Fantasy 𝒯𝐻𝐸 𝒲𝐼𝒞𝒦𝐸𝒟 𝒲𝐸𝒮𝒯

[noxrequiem]

THE WICKED WEST
Chapter I

The moon hung heavy and full over Lone Cross, its ghostly pale light spilling across the rooftops and dusty streets, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch and breathe with the night. The sky above was a heavy, endless black, punctuated only by the cold gleam of stars. The cold, dry wind had picked up in the evening, whistling low in the plains. It carried with it the scent of sagebrush and the faintest hint of smoke from a fire burning somewhere unseen. But there was something else with it—something darker—that clung to the air like a warning no one wanted to heed.

The Cursed Roulette stood at the center of town like a beacon, its crooked sign swinging lazily in the breeze, the soft creak barely audible over the hum of voices from within. Its windows flickered with the warm glow of light, the heavy thrum of music and laughter spilling out into the street. The place was alive, almost vibrating with energy, beckoning every wayward soul in the vicinity to its doors to step inside and forget their troubles for a while.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of whiskey, tobacco, and sweat. The place was packed tonight—travelers, townsfolk, and drifters alike crammed into every corner, most with drinks in hand. The piano man played a jaunty tune, his fingers dancing across the keys in rhythm with the stomp of boots and the clatter of dice hitting tabletops. A fiddle joined in, high and wild, cutting through the hum of conversation, laughter, and shouted wagers. Every table was full. Cards slapped down with the confidence of a winning hand, followed by the clink of coins pushed into piles that glinted in the low light. Laughter rose above the music, mingling with the sharp clink of poker chips and the occasional slam of fists on a table as fortunes were made and lost in equal measure. Dancers took to the open floor in the center of the saloon, their movements fluid, spinning in time to the music. The whole room seemed to pulse with the reckless energy of a night where the world outside didn’t matter, the noise rising and falling like the tides.

Everything was in motion—cards dealt, dice tossed, boots stomping, skirts twirling. It was one of those nights where time seemed to slip away, hours lost in the haze of gambling, drinking, and forgetting the world outside. But it was also the kind of night where things could shift in an instant. Lone Cross had seen nights like this before. Nights where the world tilted on its axis and the line between the living and the dead, the mundane and the magical, became too thin for comfort. Nights like these—nights where the moon shone too bright, too close—were the kind where things went wrong. But no one inside the saloon paid any mind to the what lurked beyond the front doors, where the shadows seemed deeper than they should have been and the usual howls of the coyotes had gone silent. For now, the drinks flowed, the music soared, and the laughter continued.

The Cursed Roulette felt like an island tonight, isolated from the rest of the world, an oasis of laughter, heat, and life. The saloon was always busy, the place to be if you were anyone in Lone Cross, but tonight was different. Tonight felt like something special, almost like a celebration, though no one could say exactly why. The atmosphere inside the saloon was filled with mirth and merriment, a world away from the still, eerie night outside. The energy was infectious, not a single person present could truly be miserable in a place like this.

 

[noxrequiem]

XX.
judgement

✦ MOOD ✦
wary.

✦ LOCATION ✦
The Cursed Roulette.

✦ INTERACTIONS ✦
open to all.

✦✦──────•✦✦✦•──────✦✦​

Damir sat at the bar, a shadow in the corner of The Cursed Roulette. The lively hum of laughter and conversation swirled around him, but it all seemed muffled, distant, as if he were at the bottom of a deep well. The flickering lantern light cast uneven shadows across his pale, gaunt face, accentuating the sharp lines of his features. His wide-brimmed hat, pulled low, obscured his eyes, though every now and then the soft glow from the nearby oil lamps would catch the icy glint of blue-gray beneath the brim. He held his drink in a hand that bore scars too deep to fade, fingers long and bony wrapped around the glass with the steady grip of someone who had faced down far worse things than what whiskey could drown. The liquor burned, but it was a comfort, a warmth he welcomed even if it never truly reached his core.

