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Requiem for the West

Ashes In My Wake

Emma Graves

The high and mighty saw fit to change the plans again. Instead of the Ventrue accompanying us we’ve acquired some fancy-dressed fool.I just couldn’t wait to get out of that shithouse called Chicago, so I didn’t raise a fuss when the pearl-clasped gunslinger strutted into the car. He’s the charming type, alright, down to the proud smile and perfectly fixed hair. All his steel’s got a shine to it, all his leather’s got polish. Most of those types aren’t good for a damned thing when the lead starts flying, can’t sweet talk a bullet. In the course of our trip a few things have happened. I’ve come to realize that all three of them are shameless thieves. Their greed gives me no great concern only because I haven’t much to steal. I’ve also gained a bit of respect for each, they seem not entirely useless when things get heated. An unfortunate Leper thought it a good idea attack me in the trainyard, and I then put both clawed hands through his innards and rooted around until he was little more than slimy ash on my duster. There was something truly satisfying to putting an end to him, the only thing that bothered me was having to wash my coat off in that muddy water. While I’m not particularly attached to material things the lessons in propriety that my mother taught aren’t lost to me entirely. I’d prefer to not look wholly like a savage, Hell even the indian Edo’ha has formal attire, in a sense. The bandits made for a serious inconvenience, though they paid for it in blood. The elephant rifle came in handy despite my jabbing at Nathan about it. As we’re dislodged from the tracks I can’t help but think about everyone else bouncing round the inside of these big metal cans, and just how poorly they’ll fare with the indians. I’m going to give them a scare so bad their shitheel grandchildren will have nightmares about wolves.

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scottfunke

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