Fandom Out West RDR2 [the rp]

[TheAdventureBegins]

If you wish to join this rp, please read all of the links provided. No ooc here please only responses to the rp.

 

[TheAdventureBegins]

Delia Byrne​

The sun had just began to light the city with a soft glow while Delia leaned over her horse. "It'll be ok girl." She whispered softly, patting her hand on the grey Arabian in a attempt to calm the both of them. They had been given a tip a couple days back about a bank carriage robbery, one that would give them enough wealth to live on forever. There was to be a large movement of funds from one bank to another, and they would hit the wagon as it went through the woods between the towns. Delia was to be the eyes, watch the bank and follow undetected behind the carriage, giving the signal when they reached the hit point.

She shifted slightly in her saddle, and held her breath. There it was. The carriage pulled out drawn by two shire horses, two guards driving and four guards on each side. Exhaling, her breath came out in a cloud in front of her. She waited back, following the carriage mostly by sounds and sight of it rolling by men and women on their way to work.

Delia took in the carriage again, counted the gaurds again, then felt her heart as it sunk to the bottom of her stomach. It was too easy. The amount of money, the road they decided to take, and the amount of gaurds, it didn't add up. A trusted tip had told Abigale it would be dangerous, that she would need her best of the best. This wasn't dangerous, Delia could of done this herself.

The carriage was entering the forest, closing in to the attack spot, and Delia only had moments to decide. They couldn't not go through with this, Abigale would not be happy if Delia called it off. So with a soft dig of her heel she spurred her horse forward, flying over the forest floor keeping an eye around her. The carriage hit the trap they had set, a large tree dropped over the road blocking them.

Delia didn't even have time to call to signal the gang, a yell down the road and Delia could see armed outlaws closing in on both sides. Her gang took the yell being hers and descended from the forest, shooting on all sides. Her horse spooked as a gunshot whizzed from behind them. Delia didn't have time to calm the horse, she just held on and tried to assess the new threat.

Pinkertons moved in from all sides, shooting from inside the bank carriage, blocking the two gangs in. Lissandra swung he repeater around firing a few shots at them, all the while yelling. "Trap! Run!" The two gangs had fallen in confusion, fighting each other and then fighting the pinkertons. They were out numbered and needed to escape. They had a route planned to go to the mountains, they just had to get out of the confusion.

 

[Eyelessraven]

Abigale watched with anticipation as that forest tree fell like it was the final count down. A heist this big was something of legions and all the Deashots charged into the fray using agitated dirt in the air as cover for a surprise attack. Their leader opting to hang back and take some sniper shots, but what Gale saw wasn’t what she had hoped. Pinkertons flooded out the back of the carriage that ideally was full with money instead, and another gang of outlaws pooling in from the opposite side of the forest. There was only one foreign bastard that gang could belong to, but even if they both fought the Pinkertons they were outnumbered severely.


In the spur of the moment, Abigale kicked her Appaloosa into high speed flanking on the westside and charging through the middle past the Pinkertons in order to gather the attention of her gang for escape. She risked the death of her and her horse, but if she didn’t gather her gang fast they would die instead. An option she refused to consider…


As fast as the steed could manage, a white horse with grey to black spots on its hindquarters flew through the thick of the trees pretty much in the middle of all the fighting. Thought they kept moving it was an easy target to follow, and paired with a native retreat call Gale’s gang knew exactly who to follow. Most of the Pinks were in no position to follow as they came by carriage, but some did and Gale held her ground after getting a bit of distance. She ordered her gang to go to their agreed upon retreat while she helped hold off the Pinkertons from the mountain tops.


Despite her hatred for Alister she even helped his men escape, sniping enemies they struggled with. Everyone was injured in some way and their luck got worse as she felt frostbiting a shoulder wound Gale hadn’t even noticed yet due to the adrenaline. With her vision reduced to short range, Abigale retreated at last and rode with any slower members to make sure they got to the safety of an abandoned town just over the mountain top. The cabin buildings still had holes, but it’d house them and they’d have to make do with what was left there from years ago.

