Mission Statement:
To endeavor to bring to all residents of the Five States the most current and important news from across the entire Five States region. Never yellow, the Five States Herald vows to serve only the people of the Five States, from New Austin to Lemoyne, free of charge now and forever.
Half Human, Half Robot?
By Sofia Kathleen Fairfax – Lead Correspondent
Doubtless readers have heard, even from me, about the stories of metal men in the Five States. Machine creatures with metallic faces that crush and kill without mercy. These, are of course, rumors, but they at least have some witnesses. But these creations, nicknamed automatons, aren’t self-aware. They cannot converse with us or feel emotions, if they are real of course. No, that would be something else occasionally claimed.
Even older than the automaton sightings have been claims of half-human, half-robot creatures. Tied to the unidentified flying disks that have been seen in the night sky. They can actually talk, reason, and feel happiness, fear, and sadness. They also have no name, but locals call them “cyborgs”, a mixture of machine and flesh.
These so-called people were once full humans, abducted by the flying discs and turned into these hybrid creations, for what purpose one can only imagine. A few automaton witnesses even believe the cyborgs are what commands these metal monsters to kill humans.
It bears repeating: it’s all just hearsay, and the witnesses tend to be of the drunk and tired persuasion. Still, it raises some interesting philosophical questions, such as whether such hybrid creations would have a soul. That’s for smarter people than me.
Last place finish steals the glory in New Austin race
By Jose Chavez
What began as a customary contest of speed across the desert dust of New Austin has concluded as the most talked-of race in recent memory, not for its victor, but for the rider who came in last. The race bore all the familiar trappings of our territorial sport: hard riding, shoulders colliding, curses flung on the wind, and more than a few reckless gunshots cracking across the course. At one point the rider in question pressed as near as third place, their mount stretching strong beneath them, before the crush of aggressive competitors closed in. Elbows were thrown, shots rang past their ears, and by several accounts the rider was struck and even punched clean from the saddle more than once. Each time, they clawed their way upright, mounted again, and forced their weary horse back into stride.
Spectators lining the route remarked less on position and more on persistence. “They said they hate racing,” one onlooker reported, “but they had to finish, they had to be done with it.” And finish they did, trailing the pack in dead last, caked in dust and pride equally bruised. Yet when their horse crossed the line at last, the rider leapt down and celebrated as though crowned champion. “It’s over! I’ve done it! By God I’ve done it!” they shouted to the astonishment of the crowd. In a territory that prizes victory above all, it was grit and perseverance that earned the loudest cheer that day.
Post at last reaches the frozen heights
By Jane Duran
In a land where the wind cuts like a blade and the trails vanish beneath fresh snow without warning, even the simplest delivery becomes a test of will and skill. Ambarino’s mail routes, forever at the mercy of natural calamities such as avalanches as well as beasts like wolves, are seldom reliable and often entrusted to hardy locals willing to wager frostbite for a modest fee. Yet this week, the post arrived. Two cowpokes, faces wrapped in wool and large winter coats keeping them warm, rode into the scattered settlements with saddlebags heavy and spirits light, having braved the passes to carry letters long delayed.
Residents received their bundles with visible relief, some tearing open envelopes on the spot as though fearing the wind might steal them back. News from distant kin, bank drafts, catalogues, and government notices alike had been languishing somewhere south of the peaks, waiting for a break in weather and courage enough to cross it. Delivery in Ambarino may never be swift, nor regular, but when it comes it is met as a small miracle wrested from the snow.
Slaughter at Owanjila leaves trappers uneasy and prices tumbling
By Odell Clifton
The quiet shores of Owanjila, long admired for their industrious beaver colonies and mirror-like waters, were a grim scene this week. Early in the week, several cowpokes rode west and set upon the lake’s plentiful stock with a vigor more suited to war than trapping. By the account of one shaken naturalist, there were “dozens and dozens” of beaver corpses strewn along the banks and half-sunk in the reeds, each neatly skinned and left to rot beneath the mountain air. Owanjila has never before been so thoroughly emptied in a single sweep.
The reason for such mass hunting remains uncertain, though its effect has been swift: local pelt prices have taken a noticeable dip, leaving honest trappers grumbling into their tin cups. Word travels that an unknown buyer purchased hundreds of the pelts in one grand transaction, intending to move them elsewhere in the nation where demand may yet outpace supply. Whether this is enterprise or exploitation depends largely on who is asked. For now, the beaver lodges stand abandoned in places, and the lake’s famous industry has fallen silent.
