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Invisibility Complex
Moon
- Joined
- Aug 14, 2023
- Location
- USA
Overview
I'm a guy in his mid-20's who's always on the lookout for cool people to write with. At this point, my preferred location for writing is always Google Docs, with Discord for OOC communication, but I'm willing to take something on forumside for the right partner.
You can expect me to reply regularly and always remain in contact OOC. In general I like shorter back-and-forth replies several times a day. If possible, nothing is more enjoyable (and I really mean nothing) than both of us working on the story at the same time. That's not always realistic, but at least once a day, or every other day, is usually necessary for me to stay engaged. I'm rarely happy with anything slower than that. As above, I prefer to keep things short, so I'm really only asking for a few lines of dialogue or a paragraph or two.
I'm male and exclusively write MxF stories, generally involving romance. That's all I'm looking for right now. My partner's identity doesn't matter so long as we both get what we want.
My schedule is extremely flexible. I'm in Pacific time and tend to stay up late, but you'll usually be able to contact me whenever I'm awake.
Character reigns supreme in all concerns of roleplaying. If you bring character, I will too, and we are guaranteed to have fun. But I've been at this for a long time and consider myself "advanced" as a writer. Non-habitual spelling and grammar errors don't bother me, but I want partners who are as passionate about English as I am. This stupid, nonsensical language is pretty much my favorite thing in the world; I'd love it if you felt the same way. Why else are we bothering to write?
Interests
My favorite settings are classical Westerns, post-apocalypses, and medieval fantasy (high or low). But I'm open to mostly anything with a strong aesthetic vision. I love worldbuilding with partners, but sometimes dropping two interesting people into Tombstone c. 1892 is all that's necessary for a good time. I tend not to be interested in the contemporary stories but do make exceptions. Just send me your ideas!
I want character interaction. In and out of the bedroom, I want to love writing my character and love reading yours. That's what I'm here for.
I'll play male or female characters. I tend to write men, but sometimes it's fun to mix things up.
Kinks
My sexual interests are fairly vanilla. I like conventionally attractive women, romance, and good relationships. But I'm willing to work in anything that makes sense for the story. Non-con doesn't excite me, but I will write it if it's what a scene demands. The same goes for most other kinks. Really, the only thing I dislike is kink for the sake of it: sex should tell us something about the characters and their relationship. If it stays in the bedroom exclusively, I'm not interested. Sex for sex's sake is fun but gets boring fast.
That all said, these are the elements I'm basically always looking to include:
Pregnancy
Pregnancy is not strictly necessary, but it is my main kink, and I've never had a story where I felt it wouldn't make things more interesting. Although I'm interested in breeding generally and stories where that's a major element, my interest lies primarily in pregnancy itself. The changes to the female character's body, her hormones, her bond to the male character, and feeling the flutters of movement beneath her skin: that's what excites me. Smut with a pregnant belly involved is almost mandatory for me, when it's time for it to come up.
If there isn't a long-term potential for pregnancy, I inevitably feel like the sex itself is sort of pointless.
Realism
Fantasy is cool, but I prefer the basics to remain realistic. Realistic bodies, realistic personalities, realistic circumstances. Even if we're both playing superhumans, I would want each scene to stay consistent to the aesthetic we've set forth, and generally to feel realistic for that world.
Cum & Creampies
Probably self-explanatory.
Human Characters
I can do elves, too, but in general I prefer to keep things strictly human.
Anti-Kinks
This is a list of the things I'm never interested in incorporating. If it's not here, feel free to mention it to me; if it makes sense for the story and the characters, I'll probably be willing to work it in!
If you've made it this far, here's a writing sample.
I'm a guy in his mid-20's who's always on the lookout for cool people to write with. At this point, my preferred location for writing is always Google Docs, with Discord for OOC communication, but I'm willing to take something on forumside for the right partner.
You can expect me to reply regularly and always remain in contact OOC. In general I like shorter back-and-forth replies several times a day. If possible, nothing is more enjoyable (and I really mean nothing) than both of us working on the story at the same time. That's not always realistic, but at least once a day, or every other day, is usually necessary for me to stay engaged. I'm rarely happy with anything slower than that. As above, I prefer to keep things short, so I'm really only asking for a few lines of dialogue or a paragraph or two.
I'm male and exclusively write MxF stories, generally involving romance. That's all I'm looking for right now. My partner's identity doesn't matter so long as we both get what we want.
My schedule is extremely flexible. I'm in Pacific time and tend to stay up late, but you'll usually be able to contact me whenever I'm awake.
Character reigns supreme in all concerns of roleplaying. If you bring character, I will too, and we are guaranteed to have fun. But I've been at this for a long time and consider myself "advanced" as a writer. Non-habitual spelling and grammar errors don't bother me, but I want partners who are as passionate about English as I am. This stupid, nonsensical language is pretty much my favorite thing in the world; I'd love it if you felt the same way. Why else are we bothering to write?
Interests
My favorite settings are classical Westerns, post-apocalypses, and medieval fantasy (high or low). But I'm open to mostly anything with a strong aesthetic vision. I love worldbuilding with partners, but sometimes dropping two interesting people into Tombstone c. 1892 is all that's necessary for a good time. I tend not to be interested in the contemporary stories but do make exceptions. Just send me your ideas!
I want character interaction. In and out of the bedroom, I want to love writing my character and love reading yours. That's what I'm here for.
I'll play male or female characters. I tend to write men, but sometimes it's fun to mix things up.
Kinks
My sexual interests are fairly vanilla. I like conventionally attractive women, romance, and good relationships. But I'm willing to work in anything that makes sense for the story. Non-con doesn't excite me, but I will write it if it's what a scene demands. The same goes for most other kinks. Really, the only thing I dislike is kink for the sake of it: sex should tell us something about the characters and their relationship. If it stays in the bedroom exclusively, I'm not interested. Sex for sex's sake is fun but gets boring fast.
