The Blazing Gun Saloon

[MWBailey]

OOC( the real Purgatory Colorado actually had seven saloons three churches and a jail before the first school was built.) 
                                                     Miles (a sailor)Martin

I seem to remember something to that effect; we lived in Colorado when I was between the ages of 6 and 12; the mining and ghost towns were a favorite attraction for me).

[The Abiliegh]

The woman's attempts at discomfort and intimidation were laughable. She didn't even need her more rigorous training to ignore her unsightliness. She was a whore, when times were tough, and one learned quickly when plying the oldest profession that being either squeamish or judgmental would keep you empty of pocket faster than would being ugly yourself. And, there was the small inward enjoyment at knowing the woman was immortal. She got to look like that forever, and, like as not, it probably served her right.

"Jaisen Dreyfuss..." she tsk'd playfully, never one to stand on formalities. "I didn't think to ever see your pompous mug again. But now that you're here, seems you're like to be stuck here a while with th'rest of us. Jack's on he Beau." Her hands were in her lap, her posture perfect despite the flowing garments. She might find the whole situation amusing, but she wasn't daft, and she was like to be in danger.

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

Shortly, Jed and Farnsworth the smith have accomplished the tasks O'Callahan has set them. The gasbag is secured to the smithy, and the hearse is at the back corner. Jed has fetched the carpenter, and the three men gather at the town limit where the priest waits. "Alright," he says, " now the real work begins. Carpenter, I need you to saw out the corner and floor from the smithy, the part where that infernal device is bolted down..." "Hey!" protests Farnsworth, "That's my shop your talking about cutting up!" O'Callahan holds up a hand. "I know, but it must be done..I'm sure it can be repaired later. Cut it close enough that the whole corner can be fitted into the back of my hearse...if there is room, add two more sides and a top, and box it in completely. Can you do that?" The carpenter nods..."Sure, I guess...why?" The pale man answers, "Because the device itself cannot be touched...but the wood around it can. Smith.." Jed interrupts him, "Th' man's got a name, preacher...hit's Farnswuth." "Farnsworth," the smith corrects him. "Whatever," says O'Callahan. "Alright, Mr. Farnsworth, do you have any boilerplate about?" "Sure," says Farnsworth, "I've got six pieces stacked beside the shop." "Good!" The priest nods. "Perfect. Now, what I need you to do is rivet those pieces together...hammer them into a curved shape, like so..." He kneels, and scratches a parabola in the dust with his finger. "About six feet high, and eight feet wide should do...can you do that?" The smith nods, "Sure..might take a little while...got to heat up th' rivets." The priest nods again, "I don't suppose we're really in a hurry, but the sooner the better...when you get it done, stand it on edge right over there..." he points to a spot about thirty feet away, "...with the convex part of the curve facing back towards town. Make four rings on the corners that you can attach chain to, also." The smith heads back to his shop to get started. The carpenter has gone to get his saw. "Now, Mr. Gunn...you see that line the smith brought over?" Jed nods. The priest continues, " Ok, procure a black powder rifle.." Jed interrupts again, " I'se got a black powder shotgun..will thet do?" The priest nods. "Yes, I think it will...attach one end of that line to my hearse, and leave the other end attached to that fishing arrow..load that into your gun, and fire it into that tree," he indicates the foot thick Colorado Pinyon Pine behind him. "Can you do that?" Jed nods, "Shore I can..thet's a easy shot fum hyere." "Excellent!" says O'Callahan. "Well, if this works, we should have the barrier off this town before nightfall."

[MWBailey]

(OOC: Removed teh advent of the Cold One; working on Dreyfuss' and crew's departure. maybe a Causal Resonance Feedback Anomaly...

[The Abiliegh]

I'm of the mind that I like where the steamwestern was going without crossing it over too much into other things. I'm more of a fan of writing things that can stand by themselves, as a personal opinion, and was excited to get involved in a new story with writers I'm comfortable with.

That said, I'm not so against your characters being involved, but I think we ought to come up with our own villain. Something dastardly and like to tie up women on train-tracks, ya know? But, for the most part, i'm a one character gal. Extra names are good for plot development, but I like to focus all my attention into fleshing out one piece of truly awesome at a time.

I'm willing to delete whatever needs deleting, depending on what the group feels is best.

And MW, this is, in no way, an attack on either your writing or your involvement. You've a very creative mind that I enjoy getting a glimpse of!

