welcome to blue sky wild! We are a literate-advanced, mature, supernatural western roleplay staged in the heart of the American West in 1872 and exploring the tale of how the west was won! Our tale is set in the fictional land of the Northwind Basin, the land surrounding the two towns of Blackacre and Twin Gulch that sit on the border between New Mexico and Texas territories. As if gunslingers and bandits weren't enough to cause trouble for the Basin's folks, werewolves and vampires roam these parts at night raising hell for anyone they meet. With a war brewing between the werewolves and the vampire coven while the townsfolk remain unaware, whose side will you be on?
northwind basin
season: summer 1872
FORECAST: the texas summer is hot and dry and even the occasional storm offers little respite from the heat
Please be sure to post HERE by July 25th to save your characters!

MOST WANTED: Conclave and Grayhollow Leaders!

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 A Stray on my Doorstep
Sarah Dubeau
it's complicated.
And so it had come to this: acting as the errand girl of some newly turned junk salesman. Sarah was puzzled by her handler’s commands, but had long learned that asking questions often worsened her situation. Instead she set off for the Twin Gulch shop with virtually no information about the shopkeeper or how he could possibly benefit from her presence.

It was midday when she sauntered into the store, sending dust dancing in sun beams. The air in the shop had the musk of old paper and leather. Despite the small bell announcing her arrival, the place seemed empty. In her perpetual fog of disinterest, Sarah began to paw at the nicknacks lining the shelves: A copper spyglass, a hand carved checkerboard, a grouping of crystal bottles. Everything in her wake was left slightly askew by her dirty little fingers. Her palm clapped against rows of book spines as if strumming a room sized instrument. In a cluster of women's clothes at the back, an paris designed woman’s hat spoke to her. The pristine white brim flopped over her brow as she pulled it over the dusty mats in her braids.

Finally, she found the fidgeter's piece de resistance: a globe mounted on a heavy sterling base near the shop’s center. The globe swiveled wildly on its access as Sarah gave it another indelicate spin. She wondered absently what was the absolute furthest point on the spherical map from the wretched little shop. How long would it take to get there - and would if be far enough to feel as if she were free of the disaster she’d left behind?

Probably not.

She’d drawn a few odd looks on the way into town. That couldn’t have been without design. Someone in the Conclave wanted her presence known, as to why she could only imagine. Those leeches think in centuries, but if she were to guess at their short game, she’d wager they wanted word of her return to reach Abraham. She grimaced at the thought. Fifty years later and she was no more ready to face him than the day she had left.

This post has been edited by Sarah Dubeau: Jul 10 2018, 11:03 PM
Armand Coulson
The Conclave
Pawnbroker & Black Market Trader
PRONOUNS: she/her
It was rare to actually find the owner of the local Twin Gulch pawnshop showing face and making trade within the establishment. Although he did on occasion, make an appearance, it was far more likely to meet the charming allure of the young, banker’s daughter who’d been trusted to man the store in the owner’s absence. It was her even rarer absence though, courtesy of a sick father, that prompted Armand Coulson to take care of business today. That, and he’d received word from the powers that be to expect a certain ‘delivery’ of fangs and claws behind the guise of subjugation. The delivery notes hardly had him jumping for joy, but at the very least, his curiosity had been piqued. Rare items were his speciality, but if the rumours circulating the Deadwood Manor were indeed true, then the acquirement of this particular cargo sounded beyond even his proud expertise.

He was in the back room, appraising a piece of jewellery which was worth far more than the previous owner had realised, when he heard the bell chime above the front door. Unlike any half decent shop owner, he let the undeclared customer browse a while, whilst he finished up his appraisal. Few things irked him more than a half-finished job, especially when it had taken him so long to align the magnifier glass up so perfectly with the item in question. The nib of his pen meanwhile scratched a swirl of ink against the latest page in his heavy book, but the moderately elegant writing was perturbed by the sound of floorboards creaking in the main room. That and other tell-tale sounds… of hands placing fingerprints in places where they ought not to be. There was far too much movement happening in there for his liking, and by Juniper, what was that smell? His nose flinched as he caught a whiff of what could only be compared to wet dog and old forest must. It was the tainted blood though, that made his pen completely stall with a pressed blob of ink against the paper. Not fresh and appetising, and not even akin to an aged wine. Something about it just smelt a little… off.

With a sigh at the mess of ink he’d made on the page, Armand at long last pushed his stool back with the harsh and dull pitched scraping sound of wood against wood. Now it was his turn to mark his stealthier entrance with almost ghostly footsteps against the boards. Carefully, he pulled the red, velvet curtain aside, and peered through the doorway between rooms. The room was kept dark, purposefully blotting out the harsh midday sunlight with the excuse of needing to preserve his precious collections from the bleaching rays. Yet the light that still crept through the closed blinds and partitions still granted him a fair view of the perpetrator. The silhouette of the woman in a mismatched hat, spinning an expensive globe with hands that desperately needed a wash, was certainly enough cause for his light brown eyes to instantly narrow in distaste.

“That’s not a toy,” his educated voice announced. Choosing that moment to move into the room fully, he appeared behind the main shop counter, built mostly of mahogany wood and thick glass to house the odd piece of pawned jewellery items locked within. All fake, of course, but cheap and charming enough to be gifted to the henbane girls. “And unless you intend to purchase that hat,” he added with very sparing politeness. “I’d suggest you kindly remove it from your head.”

Digging his hands in his plain black, tailored trousers, the illusive pawnbroker slowly ventured his way along the route of the counter, keeping the sturdy object as a barrier between him, and the intruder whilst at the same time moving a little closer to her position. Intrigue brought his chin to lift slightly, as he unashamedly surveyed her appearance at greater length. If this was the cargo he’d been waiting for, then he was mildly appeased. At a glance, she certainly looked capable of treading across soil he didn’t dare dirty his shoes upon, but then again, only time would tell. Besides, he still had to confirm that the delivery was indeed accurate, and this wasn’t just a stray from the likes of Grayhollow or Farrow Creek.

“Now, what manner of business can I assist you with?” Or rather, what manner of business could she assist him with.

@Sarah Dubeau

This post has been edited by Armand Coulson: Jul 12 2018, 11:56 AM
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