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Life is a treacherous road that leads through storms and deserts, through ups and downs. Such was the road along which Joe Gorrister walked, towards redemption or damnation. This was the road he would follow to the end.

Pádraig Mac Duarcáin, as his grandfather insisted on calling him, was third son and fourth surviving child of John Durkin, second generation American Irishman. An aggressive abusive drunkard - worker of the shoe factory. Born in 1874 in Boston, Patrick, like many other working-class children, grew up from a very young age in an atmosphere of poverty and struggle. Hunger, unsanitary conditions, constant fights with older brothers and peers were the companions of his young years. Short, bony and wiry, he began to steal and drink early, like many other children, left to their own devices while their fathers broke their backs in factories and their mothers gave birth again and again, in hopes that at least half of the babies would live to the age when they will be able to work for the sake of their families, making life at least a little easier for their parents. His father's anger, fueled by cheap whiskey, and the constant attacks of his brothers fostered a combative, flammable character in Patrick. Always ready for a fight, always feeling the need to defend his dignity, Patrick often found himself being chased with a police baton. Near the end of Reconstruction, old John, driven by promises of a better life, moves his family south to Saint Denis, leaving his eldest sons and daughter in Boston, taking only Patrick with him. Years followed each other, one part-time job replaced another. Only the wind walked in his pockets and the screams of his drunken, gradually dying father drove Patrick into the merciless streets of his new home - The Bowery. After serving a couple of years in the Navy during the Spanish-American War, he returned to Saint Denis, buried his father and... threw himself to the bottom of the bottle.

A couple of hours after dawn, when the few night tramps and revelers had gone to bed in Valentine, and most of the honest people, and not so much, were awake, Tomas Walker rode alone. He most often - almost always, in fact - rode alone. The usually silent Indian, silent as the trees and stones of the Cumberland Forest, rode through this very forest. And just like the trees and stones of this ancient place, he has seen a lot and could tell a lot. But he didn't speak. Most often, the same as now. He sang. He sang, and the song flowed through the branches and hills of the ancient forest. His voice was clear and surprisingly sincere. He sang, and the old wound on his arm, where the knife of Aawoh, the chief of the rebelious Makoyi, tore out a piece of flesh, tormented him now. Those days when he, alone, despite all the requests, threats and curses of his very few friends, went to the Grizzlies mountains to save his sister, seemed so far away now. But the pain was there. The pain was reminiscent and Tomas remembered. That was his curse. He always remembered. He remembered the eyes of his dying wife, whose fingers were still stroking the cheek of their already dead son. The whooping cough epidemic took them from him, and his heart went out. His hands remembered how hard it was to dig graves on the talus slopes of Wyoming Mountains. How he let things go and paid his last respects to his loved ones. His voice broke and the pain of loss came into his song. The fort appeared ahead, and Tomas remembered how he left his father's home, following in his father's footsteps, to serve the invaders of his land. Indian Scout of the United States Army, it was the only way to preserve the traditional way of life, where men must be warriors. Warrior... He wasn't one. He was a jailor, blood hound in the service of white officers, disdained by them. Scorned by soldiers, white and coloured alike. Hated by fellow Indian. He served in Fort Sill, as well as here, in Fort Wallace. There, in Oklahoma, as well as here, in Tahoma, he was discharged with honour, allowed to keep the uniform and rifle. But he saw little honour in it all, and bitter grudge filled his song. He remember what was left of his family then. His cousin Isabel, for whom he came to Tahoma in the first place, and his brother Elijah, the young falcon, who followed him in turn. Both were amongst the rarest living being, that he let into his broken heart. And both were gone now, lost to him. No matter how hard he tried to find them. And his song was filled with sorrow. The stallion, of the same breed, ridden by the Chickasaw Indians from Oklahoma, walked steadily forward, long accustomed to such, albeit rare, episodes. He snored quietly and nodded his head to the rhythm of the song that flowed through the branches and hills. But broken heart ached to be mended, and he remembered those other few, that he had place for there. Angus, black man from the Hennigan ranch. He was the only one, Tomas could trust with his life outside of his own family. Where he was now or was he even alive, Tomas didn't knew. Charlotte Blackwood was an odd woman with even stranger ideas, but he learned to care for her, how one would care for annoying child, that constantly trying to walk into the woods alone. Those two and his sister all got a token of that trust and love - each had a necklace, made of five bear claws exactly. Simple thing and made with more intent than craft, still it was a sign of his affection. Fourth such necklace, hanged, wrapped around his fist. It was meant for a woman, for broken heart ached to be mended. But it was shattered instead, for her own heart was with another. And so his song came to the end. The gift was cast from the cliff and into the depths of the Dakota River. Tomas Walker rode alone.

