. What we do know is we had to get a team of men to pull her out of there. She fought like a beast, screaming like she'd lost the ability to speak in words." Despite the old man trying to make it sound like a horror story, Ambrose couldn't help but feel for the woman. A recent widow in a dangerous town would surely be lost in grief and fear. He couldn't even have begun to imagine what that must have been like. Would he have lost his grip on reality as well, unable to think of the only thing he could still do for his lost loved one? Was he already losing grip on reality? He looked down, pensive but continuing to listen as the old man continued to speak. "Even after she'd calmed down, she didn't speak, and lashed out more easily than others even round here," he said. "There's no madhouse in town, so her brother was the one who locked her away, back before the church burned down. He took care of her and, from what he'd said, he'd read scripture to her to help calm her every chance he got. Soon she could talk again, but her brother said she wasn't ready to leave yet. She got out after his death, speaking in Bible verses and claiming God had spoken to her." .
23:27
Definitely easier to pity her than the brother, then. "That's... unfortunate," Ambrose said, unsure whether it was better to express or avoid sympathy for her. "Don't dig," Mr. Cullingworth warned, and Ambrose nodded. ~~~ It all sounded so exciting, it took Dottie's mind off the morbid reality of her current setting. Even the crime wasn't too off-putting - there was plenty of it here, and probably more per person. Her eyes sparkled as she held onto every word. Maybe this girl wasn't so bad, despite her... unfortunate heritage. But a part of her bristled defensively when she claimed White people were just as likely to commit crimes. That wasn't what she believed about the world, and therefore it couldn't have been right! The smile that had formed on her face faded at what she perceived as a judgment on her and an attack on her knowledge of other people. "I'll show you where the cutlery is. One of the drawers," she said coolly as she stood up and walked over to stand beside her. "Here." She opened the drawer of cutlery, but took note of where Hazel's gun was holstered. It took a moment of eyeing her gun, then the knives in the drawer, before she pieced together the fact that attacking her would not disprove the claims Hazel had made. Besides, at least she'd said it was 'surprising'. Dottie's hands remained harmless for now. "The pipes don't come out to the farm so we don't have a water pump, but there's a smaller stream that runs just behind the barn. I'll show you." She closed the drawer once the cutlery was put away and cocked her head to one side. "Oh, but what is it you wanted to ask?"
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/16/2024 01:46
Hazel resisted the urge to scoff and roll her eyes as she checked her host's reaction, and she turned away just as Dottie's expression changed yet again from a smile to a frown at every turn of the conversation. The young farmer might be sharp, but Hazel could imagine how growing up in a town of murderers, isolated from everyone else, with an exploitative father, would have made Dottie grow up into the rude, ignorant, and emotionally bipolar individual that she was. Surely, becoming murderously angry at the drop of a dime could not have been good for a child's brain development. She could almost feel sorry for her. Hazel could almost hear the gears turning in the farmer's head as Hazel carefully put away the spoons and the serrated bread knife from supper, and her host lingered too close to the other knives in the drawer. Before Hazel had left the bedroom with Ambrose, she had already shifted and tucked her apron so that the side of it covered her holster and revolver, because she hadn't wanted to appear like a threat to their hosts, but apparently the shape was clear to someone looking for it, judging from Dottie's gaze. What is it now? she thought tiredly, starting to feel annoyed and uneasy. She made herself close the drawer slowly instead of slamming it, as she was losing patience doing chores and making conversation with this cretin who had given her almost no reason to respect her. .
01:49
"Well, my husband and I bought a map of the town earlier, but we couldn't make much sense of it. I figured, since you seem very clever, that you might be able to help us solve the mystery of what that cartographer was trying to record. I can show you when we get back." She picked up the basin and the rags and followed Dottie out the kitchen into the red sunset. The ceramic basin with the dirty water made her strained arm ache to carry, but if the farmer tried anything, she'd fling this heavy thing at her head and then shoot her, she decided grimly. She kept Dottie in her line of sight, vaguely wondering if the next time Ambrose saw the shovel that he'd described, it would have more blood and a strand of wavy black hair on it... or a strand of chestnut.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/18/2024 02:48
No digging was something to keep in mind, though Ambrose couldn't think of a reason he'd want to dig a hole deep enough for it to become a problem. Unless Hazel died, but in that situation, he was sure he'd have bigger problems than getting her a proper grave. He thought through the rules of the town so far. Murder was okay, interrupting someone's conversation or task was not. Don't dig deep holes. Don't tell anyone about the doctor's obviously-dead 'father', if he ever was that. Don't anger your hosts. No animals. He added in his mind another rule, though it was too late to follow it: don't step foot into the town. He looked toward the kitchen as he heard the women leave through the other door. The worry from earlier returned. What if something happened to Hazel? Was Dottie luring her away? Being separated hardly sounded like a good idea. He gathered his crutches and stood up. "I should go help them. It wouldn't be appropriate to make the ladies handle all of the work." The moment he'd given that excuse without thinking about what their host had just confided in him about, he realized it was the wrong one. Mr. Cullingworth's eyes narrowed at the perceived judgment as he also stood. Ambrose looked him up and down for any signs of a sidearm, but he didn't appear to be carrying a weapon. But in his current position holding the crutches, Ambrose couldn't exactly reach for his own. He waited for the rage to pass, and the danger with it. "I mean for me, since I'm married to one of them. Happy wife, happy life after all." He accompanied the excuse with a weak smile, but it didn't help. "You can rest." "You outsiders really think you know everything, don't you?" So this was what happened when the old man ran out of stories. Fuck. With a speed he hadn't expected from a gentleman of advanced age, Mr. Cullingworth charged at him. .
02:48
The compliment mollified Dottie for now. Sure she'd been playing dumb, something she found safer than letting men in the town notice that she was smarter than them, but it was nice to be recognized. She smiled, wondering just what it was that was so unusual about this map. Maybe the two of them just couldn't read maps very well. That didn't make sense though; they'd traveled far enough. Regardless of where they'd been in the wagon train, surely they would have picked up a thing or two from it. "Sure thing. I'll have a look at it when we get back and see what I can figure out," she answered cheerfully. "We don't want dirty water getting in the stream, since I noticed people get real sick when you do that, so you can dump it out over here." She pointed toward a sparse patch of grass a safe couple yards from the small stream of water that trickled past the barn. She looked back toward the house, a part of her remembering her father's stories of the old days, before the revolt. To think she could have had servants, and now she was treated like one instead. There was an unwritten law in the town now that slavery wasn't allowed - they had a habit of acting out - but perhaps she could get a few willing workers to help out. Hazel had already proven to be agreeable enough, and happy to lend a hand. Ambrose might be the same way, once he healed. "You know, if you and your husband are looking for a steady place to stay, we've got space for you," she offered. "I mean, Pa might decide you've overstayed your welcome, but I meant what I implied earlier. We can always take care of him if he gets to be trouble." She continued walking, speeding up a bit to walk ahead, her back turned toward Hazel. "Or, you know... before he gest the chance. If he's always in so much pain, let's put him out of it."
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/18/2024 22:01
"Alright, thanks. And that's good to know." Hazel followed behind Dottie towards the patch of grass away from the small stream, noting the direction of the water flow. She felt a sense of smug satisfaction when Dottie went on ahead. Now was the opportunity to get revenge, put this farmer in her place, hurl the ceramic basin at her head to incapacitate her, then maybe drown her so that it'd look she tripped and hit her head on one of those rocks, just an unfortunate accident– Her compulsive thoughts were cut off by surprise when Dottie offered for her and Ambrose to stay. So she'd already decided that Hazel wasn't so bad, had she? Or were she and her father colluding and the both of them had nefarious long-term plans for her and her travel companion? She'd only known this near-stranger for a couple of hours and couldn't be sure. The sudden offer–hospitable anywhere else, but suspicious here–distracted Hazel temporarily from her urge to do something to Dottie. She automatically gave a response consistent with her upbringing, despite her disgust with the farmer's implication that they could collaborate as accomplices in Mr. Cullingworth's murder. But since he was dangerous enough to get into a physical altercation with a woman and had been faking injuries to manipulate his daughter, it might be best to get him out of the picture, maybe leave him alive but tied up in the barn or a cellar. Plus, if she and Ambrose stayed here, she could pay a neighborly visit to Farmer James's wife to see whether they would be less racist hosts, now that she knew that the woman hadn't actually caused near-fatal injuries to an old man. Well, it was time to see whether Dottie was serious about offing her own kin. .
22:02
"Oh, that's real kind of you to offer, but only if you're sure. We wouldn't want to impose. But about your father–" She halted at the sound of a dull crash coming from inside the farmhouse beyond the kitchen, like one of the heavy armchairs had fallen over or been shoved against the wall. Hazel's eyes widened. "What was that?" She spun her head to look around, wincing at the sharp twinge of pain of the sudden movement. "Was that him?" Then came the thumping clatter that she was used to by now, the sound of a crutch bouncing off the floor or walls... or two being wildly dual-wielded to fend off an attacker. Her heart leapt to her throat. "Ambrose!" she shouted, and half-dropped the basin onto the grass, some of the dirty water spilling over the edge a foot from where she was supposed to dump it. She'd deal with Dottie later, especially if she had intentionally led her outside–no, that had been her own fault by offering to change the water. Hazel's face flushed with frustration now, the anger at herself quickly turning outwards. Gentlewomen didn't curse, but she felt like exploding. Oh, why had she agreed to stay for supper? .
