Far West

TALES OF THE FAR WEST Preview: Excerpt by Scott Lynch

admin — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 21:07:40 +0000

The short story anthology Tales of the Far West is now available, in print and digital format from the official FAR WEST webstore, as well as Amazon.com (paperback and Kindle), Barnes & Noble (Nook), and other sites. Featuring a dozen tales from critically-acclaimed and award-winning authors from the fantasy, science-fiction, horror and adventure genres, Tales of the Far West kicks off Adamant Entertainment’s line of Far West fiction, which will include novels, further anthologies and more. Far West Kickstarter backers have already been sent email detailing how they can download the book in the digital format of their choosing (If you haven’t received this email, please drop me a line.

To give you a taste of what’s in the book, we present the following excerpt, from “He Built The Wall To Knock It Down”, by Scott Lynch (author of the Gentlemen Bastards Sequence fantasy novels).

He Built The Wall To Knock It Down
by Scott Lynch

He called himself False Note. It wasn’t his real name. Hell, it wasn’t even his real fake name.

He was old but unbent and his sins hung on him like bark on a tree. That was my impression the first time I ever saw him, keeping his own company in the darkest corner of Tychus Sload’s Lucky Sky Diamond Diversion Parlor. He looked like a man waiting for a funeral to break out, or a man who’d make one if it didn’t get there in good time.

I knew the dust on his boots wasn’t working-day dust or wasting-time dust like mine. That dust he trailed was old bad news stretching back across leagues, years, and lives.

At a glance, my eyes saw clear. Trouble was, I was twenty-two, and those eyes weren’t fastened to anything worth writing home about. If I’d had brains enough to fill a rattlesnakes’s ball-sack I’d have spun on my heel and gone anywhere else that night, anywhere a man like that wasn’t waiting for something.

But I was twenty-two, invincible in my own stupidity, and I was at the frayed end of a bad employment situation in a nowhere-town that had never seen any good ones. Ain’t That Something, they called it, because the gods need places to point at and laugh.

Ain’t That Something had been hitched to a silver mine but the vein was thinner than a whore’s rouge, and when it ran dry the crowds and money waiting past the eastern horizon elected to stay over the horizon. Ten days’ ride north of the Bloodiron, up into the shadow of the Eagles’ Claws, Ain’t That Something was a dry misfire of a town and I got a hell of big surprise when I showed up aiming to make my fortune.

Sload’s Lucky Sky Diamond had the same problem. Lavishly built in expectation of great things, what it got instead was us, night after night, the dregs too damned stubborn to give it up or too short-sighted to save our gambling money for the long haul back to anywhere.

We crept from sober to drunk under the yellow light of oil lamps hanging from brass sculptures of tigers and dragons. Their haunches were spread to receive copper wire that would never be laid; their mouths gaped for glass bulbs that would never be shipped within a hundred leagues of that place. We drank Sload’s worst until the images on the cards swam like hot desert air, then we went to our beds on all fours. You could have gathered up the sum total of our wit and good fellowship in a thimble.

There were six of us worth mentioning that night. Tychus Sload was a given, a snuffed candle of a man, a Seccesh war veteran who’d saved thirty years to build his dream then sunk it by building where he did. At the table with me was Jozan Shung, swollen like a toad, who carried a sawed-down coach gun and called himself Scattergun. When he got tight he acted like the rest of us did, too.

Hot Molly had what you might call a rugged natural geography and a limited acquaintance with bathing. Her temper named her. There was no place in the civilized east for a blacksmith, even a skilled one, who’d put a client’s head between hammer and anvil for late payment. Now she hunted work town by town on the frontier, where murder was less disqualifying in most trades.

Next to Molly was Timepiece, formerly the discount sort of bad man who’d thumped indentured workers for one Chartered House or another until he’d been aged and beaten out of the game. His left arm was ten years gone. He had a colorful story about some admirably-endowed bandit queen with a hatchet, but when Timepiece moved just right I could spot the scars of grep fangs on his shoulder and collarbone. His replacement arm was rusty steam-cobbler piecework, hacked up from old farm tools and busted Drudges. He loved the name Timepiece, and thought it was because he set the pace for the sad circle of bummers around him. Actually it was because his godsdamned arm made more noise than a box full of wind-up clocks.

So there was Jozan, Hot Molly, Timepiece, and your dutiful scrivener, all sitting at a table just past midnight, while Tychus Sload listlessly polished glasses that had never been used and that stranger, that waiting stranger, drank his tea in an island of shadow between the jaundice-colored lights.
“Heavens,” said Timepiece, his voice as grit-clogged as the gears of his arm. “Why heavens, just look at this hand. I swear if these cards had tits I’d marry ‘em.”

He set his cards down paint up, and the rest of us were done in. As he’d promised, it was a marriageable spread. His fourth or fifth in an hour. Still, he laughed like he’d done something clever and his arm went whirr-click, whirr-screee, whirr-click as it swept the little pile of clipped silvers toward him.

So went the game, most nights. Timepiece had two nested machines bolted into that godsdamned arm, and one was a pointlessly complex channel-fed card-sorting mechanism that was noisier than the rest of the affair put together. He was hellfire proud of it, even spent hours fussing over it with oil and jeweler’s tongs. If he’d loved the rest of his arm half as much it would have been a museum piece.

Anyhow, it was no secret that when he used that thing to deal a hand it tended to miraculously come out in his favor. We pretended not to notice. He’d cheat us, we’d cheat back in turn, and when stumbling-off time came we’d all be back to equilibrium, losers together, less the price of our drinks.

That was most nights. The night I met False Note, I got wound up and sent the game right off a cliff.
I’d love to blame it on that quiet stranger, waiting for whatever wind he thought was going to blow, but that’s not even a near-truth. I was drunk in the deadliest way, deep enough to be prickly but not deep enough to be numb and slow. I was in a bad humor, too, dwelling on the idiocy of my situation, grudging Timepiece those precious silver bits he scraped up even though I knew I’d probably chisel them back just as soon as he quit dealing.

“Hell, Timepiece, you’re already married to the secret of your success.” I took a long slow swallow of whatever Sload was passing off on us that night (lead sugar, vinegar, grep piss— gods knew) and it didn’t make me any smarter. “After all, ain’t like that arm of yours can get up and walk away whenever it wants to.”

That opened a hole in the conversation. Timepiece had gathered the cards and now he slotted them into his arm mechanism in groups of five or six, slowly and deliberately like a man feeding shells to a carbine. The ominous silence stretched and his bloodshot eyes were on me all the while.

“You got any inclination to clarify that remark?” he said at last, too softly.

“If you’re gonna keep that thing rigged up to four-flush us, don’t you think you ought to have the courtesy to vary the miracle every now and then? Maiden’s Tits, it’s more regular than the sun and the moons!”

With that, I broke the magic for good. When you’re sitting at a table like that, you can call one another scoundrels, murderers, grep thieves, ingrates, and fancy dancers of the cheapest persuasion. You can joke about being crooked as a general and constant state of affairs. But what you can’t do, what you can’t ever do, is accuse someone of cheating right then and there. Not unless you’re ready to play for blood.

Click. Timepiece shoved the last bunch of cards into his dealing mechanism. Sha-chock. The arm primed itself for the next deal. Timepiece still hadn’t taken his eyes off me. Hot Molly and Jozan Shung were giving me the stink-eye, too. They weren’t real tight with Timepiece, but they were sure tighter with him than with me. Somewhere behind the booze and bitterness my better judgment was waking up. Too late.