 

[Yahhah]

Carter had stayed sheltered by underbrush and trees to watch the cart as it moved across the road sluggishly. They might as well have had a man sitting on the seat of the wagon shouting trap at the top of their lungs. He shook his head and affixed his featureless mask to his face. The man grunted and mumbled as he mounted the nearby Whitewater. He narrowed his eyes as he noticed the other gang descend onto the waiting wagon. Grunting again, the man was sort of relieved. Those fools would spring the trap and the Deadshots wouldn't be in as much danger, he wasn't in for much of a shock when Pinkertons started to flood out of the wagon, but Carter gritted his teeth when he saw Delia fly down. "Damnit" growled the masked man. Unwilling to break cover he whipped out his bow and drew back an arrow.

Narrowing his left eye so that he didn't miss his mark Carter slowed his breathing and aimed before releasing the taut shaft. Carter waited and was given a satisfied thwack when the arrow planted itself into the chest of a Pinkerton who'd climbed onto the wagon. The body fell from its perch into the chaos, as Carter scanned the field for his next target which was getting tougher as more people he actually didn't want to hit with an arrow rode down from their hiding place. Carter grumbled about someone "not being able to tell when to cut a score loose" as he released another arrow nailing a Pinkerton in the side of the head and knocked the Pinkerton straight off his horse.

Out the corner of his eye Carter noticed Abigail causing a distraction, he fired an arrow into the back of a Pinkerton aiming for her before urging Whitewater to charge forward. He heard a crash in the foliage behind him, some Pinkertons must have discovered his hiding place. Carter ducked a gunshot as he ordered his horse to go ever forward. The masked man listened to the hoofbeats of the horses behind him and counted two. With a single rider upon each going by the shouts of Pinkertons for him to stop. His hand went into his coat grabbing out a throwing knife. Taking a risky glance backwards he tossed the throwing knife behind him with great precision. Judging by the shout of pain he'd at least hit his mark. It likely wasn't fatal but that Pinkerton was less likely to continue the chase.

DAMNIT!

A bullet made contact with his torso. Carter gritted his teeth and kicked Whitewater in the ribs, pushing the horse into the woods and off the small trail they'd been riding on. The Pinkertons heavier horse would have trouble maneuvering in the foliage. Giving Carter at least a bit of time, he threw himself off the horse once he'd made considerable distance. Narrowing his eyes as he looked over his shoulder trying to discern any crackling or shaking of the foliage. Nothing.

Carter forced himself to crouch in a bush ignoring the pain flaring from his middle. He readied his bow for a final shot and hugged the cover even more as he heard the cursing and stomping of the pinkerton. There he was. The coated man stopped when he saw the silver standardbred horse grazing on a bush. The Pinkerton's eyes followed the blood spurts on the ground until they fell on Carter's hiding place until a well placed arrow split his skull. Carter staggered out of the hiding place. He finally too time to pull the bullet from his middle. Prying it out with a small knife, he tied his belt above the wound and severed his shirt sleeve to wrap around the wound to act as a makeshift bandage.

It wasn't much but he couldn't do much else and it was just one shot. He'd made it through worse, although it hurt a hell of a lot worse than he remembered. He cursed as he took a roundabout way to the mountains where they'd planned to go after the "score". The masked man gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the biting cold as Whitewater moseyed through the snow. Luckily he caught sight of a small group of buildings where a group of horses had stopped outside of, luckily a few he recognized. Which gave him a bit of hope that the Deadshots, or at least most of them had made it out of that. He took his mask off as his horse trotted into the small mining town.

 

[Achilles676]

Rushing into the middle of the small warzone probably wasn't the brightest move, but it was bold and the Pinkerton Clyde and Aeos trampled apparently hadn't expected it. He certainly hadn't been expecting a trap but once the Exiles arrived it was too late to pull back.