22:02
Instead of hurrying inside through the kitchen to the sitting room, she made a mad dash to the side of the farmhouse to try to look into the closed window, tucking herself to the side against the wall, since that was closer and safer. Her hand shoved aside her apron and gripped the handle of her revolver, drawing it. Depending on what she saw, if she had the opportunity, she would shoot open the window towards the old rancher to cause a distraction, and with any luck, she'd hit him. And then the daughter, too, if she turned on her for breaking the window. She felt even angrier when she saw that the curtains were drawn almost all the way closed, blocking her visibility, like with all the other stupid buildings in this stupid town. Filled with wrath, she braced her strained arm with her left hand, pressed the end of the barrel against the glass, and shot at the moving shape that was shorter than the other one.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/19/2024 19:45
Ambrose tried to avoid the attack, but the old man still managed to catch his shoulder, causing him to stumble. He caught his balance with one crutch, swinging the other up to hit his attacker's back. The weight left him, and for a moment, he thought Mr. Cullingworth had fought better of trying to fight him. Then he saw his own gun pointed at him and realized how much lighter his holster felt now. "I don't want any trouble," he said, though that line hadn't exactly helped before, and he didn't expect it to now. Especially now he did want trouble, in the opposite direction. How dare that bastard steal his pistol! The shout from outside caused Mr. Cullingworth to turn his head toward the window. It was the opportunity Ambrose needed. He threw his considerable weight at the older man, knocking both of them to the floor and causing the gun to fall. The brief sensation of having the wind knocked out of him by the sudden fall didn't stop Ambrose from bringing a crutch up and pushing down over Mr. Cullingworth's throat. No hesitation. And once it was there, he couldn't stop. All he had to do was push a little harder, squeeze tighter... Strangled noises escaped the old man's throat as he groped around the floor for something useful. His hand found the crutch Ambrose had discarded in his attack, and he managed to bring it up. The handle smacked Ambrose in the head, giving Mr. Cullingworth the chance to turn the tables against him. In an instant, he had the ungrateful guest on the floor and was pushing back against the object that had been against his throat. Then came a loud bang and the shattering of glass. A bullet was embedded in the wall in front of him. Safe to say the man on crutches was not the biggest threat. Momentarily distracted, he looked toward the direction of the noise. .
19:45
Dottie turned toward the crash, letting Hazel run ahead. Damn that old man, interrupting just as she was going to get someone to help kill him. And damn Hazel for dropping the basin! The dirty water splashed over Dottie's shoes, and she let out a noise of frustration, just short of a scream. She ran, herself, for the firewood pile to pick up the axe she had left there. She wasn't sure what or whom she was going to use it on, but the situation seemed like it called for a weapon. Properly armed now, she followed after Hazel, spotting her peering through the window. The breaking of the window made up her mind. Did Hazle have any idea how cold it got here at night? How expensive windows were to replace out here? She ran as fast as she could with the axe weighing her down. Not fast enough - she wasn't close enough for a blow when the gun was turned against her. In her shock, she hardly registered the sound of it going off. She merely looked down at the red slowly spreading on her right shoulder. Blood. That wasn't supposed to be outside of her body. Her eyes widened as the too-familiar dizziness hit and she dropped the axe. "Oh," was all she managed before she hit the ground.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/19/2024 22:19
It was a good thing that Hazel had practiced so much with her Baby Dragoon, because she acted on autopilot and cocked the hammer again after her first shot through the window, so her training saved her from not having a second bullet ready to defend when Dottie came running up with that axe that she'd used earlier for firewood. As soon as Hazel spun around again because she heard Dottie running towards her instead of doing something useful to help Ambrose, she unloaded the next bullet, away from the axe because she didn't want it blocking her from getting rid of this horrid farmer. A second loud bang pierced her eardrums and rattled the broken window. Before Hazel could process it, her right arm aching from the pain of two recoils as she primed the weapon a third time, the farmer had blood blooming on her right shoulder and the axe had dropped with a thunk, crushing her right shoe with the blunt end, before she slumped facedown onto the grass. There was a thud in the distance, like the .44 had torn through flesh and then hit a tree. .
22:19
She was unsure whether Dottie was still alive, but as she panted, she felt a shocking and repulsive mixture of triumphant satisfaction and horror when she realized that the detestable farmer couldn't interfere any longer and had gotten what she deserved. She may have been in cahoots with her father, after all. If the farmer survived, she might even have a conveniently broken foot keeping her out of Hazel's hair. However, she immediately paid the body no more mind because she was still filled with adrenaline: anger at Mr. Cullingworth and urgent concern for her travel companion. Hazel glanced at the window to see if her first shot had helped Ambrose at all. The bullet had shattered a small glass pane and blown a hole through the curtain, but it still wasn't enough to see inside. She grimaced in frustration as she sped inside the house, revolver in front of her, finding Mr. Cullingworth struggling on top of the only person in this stupid town fit to be her husband, trying to press a crutch into the latter's neck, and Ambrose's percussion pistol on the floor a couple of feet away. Hazel aimed, but she couldn't shoot their host with this positioning, because odds were the bullet would go straight through and hit her ally, like it had almost done in the dry goods store. Panic mixed with anger. .
22:20
"Get off him!" she shrieked, rushing forward, and she kicked the older man sharply in the side with her boot. She was screaming mindlessly, hysterical, phrases like "how dare you" and "my husband" flying out her mouth with spittle as she waved the revolver with one hand in front of her. Another swift kick connected – on the thigh, hip, or groin, she couldn't tell, but she couldn't stop until the attacker was no longer a threat.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/20/2024 21:37
The weight shifted off of Ambrose and he gasped as air was suddenly flowing through his lungs. Someone was shouting, voice high with rage. Hazel? He sat up, looked over to make sure she had things handled, and half-ran, half-crawled for his discarded pistol. He checked the chamber and looked toward the two of them. He didn't dare aim, though; with Hazel actively attacking Mr. Cullingworth, he didn't want to run the risk of shooting her by accident. Instead, he leaned on a crutch and waited until either an opportunity presented itself or he was needed. It brought some annoyance, feeling useless once again, but it remained internalized for now. The first kick had knocked Mr. Cullingworth sideways and off of his target. He would have gotten up, had the second not landed right between his legs. He let out a high pitched noise and curled up, which didn't help alleviate the pain nearly enough. Nor was it very effective for protecting himself against the onslaught of kicks. He coughed, feeling the first hint of bile rise toward his throat. "S-stop," Mr. Cullingworth gasped. "I'm sorry!" He tried to hide the shame at the tears that nearly sprung to his eyes, but this wasn't a situation that allowed for regulating his own reactions. He shook with pain and rage, thinking of how to get his revenge later. "I'll stop." He cautiously began to put his hands up. Ambrose hesitated, then stepped forward. "Hazel..." he started, then trailed off and looked down at the man, hesitant. .
21:37
Under any other circumstances, killing a pathetic old man covered in bandages who was asking for mercy would be an unmitigated act of evil. But he'd felt firsthand what this one was capable of. Keeping him alive would be a risk. Unless he was immobilized, at least. He looked down at his pistol, then back down at the man, then to his wi- his travel companion. She'd quite possibly saved his life, and he wouldn't forgive himself if something happened to her because of his choice. After a moment, he spoke again. "We don't have to kill him if he'll behave himself," he decided, about to raise his pistol to knock him unconscious with the butt off it. And if that accidentally killed him, maybe that was what God intended. Still, the old man's relief was audible. "Thank you! Finally, someone rational." Ambrose paused and Mr. Cullingworth laughed nervously. "Women, right?" Ambrose lowered his pistol. "On second thought... Hazel? Your call if you want him dead or not." Outside, Dottie stirred to consciousness. With a soft groan of pain, she sat slowly up, gripping one hand over her aching shoulder. Aching, then burning as the nerves woke up. She looked down. As she spotted the blood, her face grew pale as her eyes widened. She managed to get up and single a few steps before shock took hold again and she passed out once more.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/21/2024 03:16
Some sense returned to Hazel as she heard her name spoken by the person who she was trying to protect, and she realized that the old rancher was raising his shaking hands in surrender – for now. She almost blurted out a litany of apologies, since she hadn't meant to kick him there. Instead, she stepped back to a safe distance, panting with exertion, horrified by her own actions. The barrel of her revolver trembled as she kept it leveled at their host's chest and listened to Ambrose's reasoning. She didn't really want to kill him anymore... or did she? The anger was still there, simmering just below the surface. When Mr. Cullingworth made that stupid comment, it burst out again, pushing aside the guilt and horror. This man didn't know the basics of self-preservation. .
03:17
"Shut up!" she shouted, stepping forward with the gun at the same time that Ambrose lowered his pistol and said something she didn't comprehend. "I'm very rational," she spat out, "That's why I'm good at my desk job!" Hazel backed away, still facing the man who had his hands partially raised with two weapons aimed at him, and she continued ranting acerbically. "You, on the other hand, must be completely irrational to attack my husband when we've been nothing but polite. I even helped your developmentally stunted daughter with her chores... Keep your hands up! Don't make me shoot; you never know when I'll lose my rationality again." .