That all said, these are the elements I'm basically always looking to include:
Pregnancy
Pregnancy is not strictly necessary, but it is my main kink, and I've never had a story where I felt it wouldn't make things more interesting. Although I'm interested in breeding generally and stories where that's a major element, my interest lies primarily in pregnancy itself. The changes to the female character's body, her hormones, her bond to the male character, and feeling the flutters of movement beneath her skin: that's what excites me. Smut with a pregnant belly involved is almost mandatory for me, when it's time for it to come up.
If there isn't a long-term potential for pregnancy, I inevitably feel like the sex itself is sort of pointless.
Realism
Fantasy is cool, but I prefer the basics to remain realistic. Realistic bodies, realistic personalities, realistic circumstances. Even if we're both playing superhumans, I would want each scene to stay consistent to the aesthetic we've set forth, and generally to feel realistic for that world.
Cum & Creampies
Probably self-explanatory.
Human Characters
I can do elves, too, but in general I prefer to keep things strictly human.
Anti-Kinks
This is a list of the things I'm never interested in incorporating. If it's not here, feel free to mention it to me; if it makes sense for the story and the characters, I'll probably be willing to work it in!
- Anthros/tentacles/non-human characters
- Incest
- MxM, FxF
- An overt focus on BDSM dynamics
- Bathroom stuff
- Necrophilia
- Sexualized non-con (may be willing to write for the right story, but it wouldn't be for kink's sake)
- Anime shit
If you've made it this far, here's a writing sample.
HENRY HELD THE PENCIL UP TO HIS MOUTH. In the bin beside his desk lay the crumpled corpses of two dozen pieces of paper. For five hours, until the very witching time of night, he had worked unfalteringly on a letter that he could not pay any other man to write for him.
It was not going well. Sentences had been composed and crossed out. Periods had been rearranged. Commas had been put where it felt right for commas to go, only for a change in heart to make him doubt everything anew; four times he had been so confident with his draft that he'd moved on to pen, copying his words into their final form, only to give up hope halfway through. A fortune was wasted on stationery. Five years ago he could not have dreamed of spending so much money on something that had amounted to so little. It was a Yankee kind of thing to do.
But things were different now. So he read the letter over, put the pencil down, expelled a sigh like a gale from between his teeth, and crumpled the paper up one last time.
He tossed it in the bin with the rest.
It was three hours since the sun had burned out to the west like a lamp run dry on oil. Now his office was dark, lit only by the flame of an old lantern on his desk. Henry's eyes strained in its anemic light, and the motions of his hands sent shadows across the words he tried so desperately to write. He should have gone to fetch another source of light. He should have lit a candle. But he was too focused now–too deep into the rhythm of creativity to stir, not for light nor dinner nor to take a piss.
Sobs of rain drizzled down his window, fogging up the glass. Distantly beyond loomed the woodlands shrouded in a veil of white mist, mist that approached the plantation house like a bride closing in on the lips of her groom at the climax of a wedding. It was always overcast and gloomy in Virginia. Henry had forgotten about that, after fifteen years away; he had roped and wrangled steers from Baton Rouge to San Diego, dug pits for gold in Arizona and Colorado, twirled his six-shooters at the tail-ends of poker games gone bad in Wyoming, Oregon, Washington, and Idaho; in all those places it was dry. Warm. The sky was clear as the open range, and the air as crisp as the water from virgin wells.
This gloom was something different. It returned him to forgotten days in muddy fields, tilling soil that was fertile as scree, listening to stories about the goddamn Yankees and carpetbaggers and what it was like to spill blood for Robert E. Lee. When he'd wandered off from home at age 14, with two dollars and a stolen mule, he never thought he'd be back. Maybe for his own wake, if his mother could have spared the few dollars for a casket and open funeral. But it never would have occurred to him–never would have crossed his mind–that, one day, he would be the one sitting in a castle, a lantern on late at night, staring at silly little words on a slip of white paper.
He started over again.
Dear Mister Valentine
You will forgive me for writing for the second time this weak. You have met me and you know i am not a man of letters. But i have spoken again to Juliette and she is unflinching in her desire to proceed with our marriage. I know you do not approve of this arrangement. However i am willing to make an investment in your plantation to the degree of ten thousand dollars or more if you consent to this arrangement. we….
A sigh. He crumpled the paper up and tossed it out again.
He came on too strong. Too direct. Mr. Valentine was a gentleman of the highest order; he could not be persuaded with the charming forthrightness of a cowpuncher. It didn't help that his penmanship looked like the scribblings of a rabid fox.
Another paper…
Lightning flashed beyond the glass. The rivulets down its side caught the reflection of the light and sparkled with crystalline prisms in his eyes. It was at that precise moment, as he watched the brief illumination of the treetops past his estate's main gate–always left open, even at night–that his single lamp went out.
The last and final sigh.
Henry was left in total darkness. He tapped his pencil on the desk.
It was past 1am.
It was time to go to bed.
He stood up and stumbled to the door. The knob was cold to the touch. He twisted it and stepped without, into a dim corridor lit by a few lanterns along the walls. Sally always kept it bright enough to see at night. At first he thought it was a waste of money. He'd argued with her. Tried to persuade her otherwise.
She had pointed out that it cost less than five cents a day to light the house, and that he had fifteen million dollars down at the bank. But it still felt like a waste to him.
He walked slowly. Shoulders swaying. His suspenders hung loose at his thighs, and across his chest was a white cotton stand neck shirt. The high collar brushed against his jaw as he moved, but it was unbuttoned down his neck, until at heart-level the buttons stopped. It was a damp and cool night and he'd kept his sleeves rolled up all day. Still when he walked he missed the weight of his revolver at his hip; it was under his bed, hidden away, and though he knew he did not need it in this place, he felt its absence with each step.