Clyde didn't take time to observe everyone in the clearing, nor did he care about anyone's yells or calls. He knew this would be a massacre if no one acted so he ripped his Mauser from its holster and fired a flurry of lead toward the coach in the road in order to draw attention away from everyone else.

Get close and pose a greater threat. It'll attract their attention and keep everyone else safe. At least as safe as they can be. The rest is up to them.

He immediately noticed the consequences of his actions as his fire was returned in force. He hadn't realized another damned fool would be stupid enough to act like him and nearly collided with a woman on what looked like an Appaloosa, however he hardly noticed that. He was too busy focusing on the fact that he had just taken a bullet to the ribs.

Clyde let out a gasp and nearly dropped his pistol. Aeos could feel his legs tighten and, almost as if he could sense his rider's panick, bolted toward the nearest trees. Aeos had always retained a bit of his skittish wild nature, liking to flee rather than fight. With a bullet in his left side and his muscles torn Clyde couldn't turn around or hold the reins with his left hand and didn't want to risk blindly firing back toward his allies so he holstered his pistol, held his arm in and tried to guide his horse on what little trail there was in the dense snow. He could hear bullets snapping past him in both directions but there was nothing he could do but hunker down in the saddle.

Leaned down over his Mustang's neck and gritting his teeth through the pain Clyde whispered, "Come on, boy. It'll be alright. Just keep goin'. Ain't nothin' to worry about. Just keep movin'." He kept on like that for a while. There appeared to be a fresh path but Clyde's vision was beginning to blurr. He let his horse lead the way, hoping beyond hope that his destination was safe.

 

[SynKast]

Elizabeth Hale
​

Elizabeth perched, quietly on the saddle of her Anglo-Arabian horse Arrow with her Winchester drawn while aiming towards the coach -- Waiting -- for both her signal to move inwards or for something to go horribly wrong. However, unfortunate for them it was that ladder kicked off the chaos; causing all the men, women, and their horses from both her gang and the Exiles began to move inward towards the carriage with guns blazing. On top of it all, it only got worse when the doors to the coach were kicked open and those Pinkerton bastards started pouring out and immediately started adding to the flurry of gunshots causing her to stop and wait in the bush she'd been lurking behind instead of rushing in. After all, she definitely didn't want to add to the masses of bodies that were being shot from their horses and into the mud full of bullet holes. What use would she be then? No, instead she chose to sit back in the brush to pelt off individuals one after the other. The first one being a son-of-a-bitch Pinkerton that dared to stick his bald head outside of the coach just long enough for Elizabeth to spray the wood of the coach red with his blood and brain matter as her bullet found its mark.

While she was sitting there popping off shots to take out whoever she could that showed intentioned of threatening her family, she was completely caught off guard when she heard the clopping of a horse making its way towards her from behind. Turning around quickly, her aim was set and a bullet was cocked. Although, the sight before her mentally blocked her from squeezing the trigger as a man hung half-conscience over his horse's neck while bleeding profusely from the chest. Quickly, Elizabeth hopped from her horse and resheathed her rifle before making her way over to the wandering horse with the man on the back of it. He wasn't a man with a familiar face, although, showing by the way he dressed and the weapons he had on him he definitely was no Pinkerton either.

With her knife now drawn from its sheath and having hopped from her horse and hastily ran over guiding her horse and the man's to a much more secure location all the while coaxing the man with gentle words, and with what little he may have been able to comprehend at that moment, she promised his safety. once they were far enough from the fighting so that neither of them would risk catching a stray bullet Elizabeth walked over and pulled him off his horse setting him against a tree and without saying another word she cut the shirt from his body with her knife revealing the wound that was already starting to fester from infection. Elizabeth then quickly stood and walked over to her horse and pulled out a small chest from the horse's saddlebag and brought it over to the man, opened it, and pulled out a washcloth, wet it with water from her waterskin and began cleaning the wound. Once it was clean enough to her satisfaction, she pulled out a mortar and pestle and began to crush up a couple of herbs into a healing balm before applying it to the gunshot wound and wrapping it in a gauze bandage that had been used and washed clean in the past. "It's not much, but I think you'll survive... Once we get back to the others we'll get that bullet out and you should be fine... We'll just have to keep it clean until then..." as she said it, her voice spoken in nothing more than a soft whisper, the sound of footsteps approaching them caused her to quickly draw her revolver waiting and watching in silence until one of those damned Pinkerton's heads was able to be seen in the brush. And with a single shot, the body dropped and again things were silent, "Can you stand? We're not safe here."

