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.
Handheld Gatling Demonstration Less than Successful
By Sofia Kathleen Fairfax – Lead Correspondent
Almost half a century ago, Dr. Richard Gatling created a multi-barrel firing weapon that he believed would make war so terrible that nobody would fight. This optimism was as full of holes as its now numerous victims, but the weapon was a success. Now, as future iterations of this multi-barreled gun continue to spread, even to single-man portable versions, the current owners of the Gatling saw an opportunity.
At a live-fire exercise in the deserts of New Austin, a prototype portable Gatling gun, without wheels or a support system, was tested. An operator was able to lift the device, and with a large crank on the right side, it was fired. The test was concluded in under 15 minutes, but the results were far from promising.
The weapon fired, but it exhibited a laundry list of issues. Even with some of the weight removed, it was still far too heavy to walk around with, perhaps only a few paces before the user was out of breath. The crank, while large, came loose on two separate occasions. The targeting sight at the bottom of the barrel was pointless; the user could not look down the sight and crank simultaneously. Worst of all, reloading the weapon was so complicated that the gun had to be placed on the ground. The ammunition capacity was only 30 rounds; any more and the gun would be too heavy.
It’s already been announced that the US military will be passing on the idea of a portable Gatling. Until someone creates a more efficient version, and going by history, that won’t take long.
Rising demand for desert sage follows bold medical claims in Armadillo
By Alois Burditt
Across New Austin, desert sage has become the latest prize of the plains, with gatherers scouring the state in search of the fragrant plant long used to ease fevers and minor ailments. The surge began shortly after a newly arrived doctor in Armadillo unveiled a patent elixir he swears will mend every ill presently haunting the beleaguered town. According to his advertisements, a pinch of desert sage is among its “vital essences,” lending the concoction both curative virtue and frontier credibility. Locals, desperate for relief from the maladies that have stalked the settlement for months, have responded with coin, sending demand for the herb soaring.
But several medical men and naturalists across the territory have urged caution, noting that while desert sage may soothe certain symptoms, it is no sovereign remedy. These experts contend that no amount of infusion or tonic can rout the deeper sources of Armadillo’s ailments, which they attribute to foul water, poor sanitation, and the constant churn of dust and disease along its main thoroughfares. For now, however, the promise of a miracle draught has overtaken such sober warnings, and desert sage continues to vanish from the landscape as quickly as hopeful hands can pluck it.
Outlaw’s refuge among the deserted Wapiti lands proves short-lived
By Jane Duran
A wanted outlaw who believed he had outsmarted every posse from the Grizzlies to the Heartlands found his plans cut short this week when a determined bounty hunter tracked him into the abandoned grounds of the former Wapiti reservation. The site, once designated by the U.S. government as Wapiti territory after the forced taking of their ancestral lands, has stood empty for over a year. With the people gone and their lodges left to the wind, the place has grown into a cold reminder of what was taken and what remains unsettled. Most folk avoid the area altogether, citing fears of wandering spirits or rumors that the Wapiti still move unseen through the high passes of Ambarino.
It was that very fear of the area which the fugitive believed would shield him. But no specter claimed him; instead, a living, breathing bounty hunter stepped through the frost and hauled him from his shelter without so much as a fight. The outlaw was delivered to Valentine in short order, leaving townsfolk to murmur once again about the strange hush that surrounds the deserted Wapiti grounds. Whether the land is haunted or simply forgotten, one thing is clear: it offers little refuge to those who mistake silence for safety.
Blackwater businessman’s week undone by a most unfortunate skunk encounter
By Daisy Fairman
Blackwater society was treated to an unexpected spectacle this week when a well-heeled resident rode into town smelling so fiercely of skunk that his arrival was announced by scent long before hoofbeats reached the ears. Even his horse was uneasy, his spirit only quelled by the man’s tight control of the reins. The gentleman, embarrassed yet defiant, reported that the animal had ambushed him