Hey everyone, due to a rough case of writer’s block I’ve shifted around my schedule some to give me more time to work on Cardinal’s next mission log. That said, this release was supposed to come out this coming Monday, but instead will come out today. Meanwhile, Cardinal should be coming out on or by Monday morning at 7am. Many thanks for your understanding!
This is another DRB release, but focusing on a newer character I’ve been running for about a month now. I’ve been having a lot of fun on her and I wouldn’t be surprised if more free releases cover aspects of her story in the future.
From the moment Filly woke up in the Rhodes hospital, her life in New Dakota had been plagued by a simple, but pervasive question: Who are you?
The local doctor that had treated her didn't have that answer — not in its entirety. The best he could offer her were the items that had been with her when she was first found, unconscious and bleeding heavily from some apparent head trauma. Things like a hat, money, a small rucksack with a meager amount of food inside, and some soaked but official-looking papers. It wasn't much, especially with how damaged the documents were, but it gave her the first answer she needed. Her name was Filly.
...probably, at least.
She'd been reassured that her memories would likely come back soon and been ushered on her way, walking out into a wide, unfamiliar world with little more to her name than the clothes on her back and, well, her name.
Her memories hadn't come back, though. Not after a few days or weeks. That wasn't the end of the world — she'd started a new life since then, gotten a job, been picked up by some... friends? It was hard to put that simple of a label on it. They gave her everything she needed, looked after her as one of their own. But they were troublesome types and being in their proximity had a tendency to drag her into trouble too. There were many good moments, times of warmth and laughter. There were many other things that didn't sit well with her. Debts owed. Things she wasn't proud of being a part of, even tangentially.
Was this who she was? If it was, did her guilt soften that answer? ...she wasn't sure it worked that way.
Filly knew the second she saw the two lawmen riding into the peaceful mountain town that something might happen. There was always a chance for it with the others around, especially with warrants on some of their heads. Still, the conversation they all struck up seemed harmless enough. She entertained the idea that maybe everything would be okay this time.
The thought died about the same second she had it, her breath hitching as she noticed several of her group pull back to discuss something. There was only ever really one reason they did that.
Filly's heartbeat began to race. She tried to breathe, to count down from five and calm herself.
Five, four, three—
The others returned. Guns drawn. She reached wordlessly for her Springfield but diverted to her lasso instead.
Hands up, they said. Hands up. Then from the building above them, another voice. Hands up.
Five four three — Lawmen. An ambush. A sting. How many of them? Three, four, five— Voices calling over one another to put their weapons down, neither side willing to give ground oh god oh god oh god five four three—
Drop the lasso. Switch to the Springfield, raise it defensively.
Someone fired a shot. Law? One of her friends? She didn't know, couldn't tell. The town erupted into gunfire as her shaking legs carried her backwards, trying to see what was going on, trying to decide what to do.
Five, four, three—
Filly caught the briefest of glances at her other friends. She was in debt to these people, in more ways than one. They'd given her everything, but there was an asking price in return. What would happen to her if she couldn't raise a firearm in their defense?
Who was she if she couldn't pull the trigger?
...who was she if she could?
There was no time to think. Everyone was shooting. People were dropping. A trembling finger closed in on the Springfield's trigger, lining someone up in its sights and beginning to constrict on it. Breathe. Breathe.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two—
A crack of gunfire. But not from her.
In an instant of blinding pain, a bullet ripped through her right shoulder. It sent her reeling.
The Springfield clattered out of her hands, never fired, as Filly collapsed into the grass, unconscious.
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