“Why, I do believe that touches on my honor, you skinny little serpent-tongued son of a bitch,” said Timepiece. Now he sounded downright jovial, but there was no mistaking what burned behind his eyes.
He reached out with his metal arm and took my just-emptied glass in its misshapen hand. Gears ground, pistons popped, and tinkling fragments rained on the table.

“How’s that for a new trick?” He got up slowly, like some range beast rearing up to make a show in front of its den, which I suppose is exactly what he was. His smile was wide and full of piss-yellow teeth. “You wanna see some fresh miracles out of this arm, you just step right outside and I’ll accommodate your godsdamned curiosity.”

“Well, uh, maybe I was a little hasty, Timepiece.” A little! Maybe water was a little wet and the sun was a little in the sky. My bad weeks in Ain’t That Something had made me careless. I’d fancied myself hard and ready for the world, but I had no arts for hurting folks, not even to stack up against cast-offs like Timepiece, Molly, and Jozan, and that realization was coming on awfully fast.

“Yeah, take it easy, Timepiece,” said Sload. I don’t know if it was the threat to my tender young self or the busted glass that got his attention. Probably the glass.

“He called me a cheat!” said Timepiece.

“He did not,” said the stranger.

It was like the shadows had decided to talk, or one of the sculptures. I mean, I’d guessed the stranger must have a voice of some sort. Hard to explain the tea otherwise. But he’d been wordless for so long, watching us, that he’d faded into the background for me. Timepiece seemed equally surprised at the man’s decision to quit making like wallpaper.

“Now that’s a novel interpretation of recent events.” Timepiece turned his back on me to address the mystery man. I should’ve been insulted, but it was a pretty fair assessment of the threat I posed.

“Cheating’s a marginal sin,” said the stranger, rising casually to his feet. All my first impressions of him came rushing back as he stepped into the light. That brown face had seen some weather, all right. That long hair was the color of a raven that had flown through falling ash. “He accused you of being artless. And that’s. . . much worse.”

“Mister, this ain’t your game, but you just dealt yourself in.” Timepiece lost his feigned joviality. Now his voice and his body matched what I’d seen in his eyes.

I mentioned that Timepiece had a second device nested in his arm, beside the card-game-ruining mechanism. This was a spring-loaded compartment clutch for a short-barreled revolver with cracked ivory grips. A whore’s gun, basically, but nothing bigger could hide in his forearm. Automata squealed and spat that gun into Timepiece’s flesh-and-blood hand. He held it up to catch the sickly yellow light.

“Oh, come on now, Timepiece,” said Sload. “There’s no need for that!”

“Shut it.” Timepiece twirled his sad little shooter languorously and didn’t take his eyes off the stranger. “See, someone makes noise about my honor, I’ll make noise of my own. But I’ll go all the way. All the way, get it?”

“If you had any notion of honor,” said the stranger, his voice cold, “you’d carry a good piece, and you wouldn’t keep it in a metal purse, and you wouldn’t pull it just to make yourself forget how small you are.”

Almighty gods. I thought I’d had everyone’s attention when I mouthed off to Timepiece. Jozan and Molly were clutching the table, they were so excited. Tychus Sload had a look on his face like he was about to shit twenty pounds of hot bricks.

“Show us your iron, you clown!” shouted Timepiece.

The stranger flicked the lapels of his wind-worn duster open just enough to show what he was carrying— a plain leather belt above his slim-hipped jeans. Not a holster in sight.

“I think you’re gonna be awfully surprised if you figure you can hide behind that fact that you ain’t running heeled,” said Timepiece.

“I think your opinions are as worthless as your honor,” said the stranger.

Timepiece’s gun came up. It was dead center on the stranger’s chest from six feet away.

“Mister, you ain’t drunk and you’re provoking me awful fierce. So I tell you now, I swear to the gods, you find a gun or you borrow one, or I’ll put you down like a dog right here on Sload’s floor!”

“You are provoked,” said the stranger. “I invite you to do something about it.”

What happens next? Well, that would be telling. Scott’s tale is barely 15% told here — there’s a great deal more, and another 11 stories besides! Tales of the Far West is now available from our webstore and other vendors worldwide.

Forum and Far West Society Now Live!

admin — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 19:30:51 +0000

We’re pleased to announce that the official Far West Forum is now live! Head on over, register and take part in the palaver, using either the previous link, or the main menu button over there at left.

The forum will be your central discussion site for all things FAR WEST — questions, comments, conversations and more. We just opened the place, so I expect that there will be some dust here and there, and things may change as we open new categories up as sub-forums, but for now, come on in, put yer feet up and enjoy yourself.

You’re free to talk about anything related to Far West here — the game, the books, the site, even related “inspirography” materials. If it applies, go ahead! Try to keep off-topic discussions to a minimum — that stuff is probably more suited to off-forum discussion.

A quick note about our forum rules: We ask that all members try to adhere to the Confucian values of Jen and Li:

Jen, translated as “humanity” or “humaneness”, is the highest Confucian value, and is cultivated by exhibiting benevolence and care toward others. In other words, be nice.

Li, translated as “propriety” “ritual” or “etiquette”, is respect for traditional practices and conventional mores, in order to restore and maintain an order in society. In other words, observe etiquette and be polite to each other.

That’s it — nothing too onerous.

The forum also features a private subform for members of The Far West Society, our official fan membership community, available by subscription. Information on the Far West Society can be found by clicking the appropriate menu button as well. If you were a Kickstarter backer who received a Society membership as part of your backer package, be sure to fill in the field when you sign up for the forum that refers to your name as registered. I’ll be checking that field against our Backers list to confirm membership and grant you access to the private subforum. (To clarify, that’s your real name that you paid under, not the name you chose.)

If you’re not already a Society member, subscriptions are available over on the Far West Society page, for only $10.00 US for a six-month membership.

Thank you, and we look forward to talking with you!

Inspirography: Netflix Streaming

admin — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 18:38:25 +0000

We’re hard at work on getting two FAR WEST products out the door — the short story anthology, TALES OF THE FAR WEST, which will be available before Christmas, and the Limited Edition version of the FAR WEST ADVENTURE GAME, which will be sent to Kickstarter backers in January.

What to do while you wait, and you also have some free time due to the December holidays? Well, if you’ve got Netflix streaming, fire it up and have your very own FAR WEST film festival. A bunch of films have been recently added which make for fine inspirational viewing:

Swordsman 2: Jet Li stars in what I consider to be one of the best films of the early-90s wuxia revival. Nominally a sequel, but with an entirely new cast and a stand-alone story from the first film.

New Legend of Shaolin: Take Jet Li, a plot that borrows a bit from the Japanese Shogun Executioner / Lone Wolf and Cub series, over-the-top wuxia badassery and a child wushu prodigy. Yeah, there’s not much to dislike there.

Silverado: One of my top 3 favorite Westerns — a tribute to the classic Hollywood westerns written and directed by Lawrence Kasdan, who wrote Empire Strikes Back, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Return of the Jedi. I consider this film massively under-rated. If you’ve never seen it, remedy that now.

Death Rides a Horse: One of the less-well-known Spaghetti Westerns, starring Lee Van Cleef (of The Good The Bad and The Ugly and John Phillip Law, in a revenge plot against a gang of bandits.

Ashes of Time Redux: Wong Kar Wai’s “art house” wuxia film. Far more stylized and abstract than a straightforward wuxia, the film is more a character-driven drama that also has martial arts.

Master of the World: Steampunk airships, Jules Verne, and Vincent Price. You’re welcome.