Down the corridor. Past the staircase. He noticed in the foyer that the door was open; and seated on the porch, in the light of a bright lantern, was Sally knitting.
She had been born on this plantation, before the War, and she'd never left its acreage. She'd been in her fifties when Federal troops rolled up to the front door and said she could run free. And maybe she would have, as a younger woman, but she'd told them, "I'm near sixty years old; I ain't goin' nowhere free!"
So she'd stayed. That was fifteen years ago.
Henry had no romantic notions of what things were like before the War. He figured both sides were to blame, and although he would have fought for Virginia, he was happy he never had to. Seven hundred thousand dead–the Rebs could have stopped it all in an instant. But they hadn't. And for what?
Sally, who'd stayed anyway.
But that was an opinion he kept to himself. He knew it wouldn't make him popular. It had been hard, though, when he spotted Sally for the first time, beaming up at him in her gown, not to speak his mind. It seemed wrong that she still worked in this place. She should have gone somewhere new–anywhere she liked.
She had looked ancient then. She was in her mid-70s.
Whether she had respected her master, the old Colonel Baker, whose son sold this plantation to Henry last year, he didn't know. Henry didn't respect Colonel Baker much himself. But he loved Sally. She was the best assistant he could have hoped for–she knew every inch of the house, the property, and how to manage it.
He'd given her a thousand dollars for her personal use, and told her to spend whatever else she needed to to get the house back in order. What else was he going to do with the money?
"There's a whole lot you're gonna need if you want to run this place like Mr. Baker did," she told him. "Scullery cooks. Maids. Hands to pick the cotton. Cowboys like yourself for all them animals out back. But then there's still gonna be somethin' missin', even after all that."
Henry shook his head. He smiled at her slyly, and he said, "A valet?"
"No, not a valet! A woman! You think I can run all this property by myself, at age 118? You need to get yourself a wife! You're a gentleman now, Mr. Smith; get yourself a wife!"
He had blinked at her, shaken his head, and shrugged.
But he knew she was right.
Now he spotted her on the porch.
"Sally," he said. His voice was deep and resonant, a rich baritone, but he had a strong Virginian drawl, and every word was spoken softly. He was a huge man–6'3, and big everywhere–but he spoke like a gentle old geezer. "Is everythin' all right?"
Sally hummed. "Just watchin' the rain. Just watchin' the rain."
"Ain't it kinda late to watch the rain?"
"Ain't it kinda late to be mutterin' about Mr. Valentine in your study? Oh yes, I heard you all the way down here." She glanced back at him with a smile. "And that's 'isn't' for you, Mr. Smith. Are you a gentleman, or are you a cowpoke?"
"I reckon I'll be both for a while yet," Henry said with a smile. Sally had been around Southern gentlemen her whole life, and she was doing her best to teach a thing or two to Henry. As far as chivalry went, he had it down pat–but he wasn't much for speaking. Or writing. Or reading. It was his preference to listen without being heard; he had a laconic manner about him. "And some other things, too." He ran a hand down his chest. "Goodnight, Sally. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Goodnight, Mr. Smith."
He didn't know what he would do when she was gone. He needed a wife to take her place.
There was a wife he had in mind.
He was tired and thirsty as he stepped to the master bedroom's door. Visions of Juliette played behind his eyes. That pale skin. The slender figure in her gowns. Hair, like nothing he'd seen out West. Henry had met so many women on the frontier, but he'd never spotted one half so pretty as Juliette. She was a kind of rose that bloomed only in society like this.
…or, she looked like one. She didn't quite act the part. But that was why he adored her. She was like the West, in the East.
He cracked the door open.
Lightning crashed. The window at the end of the room was illuminated. Suddenly Henry heard a rush of wind, and the roar of thunder followed; and in the moment of light, he spotted a shape, sopping wet, at the foot of his bed, while the curtains around the window Henry in a harsh wind.
A robber. A burglar. Henry reached for his revolver, but it wasn't there; he glanced to the chest at the queen bed's foot, and he almost lunged for it–
When he realized that this burglar was the slenderest and most petite villain he'd ever seen.
It wasn't a burglar at all.
Henry grabbed a lantern off the wall and stepped inside, closing the door behind him swiftly.
"Juliette," he whispered. "You lost?"
It was not going well. Sentences had been composed and crossed out. Periods had been rearranged. Commas had been put where it felt right for commas to go, only for a change in heart to make him doubt everything anew; four times he had been so confident with his draft that he'd moved on to pen, copying his words into their final form, only to give up hope halfway through. A fortune was wasted on stationery. Five years ago he could not have dreamed of spending so much money on something that had amounted to so little. It was a Yankee kind of thing to do.
But things were different now. So he read the letter over, put the pencil down, expelled a sigh like a gale from between his teeth, and crumpled the paper up one last time.
He tossed it in the bin with the rest.
It was three hours since the sun had burned out to the west like a lamp run dry on oil. Now his office was dark, lit only by the flame of an old lantern on his desk. Henry's eyes strained in its anemic light, and the motions of his hands sent shadows across the words he tried so desperately to write. He should have gone to fetch another source of light. He should have lit a candle. But he was too focused now–too deep into the rhythm of creativity to stir, not for light nor dinner nor to take a piss.
Sobs of rain drizzled down his window, fogging up the glass. Distantly beyond loomed the woodlands shrouded in a veil of white mist, mist that approached the plantation house like a bride closing in on the lips of her groom at the climax of a wedding. It was always overcast and gloomy in Virginia. Henry had forgotten about that, after fifteen years away; he had roped and wrangled steers from Baton Rouge to San Diego, dug pits for gold in Arizona and Colorado, twirled his six-shooters at the tail-ends of poker games gone bad in Wyoming, Oregon, Washington, and Idaho; in all those places it was dry. Warm. The sky was clear as the open range, and the air as crisp as the water from virgin wells.