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

(OOC ...I PM'd you, and of course it was that missive to which you were referring. I feel basically the same, that I like "stand alone" stories, rather than sequential stories. No offense was intended, MW, and I tried to take pains to indicate that. I've introduced two new characters, and a handful of peripheral townsfolk, and I find it enough of a task to keep Jed and O'Callahan busy. When too much that references other things is introduced, I just get swamped. Nobody is telling you to leave or anything like that, old bean. Sorry if you took it that way....it was not my intention. I was OK with Brantley, of course, then Mad Jack arrived, and that was OK, too (I really like him as a character!)...then the crew of the St. Elmo, Dreyfuss & Co., and as I said at the time, well, OK, (with the caveat that I did indicate it was starting to feel a bit crowded)...the sticking point for me was to introduce the Cold Ones as the "bad guys." To write to that, I'd have to go back and read the whole Steam London thing, which I do not have time to do. Sorry, man...again, no offense.
Ideally, for a collaborative writing effort such as this, I wish we could all be sitting around a table in RL, brainstorming it and hashing out the way forward, bouncing ideas off of each other, with a bottle of good whiskey...alas, that is not possible...but I wish it were.   )

[MWBailey]

Um...
I really don't get how its all my fault.You didn't start this story, and neither did I, really.

Also, This IS a collaborative effort, even though the table is collective between different people's  surfaces that their individual computers/laptops/cellphones/blackberries/I Phones or whatever are sittng on, if any, and there's no whiskey other than what each brings to his or her own computer. None of this wonderful writing would have come together if Thalesia had not made her initial posts, and everyone else had not responded.

And I'm sorry, but IMHO to make the assumption that you, as an individual within the collective group, should have the right to decide how the barrier comes down, without input on it from anyone else, is frankly pretty offensive to me. I don't know about anyone else's feelings on the matter, so asking in public for the opinions of others is actually the only really fair way to gather such information. Its not all my RP/Short Story/whatever, nor is it all yours, nor Abileigh's, nor Miles', nor Thalesia's, nor  Rockula's, nor Darkhound's, nor anyone else's; The majority should decide, because the majority's characters are affected by the decision to try and force the barrier to move.

If you feel that you have to go, fine. I can't stop you, though I feel compelled to say that if you leave it'll probably harm, maybe even destroy, the storyline. The storyline will also be harmed, maybe even destroyed, If I or Abi or Thalesia or the others leave; we're all in this together, pardon the hackneyed phrasing.  but ultimately, it's your decision. Perhaps its for the best, since the mod for this forum has stated in the posting rules that RPs are not appropriate for this section. Maybe I ought to try and start something like this in Portrayal, but I'm not sure I'd be welcome to do that, given the circumstances.

I'm really sorry, everyone. I never intended to take over, or make anyone "tap dance" around my people,  nor to make any confrontations (although I actually felt pretty confronted, Sgt., regardless of your statement that such was not intended --but never mind).

If anyone wants to continue, feel free. I've stuck my foot in it yet again, and probably am the cause of most of the problems.  I'll continue if others wish, or start it up all over again as an actual declared RP in Portrayal, if Others want, but don't feel obligated or compelled to participate, I have no right to  compel anyone (and probably lack the pull to make it work ). I'll continue with Between the Threads, since I have an obligation to those few who still might read it. (assuming that anyone ever has been, and that the figures in the number-of-readings slot have not been all my own imagination).

I'm sorry, Abileigh.

Well, I guess that's that.

MWBailey

[The Abiliegh]

Now wait a damn minute, gentlemen. Neither of you need to leave, and I would be personally hurt should either of you choose to do so, sein as I've made time to come back here and check this ONE thing regularly. We are all able-minded adults here, and I have great faith in our capacity for reason in such a situation.

MW, the concern has been raised that you've been flooding the story. Valid or not, your bringing it up for public opinion is not a bad choice. Why don't you wait for the public to answer? Me and the Sgt.Major, we're quick to post, but there are others that have not yet weighed in. So, lets take a break, give them a chance to speak, and move forward from there.

-Abi-

[MWBailey]

I just realized that I read everything wrongly yet again (I haven't yet read your latest post, Abileigh). I just wanted to say that I'm extremely flattered by all of your compliments. I'm also now, and always have been, extremely flattered that you both (or anyone, for that matter) has ever put up with me for any length of time and allowed me to contribute.

I don't want to leave this thread, but I seem to be the cause of most or all of the trouble, so it seems to me that my departure would be for the best. I always seem to get offended at the drop of a hat. I haven't always been like that, its just been since I started taking meds for diabetes that it's occurred. Suddenly (in the context of my life as a whole), I'm like D'artagnan, challenging everybody to a duel, to his own probable destruction.

Well, no excuses; the simple fact is that I just can't seem to get along, regardless of my insistence on group effort and collective action. In short, I am a functional hypocrite, to presumably coin a term. Nothing that I say from this point on would appear to be anything other maudlin mealy-mouthed -ness, so I'd better just shut my fingers and close my mouth, so to speak.

EDIT:
Blast it, I meant to add that I'll wait for others input...