13 Assassins: Yes, it’s Japanese, not Chinese, and therefore not really part of our genre mix — but director Takashi Miike’s homage to classic chanbara films is just too damned cool to ignore.

There are also films that I’ve previously mentioned in earlier Inspirography articles available for streaming — but you’ve already watched those, right?

Enjoy. As for me… Back to work!

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FAR WEST Cartography Notes

admin — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 20:55:12 +0000

On November 14th 2011, after several months of preparation and hard work, the first Far West map was completed and approved. It was a long, arduous process, but the final results made it all worthwhile.

My name is Andrew Law, and I have the honor of being the cartographer for Far West. If you want to know a little more about me, go check the Bios page.

I can’t fully express my excitement at being involved with this project. For me, it’s the very definition of cool. Western, Wuxia, and a sprinkling of Steampunk, Far West is a sublime merging that emerges with a fresh, new whole that’s really exciting. T.S. and Gareth may be surprised that the Kickstarter broke records and scored an impressive 986% of its initial target, but I’m not. Really, what’s not to like about kung-fu cowboys with clockwork legs? On airships? Fighting dragons? Nothing, of course.

So, when I was tentatively contacted in July ’11 by T.S. Luikart, he didn’t need to do much persuading to sign me up for cartography work. I immediately fell in love with the setting, and couldn’t agree to join the project fast enough. However, I found creating the first map of the Far West wasn’t going to be quite as easy as I’d originally expected.
Put simply, maps exist to provide information about an area in pictorial form. Obviously, this requires details to be depicted. However, the Far West setting is, at the time of writing, mostly uncharted — later, its players and contributors will be expanding as the setting matures. This means that only a few, very important locations are currently known, with the rest of the huge area an empty expanse, pregnant with possibility, but mostly unrevealed.

How the hell was I going to map a big empty space in a fashion that did justice to the awesome setting?

Fortunately, T.S. and Gareth came to the rescue with an answer. They presented me with Amble, a Wandering Star artist with a fierce love for the untamed Far West, keen to record the majesty and beauty he had encountered during his long wanderings through those troubled lands. They suggested the first map could be presented as one of his works. Yes, by necessity it would be devoid of many geographical details, but this could be justified by the artist’s ignorance (he can’t have travelled everywhere—the Far West is huge!), and would leave lots of space for artistic flourishes and ‘Here Be Dragons’-style icons. So, they wanted a map with few important locations, but lots of arty bits in between, all drawn by an itinerant inhabitant of the Far West.

I liked it. I liked it a lot. It was time to start drawing.

Initially, I planned a watercolor and ink style map, drawing heavily upon Chinese art for inspiration. Unsurprisingly, it looked very Chinese as I drew it, which wasn’t what I wanted. Far West is a mash-up, after all. So, I then tried something more akin to a Wild Bill Hickok poster, but with some Chinese elements. That was pretty cool, but far too stylized and sensational, and not how I imagined Amble drawing. So, I chucked both sketches out the window and started again. This time, I drew upon some of the colors and stylings of Rick Hershey’s art, but influenced by both Chinese and American maps from the appropriate eras. As I drew some hills, this seemed to work better, so I ran with it. Soon, I’d drawn all the mountains of the Eagles’ Claws, the trees of the Sea of Spears, the flat tops of the Thousand Mesas, the undulating hills of the Rolling Steppes, the watery expanse of the Shining Mirror, and all the rest, and everything was slowly beginning to fall into place. Sure, it didn’t really look Chinese, and it didn’t really look American, but, it did look right. So, I labeled that all up with some hand-drawn text, then pressed on.

Next, it was time to get a little more arty. First came the animals. I wanted to show off some of the fauna the Far West had to offer, and was particularly looking forward to drawing a dragon and a Thunderbird, as these were unique to the setting. I had to ask T.S. for references for these, and I was sent the most awesome reference sketch I have received, ever (it was for the dragon). You should all persuade T.S. to post it online for your delectation. It is pure gold.

Anyway, once the animals were mostly finished, it was time to fill up the remaining blank areas with the sights Amble the Cartographer has witnessed on his travels across the Far West. This was the fun bit. Traction Engines, giant clockwork robots, camel-riding cowboys, dragon-trains, steam mills, paddle steamer/junks, airships, and more. These were an absolute joy to add, and greatly added to the character of the map.

Once the map was mostly full, it was time to add the finishing sections: the title plate, compass, and scale. This was all progressing wonderfully, but then my Wacom tablet (the digital art pad I draw with) broke. I still had two weeks until my deadline, so I was hardly panicking, but it wasn’t ideal! Amazon came to the (£360!) rescue and a tablet arrived a week later. Half-panicked that I only had a week left, I finished the map quickly and mailed T.S. and Gareth to inform them we were all done. They, meanwhile, were in the depths of creating new, exciting Far West material, so it was agreed that it was worthwhile waiting for that to be finished before finalizing the map, granting me some extra time to add some more details. Given I’d lost a week of work, I couldn’t have been happier.

I used the time to good effect, and drew a new title plate in the corner. The original was all text with a pretty patterned border. I’d originally planned something more ambitious, but ran out of time because of my broken tablet. With that impediment removed, I redrew the whole thing, this time drawing a log surrounded by Far West goodies (a cog, fan, pistol, flowers, trail cat, etc.). I also drew three butterflies into the image. Butterflies are a symbol of the Wandering Stars, and Amble, in particular, uses three butterflies as his personal stamp (which can be seen in the title plate between the chrysanthemums and the trail cat), so it was good to reinforce that imagery. I was far happier with this, and feel it really brings the whole map together as a piece of art.

That done, I then added a border, which helped pull the whole image together. I particularly enjoyed drawing the corner images, primarily as it was fun drawing a dragon and thunderbird in a different style to their more realistic partners on the map, and it was good to include the two moons on the map (something I’d intended to do from the beginning, but, again, had to drop because of the last week).

As I finished this, T.S. contacted me with all the new material he had written, so I added a few more extras drawn from this, including the robotic deputy of Whiskey Baddow, the Spiderweb of Sedoa, and the opal mines of Drywater, and then took a moment to review what I had.

The map looked good. But, the more I looked at it, the more I felt it didn’t look quite good enough. So, I tinkered a little more—tidying some details, and fading the edges a little to give it the appearance of use— but something still wasn’t quite right. So, I went to bed to think on it.

The next afternoon, after picking up my daughters from school, the answer came to me. My eldest handed me a sponsor form for a charity event at the school. She’d folded it up to fit in her pocket. I unfolded it and smiled at what I saw. Fold lines! That’s what the map needed! That evening, I set to work drawing fold lines on to the map. It worked perfectly; it made the image look more real, more used. I also tried adding a bullet hole or two, and some blood splatters, but that was too messy, and detracted from the map itself, so I discarded them. After taking a moment to survey the work, I concluded I was happy.

So, I sent the finished map to Gareth and T.S. for approval. Fortunately, they loved it. I spent a few days after that twiddling with a few details (river names, the sword beside the compass, updating the Chinese (thanks to Tom McGrenery for proofreading!) and similar), and finally we all agreed the map was finished.

Phew! Time to relax.

But, I was still super-enthused, so I carried on a little further, and drew a quick self-portrait of myself as if I were Amble (with three butterflies added to support that, and his stamp used in the corner). I drew upon Rick’s styling again, and it was surprisingly fun to draw, and helped bring the whole project to a nice conclusion. Amble and I had finished our map. The self-portrait accompanies this article.

So, where can you, the marvelous fans of Far West, find this map?