This gloom was something different. It returned him to forgotten days in muddy fields, tilling soil that was fertile as scree, listening to stories about the goddamn Yankees and carpetbaggers and what it was like to spill blood for Robert E. Lee. When he'd wandered off from home at age 14, with two dollars and a stolen mule, he never thought he'd be back. Maybe for his own wake, if his mother could have spared the few dollars for a casket and open funeral. But it never would have occurred to him–never would have crossed his mind–that, one day, he would be the one sitting in a castle, a lantern on late at night, staring at silly little words on a slip of white paper.
He started over again.
Dear Mister Valentine
You will forgive me for writing for the second time this weak. You have met me and you know i am not a man of letters. But i have spoken again to Juliette and she is unflinching in her desire to proceed with our marriage. I know you do not approve of this arrangement. However i am willing to make an investment in your plantation to the degree of ten thousand dollars or more if you consent to this arrangement. we….
A sigh. He crumpled the paper up and tossed it out again.
He came on too strong. Too direct. Mr. Valentine was a gentleman of the highest order; he could not be persuaded with the charming forthrightness of a cowpuncher. It didn't help that his penmanship looked like the scribblings of a rabid fox.
Another paper…
Lightning flashed beyond the glass. The rivulets down its side caught the reflection of the light and sparkled with crystalline prisms in his eyes. It was at that precise moment, as he watched the brief illumination of the treetops past his estate's main gate–always left open, even at night–that his single lamp went out.
The last and final sigh.
Henry was left in total darkness. He tapped his pencil on the desk.
It was past 1am.
It was time to go to bed.
He stood up and stumbled to the door. The knob was cold to the touch. He twisted it and stepped without, into a dim corridor lit by a few lanterns along the walls. Sally always kept it bright enough to see at night. At first he thought it was a waste of money. He'd argued with her. Tried to persuade her otherwise.
She had pointed out that it cost less than five cents a day to light the house, and that he had fifteen million dollars down at the bank. But it still felt like a waste to him.
He walked slowly. Shoulders swaying. His suspenders hung loose at his thighs, and across his chest was a white cotton stand neck shirt. The high collar brushed against his jaw as he moved, but it was unbuttoned down his neck, until at heart-level the buttons stopped. It was a damp and cool night and he'd kept his sleeves rolled up all day. Still when he walked he missed the weight of his revolver at his hip; it was under his bed, hidden away, and though he knew he did not need it in this place, he felt its absence with each step.
Down the corridor. Past the staircase. He noticed in the foyer that the door was open; and seated on the porch, in the light of a bright lantern, was Sally knitting.
She had been born on this plantation, before the War, and she'd never left its acreage. She'd been in her fifties when Federal troops rolled up to the front door and said she could run free. And maybe she would have, as a younger woman, but she'd told them, "I'm near sixty years old; I ain't goin' nowhere free!"
So she'd stayed. That was fifteen years ago.
Henry had no romantic notions of what things were like before the War. He figured both sides were to blame, and although he would have fought for Virginia, he was happy he never had to. Seven hundred thousand dead–the Rebs could have stopped it all in an instant. But they hadn't. And for what?
Sally, who'd stayed anyway.
But that was an opinion he kept to himself. He knew it wouldn't make him popular. It had been hard, though, when he spotted Sally for the first time, beaming up at him in her gown, not to speak his mind. It seemed wrong that she still worked in this place. She should have gone somewhere new–anywhere she liked.
She had looked ancient then. She was in her mid-70s.
Whether she had respected her master, the old Colonel Baker, whose son sold this plantation to Henry last year, he didn't know. Henry didn't respect Colonel Baker much himself. But he loved Sally. She was the best assistant he could have hoped for–she knew every inch of the house, the property, and how to manage it.
He'd given her a thousand dollars for her personal use, and told her to spend whatever else she needed to to get the house back in order. What else was he going to do with the money?
"There's a whole lot you're gonna need if you want to run this place like Mr. Baker did," she told him. "Scullery cooks. Maids. Hands to pick the cotton. Cowboys like yourself for all them animals out back. But then there's still gonna be somethin' missin', even after all that."
Henry shook his head. He smiled at her slyly, and he said, "A valet?"
"No, not a valet! A woman! You think I can run all this property by myself, at age 118? You need to get yourself a wife! You're a gentleman now, Mr. Smith; get yourself a wife!"
He had blinked at her, shaken his head, and shrugged.
But he knew she was right.
Now he spotted her on the porch.
"Sally," he said. His voice was deep and resonant, a rich baritone, but he had a strong Virginian drawl, and every word was spoken softly. He was a huge man–6'3, and big everywhere–but he spoke like a gentle old geezer. "Is everythin' all right?"
Sally hummed. "Just watchin' the rain. Just watchin' the rain."
"Ain't it kinda late to watch the rain?"
"Ain't it kinda late to be mutterin' about Mr. Valentine in your study? Oh yes, I heard you all the way down here." She glanced back at him with a smile. "And that's 'isn't' for you, Mr. Smith. Are you a gentleman, or are you a cowpoke?"
"I reckon I'll be both for a while yet," Henry said with a smile. Sally had been around Southern gentlemen her whole life, and she was doing her best to teach a thing or two to Henry. As far as chivalry went, he had it down pat–but he wasn't much for speaking. Or writing. Or reading. It was his preference to listen without being heard; he had a laconic manner about him. "And some other things, too." He ran a hand down his chest. "Goodnight, Sally. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Goodnight, Mr. Smith."
