Sholto

@DangerousBeans: didn't you know it's always the quiet ones?! If you think this one is bad you should see the story I wrote for Morpheus Tales... More of The Chair coming soon. @TimeLapse: thanks - keeping you reading means I've done my job! By Last Christmas I take it you don't mean the Wham song, but if your family is anything like this story - eek! @Nathan: Thanks, and holler sent, although I sent it by email since I cannot PM you on the forum. @AngusKhan: Cheers, mate @Antizombie: Yeah, the title sucks. I should have spent a little more time on it.

Treasure It was the real thing, alright. The Simon pure. The soulstone was dark and gleaming, like smoke trapped in amber, and it was the biggest one Garrett Franks had ever seen. Sweat ran down his face and dripped from the end of his nose as he stared into the depths of the stone, the light of his candle faint across its dusty surface. He put his rusted pick down and pried it loose from the shale with eager fingers. About the length of his pinky and smooth as a river pebble, it was heavier than he’d expected, and felt soft and warm in his calloused hand. He tapped it against his leg-irons for good luck, and was about to shout for Boss Perry when it suddenly occurred to Garrett Franks that he was alone in this seam. Boss Perry had gone back to the mulestop at East Shaft #3 to pick up the latest shave-tails fresh from the train and Garrett’s usual hobbler, Minton Cole, had been laying by the water barrel back by the tracks for the past hour or two, coughing up blood and worse like the old, dying lunger he was. He was all alone. He twisted awkwardly, his bare back scraping painfully off the cramped walls and roof of the seam, and looked back down the tunnel. His broad shoulders blocked most of the light from the candle he dug by, but he could see nothing and no-one behind him. The thunder of the trucks trundling along the distant tracks, magnified by the throat-like tunnel to sound as if they were only a few short feet away, roared and echoed out of the darkness. The great whoosh-thump of the mighty steam pumps and air bellows at the even more distant shaft made the black rock dust dance and shiver in the clammy air. He was all alone. He took the dust rag off his mouth and wiped the soulstone clean as best he could. Lord, but it was powerful pretty. He held the candle to it, and the steady flame sent ghosts of light chasing across its surface. Somewhere deep within, an image of the candle swam for a moment and then vanished, as if swallowed by the soulstone. Garrett breathed slowly to clear his head – or as much as he could in the dead air of the mine. This was worth a fortune, this was, but it meant more than that. Working quickly, his heart racing and his ears straining for the sound of Boss Perry returning, he ran his hands over the raw rock face. There were men. Men on the outside. Men who they said could get anything into the mines – whiskey, backy, even whores – for a price. The free miners, the ones who didn’t owe themselves body and soul to the Company, put most of their coin in those men’s pockets. His hand caught on a sharp piece of shale, as jagged and sharp as Boss Perry’s whip. And if those men could get anything in... He used the blunt tip of his pick to work the shard of shale free, glancing back over his shoulder every few seconds. They could get anything out. Even a soulstone. He tugged the piece of shale free and set his jaw. They wouldn’t give him full price for it. No chance. But even five cents on the dollar would be more than enough to buy him his freedom from the Company, pay off his debts and set him up pretty in Malifaux itself. Set him up real pretty. He just had to find a way to get this beautiful, beautiful soulstone past the usual searches. He paused for a moment, and kissed the stone. For luck. With his right foot he jammed his left leg against the tunnel wall as hard as he could, started a low moan in his throat to stop him crying out unexpected like, and dug the shard of shale into his calf until it disappeared in a flood of blood. Breathing in short gasps, he sawed the stone back and forward through his flesh. Blood made the shale slippery and he had to stop to adjust his grip before starting up again. He banged his head off the ceiling, once, twice, don’t stop now, don’t stop now, but Garrett was young and strong as an ox. He hit bone and nearly puked, and then he was done. But he couldn’t rest. Not for a moment. He jammed the shale back into a niche in the rock face and picked up the soulstone with slick fingers. Just shoving it in the wound wouldn’t be enough; even if it didn’t fall out by itself they would still check the wound. No. One step left. His pa had been a butcher back in Tucson, and when he wasn’t drinking, whoring or beating the tar out of Garrett, he’d shown the boy how steers and swine were put together, and how a man could make a living taking them apart. Garrett might never have amounted to much, Lord