Besides the wallpaper presented below and on the downloads page here at the Far West website, it will be used as a double-page spread on the inside leaves of the Far West RPG book, and printed as a limited edition poster for all you Kickstarter backers that pledged $65 or more. In addition, a hi-res digital copy suitable for multi-page printing is available for purchase at RPGNow, for $1.99 (All Kickstarter backers receive a complimentary copy of this digital version, as promised).

I hope you all enjoy owning it as much as I enjoyed creating it.

Beyond all that, if you have any questions, post them in the comments below and I’ll endeavor to answer them where I can.

Looking forward to chatting to you all,

Andy Law
Edinburgh, Scotland
15th November 2011

Download the Official Far West Map Wallpaper here:

The Moons

admin — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 20:21:46 +0000

By T.S. Luikart

One of the revelations of the Far West chat was that FAR WEST does not take place on our world, but rather an alternate world, massively huge and with two moons in the sky. Here’s a bit more about those moons, and the beliefs that surround them in the Far West.

Night falls swiftly in the Far West, electrical lights are a rarity beyond the Last Horizon, though a few places do have them, to the absolute wonder of travelers who see them for the first time. They are not always necessary, though. In addition to a sky filled with stars, two moons sail across the firmament. Imperial dogma states they are the Celestial Wolf and the Celestial Rabbit. The folk of the Far West usually call them Night Wolf and Rushing Rabbit. Both sides generally agree that Lord Sun is chasing one of them, though opinions (and the myths) differ on whether he is hunting the wolf, who is hunting the rabbit, or hunting the rabbit, assisted by, or in competition with, the wolf.

Night Wolf is a large dark orb that sails serenely over the horizon on a monthly cycle. Mostly visible only at night, the Celestial Wolf’s face slowly changes over the course of the month, but always remains somewhat dark; however, flashes of his blazing claws and fangs are occasionally visible on his surface. When Night Wolf rages, folk take it as an omen big changes (frequently war) are coming. Astrologers and other learned folk say that such displays are “volcanic activity at work” which isn’t nearly as good a story.

Rushing Rabbit is far brighter and smaller, a somewhat misshapen (and vaguely rabbitish) lump that shoots across the sky two and sometimes three times in a night, as well as once or twice during the day, though its far less noticeable then. The Rabbit lights up the landscape as it hurtles past at night, making night raids and other such activities require precise timing in order to pull off successfully. Most folk think of Night Wolf as a “he” and Rushing Rabbit as a “she” though some reverse the genders and the scientifically minded ignore them altogether.

FAR WEST Chat Transcript

admin — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 22:25:16 +0000

On Sunday October 30th, FAR WEST developers Gareth-Michael Skarka (GMSkarka on Twitter) and T.S. Luikart (TSLuikart on Twitter) did a live chat with backers and fans. What follows is the edited transcript of that evening’s event:

QUESTION (@Lyfhskull): I’ve been wondering a while, will there be a ‘writer’s guideline’ for farwest contributions?

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka) Well, @Lyfhskull, we’ll be rolling out the Far West Society in November, which will include methods for contribution.

QUESTION (@GoldenElm): Should I presume the rules “srd” might roll out in that same period?

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka) No, the rules will not be freely released until 2012.

QUESTION (@Jason_Sunday): Do the pc’s start the game as weaklings like D&D or more powerful heroes like Mutants & Masterminds?

ANSWER: (@TSLuikart) Yes. Depends on what you want, like Mutants & Masterminds the game has tiers and you can make a “starting” character at any of them.

QUESTION (@FowlSorcerous): Remind me – what’s the release date?

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka) Release of Ltd. Ed. game to backers is December. Commercial release isn’t until 2012. Fiction line starts December as well.

QUESTION (@JJDRexroad): When do you plan on expanding (or starting) the webseries?

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka) The webseries starts development in mid-2012. Not setting release yet.

QUESTION (@JJDRexroad): What is the Far West Society?

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka) Far West Society is community who get access to extra material and can contribute to canon.

QUESTION (@JustinDJacobson): Any plans yet for apparel and the like? (I want my Far West lunchbox!)

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka) Yes, absolutely. Apparel, merchandise, etc.

QUESTION (@GoldenElm): Of the different alternate mediums you’re targeting with the product, which has proved the most challenging?

ANSWER: (@TSLuikart) I can’t do music– but I can’t wait till you guys get to hear the score for the webseries currently underway. The music is as mash-up as the property. RPGs are old hat for us.

QUESTION (@Highmoon): Will #farwest be open (CC, OGL)? If so, what parts?

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka)Yes — Creative Commons. More detail later.

QUESTION (@Lyfhskull): Is farwest ‘grid map’ combat, or more of a ‘storytelling’ combat style?

ANSWER: (@TSLuikart)Storytelling, for sure. Wuxia meets gunflighting lends itself to descriptive combat.

QUESTION (@Jason_Sunday): Will we get to see a sample character any time soon?

ANSWER: (@TSLuikart)Should be able to see sample characters by the end of November.

QUESTION (@Beckx): How about a 140-character preview of character creation steps in #farwest?

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka)Choose rank. Determine abilities. Background. Occupation. Areas of Knowledge. Spirit. Aspects. Clan. Edges.

QUESTION (@GoldenElm): Wrapped your head around the Kickstarter total yet?

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka)Didn’t have a chance before large chunks were going out the door to pay various dev costs.

QUESTION (@Jason_Sunday): The Odyssey System characters originally were suppose to fit on an index card. Does this still hold true?

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka) Largely, yes. Not as much description, but stats, sure.

QUESTION (@JJDRexroad): think you might do a yearbook for fun? to include more of the behind the scene stuff.

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka) Hard enough to do one book, without doing another for “fun.”

QUESTION (@Jason_Sunday): Were the Kung Fu powers a challenge to model in the system?

ANSWER: (@TSLuikart)Fun, not challenging. Coming up with good names, that’s the hard part.

QUESTION (@Lyfhskull): I know it’s still crazy early, but any plans for far west miniatures/figures?

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka)We have discussed. No firm plans yet.

QUESTION (@Jason_Sunday): Will there be a “dark side of the force” Kung Fu style?

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka)*A* style? No. MULTIPLE styles. In the hands of those with corrupt Spirit, all kung-fu is dark.

QUESTION (@Wordwill): Is there a story behind the core kernel of FAR WEST? Where did it all start?
QUESTION (@JJDRexroad): Story Arcs? Overall theme? I am very interested too. anything you can say on that?

ANSWER: (@TSLuikart)Grand Theme: To protect civilization from the barbarian, you must pick up the Gun. Pick up the Gun and you become a barbarian. Specific story arcs will vary in what they convey, but then, you guys will end up having a big say in that.

QUESTION (@Jason_Sunday): Are the corrupt Spirit types playable? Would they be hunted down much like a Sith or Dark Sider in Star Wars?

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka)Yes, corrupt Spirit is playable.

QUESTION (@Lyfhskull): Will war drudges be a playable race? Are there any non-human races in the world/playable?

ANSWER: (@TSLuikart)No non-humans in setting. Iron Roy, the War Drudge with a Conscience, is unique. (Note: Iron Roy appears in this vignette on the site.

QUESTION (@JJDRexroad): Any other juicy tidbits on story, without giving the secrets away?

ANSWER: (@TSLuikart)The first world event involves the return of a legendary band of heroes called the Peerless Seven. Final line up of the Seven will be partially determined by Far West Society.

QUESTION (@JJDRexroad): In the mashup, where in the world does it actually take place? Location, location, location.