The Cursed Roulette was lively tonight, the sounds of chatter and music filling the space, mixing with the rattle of dice and the clinking of glasses. It was a different world from the one Damir usually inhabited—the dead didn’t require company, nor did they demand conversation. Around him, men and women laughed, raised their glasses, and exchanged tall tales—half-truths and outright lies told with easy smiles. But Damir wasn’t part of that world. He never had been. There was a stillness to him, an eerie quiet that seemed to repel interaction, like the cold, unyielding embrace of the grave. His presence drew a wide berth from most of the regulars who knew better than to get too close to the undertaker, the man who seemed to carry a chill with him no matter how warm the night. For a man who’d spent decades on the move, the stillness of Lone Cross had been a surprising comfort. Being the town undertaker was a far cry from the dangerous hunts and violent battles of his past, but in some twisted way, it suited him. There was a kind of quiet in the dead, an understanding. The living, with all their noise and mess, rarely afforded him that same peace.

He stared into his glass, watching as the firelight danced on its surface. It reminded him, in a fleeting way, of the candlelit vigils held in the crypts of old Europe, where he and Andrei once hunted the restless dead. The flames from the oil lamps were reminiscent of fires long gone, of hunts in the cold wilderness, where monsters hid in the dark and blood soaked the earth. His sharp, pale fingers tightened around the whiskey glass, the scars on his wrist visible for just a moment as his duster shifted with the movement. He flexed his hand beneath the bar, feeling the stiffness in the tendons, the way the scars pulled at his flesh. His duster, black and heavy, pooled around him where he sat, concealing the arsenal of tools and weapons he carried at all times. Though Lone Cross had become his place of retirement, a quiet escape from the life of a monster hunter, Damir had never let himself become complacent. He knew better. And so, he watched. He listened. The lively atmosphere of the saloon did little to distract him from the undercurrents of tension in the town. Whispers of dark rituals and strange happenings had begun to spread, and Damir, though reluctant, knew that peace wouldn’t last long.

Through the glass of the window, the full moon hung heavy in the sky, a silent observer to the revelry inside. And yet, despite the festive air that buzzed through the saloon, there was an underlying tension that Damir could feel. It wasn’t just in his bones, though he could feel it deep in the marrow—something in the night was stirring, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was a presence, faint but growing, lurking beyond the noise, beyond the walls of The Cursed Roulette. He just didn’t know what yet. Trouble was coming, of that much he was certain. Trouble always found him, no matter how far he ran. But for now, he let the glass meet his lips, taking another slow, measured sip, letting the noise around him drift into a dull hum.

Damir Sokolov

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[logastellus]

XX.
tower

✦ MOOD ✦
Haughty.

✦ LOCATION ✦
The Cursed Roulette.

✦ INTERACTIONS ✦
Damir- noxrequiem

✦✦──────•✦✦✦•──────✦✦​

Beneath the shimmering tapestry of western stars, the Cursed Roulette Saloon stands as a beacon of revelry, where the boundaries between the mortal and supernatural blur in a haze of laughter and mischief. Inside, the air is alive with the spirited sounds of a lively band, strumming out tunes that weave through the crowd, enticing both mortals and otherworldly beings to join the revelry. Specters float alongside cowboys and townsfolks, while mischievous entities cheer on players at the card tables, their ethereal laughter mingling with the raucous shouts of those seeking fortune or folly. The atmosphere crackles with energy as patrons engage in spirited games, daring bets, and whispered secrets, each corner of the saloon alive with stories waiting to unfold.

As the night deepens, the saloon transforms into a whirlwind of debauchery, where intoxicating libations flow freely and wild dances take over the dusty floor. Revelers indulge in their desires, be they earthly or celestial, as flirtations and feuds ignite the night. With every spin of the cursed roulette wheel, the stakes rise, and the thrill of the unknown grips the crowd, drawing in those brave enough to embrace the chaos. Here, under the watchful gaze of the stars, friendships are forged, rivalries ignited, and the line between reality and the supernatural blurs even further, creating an unforgettable tapestry of laughter, music, and reckless abandon that will echo in the hearts of all who dare to enter.