knew, but some things he remembered. He had to find the layers of muscle in his calf, find the line between them and force it open, make a pocket. Only then would the soulstone be safely hidden. The sawbones would stitch up the wound without seeing it, and the men at the shaft would never notice a thing. He bit down on the handle of the pick and sunk his fingers into the blood soaked wound in his leg. His jaw spasmed and he felt one or two teeth splinter, but that was nothing to the fire in his leg. The low moan in his throat was now a full-fledged roar, although he could barely hear it over the rumble of the carts. This is just a pig, Garrett. Just a pig. The roar turned into a strangled scream as his fingertips scraped at the already tortured flesh. Not your leg. Just a pig. Not your- But it wasn’t enough, not nearly, and he pulled his hand back out, raging at his own weakness, but then his pa was there, his fat, mean face big as the moon, and he was shouting, “It’s just a pig, you lackwit sack of grease,” and for the first and last time in his life Garrett Franks was grateful to his father for something as he plunged his fingers back into the red seam, opened it up with a wet ripping sound and slid the soulstone home. He collapsed. Time passed. He didn’t know how long he lay there, rocking back and forth on the unforgiving shale, but as the pain drew back and strength returned he fumbled for his candle and checked the tunnel. He was all alone. He tied his mouth rag around his leg, the filthy cloth instantly darkening with his blood. He smeared some on the tip of his pick, to make it look like an accident. There was no way he could stand in the tunnel, which was fine by him, and holding the candle in one hand and pushing the pick before him with the other, he crawled towards the sound of the trucks. The seam was about fifty yards long, with thick timber props every five or so to brace the roof, and so narrow he had to twist sideways to squeeze past them. He had crawled along this seam, or one just like it, up in the morning and back down again in the evening every day for near enough seven years, and he was no closer to paying off his debts to the company than he had been back in debtor's gaol, but the ruin of his leg would be worth it. It would all be worth it. He would get to see the sky again. He came out the mouth of the seam, staggered to his feet and promptly collapsed across the nearest track. He hadn't realised how weak he was. Probably left a snail's trail of blood back along the seam. He worked himself against the wall and hauled upright, putting all the weight on his good leg. Felt like he'd stuffed a hot coal the size of a turkey's egg in there. Davy lamps ran along the track in either direction, their yellow light a comforting sight. Trucks rumbled unseen in parallel tunnels, and rock dust shimmered and fell like black snow. The water barrel was just around the first bend. Minton Cole would be there, hacking his lungs out. Cole wasn't exactly a friend but, even if he had been, Garrett wouldn't have shared his bounty with him. Every man had his own fate, and just because Garrett was cheating his didn't mean he owed nothing to nobody. He turned the bend. Under the pale, yellow light, Minton Cole looked like he'd been fed through a rock crusher. His meagre belly and chicken chest had been split open like a pod of peas, and it was hard to tell which bits of him were which. His legs and arms were more broken than dead trees after a storm. Dark sweeps of blood glistened on the bare rock walls as more pooled like treacle under the body. Garrett had seen men fallen beneath the feet of the great steam trucks that climbed up and down the main shafts who looked in better condition than the unlucky Minton Cole. What in the fires of hell had happened to him? A splash from the water barrel made Garrett whip round. A man he hadn't noticed amid all the slaughterhouse mess was splashing great handfuls of water on his face. The man straightened up, water streaming off his hair as he gave one last scrub and then dropped his hands, shaking them dry. Even in silhouette against the yellow light he was unmistakable. It was Boss Perry. The soulstone in Garrett's leg burned anew, feeling as massive and obvious and guilty as if he'd stuffed a pig's head in there, and all the words he'd been rehearsing clean flew out of his head. "Boss! I hurt my leg. Been bleedin' bad." He stopped, mind stumbling blindly from one pothole to another. "What happened to Cole?" Boss Perry ran his hands tightly back over his head, squeezing the last of the water out his long, dark hair, then tied it back with a length of leather cord. "Well, now. What have we here? This day's just gettin' better and better." He nodded at Garrett's leg. "Looks bad. You gonna' live?" From most men, that would be a jest, but Boss Perry meant it just as it sounded. "Yessir, boss. Reckon so, although she needs a couple a' stitches." "Good. Can't have a fine specimen