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka) FAR WEST is not our world. Fantasy world. Massively huge, endless frontier, two moons in sky. Different universe. Book map, which is only nearest eastern portion of Far West, is area 7200 miles across. A lot of “Here Be Dragons” on that map. Lot of space to fill in your own stuff.

QUESTION (@Lyfhskull): Speaking of dragons, are there lizards of unusual size(flight/elemental breath attacks?)

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka) Dragons are like komodo, but size (and SPEED) of tigers.

QUESTION (@Jason_Sunday): I know that there are “magic weapons” in the world. Are these weapons lost and need to be found (i.e. DnD)?

ANSWER: (@TSLuikart)Some are ancient, some are lost, some are being forged even today. Not “treasure”. Think wuxia genre.

QUESTION (@Jason_Sunday): What are the chances of seeing a web episodes for Far West with Felicia Day?

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka)Would love to talk to Felicia Day and Wil Wheaton about appearing in the webseries.

QUESTION (@chrytonbain): How do you plan on releasing content past the core? digital downloads of adventures or will there be more print runs?

ANSWER: (@GMSkarka)There is FAR far more than just RPG coming out. But yes, future RPG releases (adventures, etc.) will probably be released digitally.

We had a great time doing the Twitter chat, and will definitely be doing them again in future. Keep an eye out on the official FAR WEST Twitter account () for announcements.

The Chartered Houses – The Steam Barons

admin — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 18:26:32 +0000

by T.S. Luikart

The Chartered Houses are great mercantile families from Back East, chartered to operate in the Periphery and beyond. Colloquially (and none-to-kindly) referred to as the Steam Barons. Chartered Houses are given a free reign to operate, and often have their own settlements and even their own military. There are Chartered Houses that specialize in weapons production, Chartered Houses that run railways, Chartered Houses that are agricultural giants, Chartered Houses that run
mining operations, etc.

Three of the more famous Chartered Houses are detailed below.

House Laers

When most folk look beyond the borders of the Empire, they fail to see anything other than dangerous barbarians and untamed wilderness. They regard the Periphery as barely civilized and its people as being but a short step from savages. When Osten Laers first travelled into the west, he thought the same, but what he saw were opportunities. At that time, a booming economy was rising in the Periphery to handle legitimate businesses of every stripe and within that growth were openings for corruption, smuggling, opiates, gambling, extortion, and more. A crime for every occasion, opportunities in abundance, oh yes indeed.

Laers certainly wasn’t the first to look with larcenous eyes into the Periphery, but he was the first with a grand sweeping vision of what could be accomplished, along with the right connections within both the Bureaucracy and several key Noble Houses to set his plans into motion. Laers’ agents soon cornered markets most didn’t know existed or created new ones whole cloth for exploitation if the prospects looked good. Laers soon moved to establish a “legitimate” front for his many ventures and shipping foodstuffs was perfect for his needs. With his many business contacts and a few hefty bribes, his House’s charter was easily secured.

Laers’ schemes went mostly unimpeded in the Periphery, but he swiftly found a frustrating enemy in the implacable (and unreasonably unbribable) Rangers of the Far West. Though it has never been proven, Laers, or at least his money, is widely believed in the West to be one of the reasons for their downfall.

After many years of growth in both fortune and family, House Laers became a power to be reckoned with in the west. While nominally a family of “grocers” most folk from the Periphery have heard rumors otherwise about the Laers and give them a wide berth. Indeed, after the passing of the Rangers, the Laers enjoyed many years without true rivals until their operations began to encounter “interference” from members of the Family Jade…

Osten Laers, now in his 70s, remains the patriarch of his House and he still oversees a few particularly sensitive ventures personally, handling trouble with Marshals for example, who he is finding to be almost as difficult to deal with as the damn Rangers ever were. The sheer number of the Laers’ interests necessitate that family members and trusted agents run other aspects of the “family business”. The Laers have a wide number of holdings, from main street stores to gambling dens, throughout the Periphery, but the center of their operations is Osten’s palatial mansion on a large ranch an hours ride northeast of Sevenfork.

An agent of House Laers can be encountered almost anywhere as they are involved in a myriad of clandestine enterprises and even a few legitimate ones. The Laers don’t typically ascribe to any particular philosophy other than a sort of ruthless pragmatism, nor do they hold loyalties to much beyond their House and their own fortune, and not necessarily in that order.
In their dealings they strive to be practical, constantly calculating the potential profit of a given venture against the costs of maintaining it. When dealing with opponents, they usually prefer seduction of all varieties to bribes, and bribes to violence, but if they believe there must be bloodshed, they will hire professionals to handle their foes quickly and quietly. If defeated, they pull stakes and move on, there is seldom any profit in revenge. They have a faultless reputation for always doing exactly what they say they will do, it’s just good business, after all – even if most folk find many of their “businesses” deplorable.

Symbol: Two sacks of grain propping up a third with a stylized “L” embossed upon it. Some folks feel obligated to point out that the grain sacks strongly resemble the money satchels commonly used by most banks.

House Grunbremoch

In the later days of the Secession Wars, a valiant young colonel lost his arm to an “impossible” rain of blades that a savage called down upon him. His standing was such that two of the most promising of the Emperor’s Imperial Engineering Corps were assigned to craft him a replacement. Two months later, the young colonel gazed in wonder at the mechanical marvel that had been grafted to his shoulder, at the workings of its gears, cogs, and most astonishing of all, the intricate mechanisms of his new hand. As he flexed and unflexed his shiny metal fingers, he came to a revelation: the Empire was the greatest civilization the world had ever known, capable of miracles. The foundation of the Empire was order and obedience, each part working in harmony to achieve something greater than the mere sum of their parts. In order to maintain civilization, order had to be enforced; a strict order guided by a firm hand, lest all fall to barbarism.
In his mechanical fist, Colonel Sond Grunbremoch saw his destiny and that of the Chartered House he was fated to found: civilization guided by a steel hand. As the Secession Wars drew to a close, the young Colonel requested a charter for doing business in the Periphery and beyond into the Far West. The grateful Empire readily granted the heroic young commander’s appeal. Parlaying his connections, modest fame, and spoils from the war, Grunbremoch had soon built a respectable business importing goods from the East to the Periphery. Friends in the Imperial Army were among his first customers, but his business swiftly expanded far beyond its modest beginnings.

Now, over three decades later, the “Colonel” (as he is still called though he has long since retired from active duty) is in his robust Mid-50s and House Grunbremoch is effectively in the business of extending the influence of the August Throne on a yearly basis. As Grunbremoch train lines stretch into the Periphery and on into the Far West, they bring civilization with them, civilization and order, whether those on the path of their rails like it or not. Settlements along Grunbremoch lines are orderly affairs, as House-paid troops guard them against marauders and sedition with equal fervor. Those disinclined to agree with House policies generally move on if they are wise or end up at the end of a rope if they are not.
Colonel Grunbremoch draws his agents and factors from his pick of the top ex-military men and women mustering out of active duty to the August Throne. He prefers that they be righteous as well as exceedingly competent and he pays them exceptionally well. It is widely rumored in the Periphery that the able bodied only leave the Colonel’s service to become Marshals. House Grunbremoch, as a policy, detests secret societies and House members will generally only tolerate any dealings with them under the most dire of circumstances. The Colonel still enjoys excellent relations with the Imperial Army and can call upon their aid if necessary to his cause.

Symbol: A mechanical hand grasping the profile of a “flanged T” railroad rail.

