#frontierbound

Bryce’s apartment was in a better neighborhood, had a decent landlord, good neighbors, and most important, Bryce did pay all his bills as early as possible no matter the cost. And still, with all that sometimes shit simply happened.  In this case the central heating broke, making the whole apartment building cool down to nearly freezing levels. 

Bryce had already called his landlord in the morning, had been promised he’d need to pay less for the month, but also that there was now technician able to come that day, so everyone would need to wait until the next day.

“I mean I LIKE the cold... but not like this...” the lawyer grumbled, wrapped into a blanket he had taken from his bedroom. In his hands he held a tray with hot tea and some cookies as he moved from the kitchen to the again-couch in the living room part of his apartment. The piece of furniture was turned into a bed every evening, and back into a couch the following morning. He placed the tray on the couch table and let himself sink into the cushions beside Sam.

His attention fell onto Sam, Bryce’s fingers playing with the corners of the blanket for a moment. The man had spend already much too loge under icy water maybe a week or so ago. How much would the slender body be able to handle? (And how much of his thoughts were just an excuse?) But finally the Cousland opened his arms and blanket invitingly.

— ❝ That coarseness and STRENGTH combined with acuteness and inquisitiveness; that practical, INVENTIVE turn of mind, quick to find expedients; that masterful grasp of material things, lacking in the artistic but POWERFUL to effect great ends; that RESTLESS, nervous energy; that DOMINANT individualism, working for good and evil, and withal that buoyancy and exuberance which comes with FREEDOM - these are the traits of the frontier. ❞  

SAMUEL OLIVER SILAS Frontierbound - indie Westworld / RDR2 OC penned by erin - rules, character bio and verses

ALTERED REALITY SENTENCE STARTERS. | ACCEPTING.

@frontierbound​ said: outside, right before a massive storm.

There was something of a girl gone mad, she knew. Not in the hair or the clothes, that were as well-kept as she could manage, but in the eyes. The eyes she didn’t know where to place anymore. Something of the dead doe’s eyes in her. 

if mamaí could see me now! 

The thought barked in her head with the strength of the thunder above her. A useless thought: mamaí was dead, wasn’t she? She’d buried her and then she’d caught the boat.

It felt like so long ago.

She was cold, now. Cold like she’d never been before. Colder than she’d been in Colter, cold in the bone marrow rather than just the hands and throat. Colder than she’d ever been in Dublin.

She’d crossed an ocean to escape that cold. She’d crossed it looking west towards the setting sun, mistaking it for the bright blaze of a summer noon. But by the time she’d found land it was twilight, drowning her in blue, and the rest had been a slow sinking into winter, where all things died, and only the lucky ones were allowed to live again.

She wasn’t so sure which one she was, not yet. When Abigail had rushed back to camp and told them of it – of Hosea’s death and John’s arrest and Dutch’s escape or perhaps drowning – Molly O’Shea had felt the peculiar untethering of a thing already somewhat aware of its own death. 

For a moment she had seen it reflected back at herself, like a shimmer on the bright black water. An emptiness in her stomach that had curdled to anger.

She’d left without a word. By the time Sadie had gathered them up, Molly had packed her things and slipped away. She had wondered for a moment if they’d notice.

She had little doubts they wouldn’t. 

But she was about to run out of food. And the fear of the Pinkertons, of retaliation, of Dutch, back from the dead or wherever he had vanished to, manifesting before her knowing it all (what was there to know, regardless?) had made her weary of Rhodes or Saint Denis, and the Night Folk made her wary of the swamps.

A girl alone in the woods knows better than to trust the man sitting by the fire, no matter the warmth of the fire, no matter the smell of his stew. But she was cold. And she was hungry. 

This hunger, of the bones and of the stomach, made her reckless. That and the curdled rage. And the rain, threatening to open the sky and swallow her. 

She stopped at the edge of Sam’s camp. Wind picking up. Clouds dark enough to make it feel like they were dead and this was the underworld. She held a knife in her first, hidden between the folds of her skirt. If he had tried something there would have been no point in screaming.

Who would have heard? The world was a dead thing, she the black bone of the dead heart. 

     On occasion, he’d entered a few towns where his posters were hung but due to his chivalrous ways and willingness to break up bar fights most were willing to turn a blind eye. His buckskin mustang, Trigger, snorted irritably as he gobbled up the last patch of wild flowers in the surrounding area. He stomped his hoof before lifting his head, snorting once more to get his rider’s attention. laughing, Dean gave the equine a few pats. 

          “Alright, alright. Let’s go then,” he gripped the reins and steered the horse toward an old path beginning to become overgrown with foliage that led down the hill to a road they could follow into the town. As soon as the town came into view, Trigger decided he had reached his daily steps for the day and wouldn’t be moved without the proper motivation.  “Aww, come on, boy!” Dean groaned at the stubbornness of his horse before sliding off the saddle. He walked around to face the stallion who merely turned his head, pretending not to see his distressed owner. 

          “I ain’t got any treats. You decided t’ sneak int’ my pack last night an’ eat the rest of’m. We’re almost t’ town. I’ll buy ya some more when we get there,” he bargained, watching as the stallion turned his head the other way, sighing loudly.

     Dean was about to unleash a string of curses when he spotted someone heading their way. Bothering strangers wasn’t something he enjoyed doing but if he didn’t get his hardheaded horse something to snack on he’d either be stuck on the side of the road for another day or would have to hoof it to town and back. “Pardon me sir!” he called out, holding up his hands to show he held no ill intent -- couldn’t be too careful these days. “I rightly hate t’ bother ya but I’ve got the world’s most stubborn food motivated horse in existence and I ran out of his treats. I don’t suppose ya might have an oat cake or carrot on ya. I can pay ya for it.” He gestured to his horse before dropping his hands, leaving them in plain view.

         The bell atop the doorway chimes and Sarah groans to inwardly, having only just then found time for herself to sit. Though her town isn’t anything close to the likes of Annesburg or Saint Denis, it still demands much work from its denizens. She sets aside her sewing, wondering if she’ll ever finish it. The shopkeeper pushes aside the rough curtain between the counter. Beneath the wooden surface, she lifts a hefty catalogue and a sheet of paper for the potential orders. Finally, she puts on a simple smile for her customer.     “Morning to you, sir.” She greets him plainly. “Look around as you’d like.” As usual, she watches and waits. Upon examining his face, she realizes he isn’t one of the usual clients. “Pardon, sir, but I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before. New to this town?”