like you dyin' on me." The mean, little eyes bored into him, eyes that always seemed on the lookout for someone to blame, someone to hurt. Garrett wondered when Boss Perry was going to mention Cole, or if he was going to mention him at all, but decided he'd best be off. "If it's okay with you, boss, I'll catch the shave-tails' truck back to the shaft, go see the sawbones, get 'er fixed." Boss Perry was picking up some clothes from the side of the water barrel, but said nothing. He had brought the new miners back from the shaft, hadn't he? Fresh meat for the rockface? Garrett paused. So where were they? With a flick, Boss Perry threw his long overseer's cloak around his shoulders and Garrett froze as he saw the dark blood soaking the heavy wool. Boss Perry paused, following Garrett's stare, then his shoulders slumped and he held the cloak up to examine it closely. "I'm gonna have to ditch this, aren't I?" As Boss Perry turned to throw the cloak away, Garrett caught a glimpse of his back, and felt all the remaining strength run out his legs. Boss Perry's clothes only covered his front. His back looked like it'd been burnt in a fire, a mess of sticky gore and bright white bones with his clothes melted into the flesh itself. Boss Perry turned back, a grin on his lumpen, bullish face. "Reckon I'll find me a clean one." Garrett raised his pick, trying to prop himself against the wall so that a swing wouldn't just tip him over. Boss Perry walked around the water barrel, wagging a finger and tut-tutting. "Don't go doin' yourself another injury with that thing." "You get back, ya hear me! All I gotta do is holler. There's other crews working these seams, and-" "Not any more," said Boss Perry. He had stopped with one foot in the late Minton Cole's belly. "Same with those tender little ones on the truck. Barely nothin' to them, though. Crunchy. This man," he gestured at his own face, "looked important, but he screamed a lot and pissed his pants, and he was old and rangy." He took a step forward. His voice had changed, and he wasn't talking so much like Perry any more. "But you – you're a prime specimen. What a find!" "What did you do with Boss Perry?" "Perry's the name, huh? I like the look. Think I'll keep it. People do what he says, which makes it easier to get around. I managed to get his cloak covered in this diseased old man's blood, and I really need a good cloak to avoid you people getting a glimpse of my-" he quarter-turned, giving a glimpse of the ruin at his back,"-less pretty side." He was close enough, and with his bad leg he was only going to get one shot. As the Perry thing turned away Garrett launched himself off the tunnel wall, his leg screaming in protest, and swung his pick two handed right at its neck. He'd worked in the mines for nigh on seven years, with shoulders like beams of oak, and no-one could swing a pick like Garrett Franks. Boss Perry caught the handle and ripped it out his grasp with a casual tug, taking most of the skin off Garrett's palms. Perry slammed the pick crosswise into Garrett's chest, knocking him off his feet, then dropped the pick. "No," he said, as Garrett lay gasping. "They're not going to just let me drag you out of here, are they? They don't appreciate the needs of a discerning diner." Boss Perry knelt down beside Garrett, running an ice-cold hand over Garrett's shoulder and arm, squeezing the flesh as if appraising a joint in a butcher's shop. "Quite delectable," he said admiringly, before his face lit up. "I have it!" He stood, blocking out the light from the Davy lamp in perfect, black silhouette. For a moment Garrett thought his mind had gone, but no – the Perry thing was really getting larger. He rose, blocking more and more light, growing wider and taller as Garrett watched, frozen in shock. His clothes seemed to be part of him, stretching along with the body underneath. "Now," said the Perry thing, stooping to collect the pick in one massive hand, "you beautiful, beautiful thing, this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you, I assure you. But it'll be worth it later." He raised the pick and plunged it into his own enormous chest, right up to the haft, and with a ripping sound pulled it down towards his navel. Something oozed from the edges of the mortal wound, thicker than blood, and as black as coal. As Garrett finally realised what the Perry thing intended to do he screamed, but no-one could hear him above the thunder of nearby trucks. It picked him up and stuffed him bodily into the gaping wound in its unnatural chest. The last thing Garrett ever saw of the mine was the faint light of the Davy lamp disappearing as the wound sealed up around him. The Perry thing slowly returned to its normal size, before dusting itself down. It placed both hands on its larger than usual belly and belched, smiling. "That'll keep you safe for now, my little treasure." Whistling, Boss Perry walked back up the tunnel. The men at the shaft would never notice a thing.