House Marghul

Of the many Chartered Houses, there are few held in higher regard within the Empire and abroad than House Marghul. The Marghuls are at the forefront of the Empire’s expansion into the Periphery and beyond into the Far West. Their trains are marvels of engineering, some of the fastest and quietest in the west. When settlers learn that House Marghul intends to run a line through their town, they’re absolutely jubilant, for Edstal Marghul is widely known to be a soul of honor, and every settlement that his House has partnered with has greatly prospered.

The Bureaucracy points to House Marghul as an example of what every Chartered House should strive to be and it is generally held to be a truism that there is no House more loyal, nor more steadfast in defense of the Empire than the Marghul…

Too bad it’s a lie.

House Marghul was founded on a secret, one that each generation has held dear, and every endeavor that the House undertakes all serves to bring about their ultimate purpose: reestablishing the kingdom they lost.

Well over a century ago, the Realm Jononzul was considered one of the more enlightened of the Empire’s western tributaries. Like many other territories, they took their chance to break away from the Empire at the beginning of what the Throne’s historians now refer to as the Secession Wars. The royal family of Jononzul had many allies for they were, even then, known for their sterling honor. Their ambassadors were accepted in many halls of power and members of the royal family were given the rare honor of being invited to study at the University of Alsdolan in Orinost, fabled birthplace of the Circle of Iron.
Alas, there were no allies in existence strong enough to protect them forever from the vengeance of the August Throne, and eventually they were brought low, their beloved home laid waste by the siege engines of the Imperial Army. Their loyal people, though, smuggled what members of the royal family they could into the Far West and claimed that they were killed in the fires that swept through the royal palace during the final siege of Jononzul. The nearly decimated house watched sadly from a distance as their allies, friends, and rivals all eventually fell before the wrath of the Empire… Watched and began to take notes for the future.

When the time was right, several decades later, a man who called himself Taren Marghul approached a small group of merchants with a magnificent design for a new train engine. After swiftly securing backers, Marghul quickly made a name for himself as a useful man to know and an excellent partner for business. The Marghul family soon secured a charter from the Empire and House Marghul speedily rose in fortunes as they began running rail lines into the West.

Edstal Marghul now runs the House under the advisement of a counsel of senior members and trusted retainers who have served the Marghuls “for generations”. The House still holds a number of engineering secrets and advancements researched from what their members learned at the University of Alsdolan, which they occasionally unveil in order to stay one step ahead of their competitor Houses. They mostly deal in bulk goods, several of their lines carry livestock, including bison and thunderbirds. House Marghul is the only Chartered House with “Ice Cars” on their trains, engineering marvels, Ice Cars keep their contents at a temperature just below freezing, allowing them to transport meats and certain valuable medicines great distances at speed, which would otherwise be impossible.

The Marghuls and their agents are relatively honorable people, that is no lie, the upper echelons of the House are just far less fond of the August Throne than they will ever let on. In the Far West, they are regarded as one of the best Steam Baron houses to deal with, as they do treat people well… because loyal peasants are useful. Their manner tends to be a bit aloof but friendly, with more important or powerful House members acting in distinctly “aristocratic” fashions; however, there is little “suspicious” about this character quirk, as many scions of the prominent Chartered Houses act in similar fashion.

The Marghuls long term plan is to build a kingdom of their own in the Far West, one powerful enough, and far enough away from the August Empire to be left alone. To that end, they subtlety gather allies against that day, investing in various secret societies and bankrolling promising engineers. They have many enemies, but these are, in the main, rivals and competitors jealous of their business acumen. They are as noble as their circumstances allow them to be, but completely merciless in covering up or eliminating any information that may compromise where their true loyalties lie or what they are planning.

Symbol: A circled “M” made to look as though it were forged from roughly riveted iron and rimmed with ice.

Video Update: Progress and Process

admin — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 20:52:53 +0000

Hey there, folks –

Taking a brief breather from working on the FAR WEST Adventure Game to post the following video update, which was filmed for our Kickstarter backers. It gives a brief look at where we stand in the project, and then a discussion of some of the research materials that we’ve been using on FAR WEST. Links for the books discussed can be found following the video, below:





Nine Pendants

admin — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 18:28:24 +0000

by Chad Stevens

Red breathed deep as he poured a fresh cup of tea. He loved the way the aroma filled him, but this blend didn’t smell right.

“Hello, Tsai,” Red said, without turning to his unannounced visitor. “Shall I pour you a cup, too?”

“They should call you Red Cat’s-Ears,” quipped Tsai.

Red gave a short laugh. “Ears nothing. It’s those cigars you smoke. You couldn’t throw a worse scent if you wore a skunk around your neck. I knew you were here before you reached the top step, even as strong as I make the tea.”

“I’ve wasted enough time in getting here. No more small talk.” Tsai pulled back the hammer on his revolver. “Give me your pendant and any others you’ve collected. Do it nice and slow and I won’t leave too much of a mess for your widow.”

Red sighed as he turned. Hands wide, showing he was armed only with a teacup, he settled into his chair.

“I really thought I’d be having this conversation with Onyx Jake, but I guess you got to him first. You can have my pendant, Tsai. The others, too. They’re in that porcelain box by the washbasin. They’ll never do you any good, though.”

Tsai stepped to the side, never taking his eyes from Red’s cool gaze. Five copper pendants lay in the box, along with a straight razor and a shaving brush. He had to give Red credit. It was the last place he’d have looked.

“Five, counting yours,” Tsai said as he weighed the pendants in his free hand. “I’m a little surprised, Red. I didn’t think you had this much ambition.”

“I never went looking for them. They all came to me.” Red paused to sip his tea. “When Old Tumbleweed died and left us this final test, I knew what was coming. We’d all be at each other’s throats until only one stood. Back then, I couldn’t figure out why he’d do it. Why a wise man, who’s only mistake was taking the nine of us as students, would play to the one weakness we all shared — Greed. I left the next night. I came back here to run my uncle’s shop. Back to trade my guns for an abacus and the blood on my hands for ink on my fingers.”

“I understood what Old Tumbleweed did,” Tsai spat. “The final test was to reward the strongest and remove the weak. One clue to the treasure for each of us. Only the one strong enough to take them all would take the prize. Yes, I killed Onyx Jake. I put a knife in his back before he could wipe Sue Snakebite’s blood off his hands. Kalen tried to poison me with one of his stupid, clockwork scorpions, but the fool pricked his own hand. I pulled his pendant from his neck while the foam boiled out of his mouth. I searched the Thousand Mesas for the rest, but I see I should have come here first.”

“I never made any attempt to hide.” Red lowered his eyes and set his cup on the small table. “Star Eye was the first to find me. He was the only one to give me an honorable duel, too. Even as she lay dying, Sarita was gloating about how she garroted Long-shadowed Jim. Abwo came the closest. He took my Christina hostage and threatened me. I had to make him suffer for that.”

Red pushed himself back into the soft chair and continued, “I found the treasure with just the five clues I had. Take them, with my blessing. You’ll find the cave. You’ll find what treasure I couldn’t carry out. And you’ll never spend a bit of it.”

“Now,” Red said, reaching again for his cup, “you can take them and go or you can shoot me. But I’m not going to sit here and let my tea get cold.”

*      *     *

After days of searching, Tsai had puzzled out the remaining clues on the pendants he took from Red’s shaving kit. He paused from climbing the last rise to drink from his canteen. He smiled as his hand brushed Red’s pocket-watch and he thought of the flecks of blood still trapped behind the crystal on the face.

