Realistic or Modern Blood Feuds --

[High5ives]

THE DOG
Jamison was a simple man, but he did enjoy his fancy clothes and accessories. When he had money, that’s where it tended to go. That and alcohol anyways. That said, Jamie hated the simple clothes he had been told to wear for this job. Sure, they were clean and ironed out, so Jamie at least looked put together, but they were still so dull! Worse, the arms on his shirt were too short! The waist was too tight! The pants hugged his calves in a way that managed to pull his leg hair when he walked! The damn collar!-

Jamison pulled at the collar to his shirt with one finger like he had a million times already. The combination of a tight shirt collar, a large neck, and a very, very irritable man left Jamie’s neckline red and irritated from constant scratching. Finally with a bit of a huff, Jamison had just undone the top button of his shirt. Professionalism be damned! He was robbing a train, not serving drinks to the King of Timbuk-Fucking-Tu!

Sitting on the seat in the train, with the seat next to him empty, Jamison did not look like a happy man in the slightest. He might’ve been dressed like a farmhand, brown pants and a plain white shirt, but his features told a different story. His eyes were wild, and they were slowly darting around, gazing at the other passengers one by one, and taking them in. These were not the eyes of a farmer who’d spent his days watching an empty field. They were too predatory in nature for a life like that. Those eyes coupled with the angry grimace smeared on Jamie’s face while he chewed on a stick of cinnamon made it seem like Jamison was in a life or death stare-down with the whole damn world and he wasn’t going to back down.

Jamison’s leg bounced quickly in small bursts like machine gun fire. His eyes were locked dead ahead, not looking at anything in particle, just like he was stuck in a trance. Anticipation.

Eagerness was the primary cause. This was Jamison’s job after all. He was paid to do violence, and he was paid well. Well enough to indulge himself anyways. This job, and the money it would make, came with the promise of more booze, women, and other vices to try and bury the parts of himself he didn’t like. That all together made Jamison excited, not so much to do violence, but to get paid. In truth, Jamison didn’t feel positively or negatively about the violence, it was just a tool, like any other. It had its job and it served its purpose.

Beneath that eagerness was anxiety. Whether Jamison realized it or not, there was a subconscious terror building at the idea of the violent events that were likely to unfold.
Jamison slowly opened and closed his right hand, tucked out of sight from the other passengers. His knuckles were white, gripping the warm piece of brass molded between his fingers. Open. Close. Open. Close. Jamison repeated the motion over and over and over again as he kept staring dead ahead.
Open.. Close.. Open.. Close..

There was supposed to be a sign or something? Wasn’t there? There had to have been! What was Louis waiting for!?

Open. Close. Open. Close.

The stick of cinnamon clutched between his teeth wobbled up and down aggressively as Jamison chewed at it. The muscles in his jaw tightened and loosened in waves every time he maneuvered the stick from one side of his mouth to the other, using his tongue to flick it this way or that. Until finally it came to rest on the right side of his mouth where he bit down on it and it stayed.

Open close. Open close.

The muscles in his back and arms began to stiffen and his eyes shot in the direction of the others in his group. What were they waiting for?! Like a banshee shrieking damnation at every doomed soul that failed to listen before, Jamie’s instincts began to scream!
OPEN CLOSE OPEN CLOSE.

Terror, masked by an aggressive eagerness, took hold and Jamison swung in to fight or flight. Only violence had twisted and distorted Jamison to the point where “flight” was no longer an option, and “fight” wasn’t nearly a powerful enough word to describe the internal panic that Jamison faced. Jamison stood quickly, stepping out of his seat only a little bit to get a better angle on the man in front of him.

OPEN.

CLOSE.

CRACK!

Jamison had pulled his right arm back, hand clutching the brass knuckles, and for an instant he looked like one of those old renaissance paintings. The ones of angels, striking down demons. Only Jamie wasn’t an angel. And this was no demon.​

Jamison’s fist came came down savagely against the back right side of the poor man’s head, who had never even seen it coming. As you’d expect, the man slumped back almost instantly. But Jamison still hit him a second time, partially for the raw shock factor, but mostly because he lacked the self control.