03:17
The distance away from Mr. Cullingworth, and his half-curled pose on the floor, seemed to help lessen her urge to pull the trigger, and she yanked the cords for tying curtains off the nails in the wall beside both windows. She walked back to her reliable hus – companion – and tiptoed to mutter quietly and quickly in his ear, still filled with adrenaline as she kept her sidearm aimed at the old man and handed Ambrose the cords in her left hand. "Let's tie him up, hands and feet, and lock him up in the shed with the daughter, if she's still alive. She told me she wanted him dead, and I couldn't tell if she was serious. But if she's dead, I can find the sheriff tomorrow." .
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/21/2024 03:34
After listening to what Ambrose had to say in return, she jerked her revolver at the old man. "Lie facedown and put your hands behind your back," she commanded, then lowered the weapon to his groin. "Or I'll hurt you so bad that you'll need an operation." She paused. "And I saw how the doctor was doing it this morning: with scissors," she added viciously.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/21/2024 20:12
Ambrose didn't get in her way, since that seemed like a foolish thing to do. No matter how tempted he was to just shoot the bastard, she had as much right as he did at this point. Instead, he kept his weapon trained on Mr. Cullingworth to make sure he didn't do anything stupid while Hazel was gathering the cords from the curtains. So they would be keeping the old man alive, after all. He could only hope it wouldn't come back to bite them. Nonetheless, he leaned toward her to listen while she spoke about tying him up and locking him in the shed. The mention of the sheriff gave him reason to frown thoughtfully. The only things they knew about the sheriff were that he'd killed the old jewelry maker and that he certainly didn't prevent murders. Not enough to know whether or not it was actually a wise idea to send for him. Especially since they were the people from out of town who were tying up the farm's owners, locking them in a shed, and living in their farmhouse as a fake married couple. Not exactly a good look for them, particularly if this 'sheriff' fancied himself a proper law enforcer outside of the crimes that it seemed every person in town committed. He hoped Dottie would be alive and they would not have to find out what sort of man the sheriff was. "We'll lock them up, then," he said in agreement for now. They could worry about any other people in the town later. "Want me to tie the ropes, or have you got it?" Mr. Cullingworth winced at her words, a mixture of horror and confusion. He had seen the doctor many times, had even had to get a few operations to remove bullet wounds that he'd been lucky to survive, but she didn't seem like the sort to use scissors for a messy operation, particularly on that part of the body. She'd been almost as peaceful as Old Man Irvine had been, before he'd become fulltime porch decor. But he wasn't in a condition to question these things, so he did what the scary woman said. .
20:12
Ambrose silently set to work, either keeping his pistol trained on Mr. Cullingworth if Hazel wanted to tie the man up or tying careful, practiced knots if she asked him to do that. What mattered was that he got immobilized, though Ambrose remained tempted to just shoot the bastard. Or at least hit him hard enough to knock him unconscious. The risk of giving the man a concussion was an acceptable one. He resisted the urge, since it didn't seem necessary. He'd have to go without crutches to move him, but the pain wasn't so bad that he couldn't manage. He'd push himself a bit more, rest later, and be fine in the long run. Once the old man was ready, Ambrose holstered his gun and walked over to him. "I'll carry him if you'll get the doors," he suggested. "We'll check on Dottie once he's in the shed, see if she's alive." He looked toward the front door as he considered what might be going on out there. "If she's alive, but made a run for it, we might have to let her go for now. No telling who we can trust if we go looking for her, and there's a chance she'll stay away." Unknown to him, she was still peacefully passed out outside. With a grunt of effort, he lifted the trussed-up homeowner and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of feed. The action itself was enough to give him pause, a hint of shame and self-disgust creeping in. "What are we doing...?" he questioned softly, then shook his head. "No, we need to make sure they won't be a threat." Even as he said it, some uncertainty remained. But there weren't many courses of actions available to them. "Better than killing him, I guess."
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/22/2024 01:21
Unknown to Ambrose, in her highly emotional state, Hazel hadn't recalled the specifics of what their host had told them about the sheriff, other than he was a murderer like everyone else in this horrid town – nothing special, right? So she hadn't thought about the consequences that might befall the fake couple by asking the sheriff to handle punishing the old rancher for the assault and attempted murder of her husband. She'd said the suggestion as a default go-to idea in the urgency of the moment because it might have been a reasonable thing to do in the real world – not that this wasn't the real world – or was it? Dottie had called the world beyond "the outside world," almost like it was an unattainable, alternate reality. Later, Hazel would realize that she certainly wasn't going to go looking in town alone to find the sheriff while Ambrose stayed at the farm to both recuperate and make sure that their captives didn't break out to get revenge. For now, her priority was to neutralize the threat of the murderous old rancher, and then check on the daughter. She was still irritated, but she didn't think she could forgive herself if she actually killed the man herself, since he had been hospitable and told them a great deal of information – at first. .
01:21
"Thank you," she murmured to Ambrose, "Yes, please tie him." But she also knelt and put the cold barrel of her revolver against Mr. Cullingworth's spine, to ensure that he wouldn't move. Hazel looked away when Ambrose was tying the man's wrists, the act reminding her too much of what had been done to her, and filling her with shame. When Ambrose was done with both wrists and ankles, Hazel grabbed the white cotton bandage wrapped thickly around the old man's palm and removed it. As Dottie had implied, there was no wound. Hazel wrapped the bandage a couple of times around their captive's head, making sure that it was secure over his right eye, since his left eye was already blind. She nodded to Ambrose and moved toward the doors. When she heard him grunt, she looked back, and her eyebrows rose in awe when she saw her companion carrying another grown person like that. How strong and determined. She had expected them both to drag the homeowner because of Ambrose's injury. "Goodness," she said appreciatively, her large eyes looking up and down her man's form as he stepped forward in the red-orange light of sunset in the sitting room. With Ambrose's almost-awkward height, the slouching on crutches that were a little too short, and the hectic events of the day, Hazel had forgotten that he was really quite muscular and solidly built. Then she realized that what she was doing was inappropriate, especially given the situation, and she quickly turned away with a flush of pink to her cheeks. .
01:22
She held open the kitchen door for Ambrose, too. Outside, she spotted Dottie's body near where she'd last seen it near the sitting room window. She was no longer facedown, and had moved a few feet away from her axe. A part of Hazel thanked God that the young farmer was alive, and another part of her felt her hatred rising again. She'd have to deal with the woman somehow, unless she and Ambrose decided to leave the farm, or unless she... Hazel's clammy grip tightened on her revolver, and she turned away quickly to the small wooden shed before she could do anything fatal. She had to hurry to make sure Ambrose wasn't carrying weight for longer than necessary, and because Dottie might wake up again at any time. On the door of the shed, there was a metal latch that couldn't be opened from inside. It wasn't a lock, and it was a little rusty, but Hazel gave the door handle a tug and tested her weight by shoving the door. The shed seemed sturdy enough for their purpose, just to temporarily put their attackers somewhere out of the way so that they could decide what to do. She holstered her revolver for now and opened the door to the tiny space, then hauled some farm tools, feed sacks, and whatnot outside to make enough room for two people to just barely cram inside. She made sure that there was nothing left within that could be used as a large or stabbing weapon, although there might be a few blunt objects left in the dark corners that she couldn't see. Then she nodded to Ambrose, holding open the door. Her anxiety that the old man might try to knee Ambrose and hurt him, or that Dottie might turn on her with the axe again, kept the disgust of what she was doing somewhat out of mind. .
01:24
After the old farmer was dealt with, Hazel dragged Dottie under the arms to the shed as well while Ambrose propped open the door and watched over the homeowner. She only gave Dottie's shoulder wound a glance to confirm that the bullet had passed through. As she and Ambrose dumped the daughter beside the father, she felt less guilt compared to the amount she'd felt for the old man after what Dottie had put Hazel through after supper – all that walking on eggshells while the farmer didn't even pretend to help with the chores. If she really wanted to get rid of her own father, Hazel thought with distaste, she'd have the opportunity. And if she died trying, well, no one would miss either of them. Hazel exhaled heavily as the shed door closed and latched, looking out into the deep red sunset, the fatigue and tension making her muscles ache. Surely, the neighbors would have heard the gunshots and maybe the commotion in the sitting room, but of course no one had come. Another horrible day was almost over, and she was no closer to her goal of returning to Lawrence with Ambrose to post the letters about the wagon train accident. She turned to her companion. "Thank you," she sighed tiredly. "Shall we decide what to do inside?" (edited)
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/23/2024 01:40
Carrying and breathing at the same time was a challenge. The old man was thin, sure, but this wasn't the best position for carrying a person, and despite being very much alive at the moment, he may as well have been dead weight. He nearly paused to set the old man down and drag him out when he heard Hazel's brief, but clear comment. He glanced over at her, stood up straight to the best of his ability, and continued to carry the man. He was not immune to the urge to impress attractive women, and never had been. He grinned, but she'd already turned away, and now was... well, he couldn't call it the worst time to flirt. That had probably been during the fight itself. Certainly not an appropriate time though, nor an appropriate action to begin with. His burden wasn't the most cooperative, which didn't help. He squirmed and complained, but through the cloth in his mouth, all that came out was muffled nonsense with little resemblance to actual words. What bothered him more was the occasional headbutt to his back or knee to the abdomen. He gritted his teeth and tried to resist the urge to throw the man to the ground and kick his head in. It was odd, how such violent thoughts that would have horrified him two days ago were flowing freely through his mind, barely worthy of notice. He paused briefly as they approached Dottie. Her chest rose and fell subtly. Alive, but unconscious and bleeding. Maybe the farmer had some of those stolen bandages he'd mentioned still rolled up unused somewhere. They could worry about that later. Especially with Hazel hurrying on ahead. He continued at his current pace, since he wasn't about to risk injuring himself by trying to match her speed. He reached the shed while she was still clearing out various tools and sacks. Good. It gave him an excuse to set his burden down on the ground. .
