Sulfur Lungs
The Mining Township of Halifax
Somewhere, Outer Rim
The cantina band wouldn't be arriving for another hour, which made the ambience in the establishment quiet enough to let Ives think. He sipped at his drink. He didn't remember ordering it, the bartender had set it down, but he didn't dislike the taste. Acrid, strong. Helped him focus.
Six new cases since yesterday. Ten fatalities yesterday, four reported missing. Twenty-eight total for the death toll so far. The number of infected he estimated to be in the dozens.
"You countin'?" Someone next to Ives spoke.
A bearded gentleman, hairs already turning white though he seemed in good health, had stopped by the bar to collect his drink. His eyes were milky white, though a faint blue circle outline an iris.
"Yeah?" Ives said.
"Counting the wrong things," the man continued. "What's a sinew know of a body? It's not the number of folk in a town that make it."
With that, the man left. He walked through the crowd, stopping by tables and saying more weird cryptic things. No one particularly seemed to mind the man, in fact some even exchanged pleasantries with him. He did his pass around the cantina and eventually sat down alone in a chair by the wall.
"What the fu...?" Ives muttered to himself, but he had more pressing headaches to attend to than a delusional stranger.
He chalked it up to the scent of ash in the air. It was the fourth day with no rhyme or reason to the outbreak, and cracks in the township's calm facade were starting to show. It was like a taut piece of rope where the fibres were frayed and threatening to pull apart.
---
At a table close-by yet unrelated to Ives, a miner put down a crystal he'd pulled from the earth that morning.
Another at the table whistled.
"One o' them power rocks, eh? Bet that red gold'll triple the moisture output on m' farm. I call!"
"I got more of them where this one came from, don't 'cha worry," the miner pushed all his chips into the middle. "All in!"
---
The sip Ives took from his drink felt off. Coppery, bitter. Had he bit his tongue? He set the glass down. It was still a clear orange. He wasn't just imagining it, though. The air had the distinct scent of copper to it, but when he looked around he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.
The old man still sat there sipping his drink. Miners were huddled around their tables decompressing from their shifts. And the folk at the cards table were celebrating or bemoaning their luck in the latest round.
Ives sniffed the air, then frowned.
"Anyone else smell copper?"
Open to: Force Users, though anyone's welcome really. Forcers just have the easiest buy-in.
Tone: Weird Western / Occult Horror
// I'm doing a little exploration of Ives' emerging relationship with the Force. No prior knowledge required. Hoping for some character-focus with a background plot, but open to anything.
Come for the strange town, stay for whatever the hell is wrong with it.
Somewhere, Outer Rim
The cantina band wouldn't be arriving for another hour, which made the ambience in the establishment quiet enough to let Ives think. He sipped at his drink. He didn't remember ordering it, the bartender had set it down, but he didn't dislike the taste. Acrid, strong. Helped him focus.
Six new cases since yesterday. Ten fatalities yesterday, four reported missing. Twenty-eight total for the death toll so far. The number of infected he estimated to be in the dozens.
"You countin'?" Someone next to Ives spoke.
A bearded gentleman, hairs already turning white though he seemed in good health, had stopped by the bar to collect his drink. His eyes were milky white, though a faint blue circle outline an iris.
"Yeah?" Ives said.
"Counting the wrong things," the man continued. "What's a sinew know of a body? It's not the number of folk in a town that make it."
With that, the man left. He walked through the crowd, stopping by tables and saying more weird cryptic things. No one particularly seemed to mind the man, in fact some even exchanged pleasantries with him. He did his pass around the cantina and eventually sat down alone in a chair by the wall.
"What the fu...?" Ives muttered to himself, but he had more pressing headaches to attend to than a delusional stranger.
He chalked it up to the scent of ash in the air. It was the fourth day with no rhyme or reason to the outbreak, and cracks in the township's calm facade were starting to show. It was like a taut piece of rope where the fibres were frayed and threatening to pull apart.
---
At a table close-by yet unrelated to Ives, a miner put down a crystal he'd pulled from the earth that morning.
Another at the table whistled.
"One o' them power rocks, eh? Bet that red gold'll triple the moisture output on m' farm. I call!"
"I got more of them where this one came from, don't 'cha worry," the miner pushed all his chips into the middle. "All in!"
---
The sip Ives took from his drink felt off. Coppery, bitter. Had he bit his tongue? He set the glass down. It was still a clear orange. He wasn't just imagining it, though. The air had the distinct scent of copper to it, but when he looked around he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.
The old man still sat there sipping his drink. Miners were huddled around their tables decompressing from their shifts. And the folk at the cards table were celebrating or bemoaning their luck in the latest round.
Ives sniffed the air, then frowned.
"Anyone else smell copper?"
Open to: Force Users, though anyone's welcome really. Forcers just have the easiest buy-in.
Tone: Weird Western / Occult Horror
// I'm doing a little exploration of Ives' emerging relationship with the Force. No prior knowledge required. Hoping for some character-focus with a background plot, but open to anything.
Come for the strange town, stay for whatever the hell is wrong with it.