His left hand drew his small pistol, quickly waving over the other passengers on board. Pistol in one hand, bloody brass knuckles in the other, and face barred like a bear about to roar.

“Everyone put your fucking pockets on the floor, or I’ll use your head like a fucking railway spike!” Jamison roared, eyes wildly looking for anyone that dared oppose him.

 

[pandagosquish]

"this is a dialogue."

Itchy. Itchy. Itchy. Fingers fumbled with the buttons on his coat jacket, the only sign the older man showed of any anxiety or nervousness. It's not that he didn't feel prepared, but something within him screamed that their surroundings were amiss. Perhaps it was the fact that, at least where Val currently sat, he was amongst those who would normally be after him with pitchforks. Public display of headassery cloaked by pure white and purple fabric, delicate lace and unscuffed boots. He was supposed to be sitting here, with them, not as someone who was about to rob them blind, but someone who belonged to the politics and the ruffling of peacock feathers. Instead he rested at unease, adorned with the same white fabric. This jacket was not one of high fashion, but one that left his skin feeling raw with failing quality. Under his arm, he tucked a dark hat, uncreased and still stiff to the touch. It was quite possibly made of cardboard— who knows how Louis got these silly costumes for them?

Dressed to the nines, Valory put his fingers to rest on the silky tablecloth laid out for him and his comrades. Or, comrade, rather. He sat only in the company of Charlotte while the other two were somewhere else in the passenger cab.

"So, this is what the high life feels like, huh?"

He mused, the words barely making it above a mumble. The chuckles and idle conversation of the nearby passengers amused him. How cheery they are for people about to get a gun to their head and everything they own tossed into a bag. A waiter passed by, and for a moment he fiddled with the menu before calling out an order for a bottle of whiskey. If he was going to be able to pledge deniability during this heist, he would have to be halfway to heaven.

"So, wifey,"

Val chuckled, the tone biting with sarcasm. Never did he think he'd utter such a word to anyone other than his late bride.

"How would you like to spend this lovely train ride?"

the doctor

valory.

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  interacting with:

  
  
  
  

  miyabi
  mentions ellie and temperance!

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  outfit here

  
  
  
  

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[xayah.]

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  XI.
  the loanshark

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  alphonse "thomas" hall.

  mood

  sweating - feels like deja vu
  
  

  location

  back baggage car
  
  

  interactions

  graham, willimina
  
  

  tags

  qunqun am3thyst.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
• "Men, meet my boy. Introduce yourself, son."
  
  A hand, calloused enough to feel through layers of fine cotton and leather, pats the boy right between the shoulder blades. As if on instinct, the child stands upright, pushing back his shoulders and puffing his chest out. Just moments before, his father was drilling into him the importance of posture, of one's presence:
  
  Even though you're still a boy, you need to show them that you're no child. Show them that my son is tough on his future subordinates, just like his father.
  
  The words rang through his head as he looked each of the men in their eyes. He was born for this. He was going to prove it.
  
  "It's nice to meet you. My name is Alphonse."
  -----
  In a lone window near the locked away valuables this group of outlaws was planning to steal in a mere matter of minutes, what seemed like something Alphonse would never see again was reflected back at him clear as day. Fine cotton shirts. Clean seams. A leather vest that hugged the body just right. The sight was so familiar—Alphonse had half expected to find the face of seven year old him staring back—yet not. It'd been more than a decade since he'd last worn anything this nice. Maybe the others couldn't tell, simply assuming that clothes of this quality were a foregone conclusion for someone of his wealth, but this was just as strange for him as it was for them. His hand coasted over his body, smoothing out any wrinkles and feeling what it was like to wear something so fine. It seemed like it would be the last time in a long time.
  
  The sound of a match lighting up snapped Alphonse back to the task at hand. Right, this was a heist, not a time to get overwhelmed with nostalgia, especially when just moments ago, a band of unexpected lawmen had boarded. The air became thick, if not suffocating, at the very moment the gang realized their plans were going awry. Alphonse hated when plans went awry. But he boarded anyways. They boarded anyways. Because it was too late to go back now, too late to formulate a new plan, and Louis had reassured them that no matter what, it was all of them getting out or none of them.
  
