FARRIER  â˘Â SUMMARY, POSSIBLE PLOTS, FULL APPLICATION  â˘Â BIOGRAPHY
written by julia, she/they, 22, mst!
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@ferriar
FARRIER  â˘Â SUMMARY, POSSIBLE PLOTS, FULL APPLICATION  â˘Â BIOGRAPHY
written by julia, she/they, 22, mst!

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twvlfthâ:
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Twelfth half-expects the other ( Farrier, is it? They rack their brain, trying to remember the names introduced to them over the last few days but, even if they wanted to, itâs like their brainâs processing power died along with Mother and The First ) to just stay around for a few moments before deciding to walk away. Itâs not out of rudeness but thereâs barely anyone in the camp that can actually âgloatâ about having had a full conversation with her.Â
And the moment she hears what Farrier has to say, Twelfth finds herself wishing it had been kept that way â no conversation, no sharing, no questions, none of what Farrier has presented her with. They look at him, they stare just for a moment too long as if theyâre trying to decipher whether or not they heard it right or if itâs just their brain trying to make them feel worse.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Itâs all real, isnât it? Farrier is asking about his brother. Farrier is asking about Raphael. Farrier is asking about The First. The same First Twelfth shot in the head. They can lie, they realise. They can say they donât know. What are the chances of running into someone from The Family that would know everything ( or at least enough ) to tell Farrier the truth?
Just lie, Twelfth, just lie. âRaphael? Your brother?â She killed her brother and she killed Farrierâs brother. Maybe she deserves whatever comes to her if her lips decide to pour out everything. âHe was your brother.â Itâs not a question, just a mumble and more of a vocal and painful realisation. âHeâs â heâs dead, heâs â he was shot.â Thatâs it. Thatâs all you have to say, Twelfth. Thatâs it. Good job.Â
âI shot him, I â he had his gun trained on me.â Farrier needs to know. He does. He deserves to mourn his brother, just like Twelfth has been trying to. He deserves to feel it all without deceit.Â
â
Twelfth speaks with hesitation, like they have to pry the words out of their own mouth with just their hands. Farrier watches their face carefully, mouth turned down into something that isnât quite a frown but close, and waits. He just wants an answer, he thinks, some sort of indication that will tell him what he needs to know. Itâs yes or itâs no, thatâs all it is, and yetâ
The world shrinks to the size of a pin. It pricks into his fingers, sharp but not exactly painful. Itâs not quite the devastation that Farrier would approximate or equivalate to being shot. No, itâs more like the breath is whisked out of him. The numbness starts at his feet and moves upwards at such a slow pace he thinks itâll never arrive at his skull. âWhat?â Theyâre joking. Itâs a joke, obviously. He starts to take a step forward, thinks better of it, and then does it anyways. Not quite crowding in. He doesnât want to startle her, send her on the run.
Heâs dead. He was shot. Alright. Heâs dead. He was shot. An inevitability, Farrier knows, and thatâs something he can cope with, the idea that things were always meant to be this way. And then Twelfth keeps fucking talking. Farrierâs head starts to spin. He has to think about it. He really has to think about it, what it is that theyâre telling him.
Iâm sorry, he wants to say, but the words donât come out. Itâs like theyâve reached into his mouth to pry the words out and keep âem for themselves. He steps back again. âWhat the fuck are you talking about?â The First â Raphael had been The First? The puzzle slowly begins to piece itself together, at least inside his head. âTwelfth,â he snaps, his voice sharp around the edges, taking another step forward and then back again and he doesnât know what to do with his hands, âwhat the fuck are you talking about?â
Theyâre lying. Itâs got to be some sick fucking prank, or a joke, or heâs dreaming. âYou shot him? You shot Raphael? My brother was in The Family long enough for you to shoot him?â
ofparagonâ:
On a good week folks come and go from Paragonâs tent like itâs open seasonâso this quiet? Itâs unbecoming of him. It gives him too much time to simmer there where that glaring sun canât reach. Farrierâs rare company, sure, but he takes what he can get. Drinks from it like a man gone a hundred days in a dust storm. He manages a laugh; faint and hoarse (nothing like his usual jovial bellow).
âThen Iâll enjoy it while it lasts.â
Paragon eats, and eats until his plate scrapes clean.
Thereâs only a passing groan of protestâmuffled around the tines of his fork. A few moments of staring Farrier out beneath a knitted brow. Then he puffs a small sigh and says, âI donât know how much lifting I got in me as of yet, but you point me in the right direction and Iâll make do.â Fed and ready as heâll ever be to do what Farrier wilt, Paragon turns to snag his shirt from where itâs draped by his cot. Pulls it over his head with only some difficulty, his sore body aching in protest.Â
âDayâs not getting any younger, right?â
â
In truth, seeing Paragon agree is something of a relief. Farrier wasnât sure he would â feared, even, that Paragon would remain in his tent and rot away in misery like others have in the past when mortally wounded. But he collects the last vestiges of his meal at the end of his fork and devours it like any other starving man would, and Farrier quietly plucks the plate out of his reach when he goes to put his short on. âNo, there ainât. But I figure youâve got plenty of long days ahead of you.â
He hopes so. He really does. Heâd never admit it, but he likes Paragon. And some days, even as an outlaw, you get tired of dealing in death.