Mentions:
Achilles676
​

(Sorry to take control of your character like that Achilles676 , I just thought a few little actions would be fine though considering his state of conscienceness from the bullet wound.)

 

[Achilles676]

CLYDE TAMM

Clyde vaguely recognized the sound of gunfire to his front. He had been riding away from the battleground for only a minute or two and could still hear the sounds of shouting and fighting. The unknown shooter in his path stopped shooting at their unseen target and he noticed a horse approaching. Its rider, a dark haired woman that deffinately wasn't an Exile, dismounted.

The thought that she could be a Pinkerton crossed Clyde's mind. His right hand tight against his wound and his left arm was limp. Even if he wanted to fight her, he wasn't sure he could. The glint of the knife in the approaching combatant's hand disturbed Clyde and he tensed to kick his horse into motion but she reached out not for him, but his reins. They were gently taken from his flimsy grasp. His own Mustang and the woman's horse sauntered along behind her, further from the engagement. He could hear her mumbling or whispering something but couldn't make it out through the delerium.

Eventually, the group came to a stop and the woman walked back toward him. Clyde watched the armed woman approach and reach up to grab him. He attempted to struggle against the woman when she pulled him from his saddle but the pain was blinding and next thing he knew, he was sitting by a tree. The short bout of agony activated an adrenaline rush and he regained some awareness.
His eyes widened and he hissed slightly when the woman brought her knife to his chest. He tried to reach for her wrist but wasn't fast enough. The sound of tearing cloth came but the expected pain did not, a pleasant suprise.

Clyde's breathing was fast and shallow and he stared into his rescuer's dark eyes. She appeared worried, but he couldn't figure why. She probably didn't know him and if she did it would be because of the wanted posters, not any kind of alliance or with good will in mind.

There's another group here. They aren't Pinkertons but no one else would help us. Can't think of anyone that wouldn't just shoot me, even some of ours.

Clyde's moment of clarity ended with a burning sensation on his already irritating wound. He had missed his new "friend" retrieving supplies and creating a medical concoction. The poultice the woman applied to the hole in his abdomen was cold at first but after a moment burned almost as much as the bullet hitting him. The white hot sensation reminded him of embers he would need to swipe from his skin. For an instant, Clyde could feel soft, heavy weight on his shoulders. He could feel fire licking at his sides.

And then it was gone.
A shot rang out and a pair of eyes snapped open to see the body of a man hit the dirt.

"Can you stand? We're not safe here."
The woman spoke to him, but he sat in silence for a few seconds before realizing she wanted an answer. Oh.
Speak, dammit.

"Help meup," the words came out slurred and barely recognizeable. Clyde reached his good arm out to be lifted and pushed his back against the tree, slowly sliding up to stand. Once he caught his balance, Clyde watched the helpful stranger's face for any kind of emotion or reaction and once he had what he needed, turned and stumbled toward Aeos. Whether or not the stranger would help or even follow didn't matter to him. Getting out of the area and regrouping with the rest of the Exiled Guns was his only objective. Before climbing back atop his mount Clyde drew his pistol with an unsteady hand to find an empty chamber.

