JackDawInChains

My votes are in - good luck everyone, very much enjoyed everyones entries. It might be a small field but it's packed full of quality.

And its up: Iron Quill - Obsession - Driven 1720 approximately words All ingredients used in one way or another when I think about it. Would love to hear your comments and feedback ladies and gents.

He woke, as always, to the sounds of his wife and daughter screaming. To the taste of smoke in his mouth and the soft kiss of ash on his skin. All memory of course, but no less real for that. Knowing it was memory didn’t lessen the ache in his bones or the pain in his heart. Or the cold fury that drove him on, that dragged him from what little sleep he seemed to manage each night. Dew from the morning fog soaked clothes stiffened with sweat and ash, streaked with old blood and the stench of a man who had not washed in weeks. He wiped a grimy hand over his gaunt face, through the tangled beard and clawed back hair that covered his hollow eyes, and pulled himself to his feet. Ahead and behind, disappearing into the fog, lay the blackened and soot-stained timbers and rails of the track he followed. Onwards, ever onwards, the track pulling him to his next destination, the next site of his vengeance. At time he felt as much machine as man, a flesh and bone engine cleaving to the iron rails that lay on the ground like chains. He had had a life once, he knew this. A home, a family. Gone now, lost in the fog and lying a long back down the track. Lying amidst blood and smoke and iron, the lifeblood of the railway. He felt the heavy weight of the pistol in his pocket, pregnant with the promise of violence, eager to fill his hand and speak for him. Not far now. He would reach his next stop today, he knew this. The rails spoke to him, showed him where to find them, whispered to him. They would pay today for their crimes, as they had countless other days. He would see to it. Stride by stride, shuffling at first and then more purposeful, he followed the rails, fury building in the engine of his heart. ~ It might have been hours, or only minutes later that he found them. He didn’t know, didn’t care. A splitting in the track, an off-shoot to a new housing for trains that needed refuelling or repair. It was still under construction, the rails leading to it black with grease and soot, not yet polished by the constant passing of wheels over them. The train-shed was a skeleton of timbers and girders without walls or a roof, piles of material sat waiting to be used. A hastily thrown-up wooden shack stood to one side, a pencil thin line of smoke issuing from the tin chimney erupting from the roof. Weak sunlight streamed down from the pale sky and through the towering pines surrounding the track, tearing the fog from a thick blanket to strips that crossed the junction and yard like the tendrils of some other-worldly beast. He saw one of them, one of the condemned standing at the junction of the tracks sipping something from a battered tin mug. Corpulent, but heavy across the shoulders, braces straining over bare shoulders and gut to hold up heavy work trousers. He didn’t recognise the face but that didn’t matter. He knew who had been there, who had laughed as his family and life burnt. They were all condemned and the railway knew them, the railway led him to them. The condemned saw him emerge from the fog, shouted something obscene in that guttural voice they all had, piggish face screwed up and reddening in the fake rage they all found so easily. The pistol was in his hand already, was raised and aimed at the condemned whose face fell from rage to fear so swiftly it was almost comical. The condemned opened his mouth to speak again and the pistol spoke. Flash of smoke, roar of vengeance, and the condemned's face disappeared in a welter of blood and bone. The body fell, pole-axed, arcs of blood anointing the tracks and packed earth. The door to the shack slammed open, another two of the condemned spilled out. The first, taller and better built than the first, sprinted to the junction. The condemned had found a weapon from somewhere, a long heavy-headed mallet no doubt used to repair the rails and sidings. He wasn't worried. In all the times he had found his vengeance, none of the condemned have ever come close to hurting him. They couldn’t anymore, not after what they had done to his family. He let the condemned get close, close enough to see the ruin of his friend's face, close enough to see the cold fury in his own eyes before raising the pistol at him. It spoke again and the condemned fell, screaming and curling around the bloody hole torn through his stomach. A tide of crimson soaked through the off-white of the linen shirt the condemned