Jump to content

Where the Water Tastes Like Wine


Recommended Posts

"Where the Water Tastes Like Wine isn't a place you'll find on any map. It's a promise whispered by the wind to travelers and dreamers. It's not a land but a state of mind, where your burdens feel lighter, and your heart begins to sing. It's the place you find peace, not by escaping the world, but by embracing its stories as they are."

***

The Vagrant Band is a group of wandering musicians and performers who have come together from all corners of the American West. Each member brings their own stories, songs, and experiences, creating a unique blend of music and storytelling. Their goal is simple: to share music, preserve tales, and bring people together—while making a living in whatever ways the road allows.

The band was formed by Quinn Landry, Gregory Rutkowsky and Patrick Braddock, three true vagrant musicians who had grown tired of the strict rules and politics of large traveling troupes. Seeking freedom and the chance to create on their own terms, they decided to forge a new path. The Vagrant Band doesn't search for their place under the sun—they carve it out for themselves, bending the world to fit their own rhythm. They bring music wherever they go, but those who cross their path quickly learn that they are not just wandering minstrels.

Though they perform for miners, ranchers, townsfolk, and drifters alike, their livelihood extends beyond music. When the money from honest shows isn't enough, they turn to other means—selling so-called miracle tonics in flashy medicine shows, lifting coins from distracted onlookers, or running small cons to keep their pockets from going empty. Some rumors even suggest they've dealt in grave-robbing, stolen goods, and other unsavory trades, though the band would simply call it "doing what needs to be done". Their transient lifestyle helps them avoid consequences—by the time a town starts catching on, they're already packed up and gone.

Their knack for deception was tested in Blackwater, where a misunderstanding turned into an all-out gunfight with lawmen. The dust settled with Quinn Landry standing before a judge, spinning a tale sharp enough to keep the gallows at bay. Through quick thinking and a silver tongue, the band walked away free men, proving once again that survival in the West isn't just about having fast hands—but knowing how to talk your way out of a noose.

Despite their morally flexible ways, The Vagrant Band is bound by loyalty to one another. They stand their ground when challenged, and when someone threatens their own, people tend to disappear—sometimes into the shadows, sometimes into the dirt. They may not be outlaws, but they're no saints either. They are survivors, living by their own code in a world where law is often as fluid as a well-played tune.

Living a life on the move, the band spends much of their time in the wilderness, traveling through forests, deserts, and plains. The natural world is as much a part of their existence as their music. Long nights by the campfire, the howls of wolves in the distance, the dust of the open road—these are the rhythms they play to, the backdrop of their restless journey. Their songs reflect the freedom, beauty, and hardships of life on the frontier, a life where survival and art are intertwined.

For The Vagrant Band, the journey itself is what matters most. The open road, the thrill of a good performance, and the ever-present possibility of one last big score keep them moving forward. Along the way, they cross paths with drifters, dreamers, outlaws, and honest folk alike, each leaving behind a new story, a song, or a lesson learned. Their music carries the spirit of the West—not just the beauty and wonder, but the grit, the deception, and the restless pursuit of something just beyond the horizon.

***

spacer.pngQuinn Landry, known as the "Guitar Drifter", was born in a small settlement amidst the swamps of Louisiana. His father, of Irish descent, and his mother, a Cajun, created a home where two cultures blended in poverty. His father worked as a fisherman, while his mother stayed home, caring for their five children and teaching Quinn to read, write, and sing traditional songs that shaped his musical journey. Tragedy struck during the American Civil War, as his father and three older brothers were killed, leaving his family devastated. By the age of fifteen, Quinn was an orphan, having lost his mother and younger sister to illness after the war.

Seeking a way to survive, Quinn made his way to New Orleans, where he discovered a vibrant world of music and storytelling. He joined several traveling troupes, honing his craft and developing a repertoire of songs inspired by the people and places he encountered. However, the hardships of the road led him to vices such as alcohol, which fueled both his creativity and his reputation as a gifted but troubled artist. His music, infused with elements of folklore and personal struggle, resonated deeply with audiences across America.