Finishing his climb, Tsai saw a mound of rocks. Old Tumbleweed’s mark was scratched into the timber surrounding the mouth of the old mine. He was surprised how little work it took to clear the rock away. From the entrance, he could see a smooth stone block in the center of the tunnel. Tsai felt drawn to it and the message carved on the surface.

“What are the Greatest of Life’s Treasures?
The Honor of a kept Oath.
The Loyalty of Family.
The Peace of Harmony.
Enjoy this Wealth as Friends
or Weep for its Loss as Enemies.”

A decade’s dust, settled on the stone, was cut by a single tear.

About The Author

Chad Stevens is a husband of one, father of two, and game-master of many.

This vignette was crafted by a FAR WEST fan — one of our Kickstarter backers, and serves as a preview of the fan participation in the FAR WEST setting that will be coming soon.

Digging In The Dirt

admin — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 17:26:40 +0000

by Andy Goldman

Ringarde staggered down the face of the dune, a barely controlled slide to the bottom. It was not yet noon, but the sky already seemed filled with sun, its heat beating down on him, chastising him for his folly. Though weak from thirst, he held tight to an edge of the map that he had followed this far into the deep desert.

He cursed the map silently with every step, feeling a mix of hatred and lust for it at the same time. It promised riches but seemed to be delivering him instead to his death. What a fool he had been to even credit tales of a treasure map. Such cons were for the suckers straight off the train from the East. But when he had overheard the drunken boasts about it in a dive on the edge of the Thousand Mesas, his instincts told him the boasts rang true.

Ringarde and his gang had followed the boaster back to his camp and won the map in a bloody, moonlit raid. He should’ve known it wasn’t worth it then, when he lost the rest of his gang in the process. Well, Old Thom had made it out alive, but Ringarde had decided that one whole share of treasure was better than one half-share. That same night, he held a horse blanket over Old Thom’s mouth and nose until the old coot had stopped kicking.

Weeks later and far out West, Ringarde was out of food and water and his horse was dead on the trail some hours behind him. The map had promised not only treasure, but an oasis of sorts, at the Giants’ Graveyard on the far edge of the Dreaming Desert. Of course, the map had not been to scale, and Ringarde, uneducated and in a rush to claim the treasure, had ill prepared for an expedition so far into the dry desert wastes.

Should never have gone after the map, he thought, disgusted with himself. Killed me just as sure as it did the rest. It’s taking longer, is all. Such were his thoughts as he climbed another in an endless chain of towering dunes, only to find that the map had actually led him true; he had reached the Giants’ Graveyard.

*      *     *

He dropped to his stomach on the crest of the dune and peered at the sight before him, a flat valley littered with giant stone formations that had been scoured by the wind over millennia. Amidst the rocks and not that far away from him a camp was set up, with one large tent, several smaller ones and something (children?) scurrying back and forth like ants.

Ringarde slid back until he was out of sight of the camp. He carefully spread out his map, squinting at it in the glare of the sun, to double-check it. It showed a crude circle of thirteen rock formations that looked like a clock with an extra hour in it. The treasure was buried between the twelfth and thirteenth hours. An illustrated dragon — not the ornery, all-too-real kind, but the mythical, winged kind — curled around those formations, peering at the “X” that lay between them.

He shimmied up the dune face again and studied the camp. There were the thirteen great rock sculptures making up the clock, with the big tent near six o’clock. The ground inside the circle was dug up to hell and back, and the kids or whoever they were seemed to be digging more holes and moving dirt around.
The map hadn’t lied and by skill or fortune he had followed it true. The treasure, his treasure now, was within reach. But someone else was after it, too, and they weren’t messing around.

Ringarde wasn’t about to let that stand.

*      *     *

He didn’t bother being stealthy — didn’t have the strength for it– just walked up to the camp in plain sight, gun in hand. As he approached, he realized that it hadn’t been children he had seen scurrying about. They were little boxy steam-driven contraptions, running on two treads and with a broad, curved blade in the front, that were pushing dirt across the camp to a large mound. A dozen of them went back and forth in the time it took Ringarde to walk up to the large, square tent and open its flap with the barrel of his pistol.

Squinting into the shade of the tent, Ringarde found it empty of human inhabitants but full of bones, really big bones, covering several tables and even a small camp bed. Not sure what to make of that, Ringarde took it in turn to explore the other tents in the area: more bones, supplies, crates of explosives, broken steam shovel-things.

Whoever was digging here was in it for the long haul. They were really tearing the place up to find the treasure.

That’s because they don’t have the map, Ringarde smiled, beginning to feel good about his prospects. He felt even better when one of the tents opened up to reveal nothing less than a well, here in the middle of the desert. The oasis the map promised! Setting caution aside, Ringarde holstered his pistol and drew up the bucket, nearly upending it over his face as he gulped thirstily at the cool water.

Sated, he set about following the shovelers along their track, gun in hand again. The emptiness of the place was eerie. No humans except himself, only these wheezing, clanking steam devices for company. Ringarde shivered despite the midday heat. Someone stepped on my grave.

The shovelers unwittingly led him to the base of one of the large stone “hours” of the clock on his map. At the base of the wind-carved obelisk, a man in tan robes lay prone in its shade, using a tiny metal tool to carefully scrape around a protruding bone the size of Ringarde’s leg. The shovelers were rolling into a nearby pit and then back out again pushing a load of reddish sand and gravel.

No one else was around, best as Ringarde could tell, and the robed man was so intent on his task, he didn’t notice Ringarde’s approach. For a moment, Ringarde just stood there watching the man work, weighing his options. This was no treasure-hunter, Ringarde was sure. Treasure-hunters didn’t care about old bones. But would he make trouble for Ringarde if left alive? Maybe. And Ringarde didn’t like possible trouble. Just ask Old Thom.

Ringarde lifted his revolver, aimed and put his thumb on the hammer. He looked around at the steam shovelers who would be the only witness to his deed. Wondered how they worked. They sure seemed good at digging. Mighty useful to someone looking to dig up buried treasure, if you knew how to use them. The Doc there on the ground knew how to use them. Which meant Ringarde needed to use the Doc. For now.

He re-holstered his piece and cleared his throat, “Hey there, Doc. Ya got a minute?”

*      *     *

After his initial surprise at having a visitor in this desolate stretch of rock and sand, the Doc seemed quite eager to have someone to share his work with. He insisted on giving Ringarde the Ten-Bit tour.

“I’m no doctor, my friend. Professor Dao Bathyngtonne at your service.”

“Sure, Doc,” Ringarde replied, eyeing the camp. Where the earth wasn’t torn up, piles of bones littered the ground, as if a giant dog had been digging up his inventory.

Bathyngtonne would stop at each set of bones and talk about them, but Ringarde barely paid him any attention. His only thought was that the Doc had dug up so much of the landscape, it was a wonder he hadn’t found the treasure already himself. Or had he?

Ringarde turned in place until he was facing the formations that were the twelfth and thirteenth hours of the clock. He walked toward them, and Doc tagged along.

“Ah, you noticed the Bridge,” Doc named it, for obvious reasons. A large natural arch connected the two stone towers,. The ground underneath the arch was undisturbed, much to Ringarde’s relief. “This is particularly interesting. See this skull protruding from the rock face?”

Ringarde could hardly credit how large and narrow the skull was, with a set of sharp stubby teeth each the size of his hand. It angled down from the rock, its two empty eye sockets staring at nothing. Or not. According to the map, those eyes pointed to the treasure.

Doc was calling him on, however, to the other side of the massive rock, and Ringarde let himself be led along to a spot where a tall wooden ladder leaned against the stone.

“Now look up there, see that?”