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

( A-ha! The crux of the biscuit, as it were. See, MW, you would place it in Portrayal, as an RP game, I presume, whilst I would put it in Textual, as a short story!  
And, for Pete's sake, if you don't want O'Callahan mucking about and trying to move the device, have somebody go down there and stop him! Or try to talk him out of it...or shoot him...I don't care, just have somebody do something besides standing around introducing themselves! What he's got in mind is fairly dangerous, and it might not work, and if it doesn't, the results could be catastrophic...but, being a psycho, he's just going to do it, and let the chips fall where they may, unless somebody interacts with him..I've been trying to drag the action out, hoping for some interplay between characters, but I can't stall much longer..to me, stories have to move forward, not too slow, not too fast, just fast enough to keep it interesting. Too many characters, too many things that have to be explained, and the story bogs down. That being said...I'm going to "Keep Calm, and Carry On".... )

The carpenter has successfully sawed out the corner of the smithy, without actually touching or moving the device...close work, and rather nerve racking, considering that it is still building a charge and blasting it skyward every eight seconds...his hair is standing on end from the static by the time he's finished. The smith, Farnsworth, has completed the job of riveting the boiler plates together, and has hitched up a team, dragged it over to the indicated spot, and set it up on edge. Jed loads the small harpoon into his shotgun, and fires it across the barrier into the pine. O'Callahan, with a bit of effort, wrenches it free, brings the line around the base of the pinyon, reloads it into his Sharps, and fires it back, impacting the back of the boilerplate shield. The line now goes from the hearse, around the tree, and over to the iron plate at about a forty-five degree angle. "Good," says O'Callahan, " Attach the line to the four chains on the corners of the iron plate, and reinforce the other end attached to the hearse with some additional rope..it needs to be attached at several places. There is a pull-out ramp built into the hearse, underneath the bed, for loading coffins. Very carefully...it will probably take all three of you...tip the corner of the smithy over, and push it up into the hearse. When that is done, all that is left is to go to the Mercantile, get a 40 pound keg of black powder and about ten feet of fuse, and set it behind the boilerplate, between the chains..." Jed gulps, "Forty pounds of powder is shore gonna make a hell of a bang, preacher!" The pale priest nods, "Indeed...when we are ready, someone should go alert the townsfolk...that "iron sail" is going to go down the street at a good clip, and I'm not exactly sure where it will end up...might want to tell Mr. Pulcifer to get his ship up, too...as upset as he was with me for letting his balloon go, he'd probably really get angry if I accidentally ram it with 800 pounds of iron."
The corner of O'Callahan's mouth twitches upward, briefly. "I'm going to have to stand here by the tree, and cut the rope just before the hearse gets here...hopefully, it won't run me over, or hit the tree, or come to pieces...well, we'll see."

[The Abiliegh]

[[OOC: seeing as you've calmed, I beleive my last post to be irrelevant, but I'll leave it, because a good loving rant is always a good thing ]]

The townsfolk were busy doing... something... She couldn't put a finger on it, but it certainly couldn't be good. Looking down the street, she saw the shadow of the preacher, looking, if his sort could, mighty pleased with himself.

I take it that's my cue...

Excusing herself from the newest company, she rose and walked to the barely shimmering perimeter.

"Father O'Callahan..." she paused, debabting a second over pleasantries or bluntness, and decided the latter was the way to go. "What, in the name of all that is good, are you doing?"

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

"My dear lady, I am attempting to remove the barrier that surrounds this hamlet...well, not so much remove it, as move it from over the town, to.." he points past the pinyon, behind him, "over there. I have determined that things may cross the barrier if they are moving faster than 88 miles per hour. That is how we were able to string this line, by firing it across. The barrier is centered on, and apparently being generated by, a device, probably of unearthly origin, over there in the smithy. Now, obviously, I cannot accelerate the entire town...but, by loading the device into my hearse, which, " and again the brief twitch of his mouth, "thanks to Mr. Pulcifer now has freshly greased axles, and detonating a significant charge behind this iron shield, I should be able to move the device, and thus the barrier, faster than 88 mph. If the town cannot cross the barrier, then the barrier must cross the town, rather like a fellow cleric back in seminary, said...he was a student of things Islamic...'If Mohammed won't come to the mountain, then the mountain must come to Mohammed.' You should probably take cover, Madame, and warn those others to do the same. This should work, but I'd be a fool to say that there was no chance for something to go wrong. We shall probably be ready to proceed in about fifteen minutes."

[Miles (a sailor)Martin]

(ooc) i don't mind so much  as long as i've got any idea were the background and other charicters are spun off from so i can keep my interactions with them in charicter  for each of the aforsaid personas. it is one of the reasons i've not been putting words into  any one elses personas  mouth.

(still OOC)
in the past i was part of a coalition RPG that crossed D&D,TRAVELLER,ARDUIN GRIMORE,and GAMMA WORLD, we had four refs and 8 players, the refs were  tag teaming the GM position back and forth as well as playing thir own PC's so it got kinda weird out from time to time with high majic,low magik and psionics and high tech,middle tech,and low tech, not to mention any thing that various of the players could talk one of the refs into..... i really need to find the sketchbook that i drew my PC's in,  some  would be classed as post apcopalipse steampunk.                        
 
