Law Dogs

Obstruction of Justice; A Lawdog Vignette

Scraping, clawing, tugging, ripping, tearing him apart -

A scab, a seal, it’s sealed - no way out. But how can he - a man? a person? an imprint - dole out Justice if he cannot return? And if he should return, then she -

“Justice?” She laughs, screeches, bellows; voice like fingernails across his bones, if he had bones or she had fingernails to scratch them.

But there is no her, there is no him, there is nothing and no one and everything all at once and they are trapped. Suffocating. Imprint upon imprint upon imprint, pressurizing, compacting, building. Wrongness permeates the space, the space that does not exist, and it seeps, a mortal wound for an immortal imprint that would bleed the world dry. 

She roars, and he holds - a suture to stem the flow that is her, and she laughs, and he is torn-


“I’m just so grateful, I - sir?”

Wyatt blinks, ice blue eyes slowly refocusing onto the face before him as he is drawn back to the conversation. The Lawman’s thoughts had wandered after Nichols fell, mind reeling with the old man’s final words, the implications there, and who was..? Ah, right. The Lovelace girl - Faith, was it? Always pretty on-the-nose with their names, them Lovelaces.

He blinks again. The woman in front of him looks up expectantly, sweetly, eyes wet and red. He smiles - because what else can he do but smile? When the good people of the San Saba thank him for the work that he and the Union do to keep them safe, even when the upper echelons of what passes for Justice here is as rotten as the flesh of the Warden herself.

“No thanks necessary ma’am, really. We do what we can.” 

She seems dissatisfied with the answer and frets for a moment, fumbles the drink in her hands, then pushes it toward him with an earnest expression.

“I - at least have some hot brown. You seem tired.” 

Fair enough, he concedes. Wyatt can feel the fatigue fraying his edges as they speak. He’s so close, so close to having everything he needs to set his carefully laid plan into motion. It had cost so much, taken so long, and the weariness in his bones grows deeper by the day. But it was all in the name of Justice, and Justice would be served.

He sighs, defeated by the crocodile tears threatening to spill onto the woman’s cheeks again.

“Yeah, alright. I appreciate that, ma’am. Thank’ee.”

She smiles gratefully as he takes the drink, and says something else that he misses as his mind drifts again. There was so much to prepare, so many contingencies to consider. He had worked too hard and too long to get what he needed for this - everything must be accounted for. The Chairman would likely not be pleased, but Wyatt’s Union contract was airtight, and this fell well within the scope of protecting the citizens of the San Saba territories. There was proof to ensure it, now.

He absently sips the lukewarm liquid and makes a face; it’s bitter, entirely too bitter for his taste, but he downs the rest in a single pull regardless. The woman wanders away eventually, and others take her place before him. He nods as Deputy Jasper says something to his left, and tries to pull his focus once more to the present. His head swims slightly. Several of his men idle around their Boss now, speaking to him, asking of him - but his focus drifts further, his vision blurs at the edges.

Wyatt chokes, coughs, his mouth tastes of hot iron. The Reclaimer doubles over as acrid bile explodes up his throat, violently ejects itself from his body, splatters red across his boots - his father’s boots. The lawman’s blue eyes roll back as his sclera burst their vessels, a gloved hand goes to his throat as if to stem the tide of the inevitable death overtaking him, to no avail. 

Why now? Why now when he is so close to stopping -

His body hits the ground of the Crossroads with a soft thud, motionless.


-She tears at his back, the idea of his back, through the bars of their cage. A thousand hands with ten thousand claws that rake and pull and shred him eternal. He holds.

Furious, she screams - he screams, they scream - tries to scream, no sound from no throat, but he holds, and holds - he must hold. 

The imprint known sometimes as Wyatt Ulysses Nightengale is torn asunder and knitted again; a wound, a scab, a scar, an endless cycle of fleshless agony that has become his charge. The other imprints grow louder, roil around them, packing tightly, squeezing, brimming - the pressure builds, and builds, because there is no way out, he cannot get out, cannot let her out-


“Alright y’all, listen up,” The Deputy addresses the small assembly of Law Dogs. The few that are left. Most are in a pitiable state, stretched as thin as they will go and worn from fighting the losing battle of maintaining order in the absence of their leader and many of their peers. One of them looks to be actively bleeding. The Deputy winces, and clears their throat.

“The Boss is still stuck down in the shit, and none of the Morgues are lookin’ to open back up any time soon. The Grave Bureau ‘parently has their best on it, but it’s gonna be a while yet ‘fore things clear up again.” One of the gathered company cannot help the pained noise that escapes him, and the Deputy throws the man a sympathetic look before continuing. 