Emerson Cole stood above the bustling crowd of the mortals and supernatural's that were indulging their mind, bodies and souls into his establishment. He favored a glass of scotch in one hand and a cane with a sparking ruby gem in the other, his aquamarine eyes complimented the stoic expression on his face. Letting his lips lightly touch the rim of his glass, he nodded at the passing of some of his clients until the stench of a large, overweight mortal made his way over to Emerson. Horace Grindle. A wealthy patron of Lone Cross and a frequent client at the brothel rather than the saloon. His face, round and ruddy, was framed by a patchy beard that looked as if it had been hastily trimmed, leaving bits of food caught between the bristles. Each heavy breath sent ripples through his ample belly, which spilled over the edge of the belt that has been desperately holding his poorly tailored trousers, a testament to his gluttonous indulgences. "Now if it isn't the owner of this here fine establishment!" The beluga chortled placing one of his sweaty palms on the suede fabric of Emersons' trench coat. As he laughed—a deep, wheezing chuckle that echoed like a dying engine—it was clear that his wealth had done little to refine him. Instead, it had bred a kind of arrogance that was as suffocating as the thick cloud of cheap cologne that clung to him, mingling with the scent of alcohol. "I still don't see how a colored fella such as ya self can manage a place like this and better than some of my companions and their businesses! You must have cut a deal with the devil himself in order to have this!!!” Horace laughed again after just delivered a subpar joke about the townsfolks that populated the saloon, a silly remark that had drawn chuckles from the nearby tables and jezebels that were caressing the potbelly pig of a man. Emerson's lips formed a forced smile followed by a routine chuckle at the man. “A saloon owner never shares his secrets Mr. Grindle. Wouldn't want to be out of a business.” The oversized man laughed the sweat forming more on his round face, he wheezed in between his laughing then proceeded to make a handkerchief appear out of his waistcoat pocket. He dabbed at the beads of sweat upon his forehead before taking a swig of his whiskey “A colored man keeping secrets to himself would be hanged in the center of the town but you’re different from the rest of them my boy! Now I need to replenish my empty glass and discover what is under this here hussies skirt before the night is over!” He pulled the woman into his side more causing a yelp and giggle to be released from her mouth then tipped his head towards Emerson leaving to enjoy the rest of his night. Emerson’s smile quickly disappeared after Horace was out of his sight, straightening his coat and swiping his hand over the shoulder Horace placed his hand on. Emerson could still smell the stench wafting in the already warm air after the man left and if demons could vomit he would.

Stifling a growl, Emerson felt the air thick with tension and the scent of peony mixed with whiskey, a striking woman approached him, her movements fluid and seductive. She leaned in close, her fingers gently tracing along his collar, her breath warm against his ear. With a sultry whisper, she let slip the news that the undertaker was at the bar. A smirk creped on his face, thanking his employee he made his way down the stairs swiftly through the throng of revelers his eyes were fixed on the man, who sat at the bar, a steely gaze surveying the chaos. As he reached the undertaker, he leaned in slightly, his voice low "Mr. Sokolov...what a pleasure to have you here tonight. The mortuary must have been...dull today. I hope you are enjoying tonight's festivities and not causing any trouble with your brooding and painfully depressed...self." Emerson's aquamarine eyes remained in contact with Damir's the racy and rambunctious crowd immediately and mysteriously becoming muffled around their beings.

Emerson Cole

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[idiot]

VII.
Chariot

Marionette was propped up against the wall; akin to a puppet whose strings were abruptly cut and discarded for disposal. Her Master didn’t like her staying inside his lodgings when they travelled. He hated the smell that permeated from her. He never bothered to get her a room—despite the gold that lined his pockets from her labour. It isn’t like you need to sleep, my dear, it would be a waste of a good room, he’d mock. Instead he ordered her to keep watch outside like some guard dog.

She didn’t mind the pitiful stares and hushed voices as people brushed past her to their own rooms in the boarding house of Lone Cross. In fact, Marionette appreciated the brief solitude. That and not having to hear her Master’s loud snoring; thankfully dampened by the sturdy wall against her back. The undead woman wondered if she took sleeping for granted when she was alive. Now she was perpetually awake. Sometimes she closed her eyes to mimic those around her but time moved excruciatingly slow. Others also got to dream, which Marionette believed she must of missed.

Marionette had spent the last hour solemnly stargazing. The stars were dotted in the familiar pattern she had observed last night. Yet, the tapestry of glimmering stars had moved slightly west. Marionette had named most of the stars; giving them their own personalities and stories. Some of the stories intertwined, such as Uma—a faded star who was endlessly chasing a brighter, distant star, Ryo, who was surrounded by other stars more dazzling than Uma. Ryo was too caught up with the attention from the stars around him, that he never noticed Uma endlessly chasing him. She wondered if she was chasing him for love, or something more sinister, such as revenge—a scorned lover who lost her shine after the two collided a millennium ago. Marionette felt a sense of connectedness when she watched them gleaming in the sea of black. Sometimes she had brief flashes of doing this when she was younger. Sometimes a woman was by her side, their hands interconnected. Unfortunately for Marionette, she didn’t remember much from before she died. Her memories were fragmented at best, and only appeared in searing, intense flashes when recalled. Marionette didn’t even remember her own name. How pitiful…

