redstripe

The following is an excerpt from the notes of Molly Squidpidgge, journalist for the Los Santos’ Town Crier: “Sandy Gulch is just as sandy as its name might imply. The town is practically deserted and the sand and wind have started to erode its buildings. However, despite its ghost-town appearance, Sandy Gulch is not completely abandoned. Few families remain and those are primarily subsistence farmers. Each is eager to see a new face and a rare visitor will quickly find himself with a turkey leg, a plate of steamed vegetables and an evening full of stories. They will jaw on about their favorite cow or their most stubborn mule but as soon as one asks about the Grendel Flats Mining Company these hospitable rural folk will curse, make a sign against The Sight, and kindly usher you out their door. Sandy Gulch was not originally a farming community. How these families manage to scrape out an existence on this barren land is a miracle in itself. Sandy Gulch used to be a booming coal mining town. The industrious ideas of ambitious men demanded coal and deposits were found, here, giving birth to a bustling mining town. Every able bodied man was a miner but the veins didn’t run near as deep as first speculated and after a short decade, work began to dry up. One can only imagine how The Breach was seen as the answers to all these people’s prayers. The mining town had all the labor, all the equipment necessary to harvest the incredibly valuable soulstone and with a brief ten kilometers by rail to site of The Breach, Sandy Gulch was in prime position to capitalize. Principle amongst the surviving mining companies in the area, Grendel Flats Mining Co quickly became the primary mining contractor for the Malifaux mines. Today one can see in the ostentatious main street of Sandy Gulch, the products of its success in Malifaux. There is an enormous hotel and casino, a dozen taverns and bars, and a rail station to rival any major urban center. Sand spun by the constant wind has destroyed these buildings, however, making them appear as if relics from ages past. The Grendel Flats Mining Company building became of chief interest to me. The local population seemed to view the building with suspicion and superstition and after I wore out my welcome with my constant inquiries regarding the company, the building remained the only hospitable place left for me to stay in. Walking through its offices, one could easily imagine its employees had simply vanished. Drawings were half finished on desks and I found a coffee cup with evidence that it had been abandoned half full. During my stay in Sandy Gulch, I occupied myself with the volumes of business records that I found. I found accounting documents that outlined the various contracts the business held throughout its life. One could easily see the transition from GFMC’s trade in coal to soulstone with firms like East-West Steam Transit being replaced by the Holistic Thought Conclave. As we know, the mines of Malifaux became, for lack of a better term, unavailable. However, the financials I discovered at the GFMC building showed continued business even after that fateful day. Such documents are rather arcane to non-accountants like myself, but the files referenced a “secondary market” in several places. I took that term to mean real-estate. I had found several deeds for abandoned mines that had been purchased in the later years of GFMC’s operation. My time in Sandy Gulch was growing short and so after gathering several interesting documents, I decided to visit one of these abandoned mines to perhaps divine GFMC’s interest in purchasing them. I was not prepared. I pray with every fiber of my being and to every god and every devil that might hear my plea. I pray that no man or woman would ever lay eyes on the horror I discovered at the mine. Life does not prepare you for a vision like that. The capacity of my mind to maintain sanity was tested. I’m not sure I passed. There are things in this world that once seen can never be unseen and whenever I close my eyes I am haunted by the image of those bodies. First, the scent of the place was thick like a mist. It was the scent of disease, decay, and death and I wretched as I approached the entrance to the mine. The sand around the shaft caught the light of the setting sun so it glowed red and purple like a festering wound. I poured whiskey over a rag torn from an old shirt and held it over my nose and mouth in an attempt to blot out the smell and ventured closer. What I saw, I have no doubt, was an image of hell. My lantern illuminated the shaft and only two hundred meters in was a mountain of bloated and decayed flesh. Stacked like bricks into a wall, the twisted, compacted bodies of hundreds of men and women were piled. The wall was alive with crawling, disgusting things, maggots and worse that feasted upon the unholy bounty stored here. I lost my mind. I honestly have no idea what happened to me in the hours following that horrid discovery. I awoke face down in a dusty field. A farmer was prodding me with the muzzle of his rifle. It took me a moment to understand what was happing, but I recognized the man as one of the citizens of Sandy Gulch I had met in previous days. And I saw, spread out in front of me, the scattered papers I had collected from the Grendel Flats Mining Company. The accountant’s records, the land deeds, bill of sales. The words “secondary market” caught my eye again and then something I hadn’t noticed before. At the bottom of a bill of sale was scrawled, “The Guild.” I have no idea if the Grendel Flats Mining Company continues to ply its trade or not but I understand, now, what it considered the secondary market in soulstone trade after the collapse of The Breach. I understand, too, why this town has all but disappeared save for a small collection of superstitious farmers. The secondary market was the recycling of soulstones. Without a steady source of them, their power needed to be replenished. Several unsavory solutions have been implemented to meet this demand but few so gruesome as the methods developed by GFMC. They murdered this town and with the dying breaths of their victims gave life to their depleted stones. And The Guild paid quite handsomely for this service.” This article was discovered posthumously by the executor of Molly Squidpidgge’s estate and was never published before now. A memorial reception honoring Molly’s life and her contribution to journalism will take place this Sunday evening at Our Lady of Mercy.