Thanks for that, I see what you're getting at now. The choice of narrative voice was a deliberate one (eg. "casual as you like", "Just so"), to tie in with the setting rather than tell it in a modern voice, but I can appreciate that it might not work as well as I'd hoped. I don't want to overwhelm the story with too much sauce on the meat. Sholto

Thanks, guys. I like creepy horror stories, and that's what this one will be (hopefully). This is my first attempt at Malifaux fiction, so I am still feeling my way in terms of subject matter and tone and pace and whatnot. Not sure I have a handle on it, yet, but the only way to find out is to write it @nebiros: One of the things I dislike about reading fan fiction is that you're never sure if the author knows where the story is going, either Makes it hard to engage and to critique. I hope I don't disappoint, but the story has a very definite ending. Can you elaborate on your point about keeping frontier language out of description? I am no expert on frontier subjects, so if I am getting it wrong it would be very helpful to know where, so I can work on it. Sholto

That's why you keep him near some line-of-sight blocking terrain. "Time to step behind the outhouse, Mr Proxy, sir. You don't need to see this..."

I will need to take another look at the Guild Guard. I play 40k, and have been looking for a defensive equivalent to Kroot - they shield my Tau from assault. Perhaps Guild Guard are to Kroot as the Ortegas are to the Tau The only way past Cordon is to kill the Guard, and if you put them in defensive stance and in cover, shooting them will be pointless for all but a handful of enemy models, meaning that you can then control where you opponent's models are going to go - within melee range of one of your Guard. Sholto

Heh - "hen night look"! Very well done Sholto

You can do international reply coupons in the UK but, having submitted various manuscripts to US magazines, they are a pita to use, so please don't go down that route. Sholto

A really well-written report. Very clear, but still full of character. Thanks Sholto

Toy Soldier - a Neverborn construct? A little drum and a tin hat and a big clockwork key sticking out his back. And tentacles. Wyrd have hard-wired the number of Factions in the game by tying them to the suits (+1 for Outcasts), and can only go so far adding new Masters to each Faction, although there is certainly plenty of scope for new and imaginative masters (I like the Carnivale idea for Outcasts, for example). Another way to add variety would be through expanding the totem range. New totems could allow the Masters to access models from other Factions, albeit at a cost similar to the Outcast hiring cost, and with other balances and benefits. Guild use Witchling Stalkers and Enslaved Nephilim, so why not go the whole hog and let them compel other creatures or constructs to fight for them? Sholto

I have T-Mobile's version of the HTC Hero, which runs Android 1.4. It is a good phone, but I couldn't recommend it to anyone without mentioning how sorely underpowered it is. The processor can barely keep up with the OS at times, and in general usage it is slow and unwieldy. Other than that it is great The iPhone, however, is brilliant. I bought my wife one, but all the games on it are ones I have downloaded (and my 2 year old is better at Doodle Jump than I am...) Sholto

Killjoy is great, but you need to plan for Blood Price. If he isn't in melee at the end of Turn 2, he gets a free Charge move towards the nearest model before activations begin on Turn 3, so being able to manipulate this is key. Models like Taelor, who can knock opponents back, can be used to set them up for Killjoy, while Ronin and the Viks are fast enough to keep away from him. Alternatively, you might want to be the closest model so you can make him move in the right direction, but then you need to make sure you're out of his Cg + melee range