01:40
"Thanks," he told Hazel once the shed was ready. At that point, he was sure he'd have a few new bruises, but the old man's blows had been weak, and he'd given up on trying to fight without his limbs fully accessible. "I think Dottie's alive, so we might as well throw her in here, too. Well, maybe not throw." But that depended on what she'd done to earn that bullet to the shoulder. He paused to catch his breath, feeling a bit guilty for the fact that he didn't feel quite up to dragging another person to the shed. "Want me to bring her over, or keep an eye on the old man?" He hid his relief when Hazel opted to drag Dottie over. While he waited, he held the door open, leaning heavily against it. The urge lingered to do less planning, more resting, but first things first. They had to make sure they were both on the same page before either of them could sleep. With both farmers inside of the shed, he took his moment to make sure they'd both be as comfortable as one could be, while locked in a shed and (in the father's case) tied up. A silly gesture, perhaps, but one that made sense to him. He would have done the same for, say, an animals that needed to be put down. Except he would probably feel a bit worse for the animal. Dear god, was this town turning him into a monster this quickly? The door closed and he latched it, glad to have it between him and the two farmers they'd just... was this kidnapping? He tried not to think about exactly what crime they were committing. Or how many. He rubbed his aching shoulder, the one he'd thrown Mr. Cullingworth over, and stared into the sunset as well. Maybe it would have been pretty, had the context for seeing it not conjured up mental images of blood. The red river from his dream the night before returned to his mind, and he shivered slightly. Just a dream, but a bit on-the-nose for their current situation. .
01:40
"It's getting cold outside," he commented as an excuse. "Yeah, let's go inside. I guess we've got a place to stay now, if you're inclined to stay on the farm. Food, too, if either of us is brave enough to go into the barn-" He was cut off by the sound of shouting and screaming from inside as Dottie woke up. The words were unintelligible through the sturdy wood doors, but the pounding of a fist against them was unmistakable. It was a solid building; he doubted she would get out, but he'd be sure the doors were locked during the night. Just in case. A part of him worried that leaving them alive would come back to bite them after all. "Right. Into the house, then." He offered Hazel his arm to escort her inside, despite the fact that he was still limping a bit. Still not as bad as it had been the day before, so he would manage. He paused by the wood pile though, remembering the sound of a window shattering. "Should we board up the wood you shot through? We could get a few solid planks from these logs here, if you need." If so, he would be sure to make quick work of it despite his exhaustion. After all, it really was starting to get cold. What mattered more was that eventually, they could get inside, where he locked the door and tested to make sure the lock was actually working. Satisfied, he nodded to himself and made his way back to one of the chairs in the sitting room. He sighed as he sank down into it, looking over at the fireplace. They'd done so much that day, things he'd never thought he would find himself doing. Things that would have disgusted him before, and still did now. He had to believe the situation had called for it. "I don't think there's anyone else in this town we can trust," he started, looking over at Hazel. "And if we're going to try to leave, we'll have to think of a way nobody else has tried before... what did you and Dottie talk about while we were separated?"
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/23/2024 09:02
Hazel jumped when Dottie started shouting, screaming, and pounding on the shed doors, and all but clung to Ambrose's arm when he offered it. The night was getting chilly as the sun set, so she was grateful for the man's warmth. "Doesn't seem right to stay for longer than tonight, but I don't know what else we can do," she replied dully to Ambrose's cut-off sentence. Well, nothing they were doing seemed right, but she couldn't think of a solution at the moment for how she and Ambrose could safely leave without getting rid of both of the people inside the shed. She agreed to patching up the hole left by the broken windowpane. The part with the broken glass wasn't large enough for a person's head to fit through, but someone outside could stick their arm through it and unlock the window to get into the sitting room that way. Cognizant of how tired and stressed they both were, and concerned about the injuries that Ambrose might have sustained from Mr. Cullingworth, Hazel quickly let go of his arm to find the box of nails in the grass that she had tossed out of the shed. .
09:02
"I think I left the hammer in the shed, so you might have to use the blunt of the axe to nail the boards. Would you bring it inside when you're done, please?" She didn't want to leave it by the firewood and risk someone chopping down a door or window if they broke out of the shed. "Let me find the nails, then I'll go fill that basin so we can wash up later." She hurried to find the nails for Ambrose, and then went to dump and refill the basin she'd dropped earlier, shivering from both cold and unease, not wanting to stay out here with the muffled sounds of rage coming from the shed for a minute longer than necessary. Her hands quickly became cold in the dry air when she removed them from the small stream. .
09:02
Finally they were inside, with the wooden planks over the windows muffling Dottie's voice. Hazel double-checked after Ambrose that all the doors in the house were locked, moved a pan that would clatter in front of the kitchen door, added more wood to the fireplace, then nudged a footstool over to Ambrose in case he wanted to elevate his ankle. We're never going to heal at this rate, she thought. As Ambrose spoke, she straightened the chair that Mr. Cullingworth had toppled and slumped into it, close to the warmth of the fire. "What did we talk about?" she muttered tiredly, rubbing her forehead with her palm. It did nothing to ease the aching. "I did her chores while she sat there ordering me around like a servant, and she asked about the city." She remembered that Ambrose had asked about a map, and wondered if Mr. Cullingworth had shown him. "There's no boardinghouse or inn. I was going to have her take a look at our death record map to figure it out, but we never got 'round to it. She almost wanted to use a kitchen knife on me, and then she got the axe so I had to shoot, and she wanted me to help kill her father because he's faking his injuries." Her voice shook. "I can't believe she'd..." . (edited)
09:03
Hazel's eyes finally burned with tears as she thought about her own Papa, who she still hadn't had enough time to properly mourn. "We have to get out of this town, Ambrose," she told him desperately, then buried her face into her hands and continued to try to speak, her words broken by gasping sobs. "I want to be with my whole family again, with everyone alive– What are we even doing? The folks in the shed will be cold, there's no privy– And what'll happen if you and I quarrel–" She broke off and cried in sorrow, shame, and frustration, trying to stay quiet. After she'd let out some of the excess emotion, she took a few deep, shaky breaths as she tried to collect herself, still hiding her face in her hands. "I'm sorry; guess I'm overwhelmed," she said, her voice small, "and I'm sorry you had to see me get mean, too." She peeked at Ambrose, then wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. "I'll go wash up in the kitchen first, and then you can, and then we can talk more, alright? I might want to lay my head down," she said quietly, standing up and moving next to Ambrose's chair. "Are you alright? I'm sure our host keeps a salve or something that we could use on your ankle and these; we could check his room." With her fingertips, Hazel gently touched the side of Ambrose's neck near a mark from the crutch, and then the shoulder that she'd seen him rub earlier. She worried that he might have bruises under his clothing. They should have just dragged the old man, she thought, sighing again.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/24/2024 16:12
Ambrose used the blunt end of the axe to hammer in the nails through the planks, ignoring the exhaustion that was starting to set in. Once the broken window was... not necessarily fixed, but acceptably patched up, he moved on to the sitting room. If not for the fact that they had important matters to disgust, he might have fallen asleep within minutes of having sat down. Instead, he listened closely to what Hazel had to say about her time with Dottie. She sounded... troubled, and judging from what she had told him about her past, he couldn't say he blamed her. None of this could have brought back good memories for her. Then she broke off crying, and he couldn't sit still anymore. Ignoring the protests of his leg, he walked over to where she was sitting and rested a hand on the arm of her chair. He wished there was more he could do to comfort her, but what was there for comfort in a situation like this? Should either of them even be comfortable in any way? None of this was anything they should accept. He sighed. "You don't have to apologize for crying. This isn't a great situation for anyone," he said. "And I was awful, too; you shouldn't have seen any of that." He looked down, contemplating the question he didn't truly want to address for fear of what the answer might be. He couldn't imagine himself turning that murderous rage on her, but they had to be realistic. "I mean, they have implied that there are couples who have made things work, but we don't know what things are actually like between..." He trailed off, then realized what he'd nearly implied by talking about couples. "Er, I mean..." He retreated to his own chair and sat back down. "Not that we're... I mean, as far as anyone in this town is concerned, yes..." And here he was, digging himself into a hole after having been explicitly told not to. "My point is, surely there are some people living together and not murdering each other. We'll figure something out. I promise." .
16:13
The shift in topic to what needed to be done was a relief. He nodded in agreement to the plan. He could use the next couple of minutes searching the old man's room, too. Cleaning up before bed sounded like a good idea, too. "I'll be fine. Just a little sore. I'll go check his room while you're cleaning up." He looked up at her while she touched the side of his neck. The chills that ran down his spine were just the draft from the broken window, obviously. Nothing more. And his heart was beating a little faster because he was nervous about their situation. He looked away, then slipped out of the chair to pick his crutches back up. "I'll be back." He hobbled to the first room he reached. It was another simply decorated one, but with wildflowers gathered in a vase on the nightstand and a shelf of books. Most likely Dottie's room, but maybe it was worth looking for useful supplies. He briefly scanned the bookshelf, eye catching on titles like "Apache Passions" and "The Red's Captive Wife". He stepped away, disgust written clearly across his face. Somehow, this managed to be the most disturbing thing he'd seen today. Had they made the wrong choice in letting her live? ...No, what was he thinking? Reading trashy racist novels was not a crime deserving of the death penalty. Just a lot of very harsh judgment. .