âWeâll start with the horses,â he says, moving to the flaps of the tent. âFeed âem, water âem, brush âem if someoneâs forgotten. You can just watch me. I can do the heavy lifting for now.â
â
Heâs quick to make a few discovers about Paragon in the upcoming days: the man has good intentions nested within these discoveries, but that doesnât change the reality of them.
Farrier lifts his head at the smell of smoke. His head swivels fast to meet Paragonâs eyes. âAre you burning something? What is that?â
zjlarkâ:
Somehow, heâd always managed to elucidate a response without directly answering her question, but it was always a response that said more than a plain yes or no ever could. âThere are far worse animals than cats that you couldâve designated the lot of us. So I guess it isnât too miserable of a job,â Lark responds in playful contemplation. âThere arenât many others Iâd trust to handle my food, if that counts for anything. Or the management of anything, let alone themselves.â The comment isnât about anyone in particular, but a few people came to mind. âI donât think Iâm in the position to dispute the murder or management part, but Iâm willing to take your word for it.â
 They continue with their designated tasks with burgeoning ease. âIâd be more than happy to, but Iâm guessing the hellfire left in my wake will fall on you once you get back,â Lark reminds Farrier with a waggish smirk, knowing there existed more truth in that statement than sheâd intended. âWe could start smaller. Like me becoming your assistant chef that works part-time. Better yetâ a seasonal assistant chef. The hours would work better for me.â
Farrier likes Lark, frankly. Sheâs funny and sharp as a knife when she wants to be, and itâs easy to imagine her doing as well as she does in any situation. Itâs like sheâs prepped for all environments... except for whatever one sheâd been in when Odyssey had plucked her up and into the band of fools instead. He laughs, loud and gawkish. âSeasonal assistant chef? What season â the one where itâs blistering hot for three quarters of the year, or the one where itâs almost blistering hot?â He can see it now, the two of them dressed in matching regalia and all. Heâs found worn-down nametags from the Old World, punched through with metal. He should try and fashion something like that for the two of them.
âDid you work with anybody, when you were in York? Or was it just you, running all those schemes?â He moves on to a handful of potatoes, peeling them with deft expertise. (By that, he almost loses a finger but thinks very little of it.) He wishes they were able to keep chickens. A few eggs wouldnât be bad for some kind or protein. âYou leave hellfire to fall on somebody else in your wake?â
Cain x Hamlet (1.2.106)
dedicated to @gendzl

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ramblcrâ:
He could see the punch coming; a prediction that was truly no prediction at all, tailored from the blanched coil of Farrierâs fist and the burning intent in his eyes. Yet the knowledge was as useless as anything Rambler could have said or done to quell what was coming â it didnât halt the fist that came flying towards him, or push him out of its single-minded path.
Rambler could only weather the unstoppable, eyes clenching shut as pain imploded across his jaw and breath snagged into a knot in his throat, the air sent fleeing into the uncomfortable choke-point by the weight that settled over him. It was only when he opened his eyes that he realized he was on the ground with Farrier pressing down on him, and when it became clear that the man had no intention of extricating himself any time soon, Rambler turned his head to the side, snatching a breath that tasted of blood.
It wasnât the hand snared in his collar that made him turn back towards Farrier, but the words that fired out against the unmarred side of his jaw. He searched Farrierâs face with wide, perplexed eyes, before his expression slowly sobered into a look of grim understanding. So this was about the prediction that he had given him not too long ago; one that had clearly come to pass. That much was clear, but there was still something missing. Rambler couldnât shake that feeling, even as he disregarded it in favor of reassuring Farrier.
He gripped the manâs forearm, in the same place as when he had told him of the loss he had foreseen, hoping to affirm his honesty with the touch. âI told you as soon as I saw it, Farrier. And I didnât tell you anything more or less than what I actually saw.â He said, eyes locked on Farrierâs. His lips parted around an apology, but he didnât voice it, realizing that the words would be utterly meaningless to Farrier and would most likely only serve to anger him further. He swallowed, throat bobbing beneath Farrierâs hand. âSo⌠so it happened.â He stated hesitantly, lips parting once more only to close with the same futility as before. He shook his head, frustrated at the way his words were failing him, yet aware that there was nothing he could do about it. He could only lie here at Farrierâs mercy.
â
Heâd become used to a certain kind of reaction when he decided to hit someone. Some kind of plea, or begging off, or even the occasional weepiness if he hadnât shot them already. Rambler does none of those things; in fact, all he does is say more cryptic shit. The fury in Farrierâs belly turns over and he goes in for a second hit. By this time other members of the gang have looked up, but itâs hard to tell if theyâll come over and actually intervene or not.
âYes, it fucking happened, you piece of foolâs fucking gold. Whatâs wrong with you?â Heâs tempted to squeeze his hands around Ramblerâs throat and end his time as a prophet right here, right now, but somehow thinks better of it. Just like that, the sky clears of clouds, and he comes back to himself.
Itâs not worth killing Rambler, no matter how much he wants to. So he decides to be the bigger person, dropping Ramblerâs collar and shoving him further against the dirt before stepping back to stand over him instead. Farrier stares, then, unsure of what to say but not wanting to apologize either. Rambler is still staring in that unnerving way, so Farrier turns his head. Canât even bear to look at him, not really. âHow did you know? I always thought you were full of shit, but how did you know?â
oldhaloâ:
â
Old Haloâs eyebrows shot up at his immediate answer. His clarification, that that wasnât who he was anymore, was less than reassuring. He told her her days with the Faith were behind her, and though it was just about certainly true, she had to suppress a grimace. âMm. Martyr-serving. Thatâs exactly what I think of when I look at you,â she said, a weak attempt at a joke.
