They came from the Swamp

[Blackhawk748]

The riverboat, the Muckraker, trundles down the calm Mississipi. Its a large 2 story paddle wheeler with 2 dozen rooms and a spacious bar on board. While the boat can carry just over 2 dozen passengers, it has just over half a dozen, most of which are happily winding away the time in the boats bar.

Spoiler: OOC

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Standard intro paragraph and just say where you are on the boat.

[Reality Glitch]

Having ran this far; it was nice to finally get a rest, however brief, from all the running. Though, he only rested now because he had something to do the running for him: A boat to tug along the river. He'd always heard of this river. Even before the Scouring it was a popular place, though he'd never been this far east before now. He'd also never traveled so far on foot: this river marked two-thirds/three-quarters from coast to coast. Heard things about the people hear. The pre-scouring people anyway. Now clue what the people hear now are like. No doubt influences by their predecessors, but by how much?

He stood at the very front of the boat; leaning against the rails, he looked forward. He liked looking where he was going. It was knowledge. Knowledge was safe. Unpleasant at times, but he was always better off knowing then not knowing. This meant that he stood with his back to the rest of the boat. Someone could come up behind him and push him overboard. If it did happen, it would be a human. Humans stopped liking him when he stopped being human. Understandable. He was different. Humans don't understand different. Humans are afraid of what they don't understand. The light understood. It helped the humans that followed it to understand as well. To understand what is different and not to be afraid. The one also understood, but it's understanding was different. It understood in broad strokes; where the the light understood each case as its own. The humans that followed the one claimed their understanding gave them the right to hurt him. Just because he was different. Just because was "cursed" as they say.

This train of thought tugged at his mind until he turned around. No one. He walked to the wall and leaned against it so he could see where he was going, but no one would be behind him and know it. The sound of the boat's paddles was rhythmic. Melodic even. The sights and sounds calmed him as he gazed south (where he was going).

Someone came to his right, and tried to to talk to him. It startled him, but the human seemed friendly.

[Darksidebro]

It was good to be on a boat again. Adam always felt more at ease on a boat then on land, the gentle rocking as the dark forests rolled by on either side. He'd never been on a ship of this size before, or a river of this size for that matter. He sits in a comfortably chair on the upper deck cleaning his Hall Rifle, always looking up to check his surroundings and other passengers. There was a cursed on board. Adam had seen a enough to know this one seemed different.. He'd seen him scuttling about the foredeck always looking south; shouldn't he know that the he should be watching west instead? If a beast would show itself, it'll most likely be from the west.

Adam finishes cleaning a mechanical piece of his Hall rifle and reassembles it. He takes a sip of a drink from a dirty glass, thinking to himself that its good to be a passenger for once, rather than a deckhand. he rises and walks from the west side of the upper deck to the north, trying to catch a glimpse of the dark scaled cursed; but he didn't seem to be there. Strange, he'd spent nearly all his time there thus far. Still, the gunman stays and keeps an eye on either side of the upcoming river just to be safe.

Andrew was up ahead somewhere... Being coerced somewhere by our bastard father. He could almost feel the pull to the south, like he was willing the boat to paddle faster. He searched every backwater port they'd stopped at for word of a young boy and older man, but none so far. Just people saying they saw them go on south. With a grimace he imagines putting a bullet through his father's eyes but realizes he doesn't even know what he looks like after all these years. Still, the vision is a pleasing one. He remains there, lost in thought, gazing westward.

[infoweasel]

For the hundredth time since the boat left port, Phillip's hand patted his longcoat's interior pocket to ensure the safety of his planned investment. The soft clink of silver on silver was muffled by the heavy leather and cotton overlapping the coinpurse near the young man's heart, in both the literal and metaphorical sense, a small bit of poetry that hadn't escaped Phillip. Not that he was a poet, far from it. His handwriting was atrocious and the only poem he had ever written to a crush back in Missouri was laughed at by its recipient. The reaction didn't exactly encourage further efforts, but his interest in Yates, Angelou and Plath had been rewarded once thus far in the ports the steamer had stopped at on its way down Ol' Miss.

Satisfied, his right hand turned the page on the ancient, worn copy of Norton's Introduction to Poetry, more a textbook than a collection, but still heads above any other find he'd made. It was the same chapter on Frost he'd read a hundred times, but presently his mind just wasn't in further dissecting which road might've been taken and its actual importance. Maybe it was the second whiskey he'd had, or the anxious excitement that had been buzzing in his head since boarding the boat, but he just couldn't focus.

Rising from the bar, he slid a copper to the barman and strode out onto the foredeck to get some fresh air. Tucking the leatherbound book into his free coat pocket, the paused to observe the odd Cursed meandering about the prow. Not they weren't all odd in some fashion, but this one was shaped differently than most. Taking a deep breath to bolster his courage as much as to draw in the humid, swampy air, Phillip leaned against the railing a few feet away, curiosity getting the better of him. Knowing his instinctual response would seem rude, no eye contact was made as he leaned with arms crossed, forearms resting against the railing.

"So. You headed down N'awlins way as well? Or just somewhere along the way?"

[Reality Glitch]

The human asked about where he was going. He didn't know. He never knew more than away. Away from here, away from there. Away from those who try to hurt him. Away from everything he once knew. It was no more. Just standing in place would be running away from it all. Lost to the sands of time. Time ticked forward without pause. Without hedence or remorse. He wished he could see the past again. He wished a lot of things. None of them relevant now. That's what it's always been like. He'd want something. Then something else would happen. He'd learned decades before the scouring that something elses would always happen. Not even he could stop the something elses. He came to accept that his actions never changed circumstance. Not that his actions didn't matter. They just were never the only thing that had an effect on the world. Other people lived in it. He could not control other people. He does not want to control other people. People are free to make their own choices; even if they are poor choices.

He expressed his ignorance. Three little words. Four, if you count a contraction as more than. He wanted to add about the running. That running is all he did any more. He didn't, though. Having knowledge was safe. Giving knowledge was not.

[Blackhawk748]

The Muckraker rounds a river offshoot of the Mississippi. From the voice tubes: "We will be arriving in L'eau Noire in about 20 minutes. We will be remaining in port overnight."

[Reality Glitch]

He turned and asked if the friendly human was leaving at this port.