16:13
Finding nothing of real value, he left to search the other room, this one actually belonging to the old man. He found a variety of salves, no doubt stolen, and read the labels carefully to see what they might do. There was a fair share of longer, unfamiliar words, but he could piece together enough to figure out what worked best for pain relief. He removed his shirt so he could reach the bruises that had been covered and quickly set to work. The cooling effects helped him relax, and he found himself grateful that Hazel had suggested it. There was nothing that seemed particularly strained, aside from his existing sprain, and no open wounds, so he didn't need to worry about the bandages. Since he was alone in the room, he kept the shirt aside for now to let the salve sink in undisturbed. He took a moment to further search the room, but there was no sign of a map. Maybe he hadn't really had any to begin with, or maybe they were in storage elsewhere.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/25/2024 20:37
It was nice having someone as dependable and levelheaded as Ambrose by her side, Hazel thought gratefully. She washed her face and body in the kitchen with all the doors closed and all the curtains drawn, her thoughts slow with fatigue. Her companion had tried to comfort her again, like he had the previous night at the infirmary. She only realized now how awkward he really was when he'd talked about them being a couple. Well, they were literally a couple of people, and partners, all things considered. Partners in crime. Hazel sighed at the idea and then paused her movements to listen carefully, still tense with paranoia because she was the only one in a dark kitchen sitting at the table with an oil lamp, and she half expected someone to come crashing in through that back door anytime. For their safety, they had to continue appearing to the town as husband and wife. She didn't dislike the idea at all. It would be like courting, sort of... Well, not really. But Hazel had had many opportunities to separate from Ambrose ever since they had arrived in the town, yet every time she'd chosen to stay with him. If he had been someone who she couldn't stand to be around or absolutely didn't trust, she probably would have hidden under her family's broken wagon in the ravine and pretended to be dead. So she wasn't staying with Ambrose because she had no choice. Sure, it had been the safest choice in a town where being seen as trashy might be a death penalty, but she actually liked him quite a lot. .
20:37
It was a pity that they couldn't have met under different circumstances where she could have shown him her best, in terms of both behavior and appearance. That tale he'd spun up for Dottie's benefit could have happened. He was kind and determined and smart and honorable, honest to a fault – often to the point of awkwardness, but that had helped distract her from her own pain and grief – and they'd never quarreled despite the circumstances. Handsome and strong, too. A pretty good marriage prospect, and if her Papa had been able to meet Ambrose and if he'd been willing to take or attach her Papa's surname, she was sure– Oh, where was her mind going? She sighed heavily and finished the washcloth bath, then gingerly removed the bandage on her head. She checked the healing cut with her fingers and decided that she might take a full bath tomorrow to wash her hair while they still had the farmhouse to themselves – assuming that the two people in the shed stayed there, of course. They might freeze or starve or kill each other, she thought. Maybe some meat jerky could be pushed under the shed door to feed them. Oh, she was wretched. Was this really better than murder? She was trying and failing to shift her thoughts away from all the morbid possibilities that could occur with the Cullingworths, and the guilt continued to eat at her. She was worse than the people who had kidnapped her. At least they'd tied her hands tied in the front, not in the back, and she hadn't been locked in a tiny shed either, because they wanted a slave while they held her for ransom until Papa paid for her and approved the loan that she'd analyzed as too risky... .
20:37
She didn't know how long she sat in the kitchen crying as noiselessly as she could with her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking. At least her Papa and Mama couldn't see her actions now – or could they? If God couldn't see this town, then neither could her parents. In fact, the Cullingworths hadn't said grace before starting supper, despite how religious the former rancher had said their group was. All of them had probably given up hope long ago, except for maybe that so-called deranged widow, Father Bishop's sister. Hazel took a few deep, shuddering breaths until she became a little calmer, moreso from exhaustion than force of will. She washed and dried her face for the second time that evening, then removed her pins and ribbon, and ran the small comb in her satchel through her hair. She braided it in one plait, with the ribbon at the end, because she wouldn't want her hair flying about if she had to get up quickly during the night. She left the oil lamp burning on the table and went to find Ambrose, the fear and cold making her jumpy until she returned to the fireplace in the sitting room. She warmed her hands by it, and continued down a dark hallway. .
20:37
Seeing the lamplight coming from one of the bedrooms that had its door cracked open, she paused by the doorway and listened to make sure it was her travel companion, and then knocked on the wall beside the door. "Ambrose?" she called. "I'm done washing." Peeking inside through the gap in the door, she saw an old bed large enough for two people, but the mattress was sagging heavily in the middle, probably from the owner's malingering. The room also smelled faintly of herbal medicines and chamber pot contents. Off to the side of the room, she spotted Ambrose, who seemed to have been rummaging through some chest and holding up the oil lamp to search inside. Hazel could see his silhouette, and she realized that there was no shirt collar or sleeves – only the outline of his lean and solid form, some parts of the skin shiny with salve. Maybe his shirt was off because he'd been waiting for her to help apply salve to his back while she'd been crying, she thought guiltily. Suddenly a little shy, she spoke softly as she pushed open the door and stepped forward, looking at the variety of jars on a desk. "Sorry, you must be cold. I can help get the spots you couldn't reach – in the sitting room, where it's warmer. Which salve did you use?"
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/29/2024 12:09
Ambrose should have been listening for any potential threats. Instead, he focused on his search, thinking about how they might try to leave the town. Short of building some sort of machine that could allow humans to fly like birds, he couldn't think of anything, and that idea was absolutely absurd besides. What would happen if someone tried to throw something past the town borders? Would it land outside of the town, or loop around like someone who tried to walk out allegedly did? The answer wouldn't be especially helpful anyway. It wouldn't get both him and Hazel out of the town together. And he did want to get out with her by his side. She was a good companion to have. Smart, quick to act, practical... While it didn't help their survival, it didn't hurt that she was certainly easy on the eyes as well. He wasn't enough of a cad to be the first place his mind went to, but he wasn't blind, either. At the sudden voice at the door, he jumped, scrambling to avoid dropping the lantern, an accident which would undoubtedly have created a far bigger mess than having two people locked in a shed. But he caught it and looked over toward her. There was a brief, irrational moment where he worried she might have known what he was thinking. But no, of course not. As she mentioned being cold, though, he had a completely different reason for embarrassment. He hadn't expected her to come into the room to find him, and had therefore neglected to make sure he was fully clothed when she did so. "Hazel." He set the oil lamp on the dresser and hurried back to the bed to pick his shirt back up. "Sorry, I should have closed the door fully. Are you done washing up?" He had bruises on his back, but figured they would be fine and wouldn't stop putting his shirt back on unless she insisted. .
12:09
Either way, he picked the lamp back up to take a step closer as he noticed something in her expression. Or just the way her face looked, perhaps. Her hair was different, yes, but that wasn't it. A bit of redness to the eyes perhaps, those subtle hints that someone had been crying. And he couldn't blame her if she had been. It had been a rough couple of days for anyone to go through. Even he was unsure how much longer he'd be able to go without breaking. If he hadn't managed to keep his mind on what needed to be done, he probably wouldn't last long, either. Better to be steadfast now and think about the true horrors later. "Are you alright?" he asked, rather than directly stating his assumption about what she'd been doing. Because rather he was right or wrong, mentioning that she seemed to have been crying would just risk making the situation more awkard. "I know it's been... 'a rough couple of days' would be an understatement, wouldn't it?" He picked up the jar of salve he'd used and made sure the lid was secure. "And don't worry about this. I'm done with it, but there's more if you have any new injuries." Though from the sound of it, she'd done more injuring than the other way around. He picked the oil lamp back up and headed back out, toward the sitting room. After all, she was definitely right about it being warmer out there, with its lit fireplace. He could rest for a moment before washing up. Not to mention he had to tell her about the things Mr. Cullingworth had told him. There was a chance they'd been false - they certainly didn't seem realistic - but at this point, it wasn't worth risking themselves over. Not when there was clearly something unnatural about this town. He sat down and set the lamp on the side table next to him. "I haven't found any maps," he said. "But he did tell me a few interesting things. Interesting and concerning. I'm not sure I believe it all, but I wanted to hear your thoughts on it anyway."
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 01/30/2024 03:40
"Yes, I washed. No, sorry I surprised you." Hazel averted her eyes to the jars on the desk as Ambrose hurried to don his shirt. Oh, right – they weren't actually married, so she shouldn't be looking at his form like that, even if she'd grown up with two younger brothers and had also helped to take care of an infant boy who had passed before his first birthday. Seeing the body of someone she hadn't grown up with wasn't the same at all. Maybe she'd gotten too complacent about acting like a proper lady after being with a man almost twenty-four seven... or maybe it was the circumstances. His jumpy reaction hadn't exactly been normal, even if they were in a town full of murderers and potential murderers. She remembered how he had been startled the first time she had tapped his shoulder on the way into town, too. It reminded her of her own behavior for months after her capture, and she wondered what Ambrose's life had been like. It certainly couldn't have been easy, based on his heritage alone, she knew. She had a sad feeling that he was used to being on the receiving end of physical violence, despite his stature. She should get to know her fake husband better when she could. .