She sighed at his question, as if her betrayal was a story she was tired of telling. Truthfully, she was beginning to hate echoing the lie over and over. But if it kept her in the groupâs good graces, sheâd say it until she believed it herself. âIâm surprised you havenât heard it already,â she muttered. âI thought everyone on the continent had by now.â
She looked sideways at Farrier. âWhen I joined the Faith, it was because I believed in the Martyrâs ideals. I wanted, more than anything, to help people. To uplift my fellow man, to bring them hope and salvation in the darkest of times. But the higher I climbed in the Faith, the more I realized that that was the opposite of what the Faith actually does. Itâs a corrupt organization, filled by people no better than criminals, only looking to earn divinity. While I preached, they sent Revenants to cut down everyone who didnât believe in their message. Or, really, anyone who couldnât pay.â
She frowned. âEventually, the greed and corruption was too obvious to ignore. I wasnât just disillusioned. I grew to hate them for the way they tore down the very people I was trying to helpâŚand I hated myself, for helping them. I wanted to take down the Faith, to destroy every Resurrector and Revenant who only sought power or divinity. So I did something stupid.â She scraped her spoon against the bottom of her bowl, eyes downcast as if she was ashamed. âI began giving information to a group of outlaws, about where and when my fellow members of the Faith would be, so that they could attack and rob them.â
Her expression contorted into a perfect mask of contrition. âOf course, the Faith was bound to find out eventually. As soon as I got word that they had, I left as fast as I could. I know perfectly well what they would have done to me had I stayed. Now my reputation and everything Iâve built up is gone. Worse than gone. Stained.â
She pursed her lips. âSo, in answer to your questionâŚI still believe in some of the Martyrâs teachings. I believe in generosity, in kindness, in community. But I donât believe in the Faith, not in the slightest.â
â
While she speaks, he keeps his head downturned and his eyes on the ground, at the little sprouts of grass peeking through the soil. Theyâre not a particularly lush green, but he thinks they could be vibrant one day if given the time to grow. Old Halo, at least, seems to buy into what sheâs saying. She weaves a story about what she had thought faith to truly be and what it actually turned out as, and his heart might hurt for her, just a little bit.
From the fire across the way, Courier jumps up to pick the story up where Jack Odyssey left off, their hands waving and mouth split into a wide smile. Farrier watches them for a little while, and imagines her approaching some nasty bunch with a request that no rational person would want to commit to.
Outlaws, of course, arenât rational people â especially not when theyâve been plied with divinity.
Heâs not the man who should be judging anyone, especially not for murder, but Farrier still smiles when sheâs done talking. âThatâs cold,â and he means it, because it is cold, but thereâs also a twist of pride to his tone that indicates that might not be a bad thing. It takes guts, after all, to betray the very people you thought you loved for years and years. âMy brother did the same thing to me, leaving me behind, I mean. And I still hate him, so... you might fit in here more than we thought you would.â Unspoken: more than I thought you would.
He shifts a little, straightens his spine. âYou believe in generosity, kindness, and community, but you pay a bunch of killers to slaughter someone who mightâve been as deep into it as you were, and then you run and join a bunch of killers because thatâs obviously the next best option.â He hums, halfway between an actual laugh and more of just a noise. Farrier pauses. â Youâre a funny woman, Old Halo. Lemme ask you something: are you happy?â
oldhaloâ:
â
Old Halo shook her head. âRevenge isnât the right thing,â she insisted. It was what a Resurrector would say. She couldnât bring herself to reject everything the Faith stood for; she wasnât sure she could pretend to if she tried. Even if she wasnât the true believer sheâd claimed to be, its teachings had wormed their way into her brain, entangled themselves with her synapses. She hardly realized how much they were part of her.
âAll it does is put more death into the world, and you wonât feel any better then than you do now,â she said. It wasnât like she would know, but she willed Farrier to listen anyway. She had to find a way to talk him out of this. OtherwiseâŚshe didnât want to consider the consequences if she didnât. âWeâll all be worse off if you do this.â
I think Iâve done my time, he said. Her hand leaped from her side with a mind all its own and grabbed his, her fingers curling around his palm. âDonât talk like that,â she snapped. Her hand dropped as soon as she realized she was clutching his, a surprised look in her eyes like she hadnât realized she could interact with the physical plane. She cleared her throat.
âIf you truly canât stand living like this,â she gestured back to the town, to the Gang, âI believe youâll find a way out. When I look at you, I donât see a man on the verge of death. I see someone with a lot of life left to live. Someone with a future; just, maybe not a future here. But if you live like youâre going to die, of course you will. Donât just throw your life away. Can you promise me that, at least?â
â
He hears her say it. He does. But he just doesnât know if he believes it, and he thinks that it probably shows on his face. âThe Faithâs been taking revenge on people for years just for the crime of existing in the wrong spot. Youâre telling me that if you didnât see the bastard that chased you out, you wouldnât shoot him on the spot?â Even after all these years, Old Haloâs given him sparse details on the events leading up to her abandonment of her old life. From what he understands, itâd been ugly, but...
Sheâs right. Sheâs right, because killing Twelfth doesnât get him shit except for that one moment of relief that the old adage eye for an eye still applies. She takes his hand, and itâs nice just to have her there, even if she drops it a second later.