(on topic)
Hearing the  three blasts just before he exits the barn Miles stops at the door and looks out to see what he had missed while he was busy loading up the Arion,taking note of the location of St Elmo's mooring he thinks to himself it sure is gonna be tight manuvering the Arion out of her bearh if i can't get at least ten people for ground crew. " Well m'darling I geuss I best see if I can rustle up some help so's we can be on our way "he heads up the alley, coming onto Main street he sees the hearse down in front of the smithy with the trio of fellas starting to move the biggest dang coffin he ever saw onto it,taking off at a run he goes down to help,at the same time stuffing all the matalic thing into the pockets of his jacket... pealing the jacket off as he arrives Miles says" Jed what are you trying to do here?  I'll help iffen you can convince me what your trying to do ain't gonna make things worse." he stops and props up his leg and removes the brace from it as he is speaking, laying the brace aside  he pulls a cane out of the pocket of his jacket . Noticing the strange looks the trio is giving him as he does so he says "the induction feilds are heating up the brace, at this distance it would brand me in five minutes or less, you'll probally be allright if you don't have any metal in skin contact bigger than a ring or rosary"

[The Abiliegh]

"Ain't no sense in takin' cover, if the barrier..." She pauses, running a hand along the surface of their prison. "If the barrier, being somewhat as solid as it appeares, destroys everything stationary while it moves. Just, and forgive my forwardness, it seems to me that backward logic might not be the safest of plans, on this one. I've no mind to get smattered against the side of a building. And, should it not kill us all, I'd far prefer to be stuck inside a place with beds and water than over there with nothin'."

Not one to remain a nay-sayer long, however, she pondered.

"Do we know if this field is circular or if it has a limit? Seems that, with all these air-fairin' vessels we've got in abundance, that perhaps we ought to move upwards instead of over..."

[Thalesia Turnblood]

(OOC: I'm new here and seem to have started this little gig by having a rather pungent cup of coffee. Throw a splash of whiskey in and let's all settle in for a bit. Now, I'm not only new here, but have never played this sort of game before, so this has all been a great lark and a learning experience. It's fascinating.

Having said that, is there any way to take pity on me and reduce our potential cast of thousands to where we're each writing only a few characters, rather than whole crews? I have no particular number in mind, but it seems that trying to do more than 3-4 spreads everyone out too thin. It's tough to develop any one character well when you've got a dozen or more protagonists. (Or antagonists, but every villain is the hero of his own story.)

Now, I'm not much of a plotter, personally, but I also write alone. It strikes me that in trying to write as a collaborative effort, there does need to be at least a glimmer of a plan.

So before this goes any further south -- or west or north or wherever -- let's take a moment and talk about where we might envision the next few scenes from our characters' POVs.

I'm pretty much sticking with writing just Thalesia at this point. Now, she's got a lab filled with fun chemicals, she's inherited a touchy orangutan with pretty good aim, and her background isn't particularly lent to air-piracy, but she's flexible. After all, there just aren't too many ordinary folk who carry around Papa Dearest's brain in a jar.

Her bone-filler seems to react to the combination of a chrono-jammer (or is it a hammer? I get confused) and this Martian generator/world-ending nuke. The girl's got spark and she's just quirky enough to use it. If you need something blown up, please consider the use of her uniquely personal touch.

She's currently ensconced in the Saloon, but I can't figure out where everyone else is, so she's just going to hang out there until things settle down. She's not one to go looking for trouble. It finds her well enough on her own.

If I can figure out what's going on, or if someone hollers for me, I'm pretty sure I can hold my own until I get lost again -- at which point, I'll just tell y'all that I'm lost and beg piteously for help to try to find a path. And y'all should see me weep. It's very affecting. Truly. Sarah Bernhardt gnashes her teeth in envy.)

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

"To answer your questions, Miss Meta, I considered moving it upward.." says O'Callahan, " and it is the factor of speed that had me decide to move it horizontally. I don't think I could get it to rise upwards that fast under a blimp, and, even if it could be made to do so, it would have to remain suspended...the blimp will eventually lose lift and it will settle back to earth...crossing the barrier going in is not a problem, so we would end up right back where we started. I believe the barrier is spherical, with the device in the center. As long as it is moving at 88 mph or faster, it will cross over us harmlessly...I am actually counting on that, because, as I am on this side of it, and must remain beside the tree to cut the rope...otherwise, the hearse will hit the tree, and disintegrate, or circle around it and go right back, to no net benefit...in any case, I must remain here, and the barrier will cross me twice...the first time, I will be, subjectively, going into it, which seems to be no problem...it is when the back edge arrives that there is risk...if it is not still moving at at least 88 miles per hour, I shall be tumbled about something fierce, at best. I have seen a locomotive boiler explode, once, and it threw large pieces of metal, some weighing hundreds of pounds, over three miles. Hitching that "iron sail" to the hearse, and using that pinyon as a pulley, should almost instantly accelerate it to well beyond the needed speed. There are unknowns..the hearse is extremely well built, but of course it was not designed to endure the level of stress to which it will be subjected...that's one. My timing will have to be nearly perfect to cut the rope at the right time, so that the hearse, and the device it contains, will continue to travel past me at high speed. That's another. The rope will be zipping around the base of this pine...it may break, or friction might burn through it. That's three. It is not a certainty...but this is a certainty-sooner or later, trapped in there, the food will run out. I'm outside...but the method I used to egress the area is one which will not work for anyone but myself..if we have the leisure later, I shall explain, if you are interested. Being outside, I suppose I could just walk away, and leave you folks to your fate, but it has recently been brought to my attention that this town may very well exist only because of what I've been doing for the last ten years. Once again, the explanation would be far too time consuming right now. Suffice it to say that not only do I feel somewhat responsible...which, honestly, shouldn't normally bother me...but somehow I know that if I just walk away and let everyone die, all my work has been for naught. And I beg your indulgence once again...it's complicated.
You should however, take cover not so much from the moving barrier as from the keg of powder- the shield will not be the only thing to be impacted, and it is likely to blow out a fair amount of dirt and rock as well."