Cabin north of Valentine reduced to ash; foul play suspected
By Donna Deshner
A lonely cabin in the woods north of Valentine now stands as a blackened skeleton against New Hanover sky. Any early murmur that the blaze was the work of a careless lantern has been put to rest. Just beyond the porch, in the trampled mud, deputies discovered the body of a man stabbed clean through, laid out as though he had staggered only a few paces before falling. The cabin door itself was found jammed from the outside, wedged tight so that none within might flee the rising smoke. Whatever spark took that house did not do so by Providence alone.
Authorities have sought to keep a tight lid on particulars, but this correspondent has learned that no fewer than three bodies were recovered from inside the ruin, charred beyond recognition and believed to have perished in the fire. The man found slain outside was, according to a source close to the matter, a decorated soldier turned bounty hunter, credited with more kills than most men would confess to witnessing in a lifetime. His name was not provided for verification. Notably, his revolver remained holstered, suggesting he was taken unawares and dispatched before he could so much as draw iron. Such detail speaks not of chaos, but of cold calculation.
Federal investigators are expected to assume control of the inquiry, an unusual step that hints at wider implications than a simple woodland quarrel. Whether the burned men were outlaws cornered in their den, or something more complicated entirely, remains unstated in official circles. The people of Valentine are left with smoke on the wind and questions in their throats. This paper will continue to press for clarity, even as certain offices prefer the matter settle quietly into ash.
Valentine’s supper in Saint Denis ends in a single shot
By Aloysius Levron
An evening meant for romance in one of Saint Denis’ finer dining establishments was cut short by the rash entrance of a pistol-waving ruffian who declared, in coarse fashion, that he intended to rob the restaurant and every soul seated within it. The room was thick with perfume and silverware, its tables occupied largely by the city’s well-heeled class enjoying their Valentine’s observances. Among them sat a pair of plainly dressed cowpokes, boots polished but hats set aside, sharing a modest supper beneath the chandeliers. What followed occurred so swiftly that many present scarcely believed it afterward. Without rising from their chairs, the couple drew their pistols in perfect accord. Witnesses insist they heard but a single report, such was the harmony of the shots, before the would-be thief collapsed where he stood.
Panic rippled through the dining room nonetheless, silk-clad patrons abandoning their plates and calling for police, though no further danger remained. The couple, described as seasoned gunslingers by those who saw the steadiness of their hands, calmly re-holstered their weapons and resumed their meal. Management, shaken but grateful, declined payment for the evening’s fare. By dessert, the pair remained seated amid overturned chairs and whispered astonishment, the only diners with appetite left in the house.
A curious plague of blue men unsettles the frontier
By Lucien Privitt
Reports have come to this paper from every quarter of the Five States concerning a most unnatural spectacle: bands of bald men, skin and garments alike tinted a ghastly shade of blue, materializing without warning and hemming in lone travelers upon the plains, in the marsh, and along the mountain passes. The latest account, provided by a woman of steady nerve and reputable standing, describes her being surrounded in silence by near a dozen such figures. She claims their skin bore the same hue as their clothes, though she could not determine whether paint or some type of dye accounted for the coloration.
The witness states she was rendered unable to move while enclosed except to unholster her pistol. But for each one of the blue men she shot dead, a new one appeared to take its place. She shut her eyes in dread expectation of violence; yet when she opened them again, the figures had vanished entirely. No footprints marked the soil, no bodies lay upon the ground, and no trace of struggle could be found. “It was as if the world had refreshed itself,” she remarked in sober bewilderment, “and wiped them clean away.” Similar statements have been gathered from riders in the deserts of New Austin, trappers in the snows of Ambarino, and fishermen casting lines in the swamps of Lemoyne. Each speaks of the same blue pallor, the same unblinking stare, the same impossibility of thinning their number.
Authorities across the territories decline to offer formal comment, citing lack of physical evidence. Some speculate it may be a coordinated prank by deranged imitators; others whisper of occult fraternities or chemical mishaps from hidden laboratories. A few old hands insist the frontier itself is a living thing and sometimes casts off strange visions to test the courage of those who trespass upon it. Until firmer proof is secured, the matter remains unsettled. Travelers are advised to keep their wits about them and to seek the company of others when crossing lonely stretches of road.
The Five States Herald 