âYou know, I hate it when you say things that make sense. Perfect sense, even.â Farrier canât help it if he cracks a small smile as he speaks, humor breaking through the grim clouds of guilt.
More than that, heâs glad that sheâs here, but thatâs... difficult to put into words. All he can do is try to show it where he can. If he were a less awkward man, he might wrap her up in a hug, but then theyâd both feel off. He clears his throat and puts the conversation back on track. âYou will talk to them, though? Try and keep them calm?â Farrier knows he should apologize, but at this point, itâd probably ring hollow, so thereâs not much point to it.
ofgvllsâ:
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Thereâs a smirk on Farrierâs face, which then causes Gull to give and amused huff, and toss the jam over in his hand. âI seem to have come in possession of an influx of divinity.â And with the money heâs not putting away to save, he feels he can treat himself to a jar of jam. Itâs about the little things.
However, the following question is not what he had expected. He was usually the one to check up on others, not others checking up on him. He looks up, staring at the things affixed tot he shelf as he considers his response. Gull never spends much time considering how he is âdoingâ. âI think, in the grand scheme of the mental condition, Iâm doing alright. My spirits are not exactly low, but I feel as though there is always a level of anxiety with this group that I cannot seem to do away with. Perhaps there was more anxiety than I typically experienceâ but no.â He nods his head, as if to convey certainty, âNo, I think I am rather well now that weâre done and everyone has come out alive. Thatâs always a victory, you know.â
â
I feel like there is always a level of anxiety with this group that I cannot seem to do away with. Farrier canât help it. He cackles. Itâs loud, and obnoxious, and the first good laugh heâs had in months. He has to look away from the bizarre can of beans and the shelves. People in the general store shove right on by with a strange look on their faces, and even the man behind the counter stacking coins gives him an odd look, but the joy keeps going until heâs bent halfway over and coughing for air. Itâs only when he resurfaces, wiping at his eyes, that he manages to speak. âOh, thatâs good! Level of anxiety, he says. Youâre a funny man, Gull.â
Heâs right, though. Itâs a miracle that they all managed to pull it off successfully and make it out alive, especially with Brontide running things. Brontideâs been rattling with some bizarre fear since they came back, but they proved themselves three times over in spite of the chaos. âYou did a good job, you know. I think I wouldâve just shot Cain and saved myself the trouble.â Not really. Cainâs frustrating, but heâs more useful than Farrier thinks he realizes. An asset. And Shotgun would lose their fucking mind if Cain died. Thatâs another can of worms entirely.
He resumes his perusing of the shelves, checking off items from the hastily-written list as he goes. Itâs only when he gets to the last item that thereâs a problem. Farrier looks over his shoulder, at Gull. âYou seeinâ any gunpowder?â
hellionsunâ:
FEBRUARY 6th, 2349. RAVENâS REST. CLOSED TO @ferriarâââ.
Heâs spent the better part of the past hour rifling through the gangâs carts out back behind Ravenâs Rest, pilfering whatever strikes his fancy and whatever he thinks he can pocket without raising any flags. So far, heâs taken a gold-plated watch engraved with the initials D.H., an emerald ring, and a handsome stack of divinity. He wears the jewelry on his person in plain sight, a flagrant display of his offenses, and he find a home for the divinity in the pocket of his coat.Â
Quarterâs untimely kink in his plans aboard the train a few days ago has left his pockets wanting, and heâs keen on making up for time and profit lost on account of the mettlesome debtor. Mostly, though, heâs keen on having a little fun, which heâs been sorely lacking since the gangâs arrival to Eel. Pillaging his own gangâs loot is little more than a happy diversion as he bides his time until the arrival of his real happy diversion.
He canât know for sure that Farrier will show face, but if he was a gambling man, which he is, heâd bet a pretty penny on Farrier making an appearance here tonight. The horses need to be fed, for one thing. And for another, Hellion can only guess at whatever existential crisis Farrierâs moral compass is ushering him towards in the aftermath of the robbery, so heâs betting heâll turn up here to feed the horses and use the window of solitude to dissect the same thought again and again, until his brow aches from brooding so intensely.
Heâs pulling on the drawstrings of a small pouch of coins when he hears the loud clamor of a door swinging open. The quiet din of nightlife all around him falls silent, and even the crickets stop rubbing their wings together, as if anticipating the exchange about to unfold. The only sound that reminds is the soft whinny of Bastard, no doubt happy to see perhaps the only person heâs ever happy to see. Traitor.
âHoney, youâre home,â Hellion deadpans, voice glib. He doesnât look up, mostly because he doesnât have to. Heâs a gambling man, and he bet on the right horse tonight. âYouâre late,â he calls out to Farrier, which is an altogether outrageous thing to say to someone with whom you have no standing appointment. His fingers reach deftly inside of the pouch of coins, rummaging through its contents for sport more than anything else. The texture of the coins, cool and hard and smooth, soothes something restless inside of him, and the sensation emboldens him. He makes no effort to hide the watch on his wrist, or the ring on his little finger, or the pouch of coins in his hands. Let Farrier see. Let him do something about it. You wonât, he silently dares him as he pulls a coin from the pouch and begins flipping it in the air.Â
âHow was your day?â he asks, not because he particularly cares, but because heâs fishing for a âhow was your day?â in return.