He didn't know what he would do when she was gone. He needed a wife to take her place.
There was a wife he had in mind.
He was tired and thirsty as he stepped to the master bedroom's door. Visions of Juliette played behind his eyes. That pale skin. The slender figure in her gowns. Hair, like nothing he'd seen out West. Henry had met so many women on the frontier, but he'd never spotted one half so pretty as Juliette. She was a kind of rose that bloomed only in society like this.
…or, she looked like one. She didn't quite act the part. But that was why he adored her. She was like the West, in the East.
He cracked the door open.
Lightning crashed. The window at the end of the room was illuminated. Suddenly Henry heard a rush of wind, and the roar of thunder followed; and in the moment of light, he spotted a shape, sopping wet, at the foot of his bed, while the curtains around the window Henry in a harsh wind.
A robber. A burglar. Henry reached for his revolver, but it wasn't there; he glanced to the chest at the queen bed's foot, and he almost lunged for it–
When he realized that this burglar was the slenderest and most petite villain he'd ever seen.
It wasn't a burglar at all.
Henry grabbed a lantern off the wall and stepped inside, closing the door behind him swiftly.
"Juliette," he whispered. "You lost?"
The water was bluer than the sky. All around the lake sat fields of rock, where between fractured boulders sprouted yellowing trees that gazed Narcissus-like into their own reflections, and in the deep, flawless, crystalline stillness of the surface, a surface so glacial and glazed that it might have been solid enough to walk across, the cool liquid still somehow looked more refreshing, more delicious in the humid and mosquito-buzzed air, than a downpour of ten thousand dollars' worth of merlot. Mr. Fredrick had never been to Europe, but he knew instinctively that such water did not exist there. It couldn't. Only in America was such a thing to be found.
He let Mary Todd take a long drink. Except the horse's watering, he heard nothing but the ringing that always hung distantly in his ears. He wondered, sometimes, if all men heard the noisy nothingness that kept him company on long journeys, when he said nothing and saw no one for days or weeks except Mary Todd, or if it was a consequence of a youth spent dodging artillery and shooting at Graybacks. He supposed it would be easy enough to ask and find out. He never did anyway.
For a while he leaned on his horse and watched the sun's reflection. It was fall, and while it wasn't quite cold yet through his jacket, he knew it would be come nighttime. But the cold didn't concern him. Instead he savored the calm while he knew it would last.
A carbine was pulled from the sheath at his saddle. It was a Spencer, 1860 model. When he was fighting men he had always preferred the speed of the Henry, and the newer Winchester, but they didn't pack the same punch as the Spencer. Punch was what he needed these days.
It was loaded already, but he checked the magazine just in case, assuring himself that it was feeding correctly, and then that his Blakely tubes were ready to go. They were.
Next was his revolver. Newer. A Smith & Wesson Model 3. The most amazing gun he'd ever owned. He popped the topbreak and saw five loaded cartridges.
He loaded full to six and placed it back in his holster.
Then he drew his second revolver, kept in a second holster near his left thigh with the grip pointed forward. It was a Beaumont-Adams double action, a cap-and-ball. A beautiful gun, his favorite during the War, but compared to the Smith & Wesson it seemed like a sword now. But it still had its purpose.
He'd loaded it last night, but now he capped all five cylinders with percussion caps and holstered it again. With luck he wouldn't need to use it. It was more expensive to fire than all his other weapons put together. But he would, if he had to.
It was loaded with five silver bullets.
With his weapons squared away he took Mary Todd by the reins and tugged her from the lake. The beauty of the scene disintegrated behind him, and his attention returned to the trail he had been chasing.
Sightseeing was not why he had come. He was here for a very bad man, if it was a man at all; and he saw its tracks leading off into the falling-leafed woods.
Sure enough, like the turning of a Swiss watch, the cold descended with the passing of dusk. "Come on, girl," he said.
Onward he pressed into the near-frosting woods. The moon was out but shrouded behind the branches in bars across the canopy. Shadows passed over Mr. Fredrick like he was in a cell and the jailer was walking past with a lantern in-hand. He kept his eyes on the ground, following the path left out for him through the detritus with a calm and steady heart.
It wasn't much. An overturned stone. A bare footprint in the fallen leaves. An impression in mud, now sprinkled over with frost. But it was enough. His quarry moved quickly–he left a sloppy trail. Now it was night, and he expected him–it–to be on the move again.
Mr. Fredrick had followed it for two hundred miles into the mountains, all the way from a town called Coyote–where a young woman had been slaughtered like a cow in her bedroom while her parents were away. The marshal thought it was a bear. Mr. Fredrick knew better. He promised he'd take care of it and set off into the mountains.
It had taken her heart and left the rest.
From the way it moved he gathered it was on the prowl for another victim. It feared the highways, moving deep into harsh, mountainous terrain even when it didn't have to. It was looking for someone. Compulsively. Like a frenzied dog with a scent of prey in its nostrils.
Over the last six years Mr. Fredrick had seen this behavior before. It was archetypical. He recognized the scene of the murder in town and the malformed footprints left out for him in the night. The creature was an abomination–a man perverted by dark sorceries, driven to madness, his body twisted and his desires consumed by cannibalistic urges. The manner of the corruption varied, always a different source, but Mr. Fredrick was certain this was what he dealt with now.
And as he followed the trail, he made up his mind to take this abomination alive, for however teary-eyed the parents of that poor girl in Coyote were, Mr. Fredrick also knew a monster like this would not seek out the heart of any mundane girl. There were monstrosities in America that fed on virgins, more than could be counted, but not this thing: this was a being attracted by dark magic.
Its first victim was not so innocent. She had experimented with things she shouldn't have, and it had cost her her life. Now, Mr. Fredrick wondered, who its next target might be. It was someone he wanted to meet.