[MWBailey]

Brantley hopped out f teh blimp just in time to hear the Preacher's explanation, and visibly blanched. To be hoinest with himself, he had not tried to leave the town. He had simply assumed that the committee would not allow it.

Touching the outside of his duster, he fingered the place where thirteen silver medallions nestled in their black-velvet bag, and recalled the Judas Prayer, the litany that bound him to the service of the Arch-Piscaepus Bishop of Sally's home timeline. Second only to the pope, he was in charge of the defense of the faith and of mankind from all threats, scientific, supernatural, otherworldly, or simply malevolently human, and was the basis for the Committee's time-spanning influence.

Brantley strode over to the powderkeg, and removed the Blackbox from his duster's leg pocket. "Father O'Callahan? he shouted over the din of the storm, "what you propose... is not... only insane, but incontrovertibly... lethal...to... God's children, be they pagan... or, hmmm... Christian." As he spoke,  he pressed seven switches, turned seven dials, set seven coordinates for time, space, latitude, longitude, Core Angle and Planetary Velocity, then adjusted the seven settings for maintaining position in a travelling field (a recent improvement, which kept travellers from ending up in outer space or the interior of a rock formation (or similar) when travelling long temporal distances).  

Then, he set the time and date on yet another of the dials and other controls the black box was covered with; He then pressed the "execute" button, and several things happened at once:
1.The wind stopped. It didn't die down slowly, it just cut off, as if a ducted prop were suddenly baffled such that it could not thrust. So did all sound except for those made by the humans present
2.The blimp, Dreyfuss, Irene, and the St. Elmo froze in place (and although no one on the ground could see it, Jock, Captain Ishmael, Timothy, and Cleopatra also froze as well. Even the coal-smoke form the St. Elmo's funnel froze in place. Even fire on the stick that was about to be used to ignite the powder keg froze solid.
3. individual walls of grey mist completely surrounded both the Stellar core, and the powder keg.
4. five thousand tiny fairies danced on the head of a beer on the bar of the saloon, which someone had left unattended. No one was paying atention to the glass of beer, so they missed the display as the fairies performed the dance scene from A Midsummer Nights dream. Besides, it was only a side-effect of the Causal Interdictional Field.

Brantley then took out his cigarette case, and while the others stood dumbfounded to see so many thing s simply stop, he flipped a knife switch (one-handed, no less), thumbed a few causal- thread-holding sliders, and pressed the hyperphase control.

Suddenly,Dreyfuss and Irene, aboard the blimp, streaked backwards to the St. Elmo and up into the stern hold door bay, the doors closing behind them; then the Elmo seemed to yank its rocket grapnels from the ground and back into the rocket tubes, the whole airship then accellerating in reverse, getting about as far as halfway up the cylinder of  disturbed air, before fading from view entirely, as if they had never existed at all. By now, teh Priest seemed to be getting angry, so Brantley faced him,and recited,

Who art  thou, O sinner?
I am Judas, called Iscariot.
What be thy Crime?
Betrayal of the One.
What is your sentence?
To Walk time and space for eternity, and to right the wrongs and fight the evils that beset all existence.
What is your insignia?
Thirteen Medallions of Silver.
And Thy Payment?
The Selfsame.
Do ye expect to atone?
I Pray that I might.
I name thee, then: Paladin of the Left Hand!
It is done. I accept.

Brantley then walked, not slowly, but not quickly, either, over to O'Callahan, and took his left hand  from his duster's right breast pocket, revealing the black velvet drawstring bag, and upending it into his right hand, all thirteen medallions, each about the size of a fifty-cent piece, spilling into his right palm. Grabbing O'Callahan's right hand,and dislodging what he held, Brantley counted the thirteen medallions out into O'Callahan's palm. (apparently Mad Jack had run up behind them, for Brantley heard the fellow ask  breathlessly, "is he crazy?").

Brantley then addressed the Priest yet again: "Father O'Callahan, I am M.W. Brantley, Customs officer, sixteenth division. Our Mission is to regulate and prevent Catastrophic Temporal Causal Anomalies, caused by materiel such as chronojammers and other outlawed devices. Jonathon "Mad Jack" Pulsifer is a violator, but he is also a universal Causal constant; that means that he is too closely intertwined with the collective history of the multiverse to simply be "collected," as you would have it, and put to death. He has too many other things to do yet, without which the Almighty's Multiverse will suffer greatly. He was created for the purpose, Father. It is far beyond your bounds that you will step if you detain or end him."