Above the ladder, a wide, flat bone stuck out of the rock face. Doc laughed and beamed at Ringarde. “Do you see how big the creature was? From tip to tail he must have been 300 fists!”

Ringarde whistled, impressed despite himself, and recalled the illustration on the map. “Was this a dragon, Doc?”

“Of a sort,” Bathyngtonne explained. “But of course you’re thinking of the legendary winged dragons –” He pronounced it Wing-Ed, which Ringarde found pretentious and annoying. “ — of which today’s dragons are said to be descended. In point of fact,” he continued, gesturing animatedly, “I contend that these are not the bones of creatures that flew through the air, but rather ones that swam in the water.”

Ringarde looked around them at the near-infinite expanse of flat desert, recalled the fine sand dunes he had traveled over for weeks, felt the biting desert heat, and shook his head. Why is it that the smart ones are always so damned stupid, he thought.

“Yeah, I can see why they died, then,” Ringarde drawled.

Bathyngtonne caught his meaning and laughed. “Just so. But you see, I theorize that this all used to be a vast ocean. When the water level dropped, millions of fossils were left behind. These massive ones are a treasure though. Once I put together a complete set and bring it back East, I’m sure to secure funding for future expeditions. My name will be made.”

“Doc, no offense, but you got a screw loose.”

“A sceptic! Okay then, further evidence is required. Follow me!”

Ringarde was tiring of the Doc’s theorizing, but he needed him around a little longer, so he followed the crazy old man to one of the many bone piles strewn about the camp.

Doc handed Ringarde a bone about six fists long, and heavy. He nodded and looked at Ringarde expectantly.

“Well? Don’t you see?”

Ringarde played along, turned the bone over, looked it up and down. “See what?”

“That bone is entirely too heavy for a creature who supposedly flew threw the skies. If these were the bones of the dragons of myth, they would be light and hollow like birds. This bone didn’t come from a wing, it came from a fin!”

The Doc was a fool, a harmless one, but Ringarde had no more time for fools, so he ended the conversation by drawing his gun on the lunatic professor.

“Doc, I don’t care about dragons, unicorns, or dried-up oceans. But I need some help digging something up, and I think you’re the man to help me.”

*      *     *

Under Ringarde’s command, Doc set the shovelers to digging a new hole, under the gaze of the ancient sky-dragon, or water-dragon, or whatever it was. Doc programmed them and they went about their task, and the hole grew and grew, but still no treasure.

Ringarde held his gun on the Doc and held the map in his other hand, studying it.

“Doc, you sure you didn’t dig here already?”

“No, no digging. I only focused on the bones sticking out of the rocks here.”

“Bones? Were there any more skulls?”

“Not here, but on the other side of the bridge.” Doc pointed to the thirteenth-hour stone.

“Maiden’s tits, Doc! You mean we might’ve been digging in the wrong place this whole time?”

“Sir, I have no idea what you are looking for or where it might be buried,” the Doc protested.

Ringarde shoved the map at him and held the barrel of his revolver to his temple at the same time.

“Look at this map real close, Doc. Pretend your life depends on it. Where would you dig if you were me?”

Bathyngtonne studied the map, which shook in his hands.

“If you presume that the dragon on the map is staring at the spot you want to dig at, I think, there,” he pointed. “I uncovered this skull here only recently, so it can’t be the one the map refers to. But there was another skull protruding there, which I removed.”

“Then you’ve been wasting my time!” Ringarde snarled.

“I had no idea what you were after,” Bathyngtonne protested.

Ringarde answered that with a pistol butt to Bathyngtonne’s forehead, sending the old man sprawling with blood pouring down his face.

“Make them dig there, then,” Ringarde commanded.

The Doc got to his feet shakily, dabbing at his forehead with the loose cloth of his sleeve. He programmed the shovelers to work at the new location, and the long process of digging began again.

An hour passed and the sun began to lower in the sky. One by one, the shovelers began to move slowly, until they all had shuddered to a stop.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Out of charge,” Bathyngtonne explained warily. “They need to be cleaned, refueled and refilled with water.”

Ringarde eyed the substantial pit that had already been dug and checked the height of the sun. He didn’t relish the thought of waiting until tomorrow to continue, having to guard the old man the entire time.

“Then let’s do this the old-fashioned way, Doc. Your turn.”

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Ringarde had Bathyngtonne take over for the shovelers. After an hour of this, the old man was shoulder-deep in the ground, exhaustedly scooping shovelful after shovelful out of the hole. And then — thunk.

“I think,” he wheezed. “I think I found. Something.” He held up a dirt-encrusted gold Talon and dropped it by Ringarde’s feet.

“Out of the hole,” Ringarde ordered, waving his gun. “And don’t even think of trying anything.”

Bathyngtonne could barely pull himself out. He collapsed on the ground nearby, his chest bellowing in and out rapidly as he sought to regain his breath. Ringarde circled the pit so that he could keep an eye on the old man as he lowered himself in.

Glancing up frequently—the old man continued to lay there panting— Ringarde kicked around the floor of the pit with his boot. He felt something solid underfoot and heard loose coins clinking together. Light-headed from excitement and hunger, he decided to risk setting his gun down so that he could finish the job himself.
He fell to his knees and scrabbled at the loose coins and what felt like a hard case beneath them. But for a case, it was awfully long and narrow….

“Shit, old man, this is just another one of your fossils,” Ringarde said, standing up. As his head cleared the top of the pit, he saw the Doc standing above him, swinging a length of bone. It connected, and Ringarde’s world went dark.

*      *     *

It was full night when Ringarde came to. Bathyngtonne stood above him, his face lit by a lantern resting on the ground. He had a broken bone in one hand and an open saddle bag in the other. Inside the bag, gold Talons glistened. Ringarde struggled but found himself in the iron grip of packed dirt from his shoulder down. As he fought against the earth, a shoveler wheeled up to the pit and scraped another load of dirt in, which hit Ringarde in the face and fell about him. The old man had got some of them up and running again, it seemed.

“You made me ruin the bone,” Bathyngtonne complained, throwing the broken fossil aside. “But I think this is what you were looking for, hmmm? This and twelve other bags quite as full. I came across them early in my dig. A lucky find. Not the treasure I was looking for, but it will pay for my next expedition just as well as a set of sea-dragon bones.”

He dropped the bag to the ground and one Talon fell out and rolled into the pit by Ringarde’s head, right before his eyes. As he talked, shovelers continued to go about their work, pushing more dirt into the hole around Ringarde’s head and leaving to pick up another load.

“I covered up the hole where I found the bags, just in case someone came looking for them. Someone like you. I knew you wouldn’t just take the gold and let me go on with my work. Your kind doesn’t appreciate applied science.”

“Doc, you can have the gold, for Maiden’s sake, just let me go!”

Bathyngtonne rubbed his forehead where Ringarde’s pistol had broken the skin. “The desert is a fascinating place,” he went on, ignoring Ringarde’s pleas.

More shovelers came and went, performing their assigned task, indifferent to Ringarde’s screams. The dirt covered his mouth now, and he snorted great gasps of air through his nostrils, eyes wide and pleading.

“You never know what you’ll dig up. Who knows, maybe in a thousand years, someone will find you again.”

The shovelers continued along their programmed task until there was no sign of Ringarde’s final resting place except for an “X” on a map that had led him right to it.

About The Author

Andy Goldman is a long-time gamer and amateur writer and, most recently, proud father to twin girls.

This vignette was crafted by a FAR WEST fan — one of our Kickstarter backers, and serves as a preview of the fan participation in the FAR WEST setting that will be coming soon.