Thread: Ride of the Comancheros [ShadowOfDesire & DeRe]

El Desollador knew something was wrong, he could feel it in the desert air. Violent death was a silent birdsong, pitched at a level no human could hear. But El Desollador was not something who could be defined as human, being more akin to the things which lived and died in the desert. Preternatural instincts had been honed by a life in this sadistic stony world, like a scalping knife sharpened to the finest edge. For him the distant bloody betrayal played out as clearly as if it were on a stage before him, and a clear message hummed through his mind - the plan had been changed. He and his band were on horseback, just cresting a yellow hill which gazed out over a dry and bright gulch. If all had been in order, then a fat coach should have rolled past soon, laden with enough plunder to keep his gang in great comfort. It took great effort - even for a charismatic and fearful figure like El Desollador - to hold a band of Comacheros in order. The incendiary mix of white renegades, Mexican bandits, runaway slaves and rogue Comanche result in constant fights and killings, with nothing more than a terrifying leader to keep them from total self-immolation. A massive payoff would not only fix his gang as the most powerful in the region, it would also provide El Desollador with the means to pave his way towards a victorious war of independence. The half-breed son of a Scottish trader and Shoshone woman was no ordinary bandit leader. He intended to carve out a utopian realm for himself and any who cared to follow. Inspired by the stories of great leaders he had read in the missionary school, the rebellious and inexorable boy had escaped to the wilds at a young age, growing into infamous and near-mythical figure he now was. The grisly nickname his Mexican peers had given him attested to his skill in flaying prisoners alive, and he wore a flapping leathered cloak which had been stitched together from the stripped skins of several unfortunate prisoners. He cannily co-opted ancient half-remembered legends of the old Indian empires, who carved out hearts with blades of stone and controlled powerful spirits, using the superstiution to increase his own powers. He turned his pale grey horse to face the gang and began issuing new orders. It seems our prize has been stolen. The day has been made easier and more difficult. The Flayer's men were used to this kind of cryptic analysis, and followed it as best they could. Seeker and three men, ride to town and retrieve our people there. Bring them back to the camp. Redeyes, follow the back trail down to valley, and see if you can find the coach we were seeking. The rest, with me. He led his ghostly mare down the hillslope as the band split three ways, hooves thumping in the sand. These men knew every path through the uncompromising yellow land, and could find their way through it as easily as animals. Guided by the seemingly mystical gifts of their leader, they rode with speed and surety. Within no time they had reached a peculiar jagged row of hills that jutted out from the rock like teeth in a steer's skull. El Desollador silently signalled the party to split and take cover at either end of a narrow defile that had been formed between the fang-like hills. It was a natural ambush position, with the sun and shadow in their favour, and once their prey entered the trap their was no escape. A short time thereafter a rider came clattering through the defile at urgency, seemingly headless of what lay ahead. Even if they had noticed the rope that was suddenly pulled across their path they had little time to avoid or jump it. Inside their house collapsed with a terrible whinny, hurling its rider across the broken rocks. Before their victim had a chance to recover, they rushed to surround the figure with arms drawn and ready.