From the perspective of Elu Ashkii, Navajo Hunter. "I often think about how much my eyes can not see, how where I was raised can cause me to be so ignorant of the very world I live in. Then I realize it is not a matter of not seeing, but simply not knowing. I live between two worlds, and as such have a place in none, but that matters only where it must to me, for there is a secret third I can go to whenever I wish. In the deep dark, I wait within the brush and foliage, I have been tracking this wolf pack for days, its the dead of winter and the show lays thick upon the ground, biting into my skin with a shooting cold. They do not know I am here yet, and the moon remains as hidden behind clouds and fog as I remain hidden by leaf and branch. I pull back an arrow in my bow and intake a break, my arm is shaking, I haven't eaten in some time and this winter has been harsh, I have to cross mountains soon and need this, desperately. Just as I am about to let the arrow fly, the wind changed, and my scent hurtles toward the pack, the moon shining upon their eyes so suddenly I wince at the change in light, just like that I am exposed. I let my arrow fly and it hurtles through the air, impaling into one wolfs eye as planned, too quick to react. I don't have much time left, and so like some great spirit took control of my very body I draw another arrow and let it fly, hitting a wolf right in its shoulder sending it hurtling back. The final two still run me down closing distance fast, yet my desperation is faster, the third wolf goes down only moments before the fourth slams into me, causing me to tumble into the snow, rolling down my hill vantage in a primal tangle with the beast, my skinning knife manages its way into my hands quickly but my arm is suddenly seized, the wolfs jaw locked around it, teeth sending searing pain through. This somewhat centres me and I slam my elbow into its head, dislodging it enough for me to kick firmly into its abdomen, it rolls through the snow before swiftly moving to its feet with a snarl, though I am already there, my knife sinks right into its side as I embrace it firmly, holding it still until its heart slows to a stop and it falls limp. Just like that, I proved I am the greater predator, for in the wild it matters not my money, my status, or what I look like, its my ability to survive, this is my special third world I like to go to, and to this day I do, every rise of the sun and moon." Its said that a hunter trained young is a hunter for life, no matter what or where he is that will never change for him.

From the perspective of Elu Ashkii, Navajo hunter. "Blood red, it spilled through my fingers like a dam about to burst in a deluge of rain, no matter how hard I squeeze it keeps spilling and spilling, pooling around me before- I jolt awake, gasping for air, my shirt soaked in sweat clings to my body as my chest heaves for breath, a dream... a nightmare. It's late, crickets and the din of the forest from outside take over from the subsiding thumping sound in my ears. It's been a week now since we were attacked, my face and body still brused and healing even now from the beating. I turn my head to the left, he was there, laying sound asleep and snoring, funny boy. My eyes drift to the bandage and compress still around his throat, then to my own hands, they shake a moment but I clench them tightly and sigh. I gently slide from the bed and quietly shrug on my jacket, and various weapons, the clock on the wall read four thirty, again. I lean down and gently shift his beautiful red hair from his forehead, planting a gentle press of my lips to his skin before I right myself and pick up my bow, slinging it over my body. I make for the door, I have to clear my head of this before it poisons me further. After all, the Comanche were gone now, but I still scour the forest every night... before I can ever get back to sleep, I have to... I can't let anything like that happen to him again, ever." A hunter in the dark bough of the sycamore, watches silently with bow at his side, listening to every crack, every creak, every howl, yet before the sun rises, he returns again home. For his nightmares for now remain nightmares, he will make sure of that. Every single night, if its for him, he will do anything.

