Post by muskrat on Jul 7, 2020 2:20:04 GMT
Wormwood Rollers
Prologue:
And so it Came to pass, one ill-spent spring day in late April, exposed to the vile elements at play alongside the eastern rim of the grassy valley bowl that is Cobblers Bush, the sixteenth division of Olson Slone’s Lone Rollers lay down their smoke wagons and embraced inferior religion. By which, I mean, these lean and sadistic desperados put down their guns and sold their souls to hades—did it on their knees with tears in their eyes.
No one saw it comin, not one shite mulcher in the whole tri-county wasteland; especially not Wilson Diller, Captain of Slone’s 15th division—presently freezing to death, dabbling in cannibalism, and desperately awaiting aid and succor from the long anticipated arrival of the traitorous 16th battalion. When word of the betrayal came to Diller’s tent, the captain ceased sucking the marrow from his own lance corporal’s left femur bone and howled in moribund amusement. The jig was up—the losing lot cast at last. “Dig in, me mongrols,” growled Diller, “Let us break our fast on the Dead...”
Forget I said that last part, I wasn’t supposed to tell. Just ye be known that the 15th Division shown their more bitter angels that day, and the growing bonfire soon reeked of spoiled horse and infantry. The rising heat and commotion loosed the greatest avalanche on Wormwood county record, instantly freezing the mercenary ghouls in the nucleus of a newborne glacier.
This left only the turncoat 16th Division of the legendary Lone Rollers to offer any manner of resistance to Pastor Nash’s Traveling Condemnation Show—those snake-skinned naval worshippers had become worse than Crowley’s crew, and were converting half of Wormwood to the side of ol Scratch. Some spoke of actual shape-shifters, full-on beast men weened on kitten tongue and rat milk. Human sacrifice was no longer even considered unless the victim was virginal, and pre-pubed.
And so it was, in the face of so horrid a foe, it seemed the legendary 16th Division of the Lone Roller outlaw knights decided to cease fighting and surrender their souls to Mogg. All hope seemed lost, and those of us still settled in Wormwood felt our heroes had betrayed us.
Next Week: Chpt. One
Prologue:
And so it Came to pass, one ill-spent spring day in late April, exposed to the vile elements at play alongside the eastern rim of the grassy valley bowl that is Cobblers Bush, the sixteenth division of Olson Slone’s Lone Rollers lay down their smoke wagons and embraced inferior religion. By which, I mean, these lean and sadistic desperados put down their guns and sold their souls to hades—did it on their knees with tears in their eyes.
No one saw it comin, not one shite mulcher in the whole tri-county wasteland; especially not Wilson Diller, Captain of Slone’s 15th division—presently freezing to death, dabbling in cannibalism, and desperately awaiting aid and succor from the long anticipated arrival of the traitorous 16th battalion. When word of the betrayal came to Diller’s tent, the captain ceased sucking the marrow from his own lance corporal’s left femur bone and howled in moribund amusement. The jig was up—the losing lot cast at last. “Dig in, me mongrols,” growled Diller, “Let us break our fast on the Dead...”
Forget I said that last part, I wasn’t supposed to tell. Just ye be known that the 15th Division shown their more bitter angels that day, and the growing bonfire soon reeked of spoiled horse and infantry. The rising heat and commotion loosed the greatest avalanche on Wormwood county record, instantly freezing the mercenary ghouls in the nucleus of a newborne glacier.
This left only the turncoat 16th Division of the legendary Lone Rollers to offer any manner of resistance to Pastor Nash’s Traveling Condemnation Show—those snake-skinned naval worshippers had become worse than Crowley’s crew, and were converting half of Wormwood to the side of ol Scratch. Some spoke of actual shape-shifters, full-on beast men weened on kitten tongue and rat milk. Human sacrifice was no longer even considered unless the victim was virginal, and pre-pubed.
And so it was, in the face of so horrid a foe, it seemed the legendary 16th Division of the Lone Roller outlaw knights decided to cease fighting and surrender their souls to Mogg. All hope seemed lost, and those of us still settled in Wormwood felt our heroes had betrayed us.
Next Week: Chpt. One
- I hope so!
😄