wore, poured over the filthy hands trying desperately to stem the flow while a wailing voice prayed and pleaded for anyone, for God, for Mother please it hurts so much, why, why, please. The last condemned hadn't moved from the open door of the shack, had only watched in open-mouthed horror and stupefaction at the judgement of his fellows. This last condemned was little more than a youth, gangly and loose-limbed, head crowned with a thatch of greasy blonde hair. As he stalked towards the shack, the condemned screamed and bolted inside, slamming the door shut and shouting for help in a cracked voice. The door flew open at his touch, revealing the squalid inside of the hut - hastily made camp-beds, a smouldering small oven and boxes of foodstuffs and papers. The young condemned was hunched in a corner, turned away from his judgement, weeping now and pleading for mercy, asking why. He ignored the pleading, the questions. The condemned always asked, no matter how many he killed. He didn’t know why, they all knew what they had done, why they needed to die. The pistol spoke once more and the pleading and crying stopped. ~ He was on the tracks again, always following them, always going where they took him. The iron spoke to him, told him where to find the next condemned. He couldn't remember eating, where he found ammunition for his pistol, resting. There was only the iron song of the tracks and the judgment in smoke and gunfire. He didn't know how many of them he had killed now, how long he had walked the railways. He couldn't remember the faces of his wife and daughter, their voices or their laughter. He remembered nothing of their lives, only their deaths. He realised that for some time now he couldn't even remember his own name. It didn't matter. All that mattered was the task, the judgement. It was everything. More awakenings to fogbound rails. More walking, more following to where the condemned gathered. More judgement and more killing. Over and over, always the next stop, the next judgment. He couldn't remember why now, didn't care why. There was only the task, the purpose the rails set him to. He travelled on. Close to Malifaux now, the beating heart of the rails. The iron had pulled him in, close to the last of the condemned, to those in charge. ~ This time when he woke, he was not alone. A man sat on a chair astride the tracks that led and twisted amongst stained and decaying industrial buildings and sidings. The man was young, thin and clad in a once-fine black suit. Not one of the condemned, the rails didn't sing for his judgement. One withered arm, cased in a brass armature, was clutched tight across his chest, the other smeared back lank hair across a pale forehead. A quick lizard smile crossed the mans face, didn't reach the pale yellow of his one eye. " Well now. Good morning to you, my fine friend. Quite the little engine of vengeance aren't you?" He stood, confused. Mouthed something about his family, his name, but couldn't spit the words out. Couldn't even find the words or the memories to put them to. The thin man grimaced, an exaggerated expression of sorrow playing over his face like a mask. The hollow of his other eye showed only a pale white orb. "Oh my dear man, you really have no idea what this is do you? But then, you aren't really a man anymore are you? No, and not for some time I should say. Oh, I have no doubts that you were once a fine man, loving and so on and so forth. But that's not what's important. What is important is what you've become. A vessel. A symbol." He could feel the weight of the pistol in his hand, the singing of the rails as they beckoned him on to the next condemned. But he didn't move, couldn't move past this scarecrow man seated on the tracks. The thin man produced a small pasteboard card from a pocket and began to scrawl something on it with the pen nibs that replaced the fingertips of his withered right hand as he spoke. "What you are, my friend, is an apotheosis of single mindedness, of purpose without reason, killing innocent workers without cause. I'd wager you remember nothing of what drove you to this course, to what you were before? No? Well, no matter. As I say, what you were isn't important. What you are, is." The thin man scrawled, twitched painfully and gagged before holding the completed card out and peering at it critically. "A haint, a spirit of obsessive judgement, birthed by the rails and the iron. Ah. Perfect." As he inspected the finely detailed etching of an ash smeared man bearing a set of scales and a pistol standing on iron rails that twisted and formed the word "Judgement", the thin young man smiled to himself, then looked around at the empty railway he sat on. "End of the line my friend."