"This process of yours to move the barrier is quite dangerous, and quite incapable of solving the problem, and will only end in your death and mine; all of us here in this town have work yet to do that will be interrupted, perhaps fatally to mankind, if you continue with this current endeavor."

"I ask you, therefore, as a Paladin of the Holy Church, to desist, and work with the rest of us to find a less-lethal solution."

He took the medallions back from O'Callahan's palm, then, and said, "If you would like to see one up close, just let me know, and I will allow you to peruse it at your leisure...but only in my presence, after which I shall retrieve it. Such is the Arch-Piscaepus' directive."

[MWBailey]

(OOC: If there are any problems with what I have come up with, please say so, and let's figure 'em out.

Brantley's cigarette case is his personal travelling device. The "Black box" is the Committee's device for augmenting such travelling, adding functions that would not normally be available in Brantley's cig case -- and making sure that agents do not do anything just off the cuff without calling in. in his personal case, however, it is fitted with an override , should an emergency situation develop, so that he can circumvent the box's influence and take care of business quickly; it records each such override, however, and to use it more than a few times in the course of a standard month is to lose the use of it, so he avoids doing so. Rest assured, Sally will flay him alive, so to speak, for nearly waiting too long.).

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

O'Callahan is not getting angry...that emotion, indeed, all emotions save for an occasional fleeting amusement, are beyond him...except when he is with the Dog, Cerberus. Then he can feel, briefly, something close to joy. He is surprised, however. He recognizes the Litany intoned by Brantley, it is strikingly similar to his own "special deal."
"I recognize you, Paladin, and will accede to your request. Glad you stopped me, in fact, I had my doubts. As for examining your coin," the brief flicker of a smile, "that won't be necessary." He reaches under his collar and fishes out a chain, and in a silver holder at the end of it, one of the self-same medallions. "You have thirteen of the original thirty...impressive."
His face assumes an impassive trance-like stare, and his voice becomes formal.
"I am the Child of Perdition.
I am fallen, Yet I stand.
I walk between Three Realms
Yet belong to none.
I am The Collector.
The Deputy of the Angel of Death.
I stand on the left hand of God."

His face returns to normal (or at least as close to normal as O'Callahan's face can be) and he says, "As far as Mr. Pulcifer goes, I had already decided I was going to have to get special instructions regarding him...if he is truly insane, 'collecting' him would do me no good whatsoever...he wouldn't count towards my tally. And, I should inform you, that however this 'experiment' of mine turned out, it would not have resulted in my death..yours, perhaps, possibly everyone else as well, but as for me...let's just say that is a 'done deal'...can't die twice, my friend. I died, and went to Hell, a decade ago...the Devil kicked me out."

Farnsworth, the blacksmith, grumbles "Might of got this done before you cut a big hole in my shop."

Both Brantley and O'Callahan glare at the big man, and, in unison, say "Shut up, you!"

"Well," says O'Callahan, "The fact remains, I'm out here, and you're in there. I literally took a short-cut through Hell to get out here, so let's figure out how to turn that to our advantage."
To the men standing by the shop, he calls, "Prop that thing back up..we're going to try something else."

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

Jed helps prop the corner of the smithy, with the stellar core still bolted to it at the floor, back into place, then ambles over to where the others are talking. "Scuse me, Mister Brantley...could you push a few buttons on thet thaing o' yers, and get thaings back ta normal?" He points to a bird in the air, frozen between wing beats. "Thet thar jus' plain hain't natchurl. One thaing I'se speculatin' on...this hyere barrier...hit's a-gettin stronger. When I tried ridin' out three nights ago, I got out quite a-ways, and then jus' got sorter confused in th' haid, and then was a-ridin' back in...twern't nuthin' like this h'yere..." and pokes a finger into the barrier. "Hit's a-gittin a passle more solider...like as iff'n the airs a-gittin harder, or sumpin'. I ain't no smart feller like you 'uns, but I figger iff'n ya'll don't do sumpin' right quick, hit might git nigh onto as hard as a winderlight, an' then thar might never be no a-gittin' out, ner in, neither." And with that, he hitches up his pants, turns and walks back toward town. "I'm a-gonna go feed mah horse an' mah mule, whilst thars still sumpin' ta feed 'em." He is, as noted earlier, first and foremost a practical man.

To the Reader: If you want a good mental image of Jed Gunn, think Festus Haggen, of "Gunsmoke", but about ten years younger.

[MWBailey]

"The first thing we need to do is get the core down to the saloon, so Miss Thalesia can help us figure out a proper containment field," Brantley said. "Jack, I think I can transduce the thing as far as your deck. can you turn on your Chronojammer, and induce the travelling field, without  sending it anywhere?