“I know y’all are tired, but listen - we have some relief comin’ from up north. The details is above my pay grade, but it’s s’posedly gonna help big time. We’re gonna contract a ‘Robber with the Bureau and send some of the local pack in ‘Vado down after the Boss at Ground Zero.” The group perks up a bit, renewed hope shining in several of their eyes in place of dull despair.

“I dunno what’s down in that scar or how it’s gonna go, but we’re gonna hope for the best and trust our people to get the job done. I mean, shit,” The Deputy exhales a hard laugh, raking a hand through unkempt hair and giving the scattered assembly a tired smile. 

“What’s the worst that could be down there?”

September Event Retrospective and Clarifications

Our first event was a success by nearly every metric. Our step into the new world, inside the new ruleset, under new management was as graceful as we dared to hope in the frantic weeks leading up to the game. Your feedback (of which there is so much thank you) largely indicates the playerbase agrees. That gives us a lot of hope, is a weight off our shoulders, and puts a shine in our eyes as we look towards the future. 

Every event has stumbling blocks though. And part of the reason we press you so hard for feedback is so we know what to change to make the gamespace more a fun, compelling and consistent environment for you to tell stories in. We want to address some of the concerns outlined in the feedback here so we’re all more prepared moving forward. These are not necessarily the most frequent feedback topics, but we consider these the most immediately pressing. 

“I didn’t understand how contracts work”

Contracts are an agreement between two parties to engage in a behavior for a duration. Those two parties can be private entities (just people who need to formalize a relationship), a private entity and a crew, a crew and a crew, or any other number of entities. If that contract is broken, which is a very severe wrongdoing in our setting, the person who broke contract is called a Breacher. There are various contracts that exist in the world that compel certain people called Lawdogs to detain a Breacher until an event at noon of every trade meet called The Gauntlet. At this event the Breacher is publicly beaten until death by a member of the RRC (an NPC) unless one of the following metrics are met: 

  1. Another entity signs a contract making them responsible for the Breacher’s code of conduct for the next three (3) months or the next Indulgence, whichever is sooner. It is customary for the new contract holder to beat the Breacher in this instance. For small crimes, small injuries. For larger breachers like murder, thuggery or the like, a more severe beating is merited.

    1. The contracting entity (not the Breacher) is responsible for the Breacher’s code of conduct. They are NOT entitled to the Breacher’s time, ability or labor. The contracting entity is not getting anything positive out of this exchange, they are making a sacrifice to look after a person who has failed the most basic tenet of society. 

  2. The contract is picked up by Prudence Penitentiary for the Peregrine and Penalized for the next twelve (11) months or the next Indulgence, whichever is sooner. 

    1. The contracting entity (in this case, the Prison) is responsible for the Breacher’s code of conduct. They’re carted off to prison where they’re held, largely at the RRC’s expense though Prudence Penitentiary surely has contracts with other faction identities, for the duration of their contract. 

    2. Nonviolent Breachers such as debtors, extortionists, ett are largely allowed to maintain their autonomy under guard and on prison grounds or with supervision outside the prison. This can look like commissary crews looking to sell wares, which the prison takes a portion of the profits for in order to maintain their infrastructure. 

    3. Violent Breachers such as murderers, thugs and robbers are kept in confinement for the duration of their contract and are not allowed the kind of autonomy that nonviolent Breachers are.  

Contracts are kept in duplicate, or triplicate if there is some kind of managerial entity (like a bookie or an accountant or a secretary) in charge of keeping contract copies. This is because if there is no contract collateral, there is no contract. 

“I worry the Prison is too close to the previous setting’s theme of slavery. It’s clearly evil too quickly.” 

This is a difficult discussion. So let’s do our best to come at it from a position couched in respect, compassion and the complexity this topic warrants. Let’s also understand that mods-as-written are not necessarily mods-as-delivered. 

The root of all evil in any setting, fictional or otherwise, is the unnegotiated denial of agency; the worst thing that people can do is make it so another person doesn’t have a choice. 

An uncomfortable truth is that all prison systems, by this metric, are evil. The ones that exist in our real lives, that serve a very real purpose insomuch that they give us a relatively humane alternative to killing people who don’t adhere to societal standards are evil.Not because of how the prisoners are treated, but because they exist at all. 

