Marshal: December 1879: Darius Hellstromme's Hellbore breaks through from beneath the Rockies, and his Wasatch rail warriors are met outside of Lost Angels by a desperate alliance of the other Rail Barons to prevent Hellstromme from completing the first transcontinental railroad. Reverend Grimme and his Lost Angels join the fray, and the Battle of Lost Angels rages. But while it does, Hellstromme takes to the sky, and drops a handful of his prototype "Ghostfire Bombs", wreaking terrible destruction on the battlefield and annihilating the area of Lost Angels known as Ghost Town. Grimme and the Rail Barons immediately surrender, and Hellstromme emerges as the winner of the Great Rail Wars...at a terrible cost. 1880 is gonna be one hell of a year, friends.


M: The campfire cracks and flickers, the only light for miles around in the complete darkness of this cloudy Colorado night. The thing that calls itself Colt Holbrook sits motionless and stares into the flames, a bandana covering the grisly seeping wounds on his face and neck. Twigs snap in the darkness surrounding the tiny sphere of light cast by the fire, but Holbrook makes no move. Instead his voice cuts through the silence, "You keep pacin' like that, you're liable to wear a track." A high-strung growl comes shooting back out of the night: "I don't like just sittin' on my ass doin' nothin'!" Holbrook lets out an affected sigh. "We aren't doing 'nothing,'" he drawls. A frustrated cry comes from out of the night, and a rock goes sailing right past Holbrook's head. "And I don't like bein' kept in the dark! I got just as much a right to know what's goin' on as --" Holbrook's head snaps up, his eyes blazing with startling intensity. Immediately, there is silence. It persists for a long while, until he's quite sure he's made his point. Then, eyes never wavering, he speaks. "You wanna know what we're doing? We're waiting. And while we wait, we'll stir up a bit of trouble. But we'll wait as long as we need to. Until one of 'em wanders off alone. The preacher we take back with us. He gets 'special attention.' The rest...well, with them, we can do what we like." The wind howls through the night, sending the flames dancing wildly. Johnny Carrington steps into the light, blood trickling down his ashen face from the gaping hole where his eye used to be, and smiles wickedly. "Now that's a plan I can get behind."

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M: The crystal chandelier jingled quietly in the gently rocking train car, and Armund Wohlheter shot it a dark look. He hated the thing...sure, it only made that godawful sound when they were moving, but they were in a train car, for Christ's sake. They were always moving. There was a papery chuckle from the seat across from him, and a voice rasped, "If you hate the thing so much, why not just take it down?" Armund turned his scowl upon his pale companion, but Hamilton Whateley merely grinned. The pale man chuckled again."You seem on edge, Scorpion." Armund's scowl deepened as he shifted uncomfortably in his pillowy seat. He hated all this plush nonsense. "Don't call me that. You know I don't like these fool names," he spat. Hamilton shrugged, his eyes inscrutable behind his dark glasses. "There is a power in names," he said. They both turned to look at the polished wooden door that led to their employer's private car. The chandelier jangled merrily in the silence. "How has he been taking it?" Hamilton asked. Armund shrugged. "He's been keeping to himself. Doesn't talk much about it. But I've learned not to mention Wasatch, and I recommend you do the same.” Hamilton nodded in confirmation. The polished door slammed suddenly open, making both men jump. The car beyond was filled with pungent smoke and flickering candlelight, and they could make out the form of their employer, sitting cross-legged on the ground, his dark eyes glittering. His deep voice slithered out of the gloom. “Wraith. Leave us.” Hamilton stood, nodded obediently, and exited the train car, leaving Armund alone. He waited patiently for his boss to speak, but the big man just sat on the floor, staring. “I have been communing,” he said at last, his eyes closed as he breathed in the acrid smoke. Armund waited a moment longer, and then ventured a question. “What do you want us to do?” His employer stood to his full imposing height, stretching. “Send the others back to their work,” he said, pouring two glasses of brandy from his private reserve. “Our efforts will continue. Send word to the Bear that he is to redouble his recruitment.” The Baron walked out of the gloom and handed Armund a drink. Armund took the offered brandy, and the Baron smiled, his teeth gleaming white. “With all eyes on Hellstromme and Wasatch, no one will spare us a second glance,” he rumbled, clinking his glass gently against Armund's. The chandelier delicately echoed their toast as the Bayou Vermilion train screamed through the night, racing back east to New Orleans.

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M: The woman in white closed the door to the sitting room behind her exiting sister, and the beatific smile faded slowly from her face. She crossed the room to stand at the window, gazing out at yet another beautiful sunset, and wished, not for the first time, that she could feel as peaceful as she presented herself to be. She had come to dread these quiet moments alone, alone with her thoughts and her creeping feelings of self-hatred. She reminded herself that her work was necessary, vital to the future of this land and possibly others, but that thought was providing her less and less comfort these days. She glanced down at the waste bin and the crumpled photo within it, and felt herself waver. Perhaps this was too high a cost... Movement outside her window caught her eye. A single dark shape leapt up, just briefly, from beneath the waving prairie grass, it's loathsome chitinous legs wriggling in the air, before it disappeared from sight. So close... Unconsciously, her eyes darted to the window, checking that the seals were still in place, though she knew they were. The sight of the creature hardened her heart. Yes, her work was vital. And her difficulty with it only served to prove that she alone could complete it. No one else would have the stomach. There was a knock at the door, and a young girl shyly poked her head through the doorway. "Sister Mary?" said the girl, "It's time for Ludie Melton's appointment." Sister Mary drew the shades, and took her customary seat. The peaceful smile was back on her face, and she noted with satisfaction that it returned quite easily. She nodded graciously at the girl. "Send her in."

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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."