The stars were the only semblance of friends that she had. It wasn’t lost on her how pathetic that sounded. She hadn’t got to the point of talking to them, and that allowed her to not feel as sorry for herself. It wasn’t like she needed friends—her Master had made it quite clear that she only had one purpose. You will follow my every word until you succumb to the inevitable. Those words always hang heavily on her shoulders.

The snoring came to a sudden stop, disrupting the closest thing to relaxation for Marionette. Movement sounded behind her, reverberating on her back. The familiar shoes against floorboards. Marionette’s head simultaneously turned towards the door as it opened.

“Gather yourself, my dear—I’m parched!” The warlock, Silas, gleamed as moonlight spilled over his impeccably-dressed, spindly frame. An ornate cane was clutched in his ringed hand. Marionette had observed when they met that the cane was not from old age; Silas’ dark brown skin was eerily smooth apart from the birthmark that creeped from his hairline. His age was one he kept elusive but considering the raw skill and knowledge he possessed about necromancy, she presumed he was older than he appeared. She now knew that one of his legs didn’t work the way it should. It gave him a distinctive walk, even if he did try to hide it in front of others.

Marionette silently said goodbye to the stars as she stood and stoically followed behind her Master to The Cursed Roulette. Marionette knew well enough that they weren’t going there to satiate her Master’s thirst—he was more calculated than that. She surmised it had something to do with the bounty that had led them to Lone Cross in the first place. A wealthy man was offering a ludicrous bounty for his runaway bride that he wanted safely returned alive. On their travels they were informed that she had fled to Lone Cross after stopping in a nearby town.

Marionette just hoped it didn’t end in bloodshed, she didn’t feel like killing anyone today. Blood and dirt was still trapped under her nails after she tortured the man who offered refuge to the woman in the neighbouring town. He refused to give up her location until she moved the third finger.Not that she had much of a choice. It only took one word and Marionette would have more blood on her hands.

There was no redemption for her anymore.

She knew that.

MARIONETTE

coded by xayah.ღ

IV.
EMPEROR

The Cursed Roulette held a complicated place in Wyatt’s heart. A place where he could drown out the self-doubt that plagued him and entwine himself with strangers for a brief yet intense feeling of affection. Yet, it was also home to the place he had spent drunkenly unaware that his parents were being murdered by an unnamed assailant. The undertaker, Damir, had told him that his parents weren’t dead for more than an hour before he stumbled back from The Cursed Roulette.

Clearly you haven’t had enough to drink if you are thinking those things, Wyatt reminded himself. A deft hand downed the fifth (or was it sixth?) amber-coloured liquid from the glass. Fortunately for him, his vampiric status hadn’t affected his ability to get drunk. He wondered if it had something to do with him only consuming animal blood. Apart from a bit more speed and endurance (and the fact he had the complexion of a damn bedsheet) he hadn’t noticed much change in his physiology. Potentially human blood would change that but Wyatt had vowed to never find out. The sheer thought of human blood gave him a confusing concoction of guilt and desire.

He needed another drink.

The Cursed Roulette was more lively than usual, or at least it felt that way, bodies packed closely together. The heightened thumping of hearts around him. The sheen of sweat beading off the dancing townsfolk, their necks glistening, their jugulars pulsed excitedly below the skin. Wyatt closed his eyes in protest, senses overwhelmed, choosing to focus on the empty glass in front of him.

“I’m feeling generous tonight, the next round is on me!” A confident, hearty voice erupted next to him, having strode over with some fancy cane. Cheers and clinking of glasses sounded at the announcement. Wyatt’s ears too sensitive to the noise, fought the urge to coil back into himself. Maybe his physiology was affected more than he thought? Either that or the alcohol was sinking into his bloodstream.

The voice belonged to a rather dashing individual, whose fingers shined with an assortment of gold and silver rings. He placed a hefty bag of gold on the table for the barkeep who was quickly making work of the orders that flooded in.