The trail terminated abruptly. The last track disappeared at the base of a cliff that blocked out the moon. Mr. Fredrick hitched Mary Todd to a tree and drew his Spencer.
The gunmetal was freezing to the touch.
He looked upward.
Clawmarks scored a trunk at eye-level. At first he didn't notice, but he had lived a lifetime out of doors and even at night he noticed anything out of place in moments. It could have been a bear…
He followed a line through the woods. Checking the trees as he went. He spotted another striation on a trunk ten feet farther off, then another, each getting higher than the last, and briefly he considered retrieving his lantern from Mary Todd's saddlebags–but there was no time for that. Why take to the trees unless the abomination feared itself getting caught? It must have seen him and picked up the pace and, reaching a dead-end, panicked, and…
Mr. Fredrick almost missed it. He walked as quietly as he could, but even though the night was bright he misstepped and found his boot through a rotten log, and often twigs snapped underfoot. His eyes kept toward the canopy, scanning the branches, and he walked slowly, but after an hour of parsing the woods, he lost any sign. The abomination had evaded him. He'd taken too long by the lake.
He turned.
There it was.
On a high branch in a tall tree, perched and squatted like a cougar, it stared down at him. It was hunch-backed and cat-eyed and naked. Its hands and feet were the hands and feet of a man, but they had grown long, gnarled, and clawed. Its face was loathsome and twisted, but when it saw Mr. Fredrick, it made no expression. It stared, like an owl, hoping he might still go away.
Mr. Fredrick was not immune to fear. He was expecting a creature much like this one, but still to see it there, behind him, waiting, in a place where it could have dropped down, robbed him of his voice. Often he still found it was the pitiful creatures, the vile, twisted ones, not the ones that fought back, that most unnerved him. Yet still he tipped his gambler's hat.
"Howdy," he said. His voice was gruff and baritone.
The abomination bolted. Like the sound of his voice was a gunshot, it darted lemur-like through the trees. It was no ape and its dexterity did it little credit, but it had motivation in spades. It swung on one branch and jumped to another tree, but missed the next. It fell to the ground with a dull leafy crash and righted itself and began its flight deep into the mountaintop woods.
Mr. Fredrick raised the Spencer carbine and aimed for a leg. A long time passed between when he pulled the trigger and when he saw impact; but when he did, the abomination toppled over to the ground.
It began to shriek.
"No!" it protested, "not me! It wasn't me! Leave me be!"
Its right ankle was torn most of the way off, but it still made the effort to crawl away. Mr. Fredrick put a boot on its torso.
"No!" it said again. "Never hurt you! Never wanted to hurt you!"
"Stop," Mr. Fredrick said.
"Never hurt! Let me go! Please, I promise, I have to go–please–"
He fired off a shot near its head. Again he said, "Stop."
This time the abomination obeyed. It looked up at him with real fear in its eyes. It was a pitiful creature. Its once-human teeth had twisted in rows of fangs. Its eyes were red like an albino's. Its hair was wispy and thin. It flailed at Mr. Fredrick weakly, but more pressure on the heel deterred it.
"The girl in Coyote," he said.
"What girl? I never hurt a girl!" the abomination groveled.
"Blonde. Welsh. Pretty."
For a brief moment the abomination smiled. It seemed to remember something, and its facade of innocence faded. The abomination no longer was a man; it only remembered, distantly, how it once felt to have feelings, to possess empathy, and to care for anything other than itself. But when it remembered what it was supposed to be, that it was supposed to invoke pity in order to survive, it knew how to play the part.
"I would never hurt a girl! Never! Never!"
Mr. Fredrick shot it in the torso. The abomination howled in pain, but it didn't die. The Spencer couldn't kill it–not in the sense that a man could die.
"You ate her heart," he growled.
"I didn't! I didn't!" it was crying now, "I promise to God I didn't!"
"Listen. I'm not interested in her. You're after someone else, aren't you? Who is he?"
"No! I'm not after anyone!"
He shot it again. "No one comes this way for fun. Who is he?"
A howl of pain. "No one," it said, now crying.
Once more. "Who? Tell me, I'll let you go."
The abomination burst into tears. It rolled onto its stomach and sobbed into its arm. "William!" it cried. "William! The girl had the scent of William!"
Mr. Fredrick kneeled down beside the abomination. "Why William?"
"Everyone knows of William! The death-tinged! The one with the red mark! The scent of rot pervades him! He's mine now! You can't take him from me! Now go! You promised, you promised you would let me go!"
His curiosity was piqued. "Tell me more."
"No! He's mine! You can't have him!"
"Where can I find him?"
"No!"
Mr. Fredrick ran the lever action on the Spencer. It was slow and clumsy, requiring the weapon to be tilted upward and the hammer to be cocked manually thereafter. But the noise was enough to encourage the abomination to talk.
"No! The Slaughtered Calf! That was where she saw him! The Slaughtered Calf! Please, you promised! Let me go! Let me go!"
Mr. Fredrick stood. He dropped the Spencer's hammer and hung the carbine around his shoulder. As he did, the abomination began to rave:
"You can't take him from me! His heart–like hers–it's mine! I found him! Me! No! He's mine! You can't have him! I found him! I want him all to myself!" By the end it was in a fit of sobbing, out of control, hardly intelligible. But he did make out the words, chanted, "Let me go, let me go–you promised to let me go!"
Mr. Fredrick drew his Beaumont-Adams revolver. He didn't bother saying anything as he pulled back the hammer and fired once into the abomination's head. The silver bullet, loaded custom with a paper cartridge, silenced the monstrosity in an instant. Smoke trailed toward the moon as the echo passed through the trees.
He holstered the revolver and headed back toward his horse.
