William Gray
09-19-06, 08:30 AM
(Open to two.)
If nothing else, the trains were free. At least they were if you hopped over the metal railings on the side of one of the transport cars, most of which were open to the air and stacked high with heavy logs. William watched the forest pass by, looked at the dry yellow grass next to the tracks, brutally hacked down by chain gangs under the hawk-like watch of harsh taskmasters. Behind William lay some minor criminal, unconscious, hands bound together with rough twine. The flesh on his palms had turned bright red. His name was Peter Fish. It'd taken William almost two weeks to track him down. He hadn't gone far, and capturing him was relatively simple.
The problem with bounty hunting in this region of Corone was that many of the necessary tasks associated with it were illegal. If you had a license (as William did), you could bag your target---but only your target. The license didn't grant the contractor freedom to threaten or fight with anyone else. It didn't grant him an exception from any laws. Especially assault or disturbing the peace. Presenting your license after brawling it out with a pack of bodyguards was more likely to get your license yanked than off the hook. This legal morass made the job nearly impossible at times, but it also kept idiots from staying in the business. Nobody could run a hunt without using violence and possibly extortion, but those who made the cut knew what they were doing and how to get away with it. Error often led to temporary imprisonment at the least.
With a piercing whistle, the train announced its entrance into Suffolk city limits. Ramshackle huts and abandoned farm equipment came into sight, passed by, the broken woods giving way to fallow fields and dirt roads. Metal trailers covered in rust glared at the train tracks with shattered glass eyes. As the train began to slow down, William pushed the unconscious body of Peter Fish off the flatcar and leapt down, absorbing the shock with a grunt when he hit the ground. He checked Peter's pulse, still strong, and then dragged him several hundred feet to a copse of petrified trees, stopping several times on the way to catch his breath. Taking some extra rope out of his pack, he tied the man up more tightly and shoved the shallowly breathing body into a hollow under one of the gray trees. He checked to make sure no one had been watching, then jogged towards town.
On the outskirts of Suffolk was the Dog and Servant, a dirty little plywood tavern with three stories of rooms over the bar, open to hookers, travelers, and long-term residents alike. William Gray was of the lattermost variety, and he, like several others, operated his independent contracting business out of this building. The proprietor was a haggard man with a narrow face and broken teeth called Geoff. Geoff had connections with local law enforcement and often served as a liaison between contractors such as William and the town guard. William knew him well, and Geoff was even willing to do a favor now and then.
Within a half hour, William and Geoff arrived back at the copse of petrified trees and began to drag the unconscious body of Peter Fish back towards the Dog and Servant. The sheriff of the town guard, Danziger, had been alerted and would doubtlessly have sent a few deputies to pick up Fish at the tavern, as well as to pay William the bounty fee.
“Hot,” William grunted.
“What are you up to next, Bill?” Geoff asked, sweat on his brow. “Danziger’s got a special job. Told me yesterday.”
“What kind of job?” The sun was beginning to set.
“You’ll have to ask him, I guess,” he said. “He’ll be at the Dog and Servant tonight around eight.”
If nothing else, the trains were free. At least they were if you hopped over the metal railings on the side of one of the transport cars, most of which were open to the air and stacked high with heavy logs. William watched the forest pass by, looked at the dry yellow grass next to the tracks, brutally hacked down by chain gangs under the hawk-like watch of harsh taskmasters. Behind William lay some minor criminal, unconscious, hands bound together with rough twine. The flesh on his palms had turned bright red. His name was Peter Fish. It'd taken William almost two weeks to track him down. He hadn't gone far, and capturing him was relatively simple.
The problem with bounty hunting in this region of Corone was that many of the necessary tasks associated with it were illegal. If you had a license (as William did), you could bag your target---but only your target. The license didn't grant the contractor freedom to threaten or fight with anyone else. It didn't grant him an exception from any laws. Especially assault or disturbing the peace. Presenting your license after brawling it out with a pack of bodyguards was more likely to get your license yanked than off the hook. This legal morass made the job nearly impossible at times, but it also kept idiots from staying in the business. Nobody could run a hunt without using violence and possibly extortion, but those who made the cut knew what they were doing and how to get away with it. Error often led to temporary imprisonment at the least.
With a piercing whistle, the train announced its entrance into Suffolk city limits. Ramshackle huts and abandoned farm equipment came into sight, passed by, the broken woods giving way to fallow fields and dirt roads. Metal trailers covered in rust glared at the train tracks with shattered glass eyes. As the train began to slow down, William pushed the unconscious body of Peter Fish off the flatcar and leapt down, absorbing the shock with a grunt when he hit the ground. He checked Peter's pulse, still strong, and then dragged him several hundred feet to a copse of petrified trees, stopping several times on the way to catch his breath. Taking some extra rope out of his pack, he tied the man up more tightly and shoved the shallowly breathing body into a hollow under one of the gray trees. He checked to make sure no one had been watching, then jogged towards town.
On the outskirts of Suffolk was the Dog and Servant, a dirty little plywood tavern with three stories of rooms over the bar, open to hookers, travelers, and long-term residents alike. William Gray was of the lattermost variety, and he, like several others, operated his independent contracting business out of this building. The proprietor was a haggard man with a narrow face and broken teeth called Geoff. Geoff had connections with local law enforcement and often served as a liaison between contractors such as William and the town guard. William knew him well, and Geoff was even willing to do a favor now and then.
Within a half hour, William and Geoff arrived back at the copse of petrified trees and began to drag the unconscious body of Peter Fish back towards the Dog and Servant. The sheriff of the town guard, Danziger, had been alerted and would doubtlessly have sent a few deputies to pick up Fish at the tavern, as well as to pay William the bounty fee.
“Hot,” William grunted.
“What are you up to next, Bill?” Geoff asked, sweat on his brow. “Danziger’s got a special job. Told me yesterday.”
“What kind of job?” The sun was beginning to set.
“You’ll have to ask him, I guess,” he said. “He’ll be at the Dog and Servant tonight around eight.”