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RidingRose
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Joined: Apr 14, 2007
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The Pleasantries of the Ol' Timers (Golden Oldies back-story)

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Old timers return. That's all you need know.
Back story. PART I.
Golden Oldies Clan.

She dug her foot into the ground, deeply engraving her footprint into the soft, dusty road that was once heaving with people - merchants, villagers, bandits. But, now, this road was empty. And it lead directly into the center of Frontier Town.
Jemima Stallion pulled up her boot, and let her eyes scope the horizon. It was an array of wood - most of the once-busy stores and social parlors were now boarded up. They lacked the demanding hospitality that they once had; busy (and usually intoxicated) cowboys and girls were bustling this way and that, desperate to find a good seat in the parlor. Jemima, herself, had once been a young cowgirl, sitting at the front in the old wooden chairs, wincing as they creaked, desperate not to attract any attention to the fact that she was a newcomer and eager to hear about the legends that were the Whateleys'. She would grab the nearest pitcher of beer with her scarred fists and drink with the others until dawn.

"And they all ran away, terrified for their lives! Their faces were a picture of mortification! Oh, how I gloated! Then, see, I had to run. Dominique was not keen on spectators!"
A series of laughter ran through the circle of town folk. Omar had captured quite an audience.
"Tell us more, Omar. Come on..." begged Lola, resting her elbow on the table, her eyes entranced with the stories of the mystical (and fearsome) Whateley girls.
"I'd better not. Just incase they can hear like bats. And it's likely!" Jemima wiped the spit of her cheek that had reached her from the bar, and shook her head scoldingly, "Omar, for petes' sake. Moosey on back to your cabin, now."
Omar threw his hands up into the air, as if to surrender to Jemimas' impatience. Lola through a playful stare at her, as she didn't want the stories to stop. But, they both new it was time to go. It was midnight - a full moon, to be exact.

Trapped in the reverie, Jemima remembered the funny times, the fun ones. Even the fearful ones that consisted of the Whateleys'. She missed it so, and glanced pitifully and a ball of passing tumbleweed. It seemed to roll it's way towards the now deserted general store - Jemima remembered glowering at the dresses in it; wishing she had the money to buy a bodice, or at least a peasant dress. She remembered feeling the rich material; silk, flannel (not particularly fine), even leather.
But then something pulled her out of her day dream. A discoloured patch on the wooden front of the general store. As she ran closer towards it, her soft red hair being blown from one direction to the next by the wind, she noticed scratch marks on the wood. Jemima pulled her foot onto the highest step (which she feared would not support her weight) and cautiously traced the outline of the scratch with her finger.
These were man made.
Which only meant one thing.
Jezebel.
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Jemima Stallion - The head of Bowler hats and Umbrellas.