“Loose lips, sink ships, my dear. Give the cretins some liquor and they will give us some tasty morsels of information for that pesky wife.” His voice low, a cruel smirk curled on his lips. Despite not looking in her direction, Wyatt assumed he was speaking to the woman that idly, yet purposefully, stood behind him. Her nose was broken but it didn’t seem to bother her. He tried to avoid her frightening, narrow death-glare that circled the circumference of the establishment. A steady hand disappeared into the confines of her dusty coat. If he was a betting man, he’d bet it was planted on the gun tucked away on her hip. Wyatt’s eyes almost watered at the smell that radiated from her—one that could only be described as death.

Wyatt wasn’t on duty, his badge placed in his breast pocket, but he decided a keen eye on this pair might do Lone Cross some good. He had asked to exclusively work during the night after that fateful night. The other deputies didn’t even question him, instead they welcomed it. In hindsight it made sense since they all had families waiting for them at home. Unlike you. Not anymore.

Wyatt forced himself to stand, the world spinning for a moment. It was all hitting him at once. Sweet, sweet revenge from the empty glasses that littered the bar. His mission to protect Lone Cross from the shifty strangers was replaced with the goal of dancing. Wyatt stumbled onto the dance floor, dancing among the townsfolk and travellers. He was gleefully unaware as the herbal remedy that coated his skin stained the cuff of his button-down shirt. A ring of stark white skin bleeding through.

Instinctively, Wyatt found himself grabbing ahold of the nearest stranger, pulling them in for a dance. His vision blurred which made it hard to assess what they looked like. Yet, Wyatt didn’t care in that moment. He just wanted to be close to someone. Anyone.

Wyatt gave them an easy smile, not recognising the subtle shifting of his canine teeth. The whittled-down teeth from this morning seemed to sharpen by themselves. The stranger didn’t seem to notice, or maybe shared the same intoxicated inhibition of Wyatt.

WYATT JR. MCCALL

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[birth of venus]

F

ate was found in the most mundane of places - on a shopkeeper's floor. It was the one thing in life Magdalena was sure of, that fate would guide her true on this self-inflicted journey, and all else fell away. A life lived fast and never lonely, Magdalena liked to pretend she found peace and solace traveling across the states over the years, always eager for new sights to see. If she was running, no one else needed to know. That was the beauty of a new country, she reasoned, safety in anonymity. But everywhere she went Magdalena only found herself making comparisons. The land, just like her own home country, was tilled with blood. The stains under her fingernails would not give others pause, as long as she kept moving along. And though the land was strange, she mused that America was similar to Mexico in terms of vastness as well; mountains could choke out the sky in deep valleys, or the sky's blues would flood the empty spaces of open prairies, and budding cities twinkled on the horizons.

Six years away from home yet the years flew by in a hurry. Survival hadn't been kind to her. Dust on her skin, hunger in her gut. Maybe the yankees were a bad influence on Maggie too, only God knew the trouble she was getting up to as of late. The moon was a fat drop of blood splattered onto black skies the night Magdalena stole the watch. A town made up of sun bleached flies and old farmers, she had rolled in looking for a hot meal and spare change for her wares, and yet that lightning that'd strike her veins had led her to stare down the barrel of a gun and scare the owner half to death.

If you asked her, she didn’t start it, thank you very much. Maybe it was the madness of a full moon, or the resigned frustration of six years of only being seen as her skin color. Strange land, indeed. Maggie hadn’t been in town more than two days, trying (and failing) to sell her wares - poultices for joint aches, herbs to chew for rot-tooth, tinctures for coughs and fevers. And the pawn shop owner, well, that dumb gray-faced old man stole her bag right from under her nose, and it was only right to retrieve what was rightfully hers.

In the soft light of the blood moon, she got her property back along with half the register and a curious pocket watch that had fallen to the ground in the scuffle of it all. The man was left teary-eyed and whimpering, handcuffed to a metal pipe in the back storeroom as the moon shone through the warning shot she fired through the ceiling. That wicked curse rose in her with a biblical anger flashing in her eyes. Though Magdalena fought against it with every breath, it kept her keen, kept her alive. In her pockets were a measly few dollars, in her jacket of wares an old watch, and Maggie rode on his stolen horse for four days and four nights - before a voice scared the life out of her.

"You know, robbery really is unbecoming of a young lady,"

the figure of a pale man sat across from her at the other side of the campfire, his hat pulled down low and obscuring his eyes. His words were smooth and deep, spoken with a drawl that betrayed a deep South heritage.