03:40
"You're right. I'm not fine," she replied bluntly when Ambrose noticed how she looked and asked whether she was alright. Her eyes still felt warm and swollen. "I have no idea what to do about the Cullingworths, and I feel dreadful about leaving them in the shed when we could have... tried to run, I suppose." She breathed in, and exhaled a heavy sigh. "But thank you for asking. I appreciate it," she said sincerely, touching his upper arm in the shirt sleeve as he set the jar back down. "I'll use this on my arm and then apply it to your back by the fire," she insisted. "You can keep your shirt on." She wanted to at least try to take care of her travel companion. She was a decent person and not an awful one, she tried to tell herself. She considered it partially her fault that Ambrose was injured. If she'd just shot Mr. Cullingworth instead of saying they should take him outside, then the older man wouldn't have been in a position to knee Ambrose in the back, and they wouldn't be in this precarious situation worrying about threats. No, murder wasn't the solution. She frowned at her thoughts as she picked up the jar of salve from the desk where Ambrose had left it, and followed him to the sitting room. There, she sat by the fire again and pushed up her right sleeve to rub the salve into her strained forearm and nodded, ready to listen to him speak about whatever their host had told him. She hoped the map wasn't in the shed, and that Ambrose had simply missed it in the darkness of Mr. Cullingworth's bedroom. All she wanted to do was rest and forget about the day, but she knew they should talk about any clues that might help them get out of Crimson Cross.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 01/31/2024 22:51
Ambrose wish he could have given some advice about the Cullingworths. Except he had no clue, either. He'd never had to lock anyone in a shed before. He'd been locked in a small room in a basement a few times before, but that had been different. He definitely wasn't doing exactly some of the things that had been done to him, and he'd tell himself that until he could convince himself he wasn't being as bad as the priests at the missionary school. The situation was different. Self-defense. Sure, Mr. Cullingworth had stopped attacking before they'd decided to lock him away, but it wasn't like they could trust him. And there were only so many places they could go before the man or his daughter found them, if they decided Ambrose and Hazel had offended them enough to be worth hunting down. He tried not to think about it, as he instead started to explain what he'd been told. "Most believable is that he's been exaggerating his injuries to shirk work," he said. It still seemed odd, that someone would go to such lengths to avoid doing a shred of basic physical labour. Then again, the man had been a slave owner before the revolt - he probably was more accustomed to treating other living people like they existed for his convenience than he was to being at all self-reliant. "He's really insistent on the idea that there's no way out of town, too. I'm not about to give up on leaving, but it seems like whatever solution does exist, won't be anything we'd easily guess. It might take some time to figure out." As she finished applying the salve to her arm, he turned so his back was to her. She'd said he could keep his shirt on, so he tried to be as decent as possible and just lift the back of it enough to access the newer bruises. Between his already-uncomfortable position in the chair and the fact that the bruises were about midway up his back, it wasn't exactly effective. .
22:51
"I think it's going to have to come off. Terribly sorry, Miss Schmidt," he said, despite the absurdity of being so formal while also removing an article of clothing from himself. He took the shirt and undershirt off anyway, folding it to set neatly aside while he continued. "He also mentioned what's at the other end of town - a mound of bones, apparently." He grimaced. "I really hope he was joking when he implied that cannibalism is fairly commonplace here." It would have been a tasteless joke, but better a tasteless joke than the horrifying truth. Unfortunately, he wasn't quick to dismiss any potential depravity as impossible in this town. It further cemented his resolve to stay close to Hazel while they were there, to make sure no harm came to either of them. And to maybe stick to vegetarian foods, despite the fact that vegetation also seemed relatively sparse, save for the occasional farm or cluster of bushes that could be pollinated by wind or water. But there was more he had to explain. "As for why there's no cemetery... well, he told me that too, but that's the hardest to believe, I find." He told her the story Mr. Cullingworth had told him, though he couldn't help but try to sound more sympathetic toward Father Bishop's sister despite how sensationalized the story he'd been told had been when he'd heard it. He only paused once Hazel was finished putting the salve on his back to make sure he was fully and properly dressed again.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 02/01/2024 01:07
Hazel nodded as Ambrose told her about his conversation with Mr. Cullingworth. Dottie had also mentioned the malingering and the lack of a way out of the town, so the two farmers' stories aligned there. What would happen if two people tied together a bunch of really long ropes and one walked from one end of the town to the other? She wondered about it, shaking her head in disbelief, unaware that Ambrose had thought about throwing a stone earlier. Would they be able to tie a knot once they ended up on the other side of town? That made no logical sense. Was this place even real? What if she could wake up tomorrow and discover that it had all been a nightmare? But she knew there was no chance of that happening. "We could find a long string here, go back to the town limit sign, tie the string to one wrist per person or to the sign, and watch what happens when one of us tries to walk east," she suggested. She wasn't too hopeful that such an experiment would help them understand the cause of being unable to leave the town, though. .
01:07
Hazel half-chuckled a bit as Ambrose switched to using her surname. "It's fine, Ambrose," she told him. She was too tired now to feel shy, and all of her focus was on the conversation. Then she winced as she saw the bruises up close in the firelight. "Oh, no. Maybe we should have killed that–" She shut her mouth before she could utter something unbecoming, glaring briefly at the floor where Mr. Cullingworth had been, then shaking her head. "Sorry." With an expression of concentration, she rubbed the salve gently with her fingertips into the discolored parts of her companion's skin, almost like she was trying to pet him – until he told her about the bone mound and the likely practice of cannibalism. She froze, looking down at the man's back, the lean muscles now shiny with salve. Her fingers were still lingering on a purple bruise beneath his shoulder blade. She saw his skin, his flesh, and the outline of a few of his bones, the scapula and ribcage. And people here would eat that. Hazel quickly spun away and staggered to stand in front of the fire facing it, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable and a little queasy. Sure, she'd had the passing thought when they'd arrived at the farm, but to hear it confirmed... Well, she didn't think that Mr. Cullingworth had been joking. "It makes sense if the animals all panicked and accidentally killed each other, had to be killed, or ran off," she muttered over her shoulder. "I guess some families were starving, and that's how it started... And there's no shortage of human corpses." She wiped her hands on her apron and sat back down in her chair. . (edited)
01:08
"We could talk to that widow who lives near the burned church if we happen to find a house that looks like it was built over a big fire," Hazel said. "We don't know if she's really gone insane because the old man may have been lying. Though I don't know why either of us would need to dig, anyway, unless– No, we'll both get out of here alive." She looked away due to decorum and continued speaking as Ambrose dressed again. "So, tomorrow, we could search in the daylight for a map. I just hope it's not in the shed. I'd like to wash my clothes and my hair because I'm tired of all this blood. The stream's not far, so I'll bring in the water myself, but Dottie said that we're not to toss anything in it, or folks downstream will get sick." She paused. "Whenever we're ready to leave, we could go to the edge of town again, or to the burned church place, or find a ring... And do something about the two in the shed." She stretched out her legs in the chair and heaved a sigh. "We'll have to feed them and figure out food, too – see what's in that barn." She hoped that it wasn't a half-eaten person, still alive. "What do you think we should do first once we leave?" (edited)
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Ambrose Scott BOT 02/02/2024 02:14
Ambrose straightened out his shirt and sat comfortably once more. "I don't think they'd store the map in the shed. Unless one of the farmers had it with them the whole time. It's more likely that it's either somewhere in the house or they lied about it." Then again, he was thinking logically about a town like Crimson Cross, where rationality didn't exactly seem like a priority. "As for the string experiment..." He trailed off, thinking of everything that might go wrong. It didn't sound dangerous, but neither did staying overnight in a town, and they both knew where that had gotten them. But his curiosity might have been stronger than his self preservation, because he kind of wanted to find some rope and try it anyway. As long as he was the test subject and it didn't endanger someone else. "We'll see about it once we've got everything else in order," he said after a moment. "I really want to see about finding the map first, then a ring. We can see if Dottie's clothes might fit you, then wash the ones you have." And now they were stealing, too. Great, they'd turned into exactly what the racist had assumed at first. In their defense, she hadn't left them with much choice in the matter. "Let's just... Stick to eating vegetables and eggs for now. I'm not exactly keen on eating anybody." But would they have much choice when the winter came along? ...No, they wouldn't be here for that long. He'd make sure of it. He just wasn't sure how. .