I really like Rasputina and it was my favorite for a long while. Then I recieved the Douglas McMourning, Morgue Master, and it has suddenly toppled the Ice Witch. He just has that mad doctor look that puts him over the top. That's who I voted for. Top notch minis all around.

It was nice to see so many different minis companies being represented in the nominations. One of the guys from a company called Majestic Bear posted that even though he placed 20th out of 21 nominations, he was so proud that his miniature was even recognized. To me, that's what's so great about TGN and why I was looking forward to the awards. It really is unfortunate that the competition was spoiled like it was. Zac choose the integrity of the competition over turning out a questionable award. I think he made the best decision he could.

I don't know if any of the rest of you read www.tabletopgamingnews.com but they have recently openned up nominations for their annual Reader's Choice Awards. One of the categories is "Best Fantasy Miniature" and its very difficult for me not to nominate most of Wyrd's current line. I just thought I would alert the rest of the wyrdlings that TGN is currently nominating and we could all pull together to make sure Wyrd gets the acclaim it deserves.

The shattered glass hung in the air like a thousand tiny snowflakes. They fractured the moonlight into a myriad of tiny rainbows cast against the black of night. And then they fell, the shards of glass dancing in a silent spiral, gliding peacefully to earth like the first snowfall of winter. Beneath them lay an angel, her skin as pale as the driven snow and the glass showered over her still body, unable to wake her from her peaceful slumber. Hovering far above her, looking out through the third story window, a gentleman studied the woman laid prostrate on the ground. He noted with grim satisfaction the way her body was twisted and bent, seemingly broken. That satisfaction dimmed, however, as he noted the gentle puff of breath that came from the woman’s nose made visible by the chill northern air. Curiosity changed to shock as the woman stirred. She stretched out her leg which was bent beneath her and crawled casually up to her feet. Taking a moment to dust the glass from her coat, she started off down the street. “She lives, she lives! Rasputina, she lives!” The gentleman cried, turning back into the room on the third floor. There, gathered, were his fellow would-be murderers and one of them lifted his hand to make the sign of the cross. There was hesitation, the thought that their companion must be mad or trying to make a tasteless joke. Still they came to the window. At times the mind seems desperate for proof that its nightmares are real. The four of them huddled together and looked down into the narrow street below. Buildings were crowded together around the cobbled street, towering high overhead and heavily adorned with their flying buttresses and gargoyles, creating a shadowed valley between. The men watched as the woman disappeared into those shadows. Mouths agape they exchanged glances with each other before a sudden sense of urgency gripped them and they rushed down the stairs and out into the street. One of them, the leader, gestured down the alleyways and the men split up. There was a nervousness in them to search for a demon in the darkness but their job once begun must be finished. The night was silent, peaceful, except for the sounds of hurried footfalls on the cobbled streets. The men searched franticly for their quarry. Though the woman had somehow survived arsenic and falling out a third story window, the men were more concerned that she might somehow reach the tsarina and report their treachery. What was meant to be their contribution to government reform had quickly become a matter of personal survival. The endurance of their prey had turned murder into a labor. A shot rang out and a flutter of pigeons fluttered from the rooftops overhead. The men quickly convened at the source of the sound, finding their companion with a smoking gun leveled at Rasputina’s back. She stood there wavering for a moment, a crimson spot slowly dribbling blood at the base of her skull. She lifted her hand and touched the wound behind her head and looked at her fingers and the bloody stain they had picked up. The men stood patiently, waiting for the woman to die. But still she was stubborn. Taking a moment to turn her head to the side and look over her shoulder at the gentlemen behind her, she started on her way, again. She only made a handful of steps before the men were on her, tackling her to the ground. Debris from the street was quickly pressed into service as cudgels and one of the men found a rug to roll her up into. They took out their frustration at the woman’s refusal to die with their clubs. Their breaths poured out of them like steam and their hearts beat fast with a surge of adrenaline. This is what murder was supposed to feel like, a cathartic, passionate release. None of them could discern how long they indulged in that brutal beating but eventually the passion in them faded and they were satisfied. There was still work to be done this night and the group hefted up Rasputina’s body up onto their shoulders. A grim funeral procession they carried her through the streets of that tiny burg and out toward the river that ran though the industrial district. No last rights were read. No-one spoke a few words on her behalf. No tears were shed. Their parcel was deposited without note, toppling over the end of the dock and crashing down through the ice and into the frigid water beneath. The men, satisfied that their labor was complete, dusted off their hands and parted, each returning to their own homes and families. The matter the gentlemen didn’t understand, however, was that there is only one thing that can slay the winter and spring wasn’t for a couple of months still. Arsenic or firearms won’t serve a man against the winter’s chill. The only recourse is to wait out the season and hope for an early thaw. Rasputina’s season had not ended yet. Indeed, everyone was in for a long winter.

