Lord Bradorian
Naughtius Maximus
The clouds rolled lazily overhead of the valley in which the town of Amberstone were situated as the sun tucked itself away beneath the horizon, and another day came to an end. For the Sheriff and Deputies, that meant returning to the office to debrief and lock up the Sheriff's weapons, as well as sorting out the night's watch. There was a man in one of the holding cells, so to have someone posted would be neccesary.
As his deputies filed in and found room around him where he sat at his desk in the corner of the small office, Sheriff Cooley leaned back in his chair and puffed a cigarette.
"Hey, everyone. Need one of you to head out to Creary's, keep an eye on things for the night. He's been complaining for weeks - coyotes, rustlers, other vermin of man and beast. Gotta show some support. Two dollars, twenty cents bonus. Who wants it? Bring a long gun." He asks his crew, rapping his knuckles on the desk. "Same offer for whoever's gonna watch Mr. Reaves for the night. Two-twenty." The Reaves fellow was a young out-of-towner, who had gotten rough with one of the working women down at Swearengean's saloon on Main Street, leading to altercations with the staff and their calling of Sheriff Cooley, who promptly ordered him to be locked up. He'd made no ruling on how long he'd hold Reaves for, whether he'd offer bail or send the case to the city and push for him to go to a trial and be institutionalized at a proper facility should he be found guilty.
The Crearies owned a farm about a mile up the road from town. Due to this proximity, they were considered residents, and their security fell under the office's jurisdiction. The old man, Greg Creary, is a mean bastard with a tendency to cuss excessively - none of you have ever heard him complete a sentence without at least one curse word. His many sons and daughters are scattered around the area; some live in town, some are farmhands, while some still are rumored to be riding with a gang of outlaws operating in the area known after their leaders, brothers Walton and Johnathan 'Whiskey Kid' Gibbs.
As his deputies filed in and found room around him where he sat at his desk in the corner of the small office, Sheriff Cooley leaned back in his chair and puffed a cigarette.
"Hey, everyone. Need one of you to head out to Creary's, keep an eye on things for the night. He's been complaining for weeks - coyotes, rustlers, other vermin of man and beast. Gotta show some support. Two dollars, twenty cents bonus. Who wants it? Bring a long gun." He asks his crew, rapping his knuckles on the desk. "Same offer for whoever's gonna watch Mr. Reaves for the night. Two-twenty." The Reaves fellow was a young out-of-towner, who had gotten rough with one of the working women down at Swearengean's saloon on Main Street, leading to altercations with the staff and their calling of Sheriff Cooley, who promptly ordered him to be locked up. He'd made no ruling on how long he'd hold Reaves for, whether he'd offer bail or send the case to the city and push for him to go to a trial and be institutionalized at a proper facility should he be found guilty.
The Crearies owned a farm about a mile up the road from town. Due to this proximity, they were considered residents, and their security fell under the office's jurisdiction. The old man, Greg Creary, is a mean bastard with a tendency to cuss excessively - none of you have ever heard him complete a sentence without at least one curse word. His many sons and daughters are scattered around the area; some live in town, some are farmhands, while some still are rumored to be riding with a gang of outlaws operating in the area known after their leaders, brothers Walton and Johnathan 'Whiskey Kid' Gibbs.
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