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It’s a cold December morning in the dying days of 1879 and it’s been several days on the Denver-Pacific rail heading towards California and all parts West. The train is quiet, at least when you get far enough away from the engine cart and the wailing screams of burning ghostrock. The wines and beers are good in the dining cart, along with the occasional game of poker or baccarat on the largest table at the back. A few minutes ago, though, an odd rattling began near the sleep cart. The staff of the Denver-Pacific must have noticed it as well, for the conductor in your car flipped a hidden switch and lowered armored shutters over your windows. He then flipped over a seat covering a secret compartment and pulled out a Gatling rifle. With a smile and a wink, he now takes up a position at the front of the car near a gunport you hadn’t noticed earlier. As passengers peek out the narrow slits in the armored windows. Mounted figures stand along a rise to your right. Indians! As you ready yourself for trouble you hear a deafening screech, like nothing you’ve ever heard before. There’s no doubt it’s the locomotive’s wheels grinding on the tracks—the brakes thrown so hard you smash into the seat in front of you. There’s pain, a dizzy sensation, and then the whole world tumbles around you, slamming your body up and down like beans in a maraca. Everything goes dark. Then, you hear screaming. Not the screaming of your fellow passengers though—more like the howls of the damned. Ghost rock - burning ghost rock. No one could mistake that sound after hearing it the first time. As you try to clear your vision you feel the heat of the burning ore nearby. You force your eyes open and find yourself lying in the shattered debris of the rail car. In fact, you can see the entire train sprawled along the tracks like some infernal iron snake. Surrounding you are piles of burning ghost rock and the mangled corpses of your fellow passengers. Surely this is Hell. A man runs by, screaming and blazing with flame. He stops in front of you and three arrows slam into him from the train’s right. The Indians are picking off the survivors! What do you do?

I am going to run the Plot Point Campaign The Flood for Deadlands Reloaded. It is standard character creation and if I get enough players you guys should be prepared to be split up into two smaller parties. Otherwise this is just regular Savage Worlds fast and furious fun! Questions, comments, and character ideas are to be posted here!

The Start! Welcome to the start of Deadlands: The Flood! Everyone's characters are currently on the Denver-Pacific rail car heading over the Sierra Nevadas towards California. Why you're there is up to each of you, though I think everyone has backgrounds that will make a reason easy to come by. I am going to be running this fairly much straight out of the The Flood book, and as I said in the proposal, I want at least one substantial post (an action, character thoughts, and some descriptive flavor) each day. I'll be updated at least once a day, more often if I get more posts and have time around other work. Sorry for the late start, but now we're off! The Hellbore December 16th, 1879 A few minutes ago you noticed an odd rattling. The staff of the Denver-Pacific must have noticed it as well, for the conductor in your car flipped a hidden switch and lowered armored shutters over your windows. He then flipped over a seat covering a secret compartment and pulled out a Gatling rifle. With a smile and a wink, he now takes up a position at the front of the car near a gunport you hadn’t noticed earlier. You peek out the narrow slits in the armored windows. Mounted figures stand along a rise to your right. Indians! As you ready yourself for trouble you hear a deafening screech, like nothing you’ve ever heard before. There’s no doubt it’s the locomotive’s wheels grinding on the tracks—the brakes thrown so hard you smash into the seat in front of you. There’s pain, a dizzy sensation, and then the whole world tumbles around you, slamming your body up and down like beans in a maracca. Everything goes dark for a while. Then you hear screaming. Not the screaming of your fellow passengers though—more like the howls of the damned. Ghost rock. You’d know that sound anywhere. As you try to clear your vision you feel the heat of the burning ore nearby. You force your eyes open and find yourself lying in the shattered debris of the rail car. In fact, you can see the entire train sprawled along the tracks like some infernal iron snake. Surrounding you are piles of burning ghost rock and the mangled corpses of your fellow passengers. Surely this is Hell. A man runs by, screaming and blazing with flame. He stops in front of you and three arrows slam into him from the train’s right. The Indians are picking off the survivors! Fate Chips Malachite *rolls* 4d35: 12+19+3+6: 40 White: 4 Red: 0 Blue: 0