Rosaleen: My dear Gabe, I have a bone to pick with you. We don't share everythin' that goes on in our lives, but why didn't ya tell me about what's been goin' on with you? This particular issue is somethin' that I'd be the most likely to have insight on. And you didn't even tell me after you discovered your power or curse or whatever you wanna call it, had effected me too. I don't understand.

​Gabriel: Rose I was going to tell you, and I should have sooner! I tried... But honestly I wasn't even sure it wasn't all in my head until now After your, should I say "incident" I worried how you'd react. I mean how can you trust me if I can manipulate you like that?

R: Oh, my love, I know you didn't do it on purpose, but I still wish you'd 'av told me earlier. It is a bit unnervin'...and how did those men know about it...

G: I have something of an idea. I think that perhaps our Mr.Richards played me at my own game. Clearly he knows more than he was letting on.

R: It certainly sounds that way...Mr. Richards will be sorry he did that...still though, this is nothin' I've heard of before. It might be time to do a little research. And, darlin', I think yer gonna have to be even more careful than normal with yer choice of words. Marshal, (Rosaleen would like to do some searching for information along the lines of what's happening with Gabriel. Are there any particular resources she might have or know of to check?)

Marshal: Hoyle's book is mostly about finding and using Jokers (manitou)...but you could try there?

R: I'll take a look through my book, Gabe. See what I can find.

M: Make an Investigation roll, Rosaleen.

R: Why it's an 8 Marshal

M: Unskilled even! Well done. Success with a raise. You spend a few hours poring through Hoyle's book...acid something clicks for you in a way it never has before. You can only figure out a small fragment, but...it looked like Hoyle had discovered a way to...control other people? This doesn't seem to be what Gabe's doing...he's no huckster. But you do find this idea captivating... Still, focusing back on the task at hand...you don't dind much else of note. Nothing in the book to explain what happened.

R: Well, darlin', there's nothin' in my book that seems to fit...But I might have another avenue to try...(Rosaleen would like to send a letter via the Pony Express to Quentin O'Loughlin back in Boston asking in a carefully obscure, but clear enough way if he's ever come across this sort of power of persuasion before.)

M: You write your letter, pay your $1, and drop it off at the Coldwater Creek outpost. Should get there in 10 days. If he responds right away, you could hear back in as soon as 20 days! Isn't the modern world just something?!

R: Well, it's worth a shot my dear. Hopefully, he'll respond quickly if he knows what's good for 'im.

LATER

M: In a richly appointed Boston office, a man named Quentin O'Loughlin carefully folds a letter and places it back upon his desk. He has reread it several times since receiving it, and now leans back in his chair, his slender fingers steepled before his chest. There is not much light in his office, but what little there is glints off of a silver medallion he wears around his neck: the eye of a raven encircled by thorns, the insignia of the Blackwood Society. There is a writing pad on his desk as well, upon which he has written a single word: "Colorado." Quentin puffs meditatively upon his cigar, and as the smoke writhes upward, he cannot help but smile. "Well now, Ms. Byrne," he whispers, "that was foolish."