  Alphonse had struck deals with enough people to know whether or not that was a lie. He chose to believe in it.
  
  So when the fuse was lit, the loanshark took a few steps back. Whoever chose to put the main person keeping the gang afloat economically next to an explosion needed to rethink their planning skills and maybe just their intelligence in general. He would've taken a few more steps back had a slight tug on the edge of his jacket elbow not stopped him. More accurately, if one of the gang's most physically imposing figures wasn't weighing him down. Luckily, Graham was not a walking menace like Temperance. No. He was more...
  
  "Did ya see the nice lass that smiled at me in the pub?"
  
  A grin pulled at Alphonse's lips, just enough to be a smirk full of his classic boyish charm. Yes, Graham was less work, more play. Less staring you down, more staring at you. And for that, he was thankful. It lifted the tense mood, even as a fuse was slowly burning—which, arguably, was increasing the tension in the room. But, this was Graham's specialty, and things were still going according to the original plan. No officers had made their way to the back baggage car, either. Most importantly, Graham was still thinking of what he was going to do afterwards, not even phased by the presence of lawmen. It was admirable, truly.
  
  "Lucky lady. Maybe you can treat her with some of the cash we score from this." A bit teasing, a bit mocking, Alphonse stifled a laugh at the idea of Graham thinking he might have a chance. He knew he did. His record showed it. A man with a list of bodies that long does not rely on chance.
  
  "What do women like anyways?" Alphonse glimpsed over at Willimina. The female species was not his strong suit. He certainly couldn't compare the gang's own to the average woman. Average people didn't participate in heists of trains and shootouts. They certainly weren't talking about future lays when a fuse for dynamite was slowly burning in front of them, either. As it got shorter and shorter, Alphonse prepared to cover his ears.
  
  The minute it exploded, no matter how small, lawmen would be well on their way, hindered only slightly by a distraction. Just the thought made him sweat. He looked too familiar, even for himself.
  
  

designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ

 

[miyabi]

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  XI.
  the barfly

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  charlotte watson

  mood

  GIVE ME THY BOOCHIE
  
  

  location

  front passenger car
  
  

  interactions

  pandagosquish .V1LLAINISM._ val and jax
  
  

  tags

  pandagosquish .V1LLAINISM._ zevrra erzulie
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
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  Her knees ached in a dull, unrepentant way; fragile skin separated from the soil by only denim, worn and near-broken. Charlotte, a woman of the past, longs for the closure that only seems to become farther. She prays by the advice of an old pastor and falls deep into the thoughts that have only come to harm her with the very memory of pain. It only bore itself into her skin. Blonde hair pushes back with the wind, golden tendrils in every direction as tired, broken eyes follow onward in front of her. Though, this may have looked like a form of self-punishment: knees falling on a threadbare surface, small pebbles of dirt digging deeper into the threads of her clothing as she sits there.
  
  The pain seethes, but it is a reminder that she is alive; awaiting the fate of the husband who has yet to pay for the sins of his own.
  
  O Lord,
  I come according to will
  and obeying your command,
  bringing all my petitions,
  especially the things that would prevent
  me from coming to you—
  
  She was never the religious type, scoffed at the sound of advice that only kept prayer and no other logic, found that it brought no solace in her times of need; but with this, was the desperation that only seemed to creep up further into her lungs with a vice grip. Charlotte is then there, at her tent, hunched behind the flaps of cloth that was the only barrier between her and the group she’d traveled with for far too long. An indication of the turmoil that continues to plague the brain.
  
  The bright sun had only seemed to burn into her back as it peaked between the cracks, redness welling against already-pink flesh. She brings her dark eyes of hers upwards, the look of a woman begging for the forgiveness of a God she is unsure about. It ends here, the sought-after answers. There is only the realization that she, who has not atoned for her faults, that her prayers may not be answered. Who is she, as sinful as she is, to demand answers in her search for vengeance?
  
  my sins that trouble me greatly,
  and I ask you to remove and forgive them.
  Amen.
  