I love the idea of a scarecrow, but having one moving about seems wrong. They should just turn up when no-one is looking, so how about allowing the scarecrow to teleport anywhere it likes, provided no models (friendly or opponent) are within 8" of it before it moves? The idea would be a model that provides buffs or debuffs by staying away from other models, but that can be shut down if the opponent decides to send something after it and gets close enough quickly enough. Once an enemy model gets too near it, the scarecrow can no longer move away and, while it is not defenceless, will be in serious trouble unless backup arrives. Alternatively, the scarecrow can teleport out of trouble to another lonely part of the table, but loses its ability to provide buffs/ debuffs by doing so. Whatever effect the scarecrow has should grow Turn by Turn, provided the scarecrow has not moved, thus giving the opponent an incentive to get it and the player an incentive to protect it. Sholto

That explains why a lot of FLGS have gone or are going to go out of business - their owners are not being sufficiently commercial. Reluctance to bring in a product line you don't like but that your customers want and will spend lots of money on is a very effective way to make your shop just the way you dreamed it would be, but also a very effective way to make your shop an ex-shop. I have no interest in MtG, but if I ran a shop and my customers started asking if I stocked it, I would quickly become an expert on it and see how much money I could make out of it.

Thank you for the quick reply I am off to buy her, now! Sholto

Is her sword a separate piece or not? Thanks Sholto

Thanks - here is:- Part 2 Outside the whiskey-stop, Brummagem Market was winding down as the shadows lengthened across the town of Malifaux. Up and down the narrow, sinuous length of Clapper Wynd butchers called their wares while legless beggars hawked paste jewellery and sent their brats out to cut purse strings. In front of dark alley-mouths, stall-keepers arranged their remaining cabbages and turnips to hide the more diseased or wilting specimens, while the crowd milled and bustled in a beehive of noise. Laughter and shouts echoed off the brick storeys, rising above the rattle of wheels along the cobble ruts, the braying of donkeys and the ringing of the fishmonger's knives. Bill buttoned his wool coat against the chill stealing up from the river, and had to step smartly to avoid passing under a potman's ladder. The sounds of tuneless whistling came from above as the man lit one of the gas lamps that would keep Brummagem Market open until close to midnight. He stopped. Across the cobbles, a Chinese woman was berating her five children. Strands of her black hair had come loose from her tight bun, and her face looked drawn and tired as she snapped at them each in turn. It looked like she had had a long day. But it was not the woman or the children who had caught his eye. Standing just behind the woman was a small, old man wearing a filthy, brown longcoat with tattered ends that bulged in odd places. Bill couldn't see his face clearly, but the man was mostly bald. What hair he had hung in grey, greasy strands. He was talking to the woman. Bill edged closer to hear what the man was saying, as the woman and children seemed to be paying him no attention. As he did so, he realised that the man's coat was covered in dozens of pockets, and from each pocket there poked the head of a dead kitten. Feral cats were everywhere in the ruins and old buildings, and there were people who caught them for fur and meat. "…just the smallest ones, love," he was saying in a cracked, wheedling voice. "Give 'em ta Blind Jack. They're too much trouble for ya. Won't no-one blame ya. Blind Jack'll take good care of 'em, love. You won't need ta worry yerself about 'em no more." The man had taken out one of the kittens from his coat, but the woman was ignoring him. She seemed to be getting more and more agitated with her children, and was babbling at them in her own language. She grabbed the youngest roughly and pulled her alongside her. The man grasped the kitten in both hands and it was then Bill realised it wasn't dead. "That's it, love. One'll do. Blind Jack's yer friend." Bill took his hat off. He was fairly sure he knew why the woman was ignoring the old man, but he might have been wrong. "Pardon, but is this man bothering you, ma'am?" The woman glanced up at him, but it seemed she didn't understand him and went back to shouting at her children. Blind Jack, however, rounded on Bill with a snarl, his gums black in a toothless mouth. Bill only had a moment to realise that the old man's eyes were closed and had been all along when Blind Jack opened them. As he did so, every kitten jammed in his coat opened their eyes, too, and turned their tiny heads to stare at him, mewling pathetically. Their eyes were all white as