Wrote up a background story for one of my characters, and it got a little long-winded. About three paragraphs in, I realized No Way In Croatoa is this gonna fit in the ID, so I decided to post it here, after my long absence. Not sure if I'm posting it for review or for myself, but enjoy it if you can
It was on Old Man Millard's stagecoach that Harvey Dittman rode shotgun. The pay was good enough to keep fed and plaster up the occasional scuffle that came with the job. Indians, bandits, vigilantes; that all came with the job, too. Life was hard, and staying alive was harder, but such was Harvey's lot, and he relished it as his own.
He was born of a ****** and a corrupt mayor whose rigged election surprised the township nigh as much as the township surprised him with the gallows. Raised by that selfsame town, Harvey received little mercy for the blood he carried, and thusly did he stow away on Vince Millard's coach the night he took the rod from his caretaker, the town doctor, and beat him bloody.
That was seventeen years ago, in Harvey's own time, and he was considering this course of events as it flashed before his eyes. They had been hit, either by tomahawk or jackblade, but Millard looked mighty dead, and the coach was aflame, hopefully empty. This scene faded rapidly, as did Harvey's grasp on reality and the charred rifle butt he still yet held.
Weeks danced between the fields and behind the mountains. Harvey came to, a fact aided by the blood rushing to his head and hindered by the fact he hung from his feet. A canyon of a man, red as the dusky sands, approached him and started to chant, as Harvey wondered what death might bring in this lush yet vacant valley. The witch doctor before him collapsed, suddenly, and began to convulse, to throb and blacken like Millard had under that flaming coach. The Indian was no more; a great crow stood before him, and it chanted as well. The tree Harvey hung from gently laid him on the ground as it gnarled, shrank, and curled into an ornate war bow, the rope unravelling from Harvey's feet and forming a bowstring. The crow grew silent and nudged the weapon toward Harvey, staring, and then it spoke: "Those that created me have fallen; my people waver between extinction and apathy. Carry me to this place of rebirth and protect me, as I have protected you. The tribes that have fought for me have died, and their spirits are no longer your kin -- they are your own. You are the Keeper of Crow."
Again, Harvey began to relive his past. He watched as his mother changed out of her Sunday clothes in front of the town banker, he watched as his father was strung up in front of a cheering crowd. He saw the town doctor making a switch from a tree limb as his mother slept drunkenly. He witnessed his quivering foster father beg for mercy, was discovered amidst the luggage by a middle-aged Vince Millard, he killed for the first time again, the soap factory owner that butchered local girls. He watched as Vince slowly aged, as Vince lost his right hand while changing the coach wheels, as he gave up drinking for the twelfth time. Then, as the man Harvey called "Gramps" burnt alive, he awoke.
A flaming wagon lay before him, and an old man railed for help from within. Harvey's feet came to life, though he soon realized the wagon was not quite a stagecoach and the gentleman inside wasn't quite Millard. While Harvey dragged the aged victim from the strange metallic wagon, a laugh came from behind him. An arrogant youth stood with flaming hands, then snarled as he flung a bit of the fire at the old man. The wind whipped at Harvey's fingertips. Instantly, the fireball sputtered uselessly on the end of an arrow as Harvey peered at the youth down the length of a second arrow, already drawn. "This is Old Man Millard's stagecoach, son, and I ride shotgun."
Wrote up a background story for one of my characters, and it got a little long-winded. About three paragraphs in, I realized No Way In Croatoa is this gonna fit in the ID, so I decided to post it here, after my long absence. Not sure if I'm posting it for review or for myself, but enjoy it if you can
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It was on Old Man Millard's stagecoach that Harvey Dittman rode shotgun. The pay was good enough to keep fed and plaster up the occasional scuffle that came with the job. Indians, bandits, vigilantes; that all came with the job, too. Life was hard, and staying alive was harder, but such was Harvey's lot, and he relished it as his own.
He was born of a ****** and a corrupt mayor whose rigged election surprised the township nigh as much as the township surprised him with the gallows. Raised by that selfsame town, Harvey received little mercy for the blood he carried, and thusly did he stow away on Vince Millard's coach the night he took the rod from his caretaker, the town doctor, and beat him bloody.
That was seventeen years ago, in Harvey's own time, and he was considering this course of events as it flashed before his eyes. They had been hit, either by tomahawk or jackblade, but Millard looked mighty dead, and the coach was aflame, hopefully empty. This scene faded rapidly, as did Harvey's grasp on reality and the charred rifle butt he still yet held.
Weeks danced between the fields and behind the mountains. Harvey came to, a fact aided by the blood rushing to his head and hindered by the fact he hung from his feet. A canyon of a man, red as the dusky sands, approached him and started to chant, as Harvey wondered what death might bring in this lush yet vacant valley. The witch doctor before him collapsed, suddenly, and began to convulse, to throb and blacken like Millard had under that flaming coach. The Indian was no more; a great crow stood before him, and it chanted as well. The tree Harvey hung from gently laid him on the ground as it gnarled, shrank, and curled into an ornate war bow, the rope unravelling from Harvey's feet and forming a bowstring. The crow grew silent and nudged the weapon toward Harvey, staring, and then it spoke: "Those that created me have fallen; my people waver between extinction and apathy. Carry me to this place of rebirth and protect me, as I have protected you. The tribes that have fought for me have died, and their spirits are no longer your kin -- they are your own. You are the Keeper of Crow."
Again, Harvey began to relive his past. He watched as his mother changed out of her Sunday clothes in front of the town banker, he watched as his father was strung up in front of a cheering crowd. He saw the town doctor making a switch from a tree limb as his mother slept drunkenly. He witnessed his quivering foster father beg for mercy, was discovered amidst the luggage by a middle-aged Vince Millard, he killed for the first time again, the soap factory owner that butchered local girls. He watched as Vince slowly aged, as Vince lost his right hand while changing the coach wheels, as he gave up drinking for the twelfth time. Then, as the man Harvey called "Gramps" burnt alive, he awoke.
A flaming wagon lay before him, and an old man railed for help from within. Harvey's feet came to life, though he soon realized the wagon was not quite a stagecoach and the gentleman inside wasn't quite Millard. While Harvey dragged the aged victim from the strange metallic wagon, a laugh came from behind him. An arrogant youth stood with flaming hands, then snarled as he flung a bit of the fire at the old man. The wind whipped at Harvey's fingertips. Instantly, the fireball sputtered uselessly on the end of an arrow as Harvey peered at the youth down the length of a second arrow, already drawn. "This is Old Man Millard's stagecoach, son, and I ride shotgun."