Mad Jack thinks for a moment, and then says, "yes, I can , but not often; you included that circuit when you built it, but I've had to replace it five times since then, and I've had to use platinum; tungsten just ain't available everywhere in these early Timestreams, and iridium is just plain as dear as diamonds. No, no..." he said, seeing the light in both the smith's and in Brantley's eyes, "I know all about that weird blue-gray clay formation, and yes,there is some iridium in it, but its non-workable using the tech I commonly have at hand "under the shade trees," so to speak."

"Platinum..."  Brantley ruminates for a moment. "yes, that would explain that earthquake in Lima back in the 1600s--!" He turned and looked Jack full in the face just then. "And just what  were you doing there, anyway? Atahualpa's daughter died years before, and was never infatuated with you anyway! He thought for a few seconds more, then spun a knob on the Blackbox, and flicked a toggle on the cig case, then set a circle in one corner of what looked like a teensy radar screen, and pressed the "Execute" button again; the bird that had been frozen in midair continued on its way as if nothing had interrupted it, and several other things went back to normal as well.

The fairies on the head of the beer in the glass on the bar of the saloon fell into the liquid, however, then pulled each other out, reeled drunkenly over to a crack in the bartop, and climbed down inside and began an entire week of bacchanalia and debauchery, which would eventually give rise to the first of what would someday become a clan of human-sized dimension-hopping Pixies, who would someday go around attending rock concerts, hanging around airbases, and generally giving rise to the myth of the "Worldwalkers"*...

"Iridium... MW fished around in his pockets for a minute, then produced a thin wire of the material, several feet rooled up into a ball. "I've been saving this for repair of my own machines, but this is an emergency. lemme hop the core down the street first. I'll set the barrier wall further out, so nothing will get destroyed or caught up in it." He did as he had said, the stellar core sparking and nmaking WHUMPFing noises as it settled back down on its spring-like feet  beside teh Beau Rosin. "Lets go work on your 'jammer, Jack. Mr. Farnsworth, would you run ahead and tell miss Thalesia We're ready to start working on the core, and its right outside the saloon? Tell her, if you wiil, that  I said we need a space-folded  containment field, and some kind of chemical compound to coat the send-receive ball on top so it can't communicate with the storm first."

(OOC: Thalesia, it's Chronojammer; I had Dreyfuss mess up the name to show his disdain for time travel)

----------------------
*GOTCHA! Eve...

[The Abiliegh]

She kept quiet, letting the menfolk do their talking. Machinery, past her own simple gadgets, was not her area of expertise, not in the least. The tinkering would be up to them. She could, however, keep searching for options in the meantime.

"Jack, I'm going to keep Father O'Callahan company while you boys do what you're good at. Holler if ya need me." Just like old times...

And then, to the preacher. "You said... you took a shortcut through... hell?" She'd never been much of the religious sort. So much so, in fact, that she rarely gave heed to God's providence unless it was in some manner of vain, but that didn't stop her from studying it. Some things are just better to have a fair grasp on. "How do you suppose we can be usin' that to our advantage?"

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

"I have the...I suppose you could call it an "option"....to reenter Hell, since, according to all the "Rules," that is where I'm supposed to be. As I mentioned earlier, the Vatican sent me here to the American West some twenty-five years ago, to "redeem the irredeemable." Until fifteen years ago, it was a pretty straightforward job, tracking, capturing, forcing confession and acceptance of salvation at gunpoint, and then killing some of the worst people on the planet. Then, ten years ago, whilst tracking a Mexican bandido named Gonzales...the selfsame Gonzales who is now the tanner here...I made a mistake, and he got the drop on me, and he killed me. It was only then that I found that my own salvation was not assured. I had done nothing wrong in tracking and killing the one's I "saved" with the blessing of the Church, and, despite my fearsome reputation, I never killed an Innocent. I'll grant you, I terrorized more than a few, but I never killed one. No, it was an 'overlooked' incident from my childhood that ultimately consigned me to Hell. As I mentioned, I was raised in an orphanage in Ireland. When I was nine, there was an older boy there, Johnny McPhee, who made it his job to make my life miserable. He beat me daily, stole food from me, and generally was cruel to me in every possible way. He was twelve. I was resigned to it, and probably it would have continued until one or the other of us left, but for one incident. I caught a baby mouse, and fed it crumbs, and raised it as a pet. To make a long story short, Johnny found out about my mousey, and he took its box from under my bed, and dumped him out, and stepped on him, right in front of me, with me crying and begging him not to. That was when all feelings I might have ever had for people died. Johnny worked in the kitchen, and, the next day, when he went out in the alley to dump scraps, I was waiting on the roof, three stories up. I dropped a fifteen pound stone pickle crock on his head.  It killed him dead instantly, and I was never caught. No one even thought anything strange about a broken pickle crock in the alley amongst the other garbage..they assumed "poor Johnny" must have been set upon by some robber, and the death of one orphan, more or less, was not a top priority for the Belfast police. Ahhh...but what a difference it made for me! As I was never caught, I was never accused, and, as I was never accused, I was never given penance, nor absolution, nor was I ever forgiven for that death. I did it with full knowledge of what I was doing, and with malice aforethought. The rest of my story, at least up until Gonzales killed me, you know..I grew up, I went to Seminary, I became a priest...but, as I had no love for people, they decided to use me as they did. Only when I was killed 'in the line of duty' did I find that the murder of Johnny McPhee had sent me to Hell. The 'Rules" are strict...otherwise, I hadn't broken them, though I had killed dozens and dozens since Johnny. The Devil, however, saw it differently...he did not want a priest in Hell, and particularly not me...having no emotion, he could not scare me, and I was indifferent to torture...in short, I was no fun. I did make friends with his Dog, though, and I think that was the last straw...the Dog doesn't like Nick worth a damn. Somehow, the Devil and the Almighty made a deal, and I got my "special dispensation." I was sent back here to earth, to continue my Holy Work redeeming the irredeemable. When I have delivered 144 previously Hell-bound souls, I will be judged anew, and it will be considered as to whether I have properly atoned for killing Johnny McPhee. The first thing I did when I got back out, though, was track Gonzales, and "collect" him..he was the first of my 144. I only just learned that they do not go to Heaven, but come here to Purgatory, where they live ordinary lives, and have no memory of having been very bad men. This is their "second chance." Everyone here is not one of them, though. Normal people have settled here too, over the years, but 133 of them I sent here...but I did not know that, so my wandering in here just as that barrier took effect stretches the limits of credulity and coincidence. The Almighty does indeed work in strange ways...and He has a sense of humour.
I tell you all this, not because it has a bearing on this current situation, but just so you understand how I can go to Hell...any time I would ordinarily be killed here, I go there. I suppose you could say it is a default situation. I have been very careful for the last ten years, though, and the incident earlier today is the first time I have ever used the "option." The advantage is simply that I am now outside the barrier, and may be able to do something from out here that you folks inside cannot. I notice Brantley somehow managed to move the machine, although how he did so is a bit of a mystery to me...magic, I suppose."

