#gunslingcr

She had made the wooded area a base of operations of sorts. Away from humanity, a perfect spot to camp out while she hunted for the nearby artifact. She rigged the area around her camp with snares and other traps to keep any prying eyes out and had managed to string up a few Templars who wandered too close to the region seeking the same thing she was after. They weren't so fortunate to be let go and served to feed her corruption and keep it sated for the time being. When she had finished with them, she strung a few of them up by their feet, leaving them as grim warnings from the trees.

It was while she was resetting one of her snare traps, perfectly balanced on a branch when she heard someone heading into her area. Giving a jerk of her head, Ikaros immediately took off to scout the area. A lone man, no signs of Templar regalia on him, hoofing it into her area. That wouldn't do.

She flinched at the burning sensation of raw skin being tended to, blood still trickling like a red stream in rivulets down a scarred arm as Mary Beth tensed, but didn't pull away from him. Karen might have talked about how it all felt like a big game, how going out and robbing and shooting used to be fun, but Mary Beth wasn't a fool and knew there were consequences to the outlaw life. Sure, maybe she didn't go around waving a gun and killing people, maybe her usefulness (or uselessness, depending on if you were talking to Miss Grimshaw or not) was limited to knitting and sewing, but Mary Beth wasn't a fool and she didn't have to go out on jobs as often as the men did to know they didn't always come back in the best shape.

Didn't even need to be out on a job to come back hurt, just look at John's face.

If you wanted to go anywhere that was still wild in the world (or do something wild in a little more of a civilized place), then you needed to be prepared for the world to take its stab at you, sometimes literally. Mary Beth was the one that had begged to be taken out, needlework about boring her to tears and she wasn't going to complain about getting just what she'd asked for.

they’ve  just  barely  gotten  settled  into  the  big,  creaking  house  dubbed  temporary  home  -  shady  belle,  in  all  her  glory,  feels  like  nothing  more  than  a  glorified  jail  cell.  plans  to  dip  into  st.  denis  are  in  motion,  and  only  now  does  eliza  have  the  chance  to  take  arthur  by  the  hand  &  pull  him  away  from  the  group.  “hey  -  i  gotta  talk  t’you  about  somethin’,”  she  murmurs,  tone  soft  &  panicked,  “alone.”  the  amount  of  times  that  she’s  allowed  fear  to  slip  visibly  into  her  demeanor  could  be  counted  on  one  hand;  present  time  proving  as  one  of  them.  “the  man  who  took  jack  -  we’re  sure  his  name  is  bronte?  angelo  bronte?”

SHE’S USED TO INJURIES and cleaning up the aftermath, thankfully her pain tolerance levels was exceptionally high so it didn’t bother her as much as it would a normal person, maybe. That didn’t stop her from being dramatic though, a way for her to not think about it, she supposed.

Glancing up at him, then to the cloth that was offered, she sat up rather unbothered and lifted her shirt a little more where the bullet had grazed and began to clean it with only minimal flinching.

As small as the wound was ( if you could even call it that ) she’d rather be safe than risk an infection down the road.

"Yeah?" Tucking his hands in his pockets, he shifts weight from one foot to the opposite, brow furrowing as he regards the carnage. His stare is fixed on the other and the bodies strewn around him. Looking, but not really seeing, perhaps. "Some days I don't feel too far off from that. But more like a weapon...or a wild animal."

Emily only met Charles a couple times before, both in dramatically contrasting circumstances. One in the middle of a gunfight and the other at a local saloon. With the very few interactions they’ve had so far, Emily thinks they get on pretty well. He’s definitely mild-mannered and not at all hostile towards her like the others. He was even kind enough to give her a few hunting tips she’d never thought of before—and she’s been in the trading business for years. She’s usually not very keen on meeting new people, so it’s refreshing to meet someone who’s not so indifferent towards her.

She and Arthur stay behind and bid Charles a farewell for the day. In doing so, however, Emily catches a distinct look on Arthur’s face. A distinct expression. Brown eyes glint a knowing, a longing only she can recognize. Something that’s been held so close and so dear to her heart. To see that in someone else rather than in herself, for once? It sparks a childlike joy within her.

Her gaze carefully shifts between the two men as they finish their conversation. Even as Charles leaves and grows smaller in the horizon, it seems Arthur keeps staring. She tilts her head curiously, amusingly, and a smile creeps between her lips. The smile grows more mischievous by the second, her hands resting on her hips.

“Damn, you gonna miss him that much?”

        𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐛. In her dark brown jacket, her button-down blouse, and her skirt blooming out around her on the stool, crossed-legged with a notepad and pen tucked away under her arm. In the perfect shine of the light, the white parchment comes to life with a glow from the midday sun, and it's obvious where she’s from. Some city slicker reporter looking to get in between a rural town’s business. A place she has no business sticking her nose in. The man beside her sticks out just as well. She can tell a banker from a farmer, but she can’t pinpoint this man’s occupation. He carries a gun belt, and a gun sits in a holster. Perhaps he’s a rancher, or a cowboy working for one of the ranches outside of town, or his own. Either way, she fetches for her pen when he begins to speak, not yet retrieving her notepad, but tapping it against the countertop. 

        She takes his apology kindly. Eleanor wasn’t actually offended, her tone was filled with mirth, but it surely opened up a conversation, didn’t it?

        Eleanor smiled as she looked up at him, meeting his gaze through the cigarette smoke. ❝ I wasn’t intending to be your friend, mister, but I can be friendly. I was actually interested in hearing your story. ❞ Her tone is polite and kind, her pen tapping away on the countertop at a mindless rhythm. 

@gunslingcr | Positivity Meme