The clock strikes six, and Farrier admits to himself that sitting around and waiting for something to happen is not productive. Hauling his ass out and making sure the horses are taken care of is something that he can do, so... even if he mutters the entire time as he uses the innâs back-room sink to (slowly, slowly, so slowly) fill buckets with water. When he steps outside, the sun is already setting behind the horizon. The wagons and horses are eclipsed in orange, and more than that, the horses are snippy, like they know that heâs an hour late.
Assholes.
He usually starts with the worst of them (so, Angel to start with) and works his way to the ones who behave themselves well enough. Heâd never admit to playing favorites, but Fleetwood and Bastard never put up any big fuss. They donât bite, or try to kick, or knock him over when they drink. He watches as Fleetwood more or less puts his whole damn face in the basin and considers sleeping outside tonight.
He hasnât been able to really rest since the robbery, and sleeping inside might mean a visit from Twelfth. If she were to shoot him, the horses would at least throw a fit, and then sheâd probably be caught red handed. If he were inside... fuck. He can hear Old Halo now, saying you shouldnât have told them, but itâs not like heâd been thinking rationally at the time. Quite the opposite, in fact: heâd been out of his fucking mind.
Heâs going for the sacks of feed when he hears it, the rustling inside the wagon. The first thing he does is pull out his pistol, draw back the hammer, and wait to see if anyone pops their head out. Shouldâve known better, he thinks, to expect thieves. Except itâs not a thief (in the exact sense) that pokes their head out. Itâs Hellion.
Farrier weighs the pros and cons of shooting Hellion now while he has the chance. Bastard whinnies again, all soft and polite-like, as if telling Farrier to get a move on so they can all eat. He looks Hellion up and down, from the ring to the watch to the coins, and holsters his guns. Itâs not disbelief that paints his face, because this is, frankly, textbook (thatâs what Gull calls them, right?) Hellion. Itâs more like disappointment. He wastes no time in walking right up to him, hand out in expectance. âYou can have the watch, and the ring, but not the coins. Hand âem over, you fuckinâ magpie. Were you planning on doing this all week, or is this a flight of fancy?â
Itâs hard to tell, with Hellion. Back in the day, when he couldnât shoot straight and rode like his leg was dislocated, it was easier, but just how deep his thoughts go into regards to planning is a total mystery. Farrier scoffs. âYouâre shameless. Your motherâd be ashamed.â Probably not, but itâs the principle, right? He makes a give-me motion with his still empty hand. âMy day was fine, honey, how was yours?â

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wtnssdâ:
âŁâˇ
Farrier has an awkwardness about him that puts Witness both on edge and at ease. What she sees is a man wrestling with kindness like one might wrestle to put a too-tight shirt on. Itâll never quite fit; reality bursts from the seams: Maybe he isnât kind. But then, what is kindness?
Witness has found it in the small acts, yet even those come with a price on their head. And so sheâs concluded that kindness is a mirage, wobbling in the distance on a very hot day. Unreachable. Unknowable.
It doesnât matter if she might find some of it in the clarity of Farrierâs words, the patience with which he concocts and writes them. What heâs written isnât kind. If anything, itâs perplexing.
Beneath a quirked brow, Witnessâ gaze snaps up to meet the manâs. She pauses, waits for him to crack a smile and lightly thwack the top of her head with the notepad, just so he can reveal that it was all a joke, of course he isnât going to take her with him, of all people. He doesnât.
âMe?â Witness asks, âyouâre serious?â
â
Witness doesnât seem to be able to believe that he wants her along for this, but to him, she makes the most sense. He doesnât really know what experience she has in regards to... their line of work, so figuring it out now is the best way to do that. Farrier glances down at the pad and takes the time to scribble out Serious as a heart attack. AÂ learning experience for you. Go get your stuff and meet me outside.
He flips the pad around and then hands it back to Witness before descending to give her time to get herself sorted. There are maybe three groups of fools he can see that are worth robbing. Wileyâs Angels, the Roadkill Bunch, and if theyâre feeling ambitious and Witness has done well, they could see about calling in some sort of favor with the mayor, who undoubtedly has some sort of stockpile.
The innâs quiet. It always seems to be quiet. He doesnât know how Jack pulled that off, but he did manage it, and Farrierâs equal parts grateful for the chance to be alone with his own thoughts and resentful. When he focuses on things too much he tends to spin into a frenzy; Haloâs told him that.
He busies himself with checking his gun before stepping out into the bright light of morning. It probably wonât end up being used, but thatâs alright. The message is more than enough. When he catches sight of Witness on her way down, he steps out the door and into the street to smoke a cigarette. Itâs not busy yet, but it ainât dead, either. Perfect. Thatâs just what they want.
twvlfthâ:
â
Minutes turn into hours, hours turn into days and none of what Twelfth has been feeling subsides in the slightest. Their hands tremble every time they think about what they did, thumb kneading on the palm of their hands as if rubbing away blood thatâs not there â not physically, at least, but Twelfth believes right there and then that it will never truly wash away. They will die and their last thought will be how The First felt when he met the same fate. They will cease to exist and they will think about how The Mother was there one day and not the next. There will not be a moment, awake or asleep, where Twelfth wonât think about what sheâs lost.
Twelfth has been surviving the last couple of days⌠or was it more like almost a week? They canât really tell anymore. They feel as if theyâre simply floating most days, unable to properly control anything their mind or what they body does, going from A to B and back to A without really noticing theyâre doing it. They barely eat, just the minimum to keep their body from wanting to shut down, they barely sleep, just enough to keep insanity away. She is barely herself but that doesnât feel like a loss as big as the one she brought on herself.