Quinn never stayed in one place for long, and he never needed to. Music was his home, whether played in a crowded saloon or by a dying fire under the open sky. He drifted from troupe to troupe, but his temper and vices always got in the way, leading to more burned bridges than lasting friendships. Eventually, tired of rules and expectations, he struck out on his own, pulling together a band of drifters who shared his love for the road. As long as there was a tune to play and a drink to chase it down, he figured he’d keep moving.

spacer.png

Gregory Rutkowsky was born to Polish immigrants in a small farming community in Illinois. His parents fled Poland in the 1850s, escaping poverty and political repression, only to face a life of grueling labor on rented farmland in America. Gregory's childhood was shaped by constant hard work, helping his family in the fields while attending a rural school only during the slower winters. Despite their struggles, he grew up with a strong sense of determination to escape the life of a tenant farmer. He often listened to traveling musicians passing through, dreaming of a world beyond endless rows of wheat and corn, but in a place where survival came first, dreams held little value.

At eighteen, Gregory left home in search of something more, taking on backbreaking jobs like railroad construction and logging, often earning just enough to survive. He spent nights in work camps, saloons, and makeshift shacks, drinking away meager wages and picking up whatever tunes he could from the people around him. Living a transient life, he fell into a cycle of drinking and occasional petty theft, finding brief moments of joy in playing the guitar for his workmates or strangers he met on the road. His music became a way to endure the hardships, to turn hunger and exhaustion into something that felt like freedom—if only for a little while.

Now twenty-six, Gregory drifts from town to town, taking what work he can and playing music wherever people are willing to listen. He's long given up on chasing stability—maybe it was never meant for him anyway. The road is all he knows, and as long as he has a guitar, a bottle, and a place to play, he figures he'll get by. Some call it a wasted life, but to Gregory, there's a certain kind of peace in knowing he has no debts, no land to till, and no promises to keep—just another song, another night, and another town down the road.

spacer.pngPatrick Braddock was born in a northern port city to Irish immigrants struggling to make ends meet. As the eldest child, he was put to work young, taking whatever jobs he could to help the family. With his first wages came whiskey, and soon enough, he spent more time in taverns than anywhere else. Built strong like his father, he took on long shifts as a dockhand, unloading cargo by day and drinking himself numb by night. His life seemed set on a steady path of hard labor and harder hangovers—until one drunken night changed everything.

After a long shift, Patrick fell in with sailors who kept his glass full and his head light. When he woke, the world was swaying—not from whiskey, but from the waves. He’d been tricked onto a ship, and there was no turning back. Life at sea hardened him, but he never settled into it. He missed the taverns, the women, the thrill of a good gamble—but most of all, the music. The only real escape aboard was when someone played a fiddle or concertina, and Patrick clung to those moments, picking up the habit himself, playing late into the night to keep the ocean from swallowing him whole.

After two years at sea, he finally saw his chance. Earning enough trust to be allowed on shore leave, he struck a deal in a portside tavern, paying off a crew to take him back to the States. That night, he boarded as a passenger instead of a prisoner, leaving the sea behind for good. Back on land, Patrick drifted from town to town, taking up odd jobs and playing music wherever he could. He may not have had much, but as long as he had a place to play and a drink in his hand, he figured he’d be just fine.

spacer.pngJeremiah "Sly" McKinney was born on the outskirts of Armadillo in the New Austin Territory, where the land was dry, and life was as unforgiving as the sun overhead. His father, a former Confederate soldier turned saloon entertainer, spent his nights playing guitar and singing to weary drifters. The McKinney family barely scraped by, but after a cholera outbreak in '81 devastated their town, survival became even harder. Sly, as folks started calling him for his smooth words and quick thinking, found solace in music, picking up his father’s guitar not just for comfort, but as a way to earn his keep.