Born on August 15th, 1843, William Baldwin was a son of an owner of a small homestead in the county of Lemoyne, ST. His father, Edward Baldwin, was an officer and an instructor in West Point academy, was in turn the son of a participant of the American Revolutionary War. Coming from a proud lineage of officers that prized themselves of their Anglo-Saxon heritage, it came as no surprise that the son followed in the steps of his father and the father of his father, becoming an artillery officer in Lemoyne. When the first shots of the Civil War were fired, still 17 years old, William forged his papers to add an extra year to his age in order to enlist on the side of secessionists in the forming Lemoyne State militia. Dreams of quick victory and heroic adventure were soon crushed against the harsh and gruesome reality of the war. Flags of the 3rd Lemoyne Regiment (edit by wonderful @neit) It was the dreadful days of 1864 when his life took a sudden turn. First lieutenant of Artillery under the command of general Quincy T. Harris, promoted at an early age of 20 years old, and only due to severe lack of officers in the crumbling Confederate Army, he took command of the three remaining cannons of the 3rd Lemoyne Regiment during the Battle of Bolger’s Glade. Soldiers were dying all around, wounded cried their suffering and dying muttered prayers to God. Standing amidst the field of blood under the terrible storm from above and the hellfire of Northern artillery, the young lieutenant witnessed the last defeat of his native regiment. Before the Yankee shrapnel scratched against his face and the world went black around him. General Quincy T. Harris - William's commander and idol. Despite "allegedly" being a coward. Yankee's propaganda. Waking up in whatever constituted a hospital in those closing days of the war, he was decommissioned and sent home. Tried, found guilty and later pardoned by the President Andrew Johnson, William Baldwin had to find a new place in the Reconstruction Era South. Filled with bitter resentment for the “carpetbaggers, that stole the righteous victory” from the South, after years of civil education and service as a history teacher, he became a loyal supporter of the Lost Cause mythos, firmly believing the cause of the Civil War being the State’s Rights and Yankee aggression. In the years after the war, he married, had five children, became a widower, was a member of the Democratic Party and an ally to the doctrine of the New South. William Earl Balwin at the United Confederate Veterans' reunion, pictured carrying a flag of the 3rd Lemoyne Regiment, 1896. Spending many years away from his native Rhodes, he returned home in March of 1900. Here is the story of the Autumn of the life of William Earl Baldwin, man from the previous century…

"Rebecca? She had always feared the quiet solitude." A love letter to herself; the midnight dove served as a symbol of her liberation. No longer shackled by the need for constant companionship. (( Checkpoint! From the Big Valley, the Great Plains, to the lawless New Austin, and now Rhodes. Rebecca's almost a month old, and a lot of stuff happened to this poor girl. ))

((Picture yet to be added)) Name: William "Willie" MacDonald Gender: Male Age: 18 Birthplace: Valentine, New Hanover Backstory: William “Willie” MacDonald was born in the agricultural town of Valentine, a few years after his mother and father had immigrated over to the states, joining the large influx of Scottish and Ulster-Scots immigrants flooding into America in the late 1800’s. His parents like so many others were seeking a fresh start on the ever-expanding western frontier, however they did not get so far. During the journey from St.Denis William’s mother had taken Ill, it was lucky that they were passing through Valentine when it got serious. They decided to rest in the town where a kind doctor took pity on William’s mother and father, and done what he could to nurse her back to health. The town welcomed them with open arms during their brief rest, so much so that instead of pushing further into the west, the pair decided to settle down in Valentine, planting the roots of their fresh start. The pair sought out work at one of the local farms as cattle ranchers and stable hands. It was on this Ranch Willie was born and raised, thrust into the work as soon as he was able to walk, shown the ropes and being pushed down the same path his parents had chosen. William had that Scottish fire in him however, being somewhat of a troublesome child, picking fights with the other children in town leading him to become a bit of an outcast. His parents were the polar opposite, being kind and gentle people so they are not sure where his aggression came from and believe he might have some loose screws in his head. While his mother and father where content he was not but as William saw it he had no choice, his family were not rich, nor where they powerful, William was stuck and there was nothing he could do. To pass the mundane time, and in some ways channel his anger, he took to documenting his daily life in his diary, backing up his accounts with sketches and messy drawings.