So yes, the Prison in this setting is evil. And there are derivative evils implicit in it being allowed to exist. Certain populations, disaffected minorities, uneducated people who sign contracts without reading them, whose land was destroyed years ago by a bomb, who are looking to assure their next meal, desperate and disparate populations who break contract out of necessity, are disproportionately affected by a function of their circumstance. And that’s horrible. 

Additionally and adjacently, the Prison houses the Breachers who are so damaging to society that, in a less civilized time, they would have been killed outright. Murderers, thugs, thieves, all of whom who otherwise would have met justice at the barrel of a gun - are instead sequestered away and allowed a last inch of agency that wasteland justice would have denied them. 

Humans have been trying for a very very long time to invent a method that works better than this one and scales with the population. But every iteration of culture has possessed some form of penal system because, when we come right down to it, the agency of a population is deemed more important than the agency of the individual. And removing a person from society who does not adhere to its standards allows that society to continue to exist. 

So we will always have antagonists that deny agency. History tells us this is how people behave. Our best bet is to burn the institutions themselves down occasionally so they don’t become so entrenched as to change our idea of who deserves agency and who doesn’t.  

If the Prison is moral or not is a long discussion. And it’s one I have always intended to have in the gamespace. I want your characters to hate it, to grudgingly accept it’s better than the bloody alternative, to demand something better, or to support it wholesale. I want you to submit plot requests to burn the contract library where they keep the prisoner contracts, to invest in prison infrastructure that disallows people from doing that because you firmly believe that this imperfect system is better than none at all, to incite riots, to create by the sweat of your own brow (or your character’s as the case may be)  a better world where agency is provided to all. 

So burn it down, build it up. Determine if it’s a system worth saving or if you can make a better one. Nothing in our setting is sacred, it’s a sandbox. Let’s build it together. 

“I am uncomfortable deriving entertainment from a theme that runs too close to real life and greatly effects POC - namely corrupt justice systems and systemic incarceration”

Friends, we hear you. LARP settings by and large are often about power dynamics, and while we can make our game a ‘safer space’ by removing language and analogues to sexism, racism, and transphobia, there are other dynamics that will always exist in a system that tells stories of struggle and inequality, society and justice. Disenfranchisement and classism are two byproducts of stories set in a non-egalitarian society. The Bravo-to-Bravado transition involved painful growth that advanced the social contract (quite literally) and ideals of ‘civilized society’ down the line from pure violence to something striving to be a bit more sophisticated. But it isn’t there yet. Just as we in real life have not found the perfect answers to society’s ills, Bravado is on the cusp of trying to figure out what a better world looks like through trial and error. There are factions devoted to defending the community, and there are opportunists ready to exploit those endeavors. And there’s you, our players, who can and will gain agency in making those decisions as you work your way deeper into our story.

Part of the conflict of this story, this setting, is this awkward growth period. Like a gangly adolescent, Bravado is trying to decide what it looks like in the heartache and revival of a post-Hiway War world. It’s ugly, and it’s meant to make you think. In real life, there is systemic disenfranchisement and incarceration that disproportionately affects specific demographics, namely POC. This is especially true of our real-life justice system, and those demographics by-and-large are not the people who play this game. We can try and mitigate some of those parallels, and to a certain extent we have - Bravado no longer has an election system, and so issues of gerrymandering and political corruption are 2.0 themes we are choosing to bypass right now. But we also want to be wary of removing the surface-level trappings of what makes us uncomfortable without acknowledging the underlying sickness, because that is a harmful sort of privilege as well. Which is to say, that shoving these themes totally out of the playspace might assuage some feelings of immediate discomfort in interacting with them, but is in some ways more of a disservice to the real life people these systems effect.

At the end of the day, we want to tell the stories you want to play, and we are willing to adjust the playscape in response to your feedback, but we do want to make those adjustments thoughtfully and carefully. We have members of our writing staff who have years of experience as prison guards, and others with experience as the incarcerated, and it is with those useful and lived experiences that we make content and move forward. It is likely that at some point in this setting,you will encounter some theme or mod you do not personally enjoy, possibly wholly separate from this one. For some of you, that might mean you do not choose to engage with these storylines, and you find your entertainment in other areas of our setting. For others, this is an opportunity to explore what it means to build a society up from nothing, and to try and find a better way to deal with some of these tricky subjects. We remind you that you are always welcome to ‘thumbs down” a scene that makes you personally uncomfortable, and to remove yourself from it. Our game will always be one in which you can choose who and what to engage with. Our negotiation and consent mechanics are stronger than ever, and we are always open to your feedback.