When the Gold Rush swept through the frontier, Sly made his way to Tumbleweed, playing in saloons for prospectors chasing riches. His songs of wandering souls and distant horizons earned him a few coins, but his own bad habits kept him moving. He gambled away more than he ever saved, drank when he should've been playing, and left town more than once to avoid trouble. His travels took him from Blackwater to Strawberry, then back through the desert towns of New Austin, playing wherever people had a coin to spare and a drink to share.

Despite the restless life he leads, Sly dreams of something greater. He longs to form his own band, to create music that captures the soul of the frontier, but his own choices keep pulling him back into the same cycle. In South Tahoma, he's found new audiences, though tensions between the state and New Austin make it harder to stay neutral. Wherever he goes, his guitar carries stories of the road, even as he keeps trying to rewrite his own.

spacer.pngBenny Lloyd grew up on a remote ranch, far from the noise and bustle of city life. With his broad features and perpetually amused expression, he often comes across as a fool, but appearances can be deceiving. He has a sharp mind, a steady hand, and a fearlessness that sets him apart when danger is near. His father was a miner who specialized in handling dynamite, a skill that left a lasting impression on Benny before an occupational illness took his life. Even now, Benny maintains a deep fascination with explosives, treating them with both respect and a sense of reckless curiosity.

Though not a musician like the others in The Vagrant Band, Benny has carved out his place in the troupe. He and Lenny Boyd act as the group's muscle, ensuring their safety on the road and keeping trouble at bay. The two of them are constantly at odds, frequently coming to blows over the smallest disagreements, yet they always have each other's backs when it matters. Their rowdy energy also plays a role in the band's performances, as they take part in knife-throwing acts and archery tricks, adding an element of danger to the show. Beyond that, they serve as the troupe's barkers, drawing in crowds with loud voices and bold promises of an unforgettable spectacle.

Unlike others, Benny doesn't aspire to fame or fortune; for him, the thrill of the road and the camaraderie of the band are enough. Whether throwing knives, breaking up fights, or riling up an audience, he thrives in the chaos of their wandering life. In The Vagrant Band, he has found his place—not as an artist, but as a necessary force that keeps the show running, the people entertained, and the group safe.

spacer.pngLenny Boyd was born in the slums of Saint Denis, in a home weighed down by hardship and shattered ambitions. His father, a man who once brimmed with dreams, lost himself to gambling, squandering every last cent at the card table. Each loss dragged him further into trouble, and soon, into the grip of alcoholism. His mother, more pragmatic, peddled trinkets to keep food on the table, but the strain of keeping their family afloat was relentless. As his father's temper flared and his debts mounted, the household grew more unstable—until one day, after one loss too many, he took his own life.

Growing up in the shadow of his father's failures, Lenny became a defiant and impulsive teenager, always looking for a way to prove himself. Trouble seemed to follow wherever he went, whether through street brawls, reckless gambling, or petty theft. Yet, no matter how deep he found himself in a mess, he had an uncanny way of scrambling out of it, laughing as if it was all just another hand of cards. He inherited his father's love for gambling but lacked the self-control to ever walk away while he was ahead. Though luck was never on his side for long, he never stopped chasing the next big win.

Lenny's reckless nature made him an unlikely fit for a group of musicians, but in The Vagrant Band, he found something close to a home. Alongside Benny Lloyd, he worked as both an enforcer and a barker, drawing crowds before performances. Their constant bickering and occasional brawls became part of the band's charm, adding to the chaotic energy of their shows. Though he never picked up an instrument, his gambler's charm and quick fists made sure the band stayed in business—one way or another.

spacer.pngCorey Vidrine was born and raised in Strawberry, the son of a hardworking farmer and a devoted mother. Unlike most boys in town, who spent their days learning the trade of ranching or lumber work, Corey's path was different. From a young age, he was drawn to music, learning to play the piano from a neighbor who recognized his natural talent. While other kids swung axes or broke horses, Corey spent his time at the keys, perfecting melodies that made even the rowdiest saloon patrons stop and listen. His gift was undeniable, but it also set him apart—he was never quite like the others, and some saw him as too soft for the rough world around him.