The unknown voice brings her back from wherever dark, thought-fill pit Twelfth was about to jump into again. It takes her a moment to full process what heâs asked her. Her chest feels heavy, a lump growing on her throat. Just hearing about it makes her want to cry ( but you canât cry, not now. Not yet. ). âHuh,â Twelfth starts, clearing her throat before continuing, âyeah, yeah. Thatâs, I donât know what Jackâs told people but, yeah, thatâs â yeah, thatâs the gist of it.â She accepts the can he offers her, even if she knows sheâs not going to eat it. Just thinking about eating it makes her sick. âWhy?â
â
Twelfth has the graciousness to take the can but doesnât seem interested in eating anything. He sits down alongside her, resting his hands on his knees, and tries to decide the best way to proceed with a conversation as awkward with this one. Thereâs no polite small talk he could even entertain. Better, then, to just rip the bandage off. He looks down at the art, instead of her. The seconds seem to pass by too slow.
Now that he thinks about it, sheâs scarcely eaten these past few days. Heâll need to keep an eye on that, to ensure she doesnât starve herself out of her sorrow.
âListen, uh, thereâs no nice way to ask this. But my brother joined your Family a few years back. About six or seven. He wouldâve been a little older than me, a little taller... his name was Raphael.â A beat. He looks at them, then, eyes steely, preparing for the worst. Itâs a long shot, he knows that, but he still wants to hope for something, even if itâs just a memory. âI realize that there were a lot of you, but I was wondering if you knew what happened to him.â
eastcfedenâ:
A couple days in town and Cainâs climbed the Wheel not once, not twice, but three times now. Whatâs even more interesting is that the thingâs still standing. So the locals were right, it is going to take a lot more than someone like Cain giving it a go for it to come down.Â
Heâs around (totally not thinking about doing the climb again) when Farrier finds him. Favor does not sound very appealing but the coin that accompanies it might just be the thing that makes him feel a bit charitable today. âHmm. Alright,â he nods as he plucks the coin from Farrierâs hand, a smirk slowly forming on his lips. âYou know, I like the one where you threatened to shoot me better. Might even be my favorite,â he says as they start walking towards the cart. Truth is, any and all of Farrierâs stories that involve him are his favoritesâitâs a gateway into his past and Cain will take any opportunity to step through it. So ultimately, itâs not the money that swayed him into helping Farrier, itâs the promise that came after. âSo how about both?â
â
Farrierâs lucky that Cain takes the bribe and starts to follow along, because there are absolutely days where Cain tells anyone and everything to fuck off... and they do, because you just donât fuck with Cain if you can help it. Itâs that simple, and Farrier learned the math to that equation a long time ago. âI think you like yourself a little too much, Cain,â but that could be argued for all of them, couldnât it? He doesnât say much else until they actually arrive at the wagon, with crates piled high and bags still needing to be dispersed. Farrier feels his soul shrivel up a little.
He points at a stack of crates: âstart with those. Neatly, please. If I catch you throwing shit Iâm gonna shave your head while you sleep.â That is not an idle threat, either. He starts working on the opposite side, organizing supplies and packing them away. As he does, he tries to summon up the details of the heist and the time heâd almost shot Cain in the head. âI think we were riding out of âBucks, and there was a bounty on yours and Shotgunâs head that weâd decided to go after. Well, fate should have it, we meet at the crossroads, and weâre all tired, because The Faith have been chasing after us for six days. Were chasinâ after you too. You remember that?â
WITH: @twvlfthâ WHERE: camp WHEN: november 9th, 2348
When Jack drags Twelfth back to camp, he doesnât think much of it at first â and maybe thatâs on him. They gel in with everyone else the same most do when Odyssey decides heâs going to tack on another member to their ever-growing... family. Things are awkward, at first, but he brings them meals and Gull hovers to make sure theyâre not going to fall over dead. No horse with them; Odysseyâd had them ride along on his horse. Strange, but maybe understandable.
But thereâs this strange thing happening in the pit of his stomach, bizarre nervousness that hinges on anxiety if he doesnât babysit it. Itâd only arrived when Twelfth had, and it doesnât seem to disperse no matter how hard he tries. He spends days chewing over it, wondering and waiting, and then it all clicks into place.