William the death-tinged, the one with the red mark at the Slaughtered Calf. Mr. Fredrick knew the inn. It was deep in the mountains, another fifty miles into the Rockies, at the top of a tall hill with nothing around for–well, about fifty miles. Anyone who drew the attention of a creature like this had his interest, but he had no idea what 'death-tinged' was supposed to mean–nor what the abomination had meant by 'everyone knows him.' But he wanted to find out. He wanted to meet this William. He guessed he would be an Indian, or some purveyor of curses–a necromancer, maybe, experimenting with ancient books of the dead. Someone, in any case, Mr. Fredrick would like to have a word with.
Of course, he had to wonder if the abomination could be believed at all. Only time would tell.
It wasn't much to go off of. And he doubted William would still be there by the time he arrived. But it was the only lead he had, and with the affair of the murderer of Coyote settled, he had nothing else to pursue. So he set off toward the Slaughtered Calf Inn.
He let Mary Todd take a long drink. Except the horse's watering, he heard nothing but the ringing that always hung distantly in his ears. He wondered, sometimes, if all men heard the noisy nothingness that kept him company on long journeys, when he said nothing and saw no one for days or weeks except Mary Todd, or if it was a consequence of a youth spent dodging artillery and shooting at Graybacks. He supposed it would be easy enough to ask and find out. He never did anyway.
For a while he leaned on his horse and watched the sun's reflection. It was fall, and while it wasn't quite cold yet through his jacket, he knew it would be come nighttime. But the cold didn't concern him. Instead he savored the calm while he knew it would last.
A carbine was pulled from the sheath at his saddle. It was a Spencer, 1860 model. When he was fighting men he had always preferred the speed of the Henry, and the newer Winchester, but they didn't pack the same punch as the Spencer. Punch was what he needed these days.
It was loaded already, but he checked the magazine just in case, assuring himself that it was feeding correctly, and then that his Blakely tubes were ready to go. They were.
Next was his revolver. Newer. A Smith & Wesson Model 3. The most amazing gun he'd ever owned. He popped the topbreak and saw five loaded cartridges.
He loaded full to six and placed it back in his holster.
Then he drew his second revolver, kept in a second holster near his left thigh with the grip pointed forward. It was a Beaumont-Adams double action, a cap-and-ball. A beautiful gun, his favorite during the War, but compared to the Smith & Wesson it seemed like a sword now. But it still had its purpose.
He'd loaded it last night, but now he capped all five cylinders with percussion caps and holstered it again. With luck he wouldn't need to use it. It was more expensive to fire than all his other weapons put together. But he would, if he had to.
It was loaded with five silver bullets.
With his weapons squared away he took Mary Todd by the reins and tugged her from the lake. The beauty of the scene disintegrated behind him, and his attention returned to the trail he had been chasing.
Sightseeing was not why he had come. He was here for a very bad man, if it was a man at all; and he saw its tracks leading off into the falling-leafed woods.
Sure enough, like the turning of a Swiss watch, the cold descended with the passing of dusk. "Come on, girl," he said.
Onward he pressed into the near-frosting woods. The moon was out but shrouded behind the branches in bars across the canopy. Shadows passed over Mr. Fredrick like he was in a cell and the jailer was walking past with a lantern in-hand. He kept his eyes on the ground, following the path left out for him through the detritus with a calm and steady heart.
It wasn't much. An overturned stone. A bare footprint in the fallen leaves. An impression in mud, now sprinkled over with frost. But it was enough. His quarry moved quickly–he left a sloppy trail. Now it was night, and he expected him–it–to be on the move again.
Mr. Fredrick had followed it for two hundred miles into the mountains, all the way from a town called Coyote–where a young woman had been slaughtered like a cow in her bedroom while her parents were away. The marshal thought it was a bear. Mr. Fredrick knew better. He promised he'd take care of it and set off into the mountains.
It had taken her heart and left the rest.
From the way it moved he gathered it was on the prowl for another victim. It feared the highways, moving deep into harsh, mountainous terrain even when it didn't have to. It was looking for someone. Compulsively. Like a frenzied dog with a scent of prey in its nostrils.
Over the last six years Mr. Fredrick had seen this behavior before. It was archetypical. He recognized the scene of the murder in town and the malformed footprints left out for him in the night. The creature was an abomination–a man perverted by dark sorceries, driven to madness, his body twisted and his desires consumed by cannibalistic urges. The manner of the corruption varied, always a different source, but Mr. Fredrick was certain this was what he dealt with now.
And as he followed the trail, he made up his mind to take this abomination alive, for however teary-eyed the parents of that poor girl in Coyote were, Mr. Fredrick also knew a monster like this would not seek out the heart of any mundane girl. There were monstrosities in America that fed on virgins, more than could be counted, but not this thing: this was a being attracted by dark magic.
Its first victim was not so innocent. She had experimented with things she shouldn't have, and it had cost her her life. Now, Mr. Fredrick wondered, who its next target might be. It was someone he wanted to meet.
The trail terminated abruptly. The last track disappeared at the base of a cliff that blocked out the moon. Mr. Fredrick hitched Mary Todd to a tree and drew his Spencer.
The gunmetal was freezing to the touch.
He looked upward.
Clawmarks scored a trunk at eye-level. At first he didn't notice, but he had lived a lifetime out of doors and even at night he noticed anything out of place in moments. It could have been a bear…
He followed a line through the woods. Checking the trees as he went. He spotted another striation on a trunk ten feet farther off, then another, each getting higher than the last, and briefly he considered retrieving his lantern from Mary Todd's saddlebags–but there was no time for that. Why take to the trees unless the abomination feared itself getting caught? It must have seen him and picked up the pace and, reaching a dead-end, panicked, and…
Mr. Fredrick almost missed it. He walked as quietly as he could, but even though the night was bright he misstepped and found his boot through a rotten log, and often twigs snapped underfoot. His eyes kept toward the canopy, scanning the branches, and he walked slowly, but after an hour of parsing the woods, he lost any sign. The abomination had evaded him. He'd taken too long by the lake.