As he grew older, he knew Strawberry wasn't enough. Playing the same tunes for the same faces felt like a cage, so he left, chasing something bigger. But the vagrant life was tougher than he expected—long roads, empty pockets, nights spent under the stars. Music could get a man far, but it wouldn't fill his stomach or keep him safe. Along the way, he learned to be careful who he trusted, seeing firsthand how quickly kindness could turn into a con.

Joining The Vagrant Band gave him direction, a way to keep playing while learning how to survive. He wasn't just a pianist anymore—under the guidance of seasoned drifters, he began picking up other instruments, pushing himself beyond the saloon. Though he still struggles with the rougher side of their way of life, he's proving himself every step of the way. His hands are still golden, but now, he understands that out here, talent alone won't keep a man fed—or alive.

spacer.pngJax Mercer doesn't come with a past you can pin down. Ask him where he's from, and you'll get a different answer depending on the bottle in his hand. Some say he was the son of a preacher, raised under strict teachings before falling into temptation. Others swear he was a graverobber who found poetry in the dirt. What's certain is that he arrived in Strawberry like trouble waiting to happen—stumbling drunk, strumming his guitar, and singing a tune that was anything but appropriate for the solemn crowd gathered at a public hanging.

Jax first crossed paths with The Vagrant Band in Strawberry, where he arrived in a state that made him impossible to ignore. Drunk, playing his guitar, and singing an ill-advised tune during a public hanging, he quickly drew the attention of both the townsfolk and the local sheriff. Tensions rose, and had the band not intervened, pulling him away before things escalated further, he might not have walked away from that day at all. Instead, he left town alongside them, bringing with him his music, his sharp tongue, and a collection of stories that seemed to grow more exaggerated each time he told them.

Since then, Jax has been a steady presence in troupe, playing his songs and writing down whatever pieces of life he finds worth remembering. His music is often melancholic, filled with the kind of tales only someone who has seen both good and bad in equal measure could tell. Though he carries the air of someone always searching for something just out of reach, he has found, at least for now, a place among fellow travelers—where his songs will always have an audience, and the road will never seem too long.

spacer.pngJacob "Jack" Tremblay was born in 1853 in Kansas to a poor farming family. From an early age, he showed a sharp mind for business, reselling small household goods and always looking for ways to turn a quick profit. His childhood was spent in constant scarcity, shaping him into a man who valued wealth above all else. By the time he was fifteen, Jack had already learned that fortune didn't favor the honest—it favored the cunning.

When word of the gold rush in South Tahoma spread, Jack saw his opportunity. Unlike the desperate miners who chased riches beneath the earth, he understood the real money was in those who sold the dream rather than dug for it. He drifted west, dealing in everything from gambling rackets to rigged contests, eventually falling in with a band of traveling musicians. Spotting an even greater opportunity, he became their impresario, convincing them to take part in his medicine shows, where he sold "miracle" elixirs—most notably, Indian Sangwa, a supposed cure-all made of alcohol and cheap herbs. With a silver tongue and a flair for spectacle, Jack could convince almost anyone of his tonic's wonders, telling grand tales of ancient remedies and performing staged "cures" before eager crowds.

Though his medicine was nothing more than a well-dressed scam, Jack never lost sleep over it. Money was the only truth in his world, and if people were willing to pay for a story, he was happy to sell it. His role within The Vagrant Band was more than just an organizer—he was the man who ensured that each performance, whether on stage or off, served a purpose. Whether it was orchestrating a show, handling negotiations, or finding the next town ripe for the taking, Jack was always three steps ahead. Yet, for all his success, he carried the weight of solitude—trust, after all, was not a luxury afforded to men like him.

spacer.pngAbdoul Kassie gripped the reins, the desert sun bearing down on his weathered face. The red dust curled around his boots, a familiar dance in an unforgiving land. Born on the rugged frontier, he was a child of the soil, raised under the watchful eye of his father, Ibrahim—a man whose hands knew how to coax life from the driest earth. Alongside his mother, Sarah, they carved out a small farm, growing corn and beans, believing in the promise of the West. But promise could turn to dust just as quickly. The drought of '83 left their fields barren, forcing Ibrahim into debt with a Mexican land baron, Ricardo Vargas. When the harvest failed, Vargas' enforcers came to collect. Abdoul hid in the cellar, listening to the screams of his family as gunshots sealed their fate. By the time he emerged, his home was nothing but silence and blood.