It clicks, then, as heâs watching Twelfth. What Rambler said hits him like a train. She was in The Family â so itâs a slim chance, but thereâs still a chance. Itâs with this in mind as he brings them a can of salted fish to eat. No oneâs been hunting in the past few days, so what they get is what they get. If anyone complains, they get an evil-eye sharp enough to move mountains. Thereâs no preamble as he approaches, can in hand, offering it to her: âYou were with The Family, right? And then you ran.â
twvlfthâ:
â
Itâd be a bad way to die. Twelfth canât help the scoff that escapes them, head shaking ever so slightly. Are there any good ones? Whether itâs at the hands of a stranger that looks at you with the same care one does at a tumbleweed or itâs at the hands of someone that knows your name, your story â none of which sounds good. âDonât pretend you care about whether or not the way I die is a good or bad one. No oneâs around.â After all, Farrier did just tell them they oughta thank Vex for still being alive. Twelfth doesnât find it hard to believe part of the reason theyâre still alive is because no one would believe whatever story Farrier had most likely concocted in he aimed his gun at them.Â
And then, Farrier says something even more ridiculous and Twelfth doesnât know what to think or what to feel anymore. Does he really think them that forgetful, that stupid or is he just undecided about the way he wants to put them out of their misery? They tilt their head, looking at Farrier straight in his dark eyes â eyes that look darker than the darkest shade of black there is and Twelfth swears the more she looks, the scarier he gets. âYou wouldnât have?â Another scoff. âYouâre telling me if Vex hadnât come around and I refused to turn around to meet your eyes, you wouldnât have shot me? Bullshit.âÂ
Twelfth feels all the blood drain from their face, their body. All they want to do is take that coldness in Farrierâs words and wrap it around themself, willing themself to either get used to it or die in its familiarity. A heartbeat passes, then another one and another one, each seeming closer to the last. âYou seem too sure Iâll just wait for you to shoot me when I spot you.â They throw his apparent promise back to him. Twelfth might live with an overwhelming guilt but not enough to have them give up like that. Theyâd lost it all before, the realisation of her brotherâs crime taking everything out of her, and they still managed to outgun The First, after all.Â
After Farrierâs question, Twelfth asks the same thing inside their mind. Soon enough, thereâs an answer. âBullets. Used far too many on the train and I might need some soon enough. Leave them with the clerk downstairs.â No need to face Farrier again, not for a while. "If thereâs nothing else you want to tell me, Iâd rather just close this door right now.â And lock it tight, just in case.
â
You seem too sure Iâll just wait for you to shoot me when I spot you.
Oh, this is daring. Theyâre playing a dangerous game of what-ifs, here, and Farrier wants to smack himself in the face for it, even as his temper flares. He does his best to keep his expression neutral and fails. âNo oneâs around, Twelfth. You could go get your gun and shoot me the minute I turn my back. Whatâs stopping you?â
Well, he knows now: whatâs stopping her is the lack of bullets. Used too many, she says. Leave them for the clerk downstairs. Now that? Thatâs something. Fear, maybe, or irritation. Arrogance. Could be anything. He looks down at the floor and then back up again, peering over her shoulder into the darkness of the room behind her.
âBullets. Will do,â Farrier says to them. Theyâre done here. Heâs made his point, theyâve made theirs â the rest is just... posturing. The sort of thing he wouldâve done when he was younger but tries not to do now if he can help it. âClose that door if you want. I wonât be coming to see you again.â He doesnât know that, and canât exactly promise it, but heâs had enough of them for now, and heâs sure theyâve had enough of him.
Itâs as close as heâs come to admitting the truth. Twelfth can apologize all they want, but Farrier still wants to see them hang. He smiles, grim-like, and then turns away to descend back down the stairs. âHave a good night, Twelfth!â Itâs tossed over the shoulder as he goes, casual and smooth, like theyâre the best of friends and not bitter fucking enemies. âHave some sweet dreams of shooting my brother without the audacity to feel bad about it.â
â END.

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oldhaloâ:
â
Old Halo took a cigarette and lit it - and once Farrier began his story, she was very glad she did, so that she could focus on breathing smoke in and out of her lungs rather than on his words. She couldnât even force a smile as she listened. Instead, she stared back at him, brows lowered over her eyes in concern, a small frown darkening her expression. She thought of that woman, trapped in a house in the middle of nowhere with a man she couldnât stand.
âThat is funny,â she said, when Farrier finished his story, âthat you killed a Resurrector who abandoned her post. I didnât take you to be the sort who does the Faithâs work for them.â She raised an eyebrow at Farrier, as if silently asking, is that who you are? For all that outlaws claimed to be outside of the Faithâs influence, even working against them, so many of them played right into the Faithâs schemes. Perhaps that was why theyâd been allowed to exist for so long.
Farrierâs other question, though, was a good one. Admittedly one that she hadnât actually considered. Her frown deepened. âA friend of mine let me know that I was in danger, just before word of my betrayal got out. I left with my things in the middle of the night. IâmâŚnot sure why they havenât sent anyone to kill me. Perhaps they have, and they just havenât found me yet.â
She lowered the cigarette, real worry making her expression tense. âOr perhaps itâs because I was so popular. Everyone throughout Bounty knows who I am. Was. If they were to kill me immediately, theyâd risk public opinion turning on them. Maybe theyâre waiting for the public to accept that Iâm a traitor to the Faith before they send someone after me, so that it doesnât harm their image. In that case, I suppose itâs only a matter of time.â She glanced toward Farrier. âWould you kill me? If the bounty on my head was high enough?â
â
Old Haloâs got a way with words. Thatâs obvious from the jump; the timbre of her voice is comforting just to listen to. If he thinks about it a little, he can see her among the masses, offering words of solace and prophecy and Armageddon left and right. He sits in the quiet with her for a minute and considers. Is that who you are?
It was, once. Thereâd be days where they just went on and on and on and on, for miles, after a lead, and didnât much care where the hunt took them so long as they got paid. Faith, outlaw, family, friend, foe? None of it mattered, until all of a sudden Farrier looked back at what heâd made himself into and decided that it mattered very much. Call it a crisis of faith, or something along those lines. My betrayal, she says, and he turns to look at her fully. He wants to ask: betrayal of what? The Faith? Her friends? Herself? He wants to ask if she knew him, if his reputation had climbed that far North, but thatâs a prideful inquiry. Heâs trying to stay away from those.