No way to load you one handed.
The German gun slid back into its home.
Looks like we're doing this the hard way.
Clyde eyed the short rifle in a scabbard on the right side of the saddle and moved to place his foot in the stirrup.
Here we go again.
​

 

[SynKast]

Elizabeth Hale
​

When she heard the man tell her to help him onto his feet, she didn't hesitate to do so. Leaning over, she wrapped her arm around his and hauled to him to his feet before her only to watch him turn to hop on his horse and begin to make his way back towards the fight, "Do you think that's all too smart of an idea?" she spoke still in the same soft tone, unsure of who may still be lurking around in the light woods around them. However, as she watched in silence as the man continued to walk forward without saying another word to her, not even a clear "Thank you for saving my life." or a proper exchange of names. Although, in all honesty, she didn't truly care. The man was alive and that was enough for her. "If you're heading back out there I wish you luck, friend." as she spoke, she was also mounting her horse before tipping her hat to the man as a farewell before spurring off further into the woods and up the mountain to try and catch back up with the rest of her gang.

It wasn't long until she found a small trail that led her up the mountain and towards the small little mining town where she and her family had last decided to settle the night before. There, she'd be welcomed by the comforting sounds of barking that only grew louder and louder the closer it came until her German Shepard was standing at her feet the moment she got off her horse and her feet touched solid ground, "Hey there girl." a couple of scratches behind the ear later and she was making her way towards the others that had thankfully managed to escape the carnage that had taken place moments ago.

Mentions:
Yahhah
​

 

[ChakraFloyd]

Mickey Bilders ☘
"WAHEY, YA GOWL FECKERS!" came Mickey effin' and blindin', yelling a Gaelic maelstrom as he stormed into the bloody fray. His feathered mount was an intrepid-tempered Andalusian (named Frank), whom paced valiantly, reflecting the sheer happy-go-lucky ferocity of it's rider. Ahead was a weltering bedlam of gunfire and irate holler, to which a beaming Mickey cleared leather and firmly primed his revolver toward. Them Pinkerton bastards were quite vast to us quaint few - yet that nay bothered him in the slightest. Actually to be fair, the man was pretty coked up - so all inhibitions were out the window. At the sight of one being trampled by the dauntless Clyde Tamm, the Gypsy guffawed and raised hell alongside the gallant likes of a mysterious Carter Oakley and the audacious Elliot Silvester. Mickey skirmished like a fluthered (drunk, very drunk) snake in a barrel and at one point he had actually dismount to dispatch a volley of gunfire into the bastard that wounded his horse. Also, he beat the poor fucker round the head in the brush with his own rifle, until only pulp remained. Carnage ensued further as the gang rightfully scrammed and the Pinkertons flurried to their haste. Mickey was disillusioned as he had sustained multiple injuries during the fracas. With an irritant ringing in both ears and in spite of blood pestering his vision, he hobbled away in endeavour of Frank.

As Mickey trudged and faltered through the snow, scarlet ale drizzled from his lesions and soon enough he collapsed from debility.
"Lash it mate, come on!" he encouraged himself through gritted teeth, groaning in pain as he strained through the marble blanket. An attempt was made to whistle for Frank yet this effort escaped from his lips as a mere hoarse whisper. Mickey glanced about him. Several men lay dead or dying whilst their steeds idly moseyed about and uttered their whinnies. Their reigns jangled and the saddle packs clattered with each thumping hoof. Taking a moment with his back upon a felled tree, the scene before him was quite tinsel-and-spangle, as pearly flakes gently made their descent from yonder the canopies above and settled into the milky duvet. If Mickey were to die here today he certainly wouldn't mind - being in awe of such ironic beauty.

Yet he be damned if a Pinkerton were to take that away from him. A sudden and shrill whistle pierced the fatal breeze (collective of the whines of dying men) and a brawny, staunch-faced lad, beet-red from the harsh chill, had made bound for his position with several other folk alike. In his hunkering grip was a rifle - leveled for Mickey's head.

You ever stumble out a saloon, trolleyed out yer face, and look the wrong way? And hey presto! There's a wagon nearly on ya. So what do you do? Something very silly. You freeze, and your life doesn't flash before your eyes 'cause yer too fuckin' scared to think. You just freeze and pull a stupid face. But the Gypsy didn't. Why? Because he had plans on running the wagon over.