With nowhere left to go, Abdoul ran. He wandered for weeks, hungry, lost, barely surviving until he stumbled into Blackwater. It was there that fate placed him among a band of wandering musicians. They weren't farmers or fighters, but drifters, men who made their way through life with song and showmanship. It wasn't the life he imagined, but it was a life nonetheless. He proved himself useful—not just as a steady hand around camp but as a man who knew how to track, hunt, and survive where others would perish. In time, he found his place among them, picking up new skills, learning the tricks of the trade, and slowly stepping away from the ghosts of his past.

Though Abdoul kept mostly to himself, there was a quiet resolve in him. He had no taste for lawlessness, but he knew the West had no room for men who refused to stand their ground. He didn't seek vengeance, only a way forward. In the end, he was a survivor, one who had seen the worst of men but still believed there was something worth holding onto—loyalty, fairness, maybe even a little bit of hope.

***

This thread showcases the roleplay of a band of wandering vagrant artists. It will feature screenshots and some personal commentary of their everyday adventures. The band isn't tied to any single location, so expect plenty of traveling, performing in different places, and encountering a wide range of people along the way. Feel free to join in if you're roleplaying as a hobo, musician, or any kind of artist.

  • Like 23
  • Love 2
  • Reward 1
  • Hat Tip 3
Link to comment
Share on other sites

"Greg and I went ahead, leaving the group behind for a while to find a good camp spot near Strawberry. It's so strange, just yesterday we were in the snowy mountains, damn near freezing to death with that cold biting straight through our skin. And now, here we are, somewhere warmer, where the air doesn’t cut like a knife.

We found a good place to stop deep in the woods, right by the river's mouth. The forests here seems welcoming enough—already bagged a couple of rabbits and picked some berries, so we won't be going hungry tonight. Now all that's left is to meet up with the rest of the band and head into Strawberry. Word is, there are a few saloons in town where we might be able to play. With our pockets running light, that ain't a bad idea."

e474d84e03c2f4199490e5589e33dd77.png

93035b6003f035112d26de1be219063d.png

"Seems my late-night strumming by the fire drew in a few more drifters just like us. Four young folks—Bill, Liam, David and Dakota. At first, they introduced Dakota as a pregnant woman, probably hoping it'd earn them a warmer welcome. Lucky I keep this journal, cause by morning I'd have forgotten half their names. Too many damn people coming and going these days.

I know their kind... they ain’t too different from us. Young vagrants and likely thieves, though they seem like interesting company. Like us, they got no home, just the open road and some vague idea of "finding themselves", whatever the hell that might mean."

7631f862db45c1307179e899380bb351.png

3427b2b7b27c9800393849daae7ddf9f.png

d86e4911245f958f3fe3a5fc9277c634.png

d02a2ed4bb28f8ab8c498ff71373c464.png

5e164aa36ef0b9fc1f66439fe3b307db.png

"Our conversation got interrupted when some armed ranchers came nosing around, likely from a nearby homestead, but once they cleared off, we struck a deal—ride into Strawberry together and put on a show. Dakota claims she can sing, the others say they can dance, and, well… lift a pocket or two while they're at it. Might just work... Guess we'll see."

fab08d326b08b23ae6ca36ddfa9e69b7.png

b9169296e82c5db8ca2ecf7bc7decf7d.png

c2d5215d12e3c4e8f1bbd18e6c7cd67c.png

4f8eeaa3a71ea09463716f8ae2b577a6.png

  • Like 14
Link to comment
Share on other sites

"So, it was time to head for Strawberry... the town I'd heard so much about. Those kids stuck around, so they tagged along for the journey. Just as we were packing up, Sly finally showed up outta nowhere. Said Pat was still somewhere behind, so we figured we'd ride on without him, get a feel for the town, maybe put on a little show. What could go wrong? Heh..."