Well, after a long absence and with a bit of rust to shake off, I'm in. Think my entry is pretty much done, just need to have a final look over and polish before posting.

My votes are in - not an easy task. Kudos to everyone who submitted, there's some stellar stuff in there. This is my first Iron Quill entry and indeed first Malifaux anything, so hope everyone who read my entry enjoyed and didnt think I made a complete hash of the setting Looking forward to seeing the results, best of luck to everyone involved.

Thanks chaps, your comments are much appreciated. Vinush, the term "Haint" is just another name for a ghost or haunting. Comes from the southern US states I think, but I've always thought it has a nice Victorian feel to it and works beautifully in Malifaux.

So, my entry is up - The Printers Mark Hope you all enjoy

* This far out into the Industrial District the cost of boom and bust expansion in Malifaux began to show. Rotting tenements warred with gutted warehouse shells to see who could spread more decay and detritus across the streets. Windows leered empty in toothless smiles, glass and lead stripped out for the meagre coin it would bring at the scrapyards. What remained of the cobbled roads was ankle deep in ash and other rubbish, stirred to a paste by the thin rain that fell in miserable sheets from an iron-grey sky. Grayson Creel scowled into the wrap of black silk covering his mouth as a thin trickle of water crept down the back of his neck. Under normal circumstances, nothing would bring him out to this side of Malifaux, not while bigger game lurked in more affluent areas. This time though, the prize on offer was too much to pass up. Hunching himself deeper into his greatcoat and settling the weight of the crossbow slung on his shoulders, Creel strode off into the filth-caked streets. The square loomed ahead, an empty hole in the brick fabric of the streets. Indistinct in the greying rain-flecked light, the gutted warehouses and stockyards ringing this deserted and long-dead piece of Malifaux were looming presences, hemming Creel in. The rotting timbers of an abandoned cart filled one corner, timbers swollen with rot, green-furred with moss. Creel scowled again, assumed he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere. But no, there at the far end - a faint dirty yellow light struggling to provide any illumination. Moving closer across the decaying square, Creel could make out dirtied windows still holding glass and a heavy door. A weather-beaten and rusting sign swung precariously above the doorway, elaborate script barely legible under the rot-yellow lamplight. Proude & Locke, Printers & Illustrators of Repute. So, right place after all. Creel sniffed, tasting ash and decay and stepped up to the door. The heavy knocker was wrought in the fanciful shape of a lion, proud mane now spotted with rust that flaked away as he brought it up. The impacts sounded strangely muffled, as though it were hitting wet wood rather than dark iron. Long moments passed in the sheeting rain before the door was slowly pulled open on protesting hinges. More of the jaundiced lamplight spilt out from the hallway before it was blocked by a giant of a man. A grey woollen suit strained to contain the huge frame beneath, huge dark-haired hands erupting from frayed cuffs. The man's face was covered from the nose down by a dark cotton rag, stitched at the sides to keep it in place, while smoked glasses covered his eyes. Oddly, a tattered bowler hat perched atop the brute's shaved head, clearly several sizes too small. Creel pulled his own silk kerchief down. "Grayson Creel, office of the Guild. My presence was requested." He might as well have been talking to a statue. There was no response, no flicker of movement from the giant in the doorway. Clearing his throat, Creel tried again, injecting a note of menace into his voice. "Am I understood? I have permitted by the Guild to investigate a matter of pernicious haunting affecting these premises, after its owner petitioned the Governors offices directly. Am I addressing Mister Proude or Mister Locke?" There was a commotion from behind the impassive brute. Finally, the suited giant moved aside, revealing a smaller, thinner gentleman behind. Clad in a dark mourning suit, shirt collar and cuffs in dire need of bleaching, the newcomer peered at Creel with red-shot eyes that glittered in a thin sallow face. Ink spots marred the pale cheeks, creeping all the way from his jawline to the lank dark hair that was plastered atop his head. A lizard-quick smile flashed across fleshy lips as the gentleman thrust out a long-fingered hand in greeting. "Ah! The Governors man! Excellent, most excellent. Please excuse my companion - a man of few words, Mister Keye is nonetheless dear to me and essential to my well-being. Erasmus Locke, at your service." Wrong-footed for a second by the left hand that had been offered to him, Creel gathered himself quickly and took the proffered hand in a shake that while quick, was still too long for the clammy skin that he felt. "A pleasure, Mr Locke. May I enter? I gather there is work here for me." "Oh! Surely, surely, please do enter. We are quite beside ourselves here, quite unable to continue with our work while this vulgar haint affects us." Locke ushered Creel inside with quick twitching movements, the giant Keye moving aside and closing the door behind them. Cocooned in the sickly yellow light, Creel glimpsed the withered right arm clutched tight against Locke's thin chest. Wrapped in a bronze and iron armature which extended fully over his pale hand, his fingers bore thin pen-nibs in place of finger-nails. Moving quickly through the entrance hall and down further corridors bearing flaking plaster and faded posters on the walls, Locke held up a constant monologue on his family’s history in the