On:
In: Deadlands, Fallen Flags

Dear Diary, our train has finally come to a stop behind the twisted, torn out shell of the last train that went through. The warped rails rattled me to my bones, so I was looking forward to having a short walk on Terra Firma, but the train was apathetically beset by men and women in black dusters before we got the chance. Seizing the opportunity, I managed to extract a good deal of information from one of the greener looking ones. Apparently, the team that supports my quarry, having ingratiated themselves with the local law enforcement, were taken by █████ ██████ to a place called ███ ██████. There, the group known as ███ ██████ asked them to contain a rather powerful ████████, as they’re called. It’s my understanding that ████, one of the group I follow, had no choice but to reluctantly accept. With any luck, they’ll fall, and the gun will be a few reams of paperwork away from my possession. I’ll simply have to wait around and see if they manage to ██████ ███ ████ ██████ ██ ████████. My next entry will be on the page following, however. The dark-dustered fellow I was speaking to has asked to see my diary for a moment, and I prefer to write my entries in full, with no interruptions.

-Recovered from a hastily redacted page in the diary of an unnamed debt collector, written mid-August, 1877

Continue Reading

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

Subscribe: RSS

On:
In: Deadlands, Fallen Flags

Dear Diary, bad news and worse news. Bad news, my train is scheduled to be delayed, to ensure the -previous- train’s recent combat didn’t leave wreckage on the tracks to destroy the -current- train. Even worse, there’s no sign of the deceased near the wreckage, save a few previously rotting fellows, so either my quest maintains the status quo ante, or my quarry is halfway down the windpipe of a Rattler. I shudder to think of the amount of money it will take to bribe someone in there to check. On the bright side though, I should be on my way to catching up. The team I follow seems like a team of do-gooders, and from what I hear, Denver and officers of the law make for lousy bedfellows for more than the usual reasons…

-Recovered from a page of shaky penmanship in the diary of an unnamed debt collector, written mid-August, 1877

Continue Reading

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

Subscribe: RSS

On:
In: Deadlands, Fallen Flags

Dear Diary, I have finally recovered from a terrible bout of nausea from a rather unsavory drink. I suspect foul play, but I can’t rule out the possibility that the alcohol has simply absorbed some of the rural charm of this place, and my prim, bourgeois tastes were unaccustomed to its… natural charisma. In the course of my recuperation, it seems that my quarry has evaded me yet again. As hard as that was to tell among the rabble jabbering about the downfall of poisonous natives. Perhaps I was the only one -not- delirious. Either way, I’m certain I’ll regret not being on the train with them. Nothing for it but to wait for the next one. Perhaps it will have a bar car that suites my apparently prissy palate. Either way, as long as its quiet. Loud railcars are no good in this part of the country…

-Recovered from a fluid-stained page in the diary of an unnamed debt collector, written mid-August, 1877

Continue Reading

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

Subscribe: RSS

On:
In: Deadlands, Fallen Flags

Dear Diary, or whatever one is supposed to say in the entires to their journals: I believe I’ve tracked down the group of people surrounding my employer’s gun to a small town in the center of what is now known as the Disputed Lands. My employer has warned me to be careful, as this area marks both a hotly contested territory for the great rail companies, as well as one of the far edges of my jurisdiction. It’s unlikely that the local authorities will be much help – doubly so because word is traveling through town like a brushfire in May about some sort of haunted fort along an apparently unusually dangerous river. These things are, of course, no matter. Finding them is objective one, and tradition dictates that one should visit the local tavern for information. What, dear Diary, is the worst that could happen?

-Recovered from a dust-stained page in the diary of an unnamed debt collector, written mid-August, 1877

Continue Reading

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

Subscribe: RSS

On:
In: Deadlands, Fallen Flags

The year is 1877, and the end of Summer is nearing fast. One of the warmest on record, we’re told in the margins surrounding yet another set of “suspicious disappearances” and “freak accidents.” At least in all the papers that used to be worth the paper they were printed on. Nowadays, it seems like the tabloids are the more reliable source. Eleven years ago, the West Coast fell into the sea, leaving spires of so called Ghost Rock. This material proved far more powerful than coal, attracting rail barons, industrialists and scientists alike to the new maze of waterways. Since that day, ghost stories, legends, monsters, myths, have been exploding across the States. And as near as anyone can tell, the truth is becoming stranger than fiction. Back east, the cemeteries are even reportedly cracking open to leave otherwise decisive battles in this War Between the States stalemates, leaving no end in sight. Both sides, North and South, have laid out a bounty, offering immense wealth and connection for whoever first builds a railroad across the continent to what used to be California. Sometimes, in pursuit of these Rail Wars, the ambitious rail companies hire agents, both to deal with these new supernatural phenomena, and with each other. And worst of all, one of those agents has one of my employer’s guns. August is going to be a long month.

-Recovered from the diary of an unnamed debt collector, written mid-August, 1877.

Continue Reading

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

Subscribe: RSS