0e1d95f8bb7b2fb0f9dfe8827a742c5d.png

1d4ad61d77fc749365e684d541aa5a2e.png

35c074412fc663ccca1b714930785948.png

aa42dc5907dec6796fcf0d29b6405451.png

291e2bc864ff589a9793f839e8308b93.png

2bab3f256eaf5a7789acb4ddfaa390f6.png

47902b8d1e3ea2e209e99534a67ad8f4.png

9b9f0e6a513acb46510f67d70b388935.png

"What could go wrong?... I asked. Well, turns out plenty. Strawberry's a fine little town, with a river running through it and woods all around, but once the sun sets? Might as well be a ghost town. No open saloons, no crowd to play for... just empty streets and locked doors. Still, we figured we'd try our luck and play outside the post office. That was the plan, at least, until Bill and Liam, the little bastards, started scrapping right in the middle of our set. Spooked off what few folks were around, and we were damn lucky no lawman came poking around to break it up."

2ace7efb80588b90fdc348bb990836de.png

13ff7faa40e05cb974f688872dad1208.png

d66f49b28623273b1bcf91c8dd017d94.png

57a444dcd0e11a5ffcc649f0f6c176a8.png

0442e21157adda39cf19783d6ffa0704.png

e5c95bd9bf3625944f624d70ba9a77fd.png

ddb752315646ef45b1009241c851cd55.png

"The fight ended, but I had a feeling… this ain't over yet. Didn't seem like the boys had any bad blood left, but something told me they weren't done stirring trouble. Either way, we packed up our instruments and agreed it was time to find a proper place to drink. That’s how we ended up in Blackwater. Now, that's a real city—loud, busy, and full of all kinds of accents you sure as hell don't hear in Strawberry.

We barely stepped foot in a saloon before Bill and Liam picked up right where they left off. Stupid little bastards. I didn't stick around to see how it ended since they got tossed out, but I wouldn't mind never seeing those two again. Then again, the road's funny like that—folks you think you'll never cross paths with again always have a way of showing up in the most unexpected places…"

9b863cb47296dee155d3a594fe44ce2a.png

dab1e780c6a4ae2fecf1628662741dbb.png

"It ain’t all bad news though. Greg and I met two women at the local saloon—Miss Nelly, who I reckon owns the place (she sure as hell was the one who threw Bill and Liam out), and a bartender named Mazzy. We made a deal with Miss Nelly to play here from time to time. Ain't expecting to make a fortune, but free food and drinks? That's already more than most drifters like us can ask for.

We decided to play some music right away, and damn, it was a rough one... Greg and I were already dead on our feet after playing till sunrise, then riding half the day to get here. Blackwater might be a good place to stay awhile, but we gotta find a solid camp spot. Something tells me the kind of folks that prowl these streets ain't just gamblers and merchants. Feels like there's a whole lot more outlaws in these parts than back in Strawberry… and my gut's usually right about these things."

e66fbc2252510b0184d12348535c841e.png

  • Like 15
Link to comment
Share on other sites

"Big Valley's a hell of a place. If there was a preacher out here, I reckon he'd spin some kind of biblical tale about a land overflowing with bounty, cause I ain't never seen so much game in one place. We ain't gone hungry once since we set up camp, which is a rare thing for us. Sly damn near lives in Little Creek River now, spends his whole day out there fishing like he was born with a rod in his hands.