printing and illuminating business, both here in Malifaux and Earthside. Creel only half listened, making the appropriate noises of agreement and commiseration when needed, all the while his mind furiously working as he tried to fathom where exactly the prize that Fallon had talked up was. Locke came to a sudden halt before a door no different to the dozen others they had passed already, Keye a looming presence behind them. The scarecrow printer turned to face Creel, left hand massaging the withered twig of his right arm. That lizard-quick smile flashed again. "And so here we are, quite unmanned and undone by the unquiet shades that plague us. " "Mister Locke, if I may? I am an Exorcist of the Guild. There is very little I have not seen or dealt with when it comes to haints. If you would just step aside, I can assay the situation and do my job." Punctuating his short speech by unslinging his heavy crossbow, Creel nodded at the door. "Whatever is in there, it will be dealt with." Something twitched under Locke's eye. "Capital, capital. Man of action eh? Wonderful. I myself bend more to the theoretical than the practical, but then where would we be if we all had our noses in a book eh?" Locke let out a thin grating laugh. Wincing, Creel motioned at the door with the tip of the crossbow. "Mister Locke? The door?" Stammering apologies, Locke swiftly unlocked and opened the door, revealing a wide workspace filled with huge dark iron printing presses illuminated in pools of the same jaundiced light as the rest of the building. Most of the gargantuan machines were silent, draped in dirty sheets, but a half-dozen were manned and active, churning out sheets of thick rag-paper covered in dense blocks of text. Moving in slowly, crossbow held up, Creel tried to ignore the noise created by the presses. There were maybe two-dozen workers, all clad in frayed layers of cotton, faces covered by cracked goggles and glasses, wrapped around with more rags. Their movements were stilted, almost as repetitive and automaton-like as the presses they tended. Locke waved a hand at the rag-covered workers. "Precautionary measures. A lifetime alongside the paper-dust and ink-stains makes for poor lungs. Our very own Mister Keye bears the wounds of a lifetime print-man, ink is in his very blood you might say!" Again that awful grating laugh. Shaking his head, Creel stalked through the machinery, searching for any sign of his prize. Finally, after what felt like a fruitless hour of searching, he turned on Locke, anger taught in his voice. There was no haint here, real or otherwise. And certainly not the easy pickings that Fallon had talked up. "Is this a joke? Am I here on some grand jape, Mister Locke? It is a dangerous thing to waste the Guild's time." Rather than the fear that he expected to see on Locke's thin face, Creel instead saw something approaching amusement. The lizard-grin appeared again, creeping slower this time. "A joke? Mercy, no, Mister Creel. This was a test. Two tests, in point of fact. The first, I am sorry to say, you failed most abjectly." Locke's long-fingered left hand pulled a softly glowing small oval from his waistcoat pocket, dropping it to the dusty floor and crushing it under heel. The glow died and the workers dropped like string-cut puppets and Locke sighed heavily in release. "Ah, so much better. You have no idea of the strain it takes to animate that number of corpses so, regardless of the basic nature of their movements. I’ll ache for days, you know. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes, the first test. You failed." A scuff of movement from behind brought Creel spinning round, crossbow already firing. The heavy bolt struck Keye in the throat, tearing through and taking the cotton rag with it. Creel had seconds to register the grey meat-wound where Keye's bottom jaw and throat should be before a huge fist hammered into his face. Falling, nose shattered and tasting his own coppery blood, Creel fought against the greying edges of his vision as Locke spoke again. "Exorcist of the Guild indeed. Any true Exorcist would have sniffed out my dear Mister Keye straight away. But you sir, you are merely a charlatan, a mountebank thief and fool masquerading as one, are you not? Yes, your man Fallon told us everything. The second test, Mister Creel. You passed most admirably." The grating laugh was the last thing Creel heard before a heavy boot erased any scrap of awareness he may have still had. * A thin stream of vomit spattered into the cracked porcelain of the wash basin, shot through with blood and ink. Locke collapsed to the floor, wracked with tremors, sweat- soaked shirt clinging to his bony frame. His right arm shook within the heavy brace, withered hand contorted into a palsied claw. Thick paste-board cards lay spilt around him, crowded with insanely detailed illustrations, a madman’s Tarot still unfinished. Ink still wet, the card of the Fool was clutched in Locke's left hand, the screaming face of Grayson Creel marked upon it. As the impassive form of Keye loomed over his twitching and fitting employer, Locke could only mutter the same words over and over again in a lunatic refrain. "Six more, six more only, six more, only six more...." ****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************** Word count - 1749 Mystery ingredients used - Sheep In Wolf's Clothing Industrial Zone An Incomplete Deck Of Cards

I'd like to tentatively throw my hat into the ring for this please...

Hi all I've got the Sonnia Criid 2e plastic set that I've not touched - its not in the box but still on sprue and has all the cards, sadly no bases though. I'd love to swap this for the 2e Perdita Latigo Posse box - not too worried about cards or bases as its the models I'm really after. Let me know if you're interested, I'm UK based but happy to post anywhere. Cheers