02:15
But there were bigger concerns at the moment. What were they going to do about those two? Letting them go would be the decent thing to do, but was it practical? They certainly wouldn't be able to sleep peacefully if they did, reassured that their hosts wouldn't seek revenge once they let their guards down. They couldn't leave them there either. It was inhumane at best, and would make them no better than anyone else in the town. Maybe they were already no better than them. Killing them was... not a solution either. Self-defense was one thing, but in cold blood, out of fear for what they might do? He couldn't justify it, not really. It was easier to think of a different topic. Anything but what to do about the two people in the shed. "Leave the farm, or the town?" he asked. "Because I'm thinking once we get out of this town, we stick with your original plan - head back east, send a letter or telegram to your family at the first town we come to. Hope we don't end up trapped with four hundred or so potential murderers again. Get a horse or two once we're somewhere normal." He looked over at her, thinking about their cover story. Would they keep it up once they were out of the town again? "All I know is we will find a way out." And he'd keep saying it until he believed it. He stood up again, remembering that there was a washbasin waiting for him. It was dark, so he picked up the oil lamp. "I'm going to wash up, then I think we could both use some rest. We can think about things more in the morning." If he could bring himself to actually fall asleep under the circumstances. It wasn't like the farmers would disappear overnight. "Shout if you need anything." He made his way over to the kitchen, limping slightly to keep pressure off his sprain.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 02/02/2024 07:37
"I'm sorry. I was asking what we should prioritize once we left the farm, not the town," Hazel clarified, realizing only now that Ambrose was probably just as exhausted as she was. He hadn't even reacted to her taking too long to put on the salve when he'd been awkward and stiff earlier. He might also be too tired to be shy anymore, like her. That was good, in a way. "I meant there seem to be three things we could do if we don't find Mr. Cullingworth's map," she continued, and listed them. "Walking east with a rope tied to the town sign, talking to Father Bishop's sister, and finding a ring... But I agree that the plan once we leave the town stays the same, and we should keep being husband and wife for our safety. So I guess the ring comes first, regardless of whether or not we find the map." She nodded as Ambrose stood to go wash up, and then thought about the sleeping arrangements. The bed in their room had been tiny, smaller than the one at the infirmary. Should they really share it? The only times when Hazel had been apart from Ambrose were when they'd had to visit an outhouse, and during the separate talks with Dottie and Mr. Cullingworth. What if he wanted some personal space? .
07:38
She'd heard that men sometimes needed to do... things to... satisfy their... needs, whether they were married or not – or she'd read mentions of it in romance novels and heard gossip from her married friends. Should she give Ambrose privacy in case he needed to do... that? She'd heard that not being able to do it could make a man ornery, so to lower her own chance of being murdered, she should make sure that Ambrose had a chance to take care of that. Also, if the farmers broke in and Ambrose and Hazel were in separate rooms, the farmers wouldn't be able to kill both guests at once unless they split up, so that was another reason to sleep separately. Hazel pushed up off the armchair and carefully walked to the room that didn't belong to Mr. Cullingworth to check whether Dottie's bed would be serviceable. She lit the oil lamp in that room and checked the pillows and sheets to make sure they were clean enough, and sat on the bed to make sure that it wasn't sagging. Then she looked in the closet at Dottie's dresses. They all looked a couple inches short and might be tight around the shoulders and bust, but would be serviceable for a day or two if she wanted to wash her own clothes. .
07:38
Satisfied, Hazel was about to leave the room when the vast number of books on the bookshelf caught her eye. Curious, she went over to the well-worn spines and held up the lamp to read some of the titles. Her eyes got wider and wider. Oh, dear. Just from the way Dottie was speaking to them both, she should have known... "Apache Passions" – "Southern Sparks: Sizzling Saga of the Semi-Cherokee" – "Whispers of the Half-Blood Heartthrob" – "Dixie Daydreams: Kisses in the Cotton Field" – "Sweet Tea and Savage Suppositions" – "Rendezvous with the Sioux" – "The Red's Captive Wife"... With morbid curiosity, she made the mistake of picking up a random one just to see how bad it was. . (edited)
07:39
In the scorching embrace of the southern sun, Lulu-Belle found herself ensnared within the intricate dance of tradition and the magnetic pull of destiny. The daughter of a prosperous plantation owner, she yearned for a love as intoxicating as the sweet tea that quenched her thirst on languid afternoons. Enter Jackson Thunderbear Freeman, the enigmatic figure with a mysterious past, half-Cherokee, half-Negro, all shadow. His soulful gaze and heated whispers stirred a tempest within Lulu-Belle, igniting a passion that defied the conventions of their time. One sultry afternoon, the distant echo of hooves announced Jackson's arrival. He emerged on horseback, his bronzed, dark, tall, and handsome features bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. "Lulu-Belle, my dearest, darling, delicious, ravishing, sweet summer rose with dewy skin as pale and beautiful as the porcelain of a fresh washbasin," he murmured, his voice a velvet caress on the breeze. "Our love is like a river, wild and untamed, destined to carve its own path through the tapestry of fate." Lulu-Belle, torn between societal expectations and the irresistible allure of forbidden love, met Jackson's gaze with a vulnerability that mirrored the pure white cotton in full bloom, ripe and ready to be plucked and freed from its confines. "Oh, Jackson, our hearts beat as one, yet society seeks to silence the melody. Shall we defy the symphony of whispers and surrender to the crescendo of our desires? You have already stolen my heart, and not even my arranged marriage shall tear us apart! Now steal me away in the moonlight from this misery, just as you so skillfully stole your horse!" .
07:39
Hazel coughed loudly, choking and almost vomiting, and slammed the book closed. She shoved it back onto the shelf, stumbled backwards a few steps, then hurried out of the room back to the sitting room to calm down and wait for Ambrose. After a minute, she rushed back to the room to swipe the book off the shelf. Then she marched back to the sitting room and threw it into the fireplace.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 02/02/2024 15:22
"Ring first," Ambrose agreed. "I'm not as sure about the other possibilities. Just because Miss Bishop has a sympathetic story doesn't mean she's going to be entirely harmless. Or that she'll want visitors, for that matter." He tried to remember whether they had been warned to avoid her home or not. There had been so many warnings, but they had all come from a man who had turned and tried to kill him at the drop of a hat. So maybe some could be taken with a grain of salt, either way. "Maybe we can test your string theory second, if we can find a long enough rope, then consider paying Miss Bishop a visit. I just don't want to be unprepared if we do go to see her." At least they had the beginnings of a plan for the next day. Bring some food to the shed, get some laundry soaking, then leave the farm to get a few other tasks done. It helped him relax at least a bit as he closed the kitchen door behind him. He set the lantern on the counter, then splashed the water over his face first. He couldn't help but recoil for a moment, as it had grown cold. There was still a slight draft, even with the window boarded up and the curtains drawn, that didn't help matters. He shrugged off his shirt next, to start properly washing up. If it was cold in the kitchen, what would it be like for the two people in the shed? Should they bring some blankets over as well? Not realizing Hazel had entertained similar thoughts earlier, he briefly wondered if just killing them would have been more merciful. But Mr. Cullingworth had been begging for his life. Which was a greater factor - that he'd been begging for his life, or that he'd been the first to attack? Damn it, they should have knocked them both unconscious and run away from that farm. As odd as the infirmary had been, with their strange and cold host, at least she hadn't really attacked. She'd just... performed allegedly horrendous surgery on someone with scissors and threatened him into keeping silent about her porch corpse. .
15:22
There really was no safe place in town, was there? The best bet at a haven was to kill a homeowner and occupy their land. He shivered again, this time not at the chill in the air, but at the coldness of his own thoughts. He quickly made sure he was fully dressed, glancing toward the door. At some point in his reverie, he'd thought he'd heard coughing. He should probably check and make sure Hazel was alright, though if someone had broken in or there was some other form of serious trouble, there likely would have been more noise than that. He smoothed out his shirt before taking his oil lamp and opening the kitchen door. A sound of incredibly determined footsteps greeted him, and he watched as Hazel made her way into the room, her mission clear on her face. Or the fact that she had one, at least. His eyebrows lifted in an expression of curiosity as she tossed a book into the fire. He didn't get a good look at the cover, but judging from her scandalized expression, he could get a good guess at where she'd gotten it from. So he made no attempt to stop her as the pages ignited and the flames in the fireplace grew a bit. He simply picked up the fire poker to make sure the enflamed tome remained in the hearth. "I take it you found Dottie's shelf of kindling?" He set the poker back on its rack and looked back at her. Normally, he'd take issue with an expensive luxury such as a novel being tossed into the fire like that (though from what he'd seen, this one seemed to be bound with paper, a less common but far cheaper method of publication), but he'd seen enough to know it was justified in this case. "I won't ask what exactly you read, if only because I fear the answer." .
15:22
He looked past her toward the hallway as he considered their options. He'd been ready to share a bed when there was only one available, but with three bedrooms now free, it seemed indecent to ask her to sleep beside him. It wasn't like they were actually married, after all. But if they split up, wouldn't it be more dangerous if their two... hosts? Prisoners?... if the farmers broke out of the shed and decided to come after them? If they attacked him or Hazel, would the other come running in time? Would that even be the wise choice to make? Best to let her make the choice for herself. "Since there are more rooms available, what would you like to do about sleeping arrangements?" he asked, trying not to express any preference one way or another. "There might be safety in numbers." And warmth, but that seemed like the sort of thing that might give her the wrong idea if he mentioned it. "But some privacy might be reasonable enough to expect. It's your choice."
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 02/02/2024 20:57
"Something along the lines of..." Hazel started. If Ambrose felt the need to state that he wouldn't ask exactly what she read, he probably wanted to ask loosely what she read, and he looked curious enough, anyway. Her face contorted in mockery and disgust as she picked up the poker from the rack and jabbed at the book in the fire as though she could also burn away the image of the words from her mind. She made her voice high-pitched to paraphrase the lines as she glared into the fire. "'Alas, Jackson Thunderbear Freeman, half red and half black, but all tall, dark, and handsome mysterious shadow, please steal away me, the fair southern belle, from my plantation, like you stole your horse!' But in more purple prose, of course. It would only do folks harm to read, so..." Hazel jerked her chin at the fireplace. She guessed that the collection had first belonged to Dottie's mother because Dottie was born here, unless the latter had a hobby of roaming a dangerous town to amass that collection, or maybe there was a bookstore or library. .