wax, but none were as white as Blind Jack's. They seemed to shine in the fading daylight like evening stars, cold, hard and very distant. Bill took a step back, and was nearly knocked off his feet by a passing potter's cart. Blind Jack opened his reeking mouth wide, hissing at Bill like a snake. With a simple twist he broke the neck of the kitten he was holding and hurled its mangy, emaciated body aside before turning back to the woman and her children, the youngest girl still standing to one side. "C'mon now, love, you won't miss this one. I'd lay odds she's the most trouble, too. Give her here, love. Blind Jack'll take her in. Blind Jack won't stand for her mischief. That's it, love." The woman, who showed no sign she had heard Blind Jack, let alone seen him, had started to walk away, pushing her children before her, but leaving the youngest one behind. Blind Jack reached out a long, bony hand for the child. "Don't look back, love," he whispered, with a triumphant leer on his pale face. "Touch that girl, Blind Jack, and I'll break your skull." Bill was holding a loose cobble firmly in his hand. He hefted the cobble as threateningly as he could, his heart hammering. He had no idea what would happen if he swung. Blind Jack might simply laugh at him, or do worse. He swallowed his fear. "And I'm willing to bet there's not a man or woman in this street who'll even notice if I do." Blind Jack's ragged fingernails brushed within an inch of the girl's face, her gaze untroubled. Then the hand disappeared back under the filthy coat and Blind Jack was standing right in front of Bill, hissing black spittle in wordless rage as his cold eyes burned. Every kitten on his coat had their eyes open again, and were hissing along with their master, thrashing around in their deep pockets. The girl sighed, and kicked her heels. Bill raised the cobble up as Blind Jack's fury grew. Then Bill winced as the shard of glass moved deep in his eye, a stabbing pain that lanced right to the back of his head, and felt the warmth of a drop of blood slowly trickle down his cheek. He wiped it away with his free hand, and when his vision cleared, Blind Jack was gone. Only the sound of his toothless hiss remained as the faintest of echoes, then that too faded to nothing. As if a spell had been lifted on the girl she sprang into life, shouting something in her own tongue, and raced away through Brummagem Market after her mother. Bill tried to catch her, to ask her what she'd seen, but in a blink she was gone into the crowd. Gingerly, Bill explored his right eye with calloused fingers. The glass sliver was still lodged deep, but it had stopped moving for now. He fished out an old handkerchief and wiped the blood from his hand. Black flecks studded the dark red smears, and Bill frowned. It didn't feel like it was getting infected, but it had been in there over two weeks now, and showed no sign of working its way out on its own. He really ought to see a doctor, especially if it was going bad, but he didn't have the money for a doctor, not if he was going to give Jed his stake. And there was no way he was going to pass on that. He'd need to get back to his lodgings on Derry Street to pick up the money, and then back here to meet Jed before sundown. That meant crossing the river when it would be busy with traders returning from Oldfield. He looked up in the sky, and realised he'd need to hurry. He was about to leave, when a moment's curiosity made him look for the dead kitten Blind Jack had thrown away. He couldn't see it anywhere, until he spotted a knot of concerned looking people gathered noisily by the entrance to a narrow alleyway. He couldn't see what they were fussing over until an elderly man stood up, revealing a bag of skin and bones slumped on the slimy cobbles. It was a boy – a child of no more than five or six, naked and wasted away to almost nothing, with his neck clearly broken. Bill turned sharply and left, and the boy's staring white eyes followed him all the way down Clapper Wynd. #

I'm looking at the model thinking, "I recognise that base..." Looks great, mate! Sholto

I use flow-aid improver every time I paint. The Liquitex stuff needs to be diluted 20:1 with water, so I made up a dropper bottle of it and use that to thin my paints on the palette. It means I have thinned paint and flow-improver all in one. I should mention that an ideal substitute for flow-improver is simple washing up liquid. A tiny smudge on the tip of your brush and then stir the brush in your watered-down paint. You will see the surface tension break immediately, and it makes highlighting and shading much easier. If you are using a drying retarder for wet blending, then you could use flow aid improver as well. There is no harm in mixing the two. Sholto

Activating envy... Envy activated... Who do I have to kill to get one of those? Sholto

Heh - I enjoyed that. It was very well written.

