Thread: A Tale of the Old West (Isabelle & Master Machiavelli)

Stella Blakeston, was all the small rabbit of a girl could answer with. The moments just prior still fresh in her mind. They were making a trip to Oklahoma state to start a new hospital in a rural area, when they were ambushed by gunmen. Her father had stupidly, or bravely, tried to settle things by stepping out of the carriage. Guns fire. Stella had been sitting closest to the open door, and witnessed first hand the death of her father. ... I want my families papers and money. She whispered, keeping her gazed locked with his. The blood of her father splattered on her dress and smeared over her face, contrasting her fair skin and causing her own ocean blue eyes to look that much more vibrant. Her eyes were rimmed with red from crying. After her father had been shot, her mother was quick to hide Stella underneath the seat. Since it was day out, the carriage was shadowed, and impossible to look into. The ruckus of step could be heard loud and clear. Stella could see a large figure approach the door, Mm, looks like I found myself a strawberry, a little out of season, but still sweet enough... Her mother was a red head, and bestowed this to Stella, with cream white skin, and a petite figure. Being the age of thirty-two, she still held youth to her. The man grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her mother out. She kicked, and screamed, hollered and hit, but to no avail. The man persisted to get his strawberry jam. Her cries had left Stella mortified. The sound of gunfire ended it all though. As the other two gunmen grew bored of her screams. Then... then... more gun fire. The sound of pounding hooves, meant a second person had joined. Stella slid out of hiding, crawling out of the window, and dropping to the uneven floor before taking off. Bunny was the nickname her mother called her when she was scared, for she was gentle and nervous as one, and boy could she ever run! The year was 1885 now, five years had passed. From a twelve year old child grew a young woman. The moment the pendant pressed itself against her breast, her heart burned with a hatred towards criminals. This same pain, grievance, anger, sorrow, or frustration spurred her onto her path which followed so closely to Malachi's. He taught her all he knew how to read the wind, to track, to hunt, build a fire, make a single satchel of water last two days, and most importantly, how to shoot. She was quite the useless travel companion until her fourteenth year when she started picking up the pistols dropped by his dead foes. Stella would stand there, trying to get her small hands to wrap about the handle, cock the latch, and pull the trigger all at the same time. These guns weren't always the best made, and would require a great deal of effort to use, especially by a small girl like herself, but once she got the hang of it, she would shoot off into the distance, before dropping it to the ground, climbing back up onto her horse, and following after Malachi. When she was fifteen, Stella used a greater portion of her family's money to buy herself a pair of .45 colts, double action. They were beautiful, with ivory handles and engraved with floral details, as the little lady had instructed. They are my angles, and I don't wanna ever mix 'em up for another lousy colt. They sat on her smooth hips in a caramel leather holster, lined with soft suede to keep them shinny, and free of debris. Perhaps they were the reason for her nickname, or the fact that Malachi had trained her so hard, which ever it was, Stella was formidable in battle. Two long days had been spent tracking, and finally the duo had caught up to the criminal. This time it was another gun for hire who quite literally killed the wrong man. He had shot the son of a rich farmer to east of here, and Stella was just getting a bit of vengeance. The sun was beginning to lower on the horizon, turning the skin into a fascinating gradient of warm yellows, bleeding up to oranges and pinks, before purples and blues of night began to merge. Stella rode ahead, her steed Watson was fast and agile, and with someone light-weight as Stella, he had little issue carrying her at faster rate. Her gear rattled as they stormed off, acting as an alert. The man heard this, and drew his own rifles. But he was already too late. Stella had let of the reigns, using her fine legs to steer Watson. Her hands busied themselves by wiping out her angels. Without hesitation, Stella shot Tom Bleene in the elbows and knee caps as she drove her horse around him. Malachi's little apprentice was nicknamed Sharp Shot Stella. Now at seven teen, she became proficient with her colts, and her horse Watson. And while she never killed anyone she shot, she did cause them great pain by taking out their knees and elbows, preventing them from moving or harming her. Slipping one colt into its rightful place, Stella could now use her free hand to calm Watson into a trot. The two turned around and made there way to Tom. The man lay on the ground crying in pain, his hands trembling as they tried to manoeuvre the gun. Watson came to a stop, and Stella hopped off. Well Mr. Bleene, you have some explainin' to do to a certain Mister Perrins, whose son you killed four days ago. He grunted, Get away you little bitch! Stella glared deeply at him, That is certainly no way to be talking to a lady. Now if you are done with this, I will be taking it away, Stella reached forward, and grabbed onto the barrel of his riffle. With a yank, she pulled it away. Stepping back, she called out, Papa! Could you rope him for me? I don't feel like dragging this one today..