20:57
Hazel shook her head and set the fire poker back, not wanting to think about the remaining Cullingworths in the shed. If she and Ambrose had simply knocked them both unconscious and run, they would currently be freezing instead of the Cullingworths, and they couldn't guarantee that the farmers wouldn't get revenge later. She looked at Ambrose as he brought up sleeping arrangements, grateful for the change in topic. Maybe he did need to do that, after all. "Oh, I was just about to ask if you wanted some breathing room. The bed we had in the afternoon was so narrow that we couldn't lie shoulder to shoulder, and I don't want to bother you if I can't sleep. If we're sleep-deprived, we might become cross with each other later... So I'll take Dottie's room. And let's put furniture in front of our doors, just in case." Hazel picked up the salve from the side table and held it out to Ambrose. "Remember to put this on your ankle when you take off your shoes for bed." She hesitated. Now would be the appropriate time to say farewell for the day, but it would be disingenuous to wish Ambrose a good night, as it definitely had not been a good night again for either of them, and she predicted that she'd have nightmares. "See you in the morning," she said instead, and used her usual greeting and parting gesture with la bise that some ladies back home used. She tiptoed to touch cheeks with him, kissing the air next to his stubble on both sides, and then left tiredly for the bedroom. (edited)
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Ambrose Scott BOT 02/04/2024 15:48
Ambrose couldn't help but laugh at her paraphrasing of the book. It was more or less what he'd expected from the titles, but it felt good to be able to laugh at the absurdity, like it made the events of the past few days just a little bit lighter. Still, he was glad he hadn't been the one to read one out of curiosity. Better to avoid annoyance, given the moments his anger had already lended itself to dangerous thoughts here. A part of him worried that it might not be the town. Sure it hadn't happened before their arrival, but what if there was something wrong with him? The moment of levity quickly passed, leaving him with a deep sense of dread that he attempted to keep silent. "I'm just as likely to not be able to sleep as you," he admitted, trying not to reflect on what they'd done. As it was, if she was saying that, maybe she needed some space. He wouldn't protest. "But alright, some breathing room can't hurt. I'll take the room we had earlier today." Because it seemed less ghoulish to take the guest room than a room that actively belonged to someone he'd contemplated murdering several times that same day. "If you need anything, you'll know where to find me." The parting gesture wasn't particularly familiar to him - more of an upper-class thing, he assumed - but he caught on to her intent enough to lower his head. He watched her go for a moment, still holding onto the jar of salve she'd given him. Despite himself, he couldn't help but worry. Sure she would most likely be fine, but what if she wasn't? What if he wasn't? What were the odds that something would happen to one of them and the other wouldn't know? He shook his head and limped back to the guest room. He had to stop worrying and get some rest, or he wouldn't be in any shape to handle whatever might come their way when it did. .
15:48
Once he reached the room, he pushed the door shut and placed the salve and lamp on the bedside table. There was an empty dresser and a small writing desk, so he pushed the desk in front of the door, ignoring the protests from his injured ankle and the loud grinding noise of the furniture moving across the wooden floor. The dresser was moved to cover the window in the room, since it seemed like a more likely spot for someone to try to break in with less time to react if they did. What mattered was that the room was secure, yet he still couldn't help but feel a bit trapped. He suppressed a shiver of unease and sat at the edge of the bed, removing his boots. As instructed, he applied the salve to his ankle as his thoughts wandered. Even though they barely knew each other, and at times it was like they came from different worlds, Hazel had shown genuine concern for him. It wasn't something he was used to, but it was something he wanted to be able to get used to. He looked over at the door and smiled faintly, before tucking his pistol under his pillow and lying down on the bed. It had been small for two people, but was perfectly suitable for one alone. He closed his eyes and struggled to find sleep.
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Hazel Mae Taylor-Schmidt BOT 02/04/2024 23:55
In Dottie's room, Hazel pushed a chair in front of the door and then the nightstand with the vase of wildflowers in front of the window, since both the bookshelf and the dresser were too heavy for her to move on her own, especially with her strained right forearm. It wasn't the most secure setup, but at least the vase would crash and wake probably both her and Ambrose if someone tried to break through the window, and anyone outside would have an awkward time getting in if they weren't expecting a desk instead of the floor. She felt guilty again when she moved the wildflowers right beside the window. Despite her flaws, Dottie was clearly a romantic who dreamed of a peaceful (yet excitingly rich and powerful) life, based on her description of what type of man she'd want courting her, the books in her bookshelf, and the decoration. Hazel shook her head sadly, sat on the bed and untied her boots, and then extinguished the oil lamp and set it on the floor by the wall, because the only nightstand was at the window. She settled down in the bed, shifting her bag so that she could curl up but easily reach her pocket pistol, and pulled the covers up over her ears. How many bullets did she have left – two out of five? How many more would she have to use in this town? The bed was cold; she shivered as her eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight coming in through the partially boarded, curtained window. .
23:55
After a while, she closed her eyes and tried to pray for her Papa, Mama, and Samuel, but also for the two strangers at the dry goods store who had died today, and for the Cullingworths in the shed, even if both of them had tried to kill her and Ambrose. The guilt and shame and sorrow made her heart ache, so she moved on quickly, not wanting to cry again. She prayed for the rest of her family and tried to fill her thoughts with good memories before sleeping, but even those were tarnished by the shadow of her parents' death and how she could never have them back. She pressed her palms to her eyes and thought about Ambrose instead – his smile earlier that morning at the infirmary, his laugh at her summary of the romance novel, his light brown eyes sparkling in the light of the fire. It was truly a pity that they hadn't met in Lexington, or even in California, where they'd been headed. But what were the chances that she, an investment banking analyst and bookkeeper, would have spent enough time with a farmhand or stablehand to learn what kind of person he was? Well, she had to be grateful for what she had, and she hoped to God that she and her companion would make it out of Crimson Cross together. So she prayed for Ambrose's health and safety, too, and then briefly for herself, asking for forgiveness for her sins – even including unintentionally stealing the .44s from the dry goods store because they'd run out. . (edited)
23:56
Hazel had already figured that God couldn't quite hear her or anyone else here, but the ritual and the memories of her past comforted her a little, regardless. She imagined her Mama reading from the Bible and praying for the family and servants and slaves all together before bedtime, and she could picture Ambrose there in the sitting room with them. Mind now somewhat more at peace, and weary with fatigue from the healing concussion, Hazel drifted off. It would be a few hours until the nightmares visited her.
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Ambrose Scott BOT 02/25/2024 21:47
Eventually, the merciful oblivion of sleep found its way to Ambrose. Unfortunately for him, it didn't remain merciful for long. He shivered in his sleep, pulling the blankets tight over himself as he turned in his borrowed - or stolen - bed. If he had been fully awake, he might have been able to blame the cold. But sleep meant he couldn't keep the look of terror off his face at the visions that gripped him. He was trapped with the fears and guilt of his own mind for what felt like hours, but later he would wonder whether there was something more to it. He looked down at the hole in the ground. It was deeper than any he'd seen before, invading the earth too deep to see the bottom, let alone anything in it. Yet instinctively, he understood its purpose. To call it a mass grave would have been to project a regard for the dead onto it that didn't suit its nature. He knelt in front of it, but stayed away from its edges, aware that the fall would kill him. The sight was a bloodless one, and the town of Crimson Cross carried on around him as though oblivious of its existence. Looking at it should not have brought a sense of dread. But it wasn't the look of the thing - it was the understanding of it that made it at once unbearable to gaze upon and impossible to tear his eyes from. Then there was the wailing. A communication, he was sure, from deep within its depths. It spoke in no human language, but it spoke to him, and to any that would listen. It clouded his mind, bid him to throw his caution away and join it. The promise of understanding even more, comprehending its true secrets, a truth beyond what language could convey. A terrible knowledge, yet one that he desperately needed. He inched closer, still on his knees. Yet hands from an unseen source held him back, then chains, then the hole and the voice grew further and further. .
21:47
He fought back until the dirt beneath him was no longer bloodless. He didn't feel the injury, couldn't tell whether it was his or someone else's, and couldn't stop fighting. He had to know, to prevent the worst from coming. He pulled at the chains, fought until his hand found a rapidly-cooling arm. And she was there on the ground in front of him. Face-down, hair mostly covered by a bonnet, but her light brown skin and what curly hair could be seen made her recognizable enough. "No..." He turned her over, felt desperately for a pulse, but no living person's body was that cold. And still, the wailing told him that worse would come. His eyes opened into a still-dark room as he breathed heavily. In his just-waking state, he couldn't move more than that, and he could have sworn the shadows in the room moved on their own. Until he came to, and they were still once more. His hand still felt heavy as he lifted it to wipe the sweat from his brow. Just another nightmare. This town really was getting to him, and he found himself questioning whether or not knowing more about their situation would really help them. They had to get out of this town. Had anyone tried leaving in the middle of the night, or had they all assumed it was too dangerous? He stumbled to his feet, ignoring the discomfort in his injured leg, and started toward the barricaded door only to stop short of it. He rested a hand on the desk he'd set in front of the door and reconsidered. How pathetic would it be, running to Hazel in the middle of the night and saying they had to leave because he'd had a bad dream? That was something children did. He needed to keep himself together. For both of their sakes. He sighed and returned to sit on the edge of the bed.
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