"Santo dios!"

The response was a clatter and crash from the pot cooking over the flames. Wide eyes stared through the orange glow at the strange man, and a revolver replaced the wooden spoon in her hand, raised within seconds. Panic rose in her chest and a humming rang through her ears and down her veins, how had she not heard him? Was he alone? Were they following her this entire time? In a rush, the thought of being found rose with nausea and fear and thoughts of 'I'm not going back home, I'm not going back to fucking San Cristóbal, I would rather die,' and once again she found herself acting before thinking.

Magdalena shot without hesitation. The only sound that lingered was the frightened braying of her stolen horse, and a ringing in her ears that refused to cease.

It did nothing to harm the spirit, of course. A ways behind Hollis was a tree with a fresh bullet hole splitting the bark, a shot that would’ve gone clean through his shoulder. Maggie had already scrambled away until her back hit the bark of the oak tree she had found respite under, hands shaking around the gun as the ringing finally registered. 'A spirit,' she thought, judging by the haze around his edges that she couldn’t quite blink away. And then Maggie was a child again, her mother’s voice spoken against the shell of her ear, breathing the smoke of laurel leaves. 'Do not feed into fear, set your intentions clearly, do not allow them to attach.'

The woman sat up now, steeled and still.

"Not robbery, just got back what was mine is all,"

She spoke slowly across the fire,

"Are you lost? 'Cause there's nothing here for you. I won't stay long, if you're…"

a pause, lips pursed with caution,

"Y'know, buried here. You should have passed over by now."

A deep melodious laugh rumbled from the spirit’s form, windchimes on the breeze.

"Got back what was yours, huh?"

He leaned forward, the fire lighting up the details of his face. The skin was near-translucent, the skull lurking just below the surface.

"That pocket watch belongs to me."

———

A stupid mistake was made in the blue dawn of the next morning. It wouldn’t be her first time dealing with a haunting; now that Maggie was listening, she could feel the thrum of the watch and what it must have contained. The apparition had scared her half to death that night, a vengeful spirit left contained and restless. A wrath with an endless appetite, a spirit she refused to bring along with her. Magdalena stepped barefoot into the river, pocketwatch wrapped with a scrap of her own hair ribbon, and spoke with clear intent. Words charged with magic. In Spanish,

"Te reprendo, espíritu. No me vas hacer daño a mí ni a los demás. Te reprendo. Y como dijo el Señor: "Resistid al diablo y huirá de nosotros". Debes de buscar tu propia paz de otras maneras. Te reprendo."

'I rebuke you, spirit. You will do no harm to myself or to others. I rebuke you. And as the Lord said, ‘Resist the devil and he will flee from you.’ You must search for your own peace in other ways. I rebuke you.'

She wrenched her arm far back and threw the watch with all of her intent. It dropped into the water, and fueled by paranoia, Maggie mumbled wards and protective hymns all the way back up the bank of the river, and smudged herself afterwards just to be safe. A strange wind blew strong across the river’s surface as the woman gathered her things; a strange coldness that ran goosebumps down her arms. Maggie hoped and prayed it would work.

And then, that very evening, a curious discovery: that very same watch, ribbon gone, not even waterlogged, back at the bottom of her knapsack.

"God damn it!"

———

Lone Cross was a strange little town that Magdalena was beginning to find comfort in. Her first few days had been spent inside; the boarding house was more than comfortable, compared to the hard floors of forests or train cars, and Magdalena felt she slept more in a few days than she had all year. But there was a strike of fear as well.

Throughout her nights of travels Magdalena could feel it, just as she had felt it back home in Coahuila, the thrumming of pure energy. Of powerful ley lines with wells of magic. But as she entered the town, it felt less like the rushing power of a waterfall, and more like the frightened anticipation before a powder keg’s ignition. The townsfolk were by far the strangest she had ever seen. Maggie could sense it, could smell the danger present, brimstone and the iron of blood and rebirth. It was hard to ignore the alarm bells ringing in her head as the little witch attended mass for the first time in years. She was always looking over her shoulder, but this was something else entirely. Maybe it was time to indulge her curiosity.