The only piece I have written for Malifaux was a narrative battle report, but I thought I would try my hand at a full story. The plot is all worked out, and this is how it begins:- The Chair - Part 1 "Never thought I'd hear a bunch of girls so frightened by a chair," Bill Coolidge remarked, casual as you like. Out the corner of his eye, Bill saw the bartender shuffle sideways to stand nearer his hidden flintlock, but Bill didn't have a taste for fighting tonight. His comment had been aimed at the yellow-stained wall, but the men at the table beside him weren't deaf, or stupid. They turned as one, day labourers and night soil collectors from the look of their frayed shirts and sweat-stained neckerchiefs. Four men doing all the talking, two lads nursing some watered-down liquor. One of the lads stood up, his Adam's apple bobbing on his scrawny neck. "Ain't none of your damn business, Mister Coolidge. Ain't that so, Jed?" "Easy, Tom." So that was Jed. Foreman with the Eastcheap and Red Cross shit-wagons. The witch's description had been on the nose. Bald, pig-eyed and as meaty as anything in a butcher's yard, his left cheek had a brand on it from selling illegal firewood. Jed put a slab-like hand on the young lad's arm. "Man's got a right t'express an opinion." Bill turned, eyeballing the youth back onto his stool. Just so. "Ain't got no quarrel with you, Mister Coolidge," Jed said, wiping beer from his thick moustache, "and if you're takin' a gentlemanly interest in our conversation, like as I'd be happy to explain the chair t'ya if ya got a minute." Bill took a moment to tap some cinnabar and pepper from a silver flask into his whiskey. He knocked it back. Better. "Oblige me." Jed nodded, then started what sounded like a well-versed pitch. "It's not the chair itself, it's what you do with it that counts, Bill. I hope you don't mind me being familiar with ya, but I reckon the lad here done introduce us, like. The Beggar's Lane Rowdies used to use the chair like an initiation test. Before that, some of the riverboat men used it to run stakes, see who could last the longest. These days, well, the Rowdies fell foul of the Guild, didn't they, and the riverboat men got them some better action in the faro tables and dog pits and now me and a group of ent-epreneurial citizens," Jed's sweeping arm took in the three older men at the table, but not the two younger lads, "got the old chair and we're running a pot." "How much?" "Three hundred, now. Mite over." Bill nodded, tamping the spices back down in his flask. "Who's holding?" One of the men at the table, pale and jowly with boot-blacked hair, tugged his neckerchief down to briefly reveal a dog-eared dog collar. Bill snorted. The witch hadn't mentioned a reverend, but no matter. Big Jed was back in snakeoil mode. "We put the chair in the Hall. Man goes in the chair. We wait outside, us and the preacher with the pot. Man lasts the whole night, the pot's his. He don't last, his stake's ours and the pot goes up for the next man." One of the lads started to ask which hall, and where it was, but Bill could see Jed had lost interest in them. Bill Coolidge was bigger fish, in every way. "Tonight," Bill said, standing and brushing off his hat. "-now a man like you should be-" Jed stopped mid-flow, surprise in his inkwell eyes. Bill guessed it usually took a lot longer to persuade a mark. "I'll be back here at sundown, with my stake," Bill said, fixing his hat. "Ya'll be here, now. Don't want to come lookin'." "Stake's twenty, Bill, for a workin' man like you." He should haggle, he knew. It would look wrong if he didn't - twenty was more than he made in a week breaking his back at the docks - but Bill was already half way to the door and closer than he'd ever been to finding her again. "Be seeing you, Jed." #

Always good to see a fully painted crew, and the colours tie them all together nicely

@DarkJeebs - Was the background in your photo booth originally white? If so, there are things you can do with your camera or in post to fix it, and I can give you some tips if you need them.

Not a big fan of black lining, but pieces like this might make me reconsider! I like it