He turned.
There it was.
On a high branch in a tall tree, perched and squatted like a cougar, it stared down at him. It was hunch-backed and cat-eyed and naked. Its hands and feet were the hands and feet of a man, but they had grown long, gnarled, and clawed. Its face was loathsome and twisted, but when it saw Mr. Fredrick, it made no expression. It stared, like an owl, hoping he might still go away.
Mr. Fredrick was not immune to fear. He was expecting a creature much like this one, but still to see it there, behind him, waiting, in a place where it could have dropped down, robbed him of his voice. Often he still found it was the pitiful creatures, the vile, twisted ones, not the ones that fought back, that most unnerved him. Yet still he tipped his gambler's hat.
"Howdy," he said. His voice was gruff and baritone.
The abomination bolted. Like the sound of his voice was a gunshot, it darted lemur-like through the trees. It was no ape and its dexterity did it little credit, but it had motivation in spades. It swung on one branch and jumped to another tree, but missed the next. It fell to the ground with a dull leafy crash and righted itself and began its flight deep into the mountaintop woods.
Mr. Fredrick raised the Spencer carbine and aimed for a leg. A long time passed between when he pulled the trigger and when he saw impact; but when he did, the abomination toppled over to the ground.
It began to shriek.
"No!" it protested, "not me! It wasn't me! Leave me be!"
Its right ankle was torn most of the way off, but it still made the effort to crawl away. Mr. Fredrick put a boot on its torso.
"No!" it said again. "Never hurt you! Never wanted to hurt you!"
"Stop," Mr. Fredrick said.
"Never hurt! Let me go! Please, I promise, I have to go–please–"
He fired off a shot near its head. Again he said, "Stop."
This time the abomination obeyed. It looked up at him with real fear in its eyes. It was a pitiful creature. Its once-human teeth had twisted in rows of fangs. Its eyes were red like an albino's. Its hair was wispy and thin. It flailed at Mr. Fredrick weakly, but more pressure on the heel deterred it.
"The girl in Coyote," he said.
"What girl? I never hurt a girl!" the abomination groveled.
"Blonde. Welsh. Pretty."
For a brief moment the abomination smiled. It seemed to remember something, and its facade of innocence faded. The abomination no longer was a man; it only remembered, distantly, how it once felt to have feelings, to possess empathy, and to care for anything other than itself. But when it remembered what it was supposed to be, that it was supposed to invoke pity in order to survive, it knew how to play the part.
"I would never hurt a girl! Never! Never!"
Mr. Fredrick shot it in the torso. The abomination howled in pain, but it didn't die. The Spencer couldn't kill it–not in the sense that a man could die.
"You ate her heart," he growled.
"I didn't! I didn't!" it was crying now, "I promise to God I didn't!"
"Listen. I'm not interested in her. You're after someone else, aren't you? Who is he?"
"No! I'm not after anyone!"
He shot it again. "No one comes this way for fun. Who is he?"
A howl of pain. "No one," it said, now crying.
Once more. "Who? Tell me, I'll let you go."
The abomination burst into tears. It rolled onto its stomach and sobbed into its arm. "William!" it cried. "William! The girl had the scent of William!"
Mr. Fredrick kneeled down beside the abomination. "Why William?"
"Everyone knows of William! The death-tinged! The one with the red mark! The scent of rot pervades him! He's mine now! You can't take him from me! Now go! You promised, you promised you would let me go!"
His curiosity was piqued. "Tell me more."
"No! He's mine! You can't have him!"
"Where can I find him?"
"No!"
Mr. Fredrick ran the lever action on the Spencer. It was slow and clumsy, requiring the weapon to be tilted upward and the hammer to be cocked manually thereafter. But the noise was enough to encourage the abomination to talk.
"No! The Slaughtered Calf! That was where she saw him! The Slaughtered Calf! Please, you promised! Let me go! Let me go!"
Mr. Fredrick stood. He dropped the Spencer's hammer and hung the carbine around his shoulder. As he did, the abomination began to rave:
"You can't take him from me! His heart–like hers–it's mine! I found him! Me! No! He's mine! You can't have him! I found him! I want him all to myself!" By the end it was in a fit of sobbing, out of control, hardly intelligible. But he did make out the words, chanted, "Let me go, let me go–you promised to let me go!"
Mr. Fredrick drew his Beaumont-Adams revolver. He didn't bother saying anything as he pulled back the hammer and fired once into the abomination's head. The silver bullet, loaded custom with a paper cartridge, silenced the monstrosity in an instant. Smoke trailed toward the moon as the echo passed through the trees.
He holstered the revolver and headed back toward his horse.
William the death-tinged, the one with the red mark at the Slaughtered Calf. Mr. Fredrick knew the inn. It was deep in the mountains, another fifty miles into the Rockies, at the top of a tall hill with nothing around for–well, about fifty miles. Anyone who drew the attention of a creature like this had his interest, but he had no idea what 'death-tinged' was supposed to mean–nor what the abomination had meant by 'everyone knows him.' But he wanted to find out. He wanted to meet this William. He guessed he would be an Indian, or some purveyor of curses–a necromancer, maybe, experimenting with ancient books of the dead. Someone, in any case, Mr. Fredrick would like to have a word with.
Of course, he had to wonder if the abomination could be believed at all. Only time would tell.
It wasn't much to go off of. And he doubted William would still be there by the time he arrived. But it was the only lead he had, and with the affair of the murderer of Coyote settled, he had nothing else to pursue. So he set off toward the Slaughtered Calf Inn.
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