That evening, of all people, Temperance had all but dragged her from her room for a ‘night on the town.’ Maggie wasn’t sure she could say no, and the excitement on the other woman’s face made something wiggle warm and giddy in her gut, of course she relented. Even with the insistence that she hadn’t much to wear, Temperance had worked some kind of magic to help her get an ensemble together. A white blouse draped low on the curve of her shoulders, hemmed with small flowers, and a long layered skirt that kissed the ground with every step. A night out on the town, what could go wrong?

Never had she indulged in such a revelry, but the Cursed Roulette was happy to provide. The saloon breathed a life of its own, encouraging its customers to step into its very own open maw. It was a sight to behold, how freely the alcohol flowed, how freely the women dressed (some so scandalous that Maggie couldn’t help but blush, cheeks poppy red), how the floor shook as the whole room danced in a tizzy. Though the cambion had dragged her there, Temperance was quickly lost to the crowd as she greeted her own friends and guests of her boarding house.

Maggie didn’t mind as she was swept through the currents; she was never alone, after all. Wherever she went, the pocket watch did as well, Hollis haunting her every step. His temper had been whittled down well enough, with so many months of being stuck together, there wasn’t much other choice but for coexistence. Her curse meant luck was never in her favor, but Magdalena rolled with the punches. And with such an eclectic clientele, nobody would bat an eyelash if they saw Maggie talking to herself more than she’d ever talk to any other human.

Now, the woman was parked at the bar, deep into her second beer and tongue dangerously loose. There was a certain buzz to the room that felt… otherworldly. A level of unabashed nature, the supernatural filling in the gaps of the world. Maggie leaned back to observe the crowd, and tilted her head to find Hollis’s hazy form through the chaos.

"This seems more like your type of crowd, eh?"

The spirit was perched against a wooden support beam, not too far away from where the curandera sat at the bar. Arms crossed, leaning back against it, hat tilted down slightly to obscure his face–but it couldn’t hide the sly little smile pulling at his lips. Like there was some big joke only he was in on.

"Once upon a time."

“Mmhm,"

she said, master of mimicry of the American sense of sarcasm,

"'Once', or twice, or who knows how many times, I’m sure."

A cheer erupted from the other end of the bar, hollering about free rounds, and Mag was happy to take her third drink and leave a decent tip as well.

Over the rim of her glass, dark eyes skimmed the crowd, watching the harsh stumble of a desperate blond drunk (‘Some folks just can’t handle their liquor,’) and recoiling at the distant smell of death. Pleasant buzz thoroughly killed, the woman closed her eyes against the flash of nausea, the disgusting familiarity of the smell. A change of scenery was needed, stat. Drink freshly refilled, Magdalena weaved and skirted her way through throngs of people, eyes barely bobbing above the shoulders of others. She debated whether to find Temperance again (she had been promised a dance, apparently) or to slip outside for a breath of fresh air.

Tap me on the shoulder when you reload the gun.

MAGDALENA | the MAGICIAN

location:

the cursed roulette

playing:

interactions:

Hollis, Temperance, & open to all.

 

[Remembrance]

coded by xayah.ღ

XIII.
DEATH

MOOD
Calm Inebriation.

LOCATION
The Cursed Roulette.

INTERACTIONS
Wyatt - idiot

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There is a stark difference between how a settlement appears by day and what it becomes at night. When the sun casts its light over Lone Cross, the town feels inhabited but not crowded—an odd sense of tranquility amongst peers despite the ever-present dangers of the West. However, when the sun sinks below the horizon and the people retreat to their beds or into the arms of their loved ones, the small settlement transforms, its hidden fears coming alive in the darkness.

Tonight, Lone Cross seemed more active than usual. Shadows of townsfolk flitted quickly, slipping into the saloon or quietly vanishing behind the doors of their homes. Xaniel walked with languid purpose through the dim streets, his path leading him to a decrepit, worm-ridden house. Flickering candlelight barely pierced through the thin, tattered curtains that hung over the windows, but the familiar hum of evening chatter was absent. In its place were muffled sobs and the occasional soft wail, echoing through the cracks in the walls. Grief clung to the air, heavy and unyielding.

He raised his hand and knocked firmly on the weathered door, each rap a solemn announcement of his arrival. He waited. After a few moments, the door creaked open, revealing a young man—barely a man, really, with eyes far too tired for his age, and a face marked by weariness that suggested he'd seen more hardship than his years could explain.

"Reverend? Is-a something the matta?" the boy asked, his voice thick with some accent barely masking the strain of uncertainty.