I'll admit, I've grown mighty fond of these woods and that river teeming with fish. But soon enough, the whole gang'll be together again, and when that happens, it'll be time to move on. More than likely, we'll be setting up camp near Blackwater next. Can't say I'm thrilled about it—civilization ain't really my thing, guess that's my Cajun blood talking. Of course, Blackwater's a fine city, but there's a kind of dust there that don't just stick to your boots—it gets in your eyes, clouds your vision, makes you see what you wanna see.

But that's a problem for later. For now, I'll enjoy the view while I can. We've still got some time to soak it all in while we wait on Pat and the rest of the boys to catch up."

a07fd8d85cd1c9a03085f54ad38e7f44.png

"Camp in the Woods"

1be072bb1d06151e9c32b02789805f1b.png

"Strawberry"

f8d9ddf4067f2514d23b46aaab3a15f4.png

"Bill & Dave—Double Trouble"

1ca3d7c341e94aa02cacd1e9536e07f6.png

"Little Creek River at Night"

a5bb7b435c60e34992157c7a2659bff8.png

  • Like 15
  • Hat Tip 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

"Middle of the day, and everyone was off doing something—hunting, fishing or stocking up in Strawberry. I was the only one left in camp, and of course, I went and dozed off. That's how a kid named Benny Lloyd caught me off guard. Lucky for me, he wasn't some outlaw looking to strip me clean, just another roughneck down on his luck. Said he got himself kicked off a ranch for being a lousy worker and was looking for the nearest camp to latch onto.

Hell, you shoulda seen his face—damn thing looked like it had been rearranged a few times. All outta proportion, like he'd been on the losing end of too many fistfights. Looked dumb as a sack of bricks, but truth be told, he seemed alright. Figured I'd let him sit by the fire for a spell, see what he was really about."

48122354be295235aad5cef380d32095.png

"Strange day all around... Not long after Benny showed up, Pat finally rolled in, hauling fresh game behind him. While I was cleaning and prepping it for supper, another fella wandered into camp—an old man calling himself Professor Anthony Artamann. Fella had the look of a preacher but the mouth of a madman, rambling on about God and all sorts of nonsense.

Educated types like him… seems like the more books they read, the less they believe in anything. Kinda feel bad for em. Still, he pulled his weight and helped with cooking up the meat Pat brought in."

48bc63156900a2f1d8eccee4cc8728f2.png

fd73356b322ca75f98c89925f25afe61.png

8ec5bcbc8a5a1a030cf7233af77ae312.png

d11217fe0020f769d1171f969d8e7941.png

d0c29214dc84d929062302b973c23e47.png

2689644da9ff8add047af5e05f3f0a01.png

ffd4ed7afc7479a3a6e2258263e7cce2.png

e7469d71193559ae6a50d3d0e89cd333.png

c3ed16a83637f863d44ec077d89adfa1.png

"Supper was good—started with a prayer, ended with a song. Talked about where we're headed next. Seems like both Benny and Professor want to tag along, at least as far as Blackwater. Benny's got his sights set on fortune—dollars, gold, silver, whatever he can get his hands on. As for the professor… well, he says he's got some "challenge" ahead. Sounds like one of them wandering preachers who drifts from town to town spouting whatever folks'll listen to.

Can't say I see much use for the professor round camp, but he can cook, so I guess we found ourselves a steady camp cook. Benny, on the other hand… something tells me he ain't being fully honest about why he left that ranch. Still, he's got some sense about him, and I reckon he'll be handy when it comes to hunting, fishing, and if need be—pulling a gun to protect camp. We'll see how they both turn out soon enough."

f636d3ae0fc7b195d697a822fcb0c05d.png

52b6492c58b4d1024e26655914847f3c.png

beabba8af11ecb8adcac19c25836f617.png

4f05da8d33e900d376177e2926d7b624.png

5470585f3605f4c27e6089a05d739365.png

70ddbf17509360574271b6522139233c.png

86205d5b8f5ea7453ad2b6d93e58c0f3.png

91e68470489840dceb0e6c3697494a0c.png

587a1150ed1df6a70da2af9cfef9da76.png

  • Like 13
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Restore formatting

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

 Share

×
×
  • Create New...