1. Affirmation that you have read the rules.
I have read the rules and understand them.
2. Your age
A lady never reveals her age, but suffice it to say that a Texan was a resident of the White House when I was born. . . and his last name wasn't Bush.
3. Male or Female
Most assuredly female.
4. What part of the world you're in. (at least time zone, most of us are too poor to come stalk you)
The currently cold (and snowy and icy) East Coast of the USA.
5. Which boards do you want access to: In The Dark, JointVentures or both? Note if you would like to read the stories on the In the Dark board, but not write on it you can request to be made a ghost. Access to the boards can always be changed after you are a full member.
I'd like the Full Monty, please.
6. A writing sample. ***required, please do not leave it out*** It does not have to be Gothic in nature nor do you have to be a best selling author, we simply want to see that you care to try.
The wind whipped down through the canyon like the tail of a demon, striking those unaware of its fury. The men who huddled around the tracks in the mud clutched their dusters closer, pulling them tighter around their necks, and hunched their shoulders against the biting cold. It didn’t often get cold in this part of west Texas, especially this time of year, but a blue norther was arriving, a blast of cold air come down from Canada, and it chilled everything in its path, sending men and animals alike running from the assault.
The tracks in the mud to an ordinary man would resemble nothing so much as a jumbled mess, unrecognizable and pointless. But these were no ordinary men. Texas Rangers, all, their well-justified fame reaching beyond the borders of the Lone Star state to cities the men would never see. Trained to track men and horses in any weather, over any terrain, they examined the hoof prints not unlike a jeweler examining a prize diamond.
One of the men broke off from the huddle, and stepped carefully along a small gully…his dark eyes never wavering, even in the whipping wind. The black Stetson the man wore low on his head shielded most of his face, and the collar of his duster took care of the rest. The other men watched him with mild curiosity, not daring to interrupt though, since Ethan Sinclair was the best tracker amongst them.
Despite his imperious sounding name, which seemed more at home in the drawing room of an English manor than in a bleak Texas canyon, Ethan could track a feather across a cloud of mist. Most assumed it was because of the Comanche blood that flowed in his veins, the result of a raid initiated by Ethan’s grandfather, a Comanche warrior who took for himself a white girl, impregnating her within a year, only to have her and her half-breed son stolen back by an Army Cavalry troop that came upon the tribe during the winter time, when the warriors were gone on a hunting party. It was said the girl never forgot her proud Comanche husband, and thought of him often, even after marrying into the Sinclair family.
Ethan sat on his haunches and touched the ground with his fingertips…touching a hoof print lightly. He then cocked his head, gazing…and with deliberate slowness, stood and rejoined the group of other Rangers.
“Well?” asked Tom Drury, the most senior of the men, and the one who was the most miserable, seeing as how he’d become used to sitting behind his desk in Austin, and was only forced to join search parties like this when the men were short handed.
Ethan gazed at Tom, and reached a long-fingered hand up to adjust his Stetson. The group waited patiently, knowing Ethan only spoke when necessary, and even then the tall, taciturn man used words sparingly, as if they were in short supply.
Ethan worried his bottom lip…and then spoke, the men leaning in to catch his soft voice.
“Trail splits off over there…” He points to the gully he was perusing. “One horse…carrying one man…. ” He then turns and points in the opposite direction. “The rest followed the canyon upriver. ” Ethan settled back on his heels, his job done for now. It was up to Tom as to how to proceed from here.
Tom sighs…He was getting too old for this shit.
“Well, who wants to follow the new trail? If it’s just one man, he’ll travel faster than with the gang…so it means hard riding…” Tom trails off as the rest of the men look expectantly at Ethan.
He nods his head imperceptibly, not surprised they want him to go.
“Alright, Ethan, you know what to do. Watch yourself, son. ” Tom adds in a somewhat fatherly tone. Tom had taken Ethan under his wing when the man joined the Rangers six years ago. Now Tom was ready to retire to his ranch in the Hill Country, breed cattle and dote on his grandchildren. He’d resisted retirement, but with men like Ethan taking the reins, he felt more reassured than ever.
Ethan smiles softly, tips his hat and walks lightly over to his dappled gray gelding, Alastor. He grips the pommel and steps into the stirrup, as his lean body is swung into the saddle. He chirps to Alastor, swinging the reins in the direction of the trail, and with a slight squeeze of his thighs, the gelding canters off, the canyon echoing with the sound of the horse’s hoofs.
Tom watches, eyes squinting until Ethan and Alastor fade into the distance. He sighs again, wishing he were back behind his desk.
“Let’s go, boys…daylight’s wasting, and those bastards aren’t getting any closer while we’re a-standing here…” Tom calls out, as the men disperse to mount up, the group galloping off, following the canyon trail.
If you have been referred here by a friend or are a member of another roleplaying board please let us know. We are members of other boards ourselves and it could speed your membership.
I am a member of Elliquiy, where I made the acquaintance of GothicFires. *Waves*
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