Mickey kissed his lucky charms and the forthcoming group of men had now tempt fate, for Frank, the Andalusian Absolution, had spontaneously burst from the treeline in a wild furore of calamitous braying and stampeding rage! Agreeably, they shat themselves and thrashed about in bewilderment. Mickey grinned as he shot those five men in quick succession during the midst of an already sporadic entourage of gunfire. It was loud. Loud enough to draw attention. Curiosity may have killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back.

As Mickey hoist himself up, he noticed that Frank had crumpled as if a marionette doll had it's strings cut. Mickey paused, mouth agape, brows furrowed and eyes glaring like two primed daggers. Something inside of him surged into a fist and clenched at his stomach and in an instant of daring mettle, he hurriedly staggered over to his trusty companion. Those Pinkerton men sung a rattling harmony of death, gasping for air. Mickey's eyes welled up as he realized what they had done. Frank was airily slipping away, and Mickey tried his best to comfort the hapless mount.

"Shattered, ain't ya?" Mickey kindly spoke, choking back the emotions lest he break down. "Donkey's years you were, mate. Deadly and savage. Christ... fair play. You did good mate, you did good." A tender, compassionate hand was laid upon his mane and there it softly stroked, until Frank's eyes humbly closed. Mickey put his head to Frank's and he remained there for a moment - as a sign of gratitude for all the memories they had together.

Mickey sat in the snow, bloodied and ramshackle, as unhinged thoughts festered in his mind. With snarling retaliation, he quickly sprang up and capped the fuckers who were already at Death's door. After he tend to his wounds, Mickey tramped through the hefty coat of snow and would either remedy or, with great remorse, mercy kill the occasional Deadshot or Exiled Gun. It really wasn't his day. Not even the mightily zestful effects of coke could keep him up. His spirits were dampened. At least, he made way on his merrily downtrodden path with a few other wounded men. Despite being a group they remained solitary, quiet and withdrawn, mourning the loss of their pals and partners.

Them Pinkertons - the prats - are praying. And if they aren't, they fucking should be.

 

[TheAdventureBegins]

Delia Byrne​

It was a massacre like Delia hadn't seen since she ran with Vince and his small crew. Blood soaked the ground, screams filled the air, it was a ghastly sight. Delia shot over and over again, her bullets hit their marks whenever it really mattered. She skirted around the main fray, shooting a path open to help everyone escape. Once Abigale was set to leave Delia was right there, taking down anyone Abigale hadn't shot.

Delia wanted to yell and argue, but knew it had to wait. She galloped in silence, the weather grew colder and colder the farther in the mountains they traveled. They had the spot planned out, but there wasn't this much snow when they found it. Delia had to keep her head down as the snow fell harder, sympathy filled her heart for her mount.

A little bit off the main path sat an abandoned mining town. If they had thought ahead they would of stashed things there, but no one planned for it to go like this. Everyone had wounds here or there, so that was the first thing to set up. Delia pulled her mount to a stop next to Abigale, shivering in her clothes. "We should find the driest wood and set up the injured in the biggest house I think." Delia dropped off her horse and grabbed the reigns pointing to where she meant.

Anger bubbled deep inside of Delia, but she had to push it aside. They had to survive first, anger could come later. First she lead her horse and a few others to the decrepit barn, hopefully enough to keep the horses alive. She set to setting up what she could before she had to stop and put on all the layers she had. She looked horrible, like a fat snow monster, but at least she was finally warm. There wasn't much wood, but it was enough to get them through the night.

The snow kept falling that night as Delia finally stopped next to Abigale once again, exhausted from everything. "Ya know I'm not too pleased we have to take care of the Exiled Guns too." Delia had ran with Abigale long enough now to know some of her history with Alister, but then again Delia was bitter to most people not in her crew. "With how things are going I suppose it doesn't matter though who anyone is allied with, we might all die."