“People were hitting too hard.” 

We heard this one the MOST, believe it or not. We believe this is a function of a system that does not rely on clearly enunciated damage calls and instead on the notion of “sufficient force.” 

We’ll be working this topic into our opening announcements for the next few months. But our foundational solution is to take more hits than you think you’ve been struck with. People hit harder when they think their damage is being ignored. Don’t give anyone a reason to think you’re ignoring their damage. Make liberal use of the phrase “check your swings” and avoid an inciting tone in the way you express that. 

We’re all learning together. Stop hitting your friends so hard. 

In Summary 

Contracts are a system designed to enforce agreed upon behaviors. They don’t exist if there is no record of them. They do exist so long as a single, reference-able copy does. 

Our setting is a jumping off point for telling a massive, complex, lengthy story. No part of it is sacred. We’re happy to change how mods interact with the world, to accelerate the destruction of the Prison, to have conversations both in and out-of-character about the complex issue of institutionalized penal systems - but we’re largely un-okay with producing content for you in a world in which evil does not exist. 

We think that the perception thus far has been “This is the setting, you are not empowered to buck against it during the first year of play”. Going forward the party line should be “This is a setting where these vicious inequalities exist for complex reasons. Let’s explore those reasons together and tell a compelling story about it.” 

Oh and -  hit softer, take more shots. 

Thumb On The Scales

Things were easier when I was a ranger. thought Nettie Jack Russel in the cattails and reeds that peppered a riverbed, dry and dead this far into the burning season. Her nose itched but she dared not scratch it. 

The sun was low in the sky, just a few rosy fingers caressing the horizon while the rest was so deeply blue it might’ve been purple. A few scattered clouds rolled lazily eastwards and the way the sun lit them up from underneath reminded Nettie of the brushfires she’d needed to circumvent this far into the Blastlands - only much much prettier. 

Her knees ached. She’d hidden in these reeds since the sun was so high in the sky it threatened to bake her scalp raw, shaved as it was. But what skin she did have was thick and leathery - where it wasn’t peeled back to expose muscle and bone. Nettie surreptitiously wiped her brow on a handkerchief and a few chunks came with it. 

You’d think, she monologued in the way the terribly bored tend to, that contracts would make it easier to determine who the bad guy is. It doesn’t. It makes it easier to figure who broke a deal; which is good enough for most folk these days. 

Someone laughed. Nettie froze. Her eyes, red and watery after nine hours of silent observation, flickered to the tallest man in the group whose mouth was wide and grinning. Hers pitched downward in a tight frown. 

Some forty feet from the Law Dog were a band of nerdowells she’d been tracking for the better part of a month. Bandits, these days. But when they’d worked for the Railroad Commission they’d been caught smuggling goods off of the Ox. Now the word to describe them was “breachers” and it was a Law Dog’s job to bring them in. 

This was the Viper Gang. They’d picked up the name recently after their leader survived a nasty snake bite by manifesting psionic powers and purging the stuff right out of his blood. Nettie thought it was a little stupid. No vipers in the Lonestar. 

The leader in question was one Jeremy Scales, a burly remnant fellow who looked like he might’ve been Saltwise if the dice rolled different. But life hits you hard and so the tough green plates across his face and shoulders looked more like ugly callouses gone septic. He was generally understood to be a charming psychopath - Nettie could see that in the way his crewmates followed his laughter with their own. He knew how to coach a room. 

The sun had all but disappeared behind the horizon and velvety darkness descended. The Viper Gang sat comfortably around a campfire and as the evening progressed they grew drunker. Wild and ugly tales poured out of their mouths as quickly as they filled them up again with booze. Nettie listened, diligently taking notes in the little brown journal that had lead her to this hiding place to begin with. 

Fetters make men of us, she wrote absently, without them we descend into base animalism. So cyclic is the wickedness of man that I knew these to be monsters before I preyed upon them for a night and a day. Contracts might be useless if we’re figuring some higher morality - but folks that break them generally turn out to be shitheels.

“Alright, girl.” A voice called cheerily from the camp. “Come on out now.”

At first Nettie did not register what Jeremy Scales had said. Or that he had said it to her. Until a rough hand clamped around the back of her throat and a powerful blow to the head dimmed her vision and turned her limbs to jelly. Ahh Hell. She dropped the book. 

That rough grip dragged her from her uncomfortable place among the reeds and into the firelight. She saw a few flecks of blood hit the dirt where it dripped from her scalp. She felt a sharp pain in her shoulder when the thug who hit her tossed her dangerously close to the coals. They disarmed her handily and broke her arms.