Xaniel said nothing, offering only a quiet glance before stepping past him into the dimly lit common room. The stench hit him immediately—something foul, a mixture of decay and sickness, clung to the air like a thick fog.

"I am here to deliver Missus Whaler’s last rites," he said, his voice low, almost reverent. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the somber faces of the family huddled together, their expressions etched with the knowledge of what was coming. Death had already entered this house, and now it was only a matter of bringing her soul to sanctuary.

---

Tonight was not like any other for Xaniel. This certainly was not his typical routine. The soul of Ann Whaler, diseased and senile, danced about Xaniel’s twirling fingers with renewed vigor. In his other hand was a note of legal tender, its significance enough to still the panic that gripped her spirit.

“This won’t take long,” Xaniel murmured softly. As he spoke, he exhaled—not just with his body, but with his spirit.

Once, thousands of years ago, he had been an angel of conveyance, a guide of souls. Some part of him still clung to that ancient power, weakened though it was. He breathed out, his essence flowing like a warm breeze, spreading through the paper note. The exchange was brief but profound, as if two worlds—one mortal, one beyond—momentarily brushed against each other. For a fleeting second, the boundaries blurred, and the soul was confined. It ended quickly and quietly.

As Xaniel passed the saloon, the raucous light and laughter spilling from its doors tugged at him, the remnants of Ezekiel Fournier's spirit stirring within. You have got to be kidding. Xaniel’s thoughts were heavy with disdain. There was no conceivable way he would lower himself to partake in humanity’s bastardization of sugarcane.

The body, once named Ezekiel Fournier, still retained its memories. A new tenant was in the house, but it still had the prior owner’s furniture—for the time being. While a new tenant now occupied it, the echoes of Ezekiel remained—like old furniture left behind by the previous owner. Ezekiel himself was still there too, locked away deep within, with no say about anything.

Stepping inside the saloon, the overwhelming warmth and revelry hit Xaniel like a wall. It wasn’t just the clamor of people or the jeers that bothered him; there were things lurking in the shadows. Some born of the One Above, others… less so.

Xaniel approached the bar and placed a quarter dollar on the counter. He thought briefly of how the Angels of the Fundament had spent eons shaping the earth, crafting it to perfection, only for its creations to be reduced to currency.

“A shot of coffin varnish, if you will,” he requested. Moments later, a small glass of nameless, clear liquid was placed before him.

He took a sip, grimacing at the burnt taste of molasses and whatever strange concoctions humanity had added to it. It did nothing to please him. What of it? Perhaps, in this very moment, he would be pulled back to the Pit—to that empty void where he had languished for so long. Maybe it was for the best, to return to the place where power, hope, and future all ceased to exist.

The world he’d found, Ezekiel’s world, had wearied and disgusted him. Given a planet of glories, the humans had clearly worked hard to insulate themselves from everything natural and pure and important, creating a world of their own—a world shabby, small and sad. Let them go. Let them fester. Let them be the gangrene in the wound they themselves had inflicted.

And yet…

Perhaps, after all, he did have the strength to continue.

---

The alcohol slowly worked its way through his system, loosening the tight grip of his weary soul. Not that Xaniel felt any urge to indulge in the debauchery that surrounded him. Instead, it was Ezekiel’s spirit that stirred within him, like a man slowly climbing out of a cellar. Another glass of refined molasses and Xaniel reasserted control.

Seeking escape from Ezekiel’s gradual awakening, Xaniel moved to leave the saloon. To do so, however, he would need to navigate through the twisting, shifting sea of dancers. Whisking through the dance floor, his escape nearly complete, and the saloon doors were just in sight.

That was, until something caught hold of him.

The body reacted instinctively, the spirit and mind acclimating to the sudden threat. Xaniel’s chill reason smoothed the edges of Ezekiel’s panic. He grabbed the stranger's wrist, a motion born of centuries of habit, though this body lacked the trained reflexes. His other hand reached for the back of the stranger’s head—only for Xaniel to pause as his weary eyes fell upon something unexpected.

Fangs. Long, sharp, unmistakable.

Releasing the stranger's wrist, Xaniel’s hand returned to him with a sunburnt shade.

“Childe…” Xaniel said softly, his voice a quiet reassurance rather than a threat. Reason had left the dancing stranger, that much was clear. “What is it you need?”

XANIEL

coded by xayah.ღ