Deadlands: The Last Sons

A town called Deadwood

The Tall Tales of Tomas Graven

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I’d heard of Deadwood’s violent nature, but nothin’ could’ve prepared me for the harsh reality we encountered. Every single soul in the town was carryin’ iron, and the mud on the streets was more often than not mixed with human blood. Not a place where I want to be.

We delivered the outlaws to the town marshal, Seth Bullock, for trial. He didn’t even have an office of his own. The tension only grew when Colonel Custer and his renegade bluebellies took the town under his control. This town isn’t a place where I want to be.

I’m not sure what I should make of my companions. On one hand they did help the Paiuteans get away from the deadly Ravenites on the road, but on the other hand, they have their… quirks.

As soon as we arrived to the town, it was clear to me that Robert Chambers is too interested in money and fame to pay attention to things around him. Deadwood is slowly killing itself from inside, yet he spend a whole afternoon standin’ in the mud and snakeoilin’ the townsfolk into buying shit they don’t need.

Doc Morris rented a shack in town and planned to offer medical services for the town. While noble, I can’t help but think he has an ulterior motive of some kind. His experiments made the horses nervous and, frankly, I agree with ‘em. Him wantin’ to check some Pinkerton files for his name didn’t help.

Elena Collins and Crouching Puma seem trustworthy enough, though the lady is gettin’ a bit nosy. She invited us to stay in her family’s house while in Deadwood, and even let the tinhorn snakeoil salesman take their firewood for nothing, while he got us some boar to eat. If they’re around when the moon hits, they’ll deserve to know. Hell, maybe they’ll even make sure no one gets hurt.

We had to hoof it pretty fast when we got into a conflict with some chinese men, who were working for warlord Kang’s underling, Huang Li. One of them was shot carrying some old Pinkerton files on outlaws, and his friends wanted them back when we had decided they should be given to the Pinkerton’s successor, the Agency in Denver. During the conflict the fistfighters were scared off easily enough, not by us, but by the bluebellies. We got away before they got too interested in our business.

Now we’re on the road again, this time going to Denver. Elena tells me the trip should be uneventful, as long as we make it to the Oregon Trail without problems. I hope she’s right. Once in Denver, we’ll find the Agency and give them their files. If I’m lucky, they might even help me with my condition.

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