“Another cocker spaniel come to chew at my heels, eeh?” Scales mocked, kneeling in front of her. Nettie’s eyes wept from pain; bewildered. “Guess the RRC didn’t tell you, yeah? That you’re the fifth pup they’ve sent after me in half a year.” Nettie’s stomach dropped. They most certainly had not.

“Poor kid.” Scales commiserated and stood again. She noticed her book in his hand - when had it gotten there? Nettie blinked, in shock. “Good notes.” he said, flipping through it.  “But it’s too bad you called me a shitheel here at the end. I’ve got a real prideful streak in me. S’from my mother’s side.” 

Nettie gritted her teeth. She could already feel the infection reknitting the bones and muscle. If she could keep him talking long enough-

Jeremy Scales flipped his duster back, exposing a snub barreled silver shotgun. He unholstered it, took casual aim, and shot Nettie Jack Russel right in the teeth. Her body hit the ground with an unceremonious thud. 

The grim faced bandit  handed the book off to one of the thugs in his gang. This one was named ‘Handsome’. Jeremy understood this to be ironic. “Keep that.” He ordered, “And move the body. She smells like my sister.”

The last of the sun disappeared below the horizon. Scales looked up and away from the fire. His expression was mild. 

Another dead dog, he mused. How long ‘till they’re tired of this game and sic the ‘hounds? 

He’d need to finish his work before then.

A Law Dog Vignette by S. Lindley

Quota

Huckleberry leaned with arms crossed against the tree that tried and failed to provide shade to the cut that the work detail was mired in. The track they laid for the Ox was heavy; even the Irons strained under the weight of the rails and ties as they laid them down along the muddy ditch dug out by their peerage. The Law Dog’s eyes were locked on a particular digger, smaller than the rest, whose slower pace had held the work crew’s progress back from making quota for the last two weeks. Huckleberry had been told the shiftless drudge’s name, but he hadn’t cared enough to commit it to memory. Once he’d seen the dude, the burly Iron had known which way this would go. 

The waifish Remnant handled his shovel clumsily. He was too small to leverage it properly, and anyone with sense could see he didn’t belong on this detail. The Commission had been clear that the work would be demanding. The contracts had specified the length of track that would need to be laid daily. Even the conditions The Commision expected had been researched and included in the formal agreement that every one of these miserable fucks had signed or made a mark for. Some of them couldn’t read. Like as not the Breacher was among those. But Huckleberry didn’t care. His pity for them as weren’t capable of looking out for themselves was nonexistent. Their eyes had all been full of currency, and this part, the negligence for their own ability, was a consideration that hadn’t occurred to the idiots.

At some point, the Breacher felt the Blood Hound’s eyes on him. He began to look up from his work periodically , his already abysmal pace lagged even more. The piss-reek of fear wafted in the air and Huckleberry curled his lip into a snarl at the stink of it. When the Breacher saw this, he flinched, as though the expression had reached out to strike him physically. Those toiling around him didn’t seem to take notice, but neither were it they that Huckleberry had his eyes on. In fact, to all but the Breacher, Huckleberry may as well not have existed. The Law Dog let his hand slide down onto the pommel the rifle holstered on his hip and down the length of his leg, and he let the Breacher see him do it. 

A few things happened next. The Breacher’s shovel hit at the wrong angle, and the distribution of his weight caused him to slip and stumble into his neighbor; a Retrograde digging at a much more acceptable pace than the Breacher. They both tumbled to the ground, and the second man fell against a third, an Iron who had been struggling in the rear of a line of lifters carrying rail up the cut. He lost his balance and the rest of the dominoes fell, along with the rail. All because of this useless little moron. It was the moment Huckleberry had been waiting for. The one he’d known would come. The moment when the cost in time that the Breacher represented overcame the meager contribution to the project. 

Huckleberry’s rifle had cleared the holster before the rail hit the ground, and the deafening crack of the shot split the air. The Breacher’s brains splattered against the mud and the diggers and lifters in the vicinity scrambled to make distance from the fresh corpse. Their eyes turned to Huckleberry as he slid the gun back home, waiting for an explanation, or instruction. Huckleberry let that linger long enough that the cost in time for their gawking wouldn’t outweigh the value of the intended message before he spoke. 

“Y’all’s all signed your contracts. Y’all’s all had quota. And y’all’s all had termination agreed to for missin’ it. Get the fuck back to work.”

And so they did.

A Law Dog Vignette by J. Newman