DormantEvil
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Feb 5, 2009
- Posts
- 2,189
A Family Friend, A Favor
[Request: I am looking for a literate male to play the part of the family friend. Details on what this man is like are below. Anything not said is up to you. Think Clint Eastwood type of soul, the rough around the edges yet morally just sort.
Keep reading if you are interested so far, if not, sorry if this doesn't fit your character. PM me anyway, so far this is only a one on one, but with enough interest could be a group RP.]
Story so far...
A portion of the original Cherokee Outlet was opened by land run in 1893. This opening was the fourth, and largest, of Oklahoma's five land runs. According to President Cleveland, " The Run " would take place at 12 o'clock noon on September 16, 1893. Oral tradition claims that a nervous soldier accidentally discharged his gun at 11:55 a.m. and the race was on! By horse, train, wagon and on foot more than 100,000 land hungry pioneers raced for 40,000 homesteads and the valuable town lots available in the Cherokee Outlet Land Opening. Immigrants from almost every area of the United States and many foreign countries took part in this epic event.
That was how my father claimed the bountiful rolling plains and a small yet pristine creek that made up just over one hundred acres of land. It was seen as a key homestead location and several riders had made off in its direction straight away. My father told stories of how he had fought off two men and placed the claim marker with only seconds to spare. And so started the animosity against our family.
He had decided several months earlier to race alongside his good friend, as stories of men getting shot during the race, or stabbed, beaten or outright murdered had spread by now. Everyone knew the stakes, but they also knew that land was running out.
My mother was ill, and had stayed in the city, with my two brothers and little sister. But after the claim was registered and confirmed, and the dust had settled, we were sent for. I was only five at the time. My brothers ten and nine, my little sister only an infant.
We had fenced that land, built a barn and homestead, and watched the town spring forth from bare earth. Cattle was our bread winner, and mother began a school teacher the moment the white school house was erected. Life was a constant battle, but we were wealthy, and compared to some of the less fortunate we counted ourselves lucky. To the point of praying to the Good Lord before each meal.
However, like all stories there are dark clouds to marr its beauty. From the very beginning my father fought with neighboring families. The Stark's to the East, and the Markson's to the South East. Both had been claimed by men who had their eyes set on our land. Both were sour because of it.
I watched my mother grow frail from her illness, and she sadly passed away not one year back. My father was grief stricken, but he worked on. My brothers, helped around the farm and I took over mothers duties in relation to the house chores and cooking. I'd even recently began teaching at the school.
As a young woman life is scarred by loss and pain, but nothing compared to the murder of my father. Having been drinking one night at the saloon, one of Markson's guns had shot him down. Soon after that my eldest brother was found drowned in the creek, spur marks to his back. Since then I have sent a telegram to the only man I believe can save my remaining brother from harm.
I fear that each day brings the Reaper one step closer for us all, and that any night we could be forced from our home. Already we have fired at men on horseback, throwing flaming torches in the stables at night. It's only a matter of time.
The telegram was sent three weeks ago. No word has come yet. This morning I found Thomas hung from a tree near the Stark boundary, the wagon of supplies torn asunder and ruined, smoldering.
Today I sit with Maggie, now becoming a young woman herself at fourteen, who sings one of mothers songs whilst making dinner, a rifle on the table and horses tied out back in case we need to flee. I know there is nothing keeping Stark or Markson men from taking my families land now.
Maybe by morning an old friend will appear. I have long since given up trying to get the townspeople to help us. Word has it that the law is in Stark pockets, and deep.
I was five the last time I saw him, a strikingly handsome man in his mid twenties. But that was twelve years ago and time changed people a lot. He could be dead, who knows.
Little did I know that the man had taken to the profession of gunslinger down south, and that the telegram had reached him, albeit a little late. He was alive, but now he carried several scars, his stubble rough and his skin tanned from hours spent in the sun. Fingers calloused from days holding reigns, and shooters smelling of gunpowder.
[Request: I am looking for a literate male to play the part of the family friend. Details on what this man is like are below. Anything not said is up to you. Think Clint Eastwood type of soul, the rough around the edges yet morally just sort.
Keep reading if you are interested so far, if not, sorry if this doesn't fit your character. PM me anyway, so far this is only a one on one, but with enough interest could be a group RP.]
Story so far...
A portion of the original Cherokee Outlet was opened by land run in 1893. This opening was the fourth, and largest, of Oklahoma's five land runs. According to President Cleveland, " The Run " would take place at 12 o'clock noon on September 16, 1893. Oral tradition claims that a nervous soldier accidentally discharged his gun at 11:55 a.m. and the race was on! By horse, train, wagon and on foot more than 100,000 land hungry pioneers raced for 40,000 homesteads and the valuable town lots available in the Cherokee Outlet Land Opening. Immigrants from almost every area of the United States and many foreign countries took part in this epic event.
That was how my father claimed the bountiful rolling plains and a small yet pristine creek that made up just over one hundred acres of land. It was seen as a key homestead location and several riders had made off in its direction straight away. My father told stories of how he had fought off two men and placed the claim marker with only seconds to spare. And so started the animosity against our family.
He had decided several months earlier to race alongside his good friend, as stories of men getting shot during the race, or stabbed, beaten or outright murdered had spread by now. Everyone knew the stakes, but they also knew that land was running out.
My mother was ill, and had stayed in the city, with my two brothers and little sister. But after the claim was registered and confirmed, and the dust had settled, we were sent for. I was only five at the time. My brothers ten and nine, my little sister only an infant.
We had fenced that land, built a barn and homestead, and watched the town spring forth from bare earth. Cattle was our bread winner, and mother began a school teacher the moment the white school house was erected. Life was a constant battle, but we were wealthy, and compared to some of the less fortunate we counted ourselves lucky. To the point of praying to the Good Lord before each meal.
However, like all stories there are dark clouds to marr its beauty. From the very beginning my father fought with neighboring families. The Stark's to the East, and the Markson's to the South East. Both had been claimed by men who had their eyes set on our land. Both were sour because of it.
I watched my mother grow frail from her illness, and she sadly passed away not one year back. My father was grief stricken, but he worked on. My brothers, helped around the farm and I took over mothers duties in relation to the house chores and cooking. I'd even recently began teaching at the school.
As a young woman life is scarred by loss and pain, but nothing compared to the murder of my father. Having been drinking one night at the saloon, one of Markson's guns had shot him down. Soon after that my eldest brother was found drowned in the creek, spur marks to his back. Since then I have sent a telegram to the only man I believe can save my remaining brother from harm.
I fear that each day brings the Reaper one step closer for us all, and that any night we could be forced from our home. Already we have fired at men on horseback, throwing flaming torches in the stables at night. It's only a matter of time.
The telegram was sent three weeks ago. No word has come yet. This morning I found Thomas hung from a tree near the Stark boundary, the wagon of supplies torn asunder and ruined, smoldering.
Today I sit with Maggie, now becoming a young woman herself at fourteen, who sings one of mothers songs whilst making dinner, a rifle on the table and horses tied out back in case we need to flee. I know there is nothing keeping Stark or Markson men from taking my families land now.
Maybe by morning an old friend will appear. I have long since given up trying to get the townspeople to help us. Word has it that the law is in Stark pockets, and deep.
I was five the last time I saw him, a strikingly handsome man in his mid twenties. But that was twelve years ago and time changed people a lot. He could be dead, who knows.
Little did I know that the man had taken to the profession of gunslinger down south, and that the telegram had reached him, albeit a little late. He was alive, but now he carried several scars, his stubble rough and his skin tanned from hours spent in the sun. Fingers calloused from days holding reigns, and shooters smelling of gunpowder.
