Prescott

[Bailey]

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In the Winter of 1861, fifteen years before Tahoma was admitted into the Union; Donald was born to the neighboring State of Kansas, but moved to the rising town of Blackwater after his Mother, Ruth Prescott achieved a job in the local Mayor's Office as a administrative clerk after vowing to leave Donald's abusive father for good. Donald wasn't particularly academic in his younger formative years, as was constantly reflected by his grades year-upon-year; but he was born with something that couldn't be taught as easily as literature or arithmatics - charisma. He never particulatly found any trouble making friends, which was evident through his entire education tenure.

It was in 1877, when Donald turned 16 years old, it became clear that he was able to talk his way out of trouble and rally his peers around his ideas, concepts and initiatives; however inconsequential they may be. School was a passable affair, and although he by no means excelled in academia - it gave him plenty of time and opportunity to hone his social skills, make friends and such. In terms of after school activities, it wasn't uncommon for him to spend plenty of hours in the Mayor's Office, awaiting his mother to finish up any overtime she'd banked in an effort to make a decent life for the remaining Prescotts; overhearing political ideas, sitting quietly in the corner of somewhat-important meetings and the likes - flicking lazily through paperworks of old speeches, files and other boring documentation.

By the time he was 18, and had learned of the life in Kansas that he and his exceptional mother had fled. The horrors and nightmare fuel of his father were revealed to him, and following the expected and initial visceral anger and sadness - his ambition became to shape into something more focused.

An implicit need to distinguish himself as a man, driven by the unspoken need to outshine the shadow his father's cruel legacy, and give his mother a chance to live her golden years in peace - he put himself to work, without much probing from his mother, or other influential adults. He was happy to work odd jobs around Blackwater, and naturally, many of these odd jobs would be in direct relation to the Office of the Mayor; whether it was advertising communal events, selling newspapers - all the while passively building up a reputation and rapport with the booming populace of Blackwater as a rich result of the regional commerce.

He'd learn the political gift of the gab, as it were, by attending every single political rally, speech and such with his mother, given by who would become to be his predecessor, Mayor Jamie McGlaive. By the time he was in his Early 20's, Donald was a formiddable and noteable member of the Blackwater community - known fruitfully and reliably by the local business owners to do them a favour or two, with no strings attached. Of course, those strings simply took a few years to form. In 1884, at the age of 23, Donald took a risk - fuelled by the burning desire to spite his father, accelerated by the admiration of the locals, and solidified by the undying love that his Mother, now elderly and retired, he ran for the Mayorship.

Despite his obvious youth and relative inexperience in any position of political power; his campaign tugged on the heartstrings of the masses - promising progress, fortune and fairness for the town as it continued to charge forward into the New Frontier. He'd won the election proudly, even if haunted by the memories of his childhood. Now, it is time to twist charm and charisma into action and execution, and to faithfully uphold the Office of the Mayor, and not let down all of those people who he had promised the world to.

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[Bailey]

The job started the moment the ceremony ended. Handshakes, applause, speeches—none of it mattered once I stepped into that office. Blackwater needs stability, and that meant speaking with the Sheriff of West Elizabeth as soon as possible. We met behind closed doors, just the two of us. He wanted to know my intentions, and I needed to know his. We came to an understanding: I handle the city, he keeps the peace. No interference, no crossed lines. It was a necessary conversation.

 

 

 

 

Next came business. I sat down with representatives from the Spicking Mining Company. Iron and silver—Blackwater will need plenty of both in the coming years. We agreed on a deal, one that will keep the supply flowing. Some will question my reasons. Let them. The town is growing, and I intend to keep it that way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not everyone sees the full picture yet. They will, in time.

[Bailey]

Blackwater needs an event to bring people together—something grand, something profitable. A County Fair seems the best way to do it. I spent the morning drafting invitations to merchants, ranchers, and traders across West Elizabeth. If they have goods to sell, I want them here. Cattle, grain, tools, fabrics, machines—Blackwater can be the heart of commerce in this county, but it has to start somewhere. If this fair goes well, it’ll be a yearly tradition. Something people rely on. Something they expect.

 

 

 

 

By evening, I needed a break. The Blackwater Saloon called my name, and I answered. Poker table, good whiskey, men with money to lose—or so I thought. The game stretched late into the night. Cards were good to me at first, then turned cruel. Undersheriff Sidney Hennigan walked away with more of my money than I’d like to admit. He enjoyed every second of it. Said I should stick to running the city and leave the cards to him.

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’ll win it back next time.

[Bailey]

The first step to order is writing it down. Blackwater has grown fast, and with growth comes trouble. I sat down with Sheriff Howard Cobb and Undersheriff Sidney Hennigan at the Flat Iron Restaurant this evening to put together the first draft of the Blackwater Town Ordinances. The city needs laws—clear, firm, and enforceable. If Blackwater is to be the pride of West Elizabeth, it can’t be run like some lawless frontier town.

 

The first matter was weapons. We agreed that open carry of repeaters and longarms within town limits would be prohibited. Pistols are one thing—most men carry one, and that won’t change—but there’s no need for folks to be walking the streets with rifles slung over their shoulders like they’re marching to war. A man can keep his guns, but if he wants to carry a longarm, he can do it outside of town.

 

Then came the issue of dress. Hennigan, in particular, had strong feelings about women wearing pants. Said it wasn’t proper, that skirts and dresses were the only respectable choice. Cobb and I didn’t have much stake in the matter, and he argued long enough that we let him have it. I don’t imagine the women of Blackwater will take kindly to it, but that’ll be his fight when the time comes.

 

Lastly, we landed on a prohibition against excessive blasphemy. Cobb was the one to bring it up, saying that a man ought to have some respect when speaking in public. Hennigan backed him, calling it a matter of decency. I didn’t see much harm in adding it. This town doesn’t need to be the sort where every other word out of a man’s mouth offends half the street.
 

We’ll need more revisions before it’s official, but it’s a start. Blackwater is changing, and I intend to be the one guiding that change.

[Bailey]

The West Elizabeth County Fair was my first big move as Mayor, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little anxious about how it would turn out. Blackwater needed something to bring people in—something more than just business as usual. A fair seemed like the best way to do it, a place where merchants, ranchers, musicians, and craftsmen could gather, sell their wares, and put this town on the map.

By noon, the town center was packed. Stalls lined the streets, the smell of roasting meat and fresh-baked bread filling the air. People came from all over!

Eleanor Monroe from the Blackwater Saloon set up a barbecue pit, and from the first hour to the last, folks were lined up for a plate. She knows how to keep people fed, and from the looks of it, she made a killing in sales. Vernon Springer and Agnes Tully from Tully’s Farm arrived together, though if you didn’t know better, you’d think they were about to kill each other. They bickered the entire time—about prices, about customers, about whose idea it was to come in the first place. But they sold just about everything they brought, so I doubt either of them left unhappy. The Spicking Mining Company had a stall as well, their representatives ferrying in samples of iron and silver ore. They weren’t selling much directly, but they were making connections, shaking hands with businessmen looking to invest. I expect their profits will show in a few months' time.

And throughout it all, a musician’s troupe played from morning until the last lantern was snuffed out. Fiddles, guitars, and a banjo or two — nothing too fancy, just the kind of music that keeps a crowd moving. By the end of the night, folks were dancing, drinking, and making plans to do it all over again next year.

The fair was a success, more than I could have hoped for. Blackwater’s reputation is growing, and with it, so is the town itself.