Thanks for the kind words. After an evening of putting the finishing touches on Rasputina, I had caught myself writing about it in my journal. Seeing how friendly this forum is, I thought I'd share. I do hope to post more about some of my wyrd favorites in the near future.

This is a new journal for a new beginning. An unruly mob bearing torches ensured my previous journals would never be read. It is a new lesson learned and it seems it is a time of many new things, the least of which is not my new benefactor. It is a rare thing that someone recognizes the merit of my craft. It is a rarer thing still where we can reach a mutually beneficial arrangement. Though remote, the laboratory my patron has provided me with is spacious. Aside from more mundane appliances, it is equipped with an enormous miller’s windmill affixed to a substantial dynamo that seems capable of providing me with all the electricity I require. It is a surprisingly stable source of energy given the wind that continuously whips across this icy wasteland. Though the cold may benefit the longevity of my cadavers, I am thankful for the fireplace and the store of wood. Even if it weren’t for such manageable facilities, I would have accepted the job simply because my employer is so curious. She is a strange woman with steel blue eyes that betray her frigid countenance. I would sooner believe she were the personification of this wintery place than true flesh and blood for she does not display the usual revulsion at my materials or methods. Indeed, she seems completely devoid of emotion and comprised instead of cold, calculating logic. I find it a unique quality amongst women that quickly enamored me to her. And the job, of course. At first I thought it was simply one of those tragedies of youth, a mother who lost her child in those first fragile months and who refuses to accept the death. More and more, though, I am convinced that the child is not her own if for the simple fact I do not think her capable of such an attachment. The cold had ensured that the tiny bundle was delivered to me remarkably fresh, its ghost seemingly only recently departed. Though it is delicate work on such a tiny babe, after I had rebuilt my apparati, it was a simple enough task. I have heard the coroner’s bell and I know my work was well accomplished. Though distant, my benefactor is naïve. The dead do not return to us because they wish to live but because they hate the living. They are jealous of the blush, the warmth of the living and their desire for such manifests in the most gruesome appetites. No-one will suspect a sweet child of such horrors. Even in undeath, the babe is certainly that, sweet, but I do hope the coroner manages to salvage some of the bodies. I have faith my benefactor isn’t among the dead. Regardless, I have scheduled a visit to the morgue to restock my supplies. I am quite in need of a new lab assistant.