âI would.â Not even a beat of hesitation when she asks, but then Farrier pauses to consider. He takes a pull from his cigarette to buy himself some time. âWell, not now... So, wouldâve? Back then, maybe, but Iâm doing my best to be an upstanding, Martyr-serving man. None of the shit I used to do back in the day. Theyâre behind me, much like your days with the Faith are behind you.â
He canât possibly fathom a reality in which they take her back. The Faith arenât really the sort of people who accept apologies with a couple of âdiv to buy some chocolate in York. Theyâre more the hunt-you-to-the-ends-of-the-Earth type, in his experience. âNice of your friend to warn you, though. Whatâd you do to get them so riled up?â Thus far, Old Halo seems mild-mannered. Calm. Maybe a little deflated, but he doesnât know her well enough yet.
Doesnât know any of them well enough yet, and the reality that heâs a complete stranger to these people (read: untrustworthy) sticks out like a deep scar. Farrier hums. âDid you believe all the shit you peddled to people? Do you still believe it?â
brntideâ:
Since their untriumhpant return, FARRIER had been one of the few who afforded them the rare commodity of KINDNESSÂ â something Brontide was unsure they deserved, but still devoured like a desperate animal. Farrier wasnât apathetic to their disappearance in the way GULL or LARK were â no, he instead seemed to have taken a particular interest in Brontide since her return that she isnât sure was there previously, ensuring she felt as safe as possible within a crew that had previously been family â and were still, perhaps, even if the bonds were more difficult to recognise as an outsider.Â
Farrier was kind, yes, but kindness was still a commodity â and, just as with food or water or clothing, it came at a price. Brontide just wasnât sure what it was yet.Â
So, they maintained a safe distance. Sure, they engaged in pleasantries and indulged in Farrierâs kindness â speaking to him when it felt as though others would never see her as anything but a traitor (Â no matter how pure their intentions had been, not that they had bothered to divulge these to anybody ) â but their most valuable cards remained firmly against their chest. Even though part of her longed desperately to reveal them and shed some of the weight that had long burdened her shoulders, Brontide knew the risks that came with vulnerability â had been witness to them, over and over, and would not allow herself to fall into this same trap again.Â
So, when Farrier asks what is on their mind â the response is stilted ( nothing sits poised at the tip of their tongue, a potent dismissal that worked well enough for those who did not care to pry deeper ). You should be feeling good, he says â and Brontide is inclined to agree. They canât quite pinpoint when theyâd first noticed the doubt that had begun to creep in at their every move â the feeling that every decision they made had more weight than before, that a single wrong step would spell the difference between flying or falling.Â
This desire to prove herself had never been present before â a symptom, she supposed, of her desertion and return, trying to claw back the position she once held and never thought twice about, but which was suddenly uncertain due to her own lack of forethought. And, even though the robbery had been a SUCCESS, it still didnât feel like enough â like it wasnât remarkable enough to feel as though Brontide had earned back her place. âI donât know if Cain should have been up the front of the train,â They say instead â a pointless pulling at threads, âWe mightâve avoided what happened to the engineman. Shouldâve thought of that.â
â
Thereâs something that Brontide isnât saying, Farrier thinks. Their words come out half-a-beat off, like they have to pick them out, and he canât help but furrow his brow. âYou donât think so?â He wonders how much theyâve picked this exact scenario apart over and over in their head. Did they run it back-to-front, front-to-back, just to see where they couldâve been held responsible? He hums and takes a pull from his drink, considering.
How Jack feels about the whole thing is still up in the air. A mystery more than anything else. Farrierâd been pleased to see Brontide back at the helm, as theyâd been so many times before theyâd turned traitor, but whether or not everyone else felt the same may as well have been a two-div mystery novella. Theyâre not trusted, yet, not even close, and this small win will not return them to the good graces theyâd previously held. He knows that, and he canât imagine that Brontide wouldnât. Theyâre too smart not to know. âWho would you have put up their instead? Witness? Rambler? Gull? Me?â
He scoffs out a laugh, imagining himself young again at the front of some billowing Faith-owned train thatâs eating up Vitriol like nobodyâs business. He and Raph hadnât ever robbed a beast quite like that in their lifetime. Too much work for payoff that wasnât even guaranteed. Todayâs violence had proved that ten times over, if the way Revenants had been jam-packed into every single car meant anything.
He shifts in the booth and leans over the table to make them really look at him. Brontide had gotten off track, but that didnât necessarily mean they couldnât get back on, and besides that, he likes them. Maybe even more than he likes Jack, and Jackâs made him a rich man. Ten years ago that wouldâve been all that mattered, the divinity, but today? Itâs more about the moral, the principle of the thing. (Except when it comes to shooting Twelfth in the back of the head, but he doesnât want to think on that too much. Revenge and morals do not supersede or intersect with one another in Farrierâs head.)
âListen, âBronny. I think youâre overthinking it. You won. You won the whole fucking thing, and made us all rich enough to buy ourselves supplies and drinks for the night with some change to spare. Cain wouldâve shot the wrong fuckinâ person anyways, you know him. It just so happened to be the engineman, and Gull got him fixed right back up. Whatâs really eating at you? You havenât been the sameââ He stops himself there, but the word is since. Five-letter-word, maybe a little accusatory in tone, pitched up instead of down. âYou can talk to me, yâknow.â They can. Should they? Probably not.