  In truth, the universe has granted the grief of reprieve, though she is unworthy; it carries on her fate tucked into its hands with indecision—questions not of how it will bear her death, but the time that continues to tick.
  
  The prayer ends and she drinks. Alcohol burns the throat, meets the acid of her stomach, and makes it twist.
  

  
  ***​

  
  It is a rarity these days to witness the silence of the force who is Charlotte. However, at this moment—the silence is due to her wondering about her faith. Never did she think to pray, even in the times that have repeatedly spit in her face the vile sputter of life. She thinks of this and allows for it to dampen the words Louis has been speaking during the round-up of colleagues.
  
  There is a slight murmur.
  
  Only then does she realize that Louis had been speaking, his voice less commanding than what she’d initially witnessed in times before. She buries the self-pity and takes in the direction that has only been half-processed; a vast series of notes to be made as he turns a glance in her direction. The automatic raise of a brow communicates to her with only one look: “I know you weren’t listening the whole time, you’re not slick.” Charlotte looks down, feels his eyes once again, and looks back up. They are piercing her now, beckoning for the acknowledgment. So she nods once before turning away, gloved fingers sliding against the thick leather of her horse’s saddle.
  
  Deep purple follows behind her, flicks itself upward as she piles herself on—bunching up the loose fabric beneath her. The prayer from prior still weighs heavily on her tongue, threatening to spit itself out if she does not do it herself. She finally speaks of it in short, quiet breaths.
  
  “Have mercy on me, O God, according to Your unfailing love;”
  
  Had this love been unfailing? As God had only seemed to abandon her. Charlotte thinks on this, buries this lasting impression in the back of her mind, and shakes it away.
  
  

  ***​

  
  Passengers stood around her, some leaned against the wooden pews with scratches from life running amuck. Her fingers itched to snatch the jewels around their necks and run off, but she held back and took a swig of the drink in her hand; it dulled the burning desire, kept her at ease as anxious eyes pull away and then fall back to the lawman’s car.
  
  "So, this is what the high life feels like, huh?" Valory’s voice interrupts the ruminations, her head pulling back to his direction as she straightens her posture.
  
  She shrugs, free hand pointing to her already empty glass—a gesture that asks for yet another fill. Her back falls against the back of the chair, a slouch in her posture as she gives Val a small kick in the shin, "we may be fake married, but dagummit I don't wanna ever hear that shit—" Charlotte bit her tongue as the waiter approached again, slipping a bottle onto their table and refilling her cup, a slight look of concern glossed over the two before he turns away. She eyes him up and down, takes in his figure before sucking on her teeth and bringing the glass to her lips, "he looks damn good in that uniform."
  
  A quiet whistle escapes in the waiter's direction, one he couldn't hear.
  
  "I'd like to spend this train ride laid and damn near wasted," there was only truth in this statement, a yearning that calls for basking in the serenity before being completely shattered by the reminder that sat on her hip. The revolver awaited its usage. "Of course, it ain't with you," she snorted, vaguely gesturing in the direction of the waiter before adjusting herself in her seat. This damn dress was about as comfortable as a bed of rocks; frills against her bare skin, fabric too bunched and puffy, shoulders exposed and cold, legs warm and sweaty. And this stupid, stupid hat over the hairstyle she would've never looked in the direction of. "Er, well, it could be," sarcasm slips off her tongue followed by her practically inhaling the glass of whiskey. before slamming it down against the clothed surface.
  
  Ellie, Jax, Temperance—her mind runs back to them, eyes scanning the surrounding area before landing on one of them, the dear cousin who seemed the most fitted for a job like this. "JimBob! Is that you I see?" Her voice is higher than usual, masked by the saccharine sweet persona that came with the equally uncomfortable dress, her arms wide open paired with the expression of fake-surprise. "Ain't this a small world?!"
  
  
  
  

designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