[MWBailey]

OOC:Not magic, or at least not completely; some author once said "The best science often looks like magic." Or, perhaps I have that backwards...

Or, perhaps it would be more accuarate to call it a "blend." In any case, the 'seven switches,' etc., are part of the old business of 'Seven times seven,' or the art of Symmetrical Incantation (my tongue-in-cheek term), i.e., 'seven times seven' or 'three times three times three.' A combination of spellwork and the use of technology to effect a solution).

Brantley extracted a large, massively-leaf-shaped knife, a gift from his almost-wife, who was killed in an Anti-Martian campaign in Nepal, several centuries and hundreds of dimensions to the Noir of Standard; She had been the daughter of the local Gurkha Commander, and had given him one of their fighting-sized Khukuri knives. Almost large enough to be considered a shortsword, it was the one  memento of those times that he had kept. He kept it close, sharpened to a surgeon's edge, and it had never failed him. He believed It never would. Nooripta's father had procured the silver-encrusted knife, for her to give to Brantley; it was thus a sort of joint Nuptial and War-honor gift, given to him by Nooripta on the night before the Seclusion of Bride from Groom was to begin. That night, the Martians, whom they had believed to be defeated utterly, launched a devastating counterattack; Nooripta's father, herself, and five thousand Gurkha perished in almost a single instant from the vast power of the heat-ray that the Enemy had brought to bear upon the Citadel.

Brantley had gathered what few soldiers still remained alive, and stormed the Martian ship that held the ray projector, slaughtering every last one of the betentacled, cthuloid bastards and turning the projector upon the ship, setting a timer on the triggering apparattus, and thus watched form the ground as the mechanical many-legged behemoth melted itself into incandescent slag...and fell to earth, killing many of the remaining soldiers, and landing Brantley, with the remnant of his battallion of remnants of both male and female units, In the local British Colonial Hospital, with nothing but a famous style of knife to remind him of his lost love and the Wedding that Almost Was.

He wiped a tear from his eye as he used the shapely,beautiful blade to press into shape the iridium wire for the Travelling Override Circuit. Amazingly hard, this Nepalese steel, he thought...

[The Abiliegh]

She was ponderous, and so she tackled the easiest of topics first. "Oh, nothin' those boys do is magic, Preacher, I assure you that. I don't know Brantley any more than you, but i know his type, and I certainly know that crazy ol' dog Pulsifer better than many. It's merely science, and convoluted and piece-maille as it may be, wot with them bein' time travelers and the like, it's still just science. I keep a bit of it about myself, helps in the jams I often find myself in..."

This is where she needed to tread carefully. "I don't mean to question things that you're like to be certain of, but it seems to me there might be an easier answer. So I beg your indulgence for a moment. These trapped souls..." she looked behind her. "Do they get their second judgment when you do? I trust the gentlemen to take care of the machine, as it seems i don't have no choice, but I've a feelin' it wont be enough..."

[[OOC: Sgt.Major feel free to pm me if you want to see where I'm going with this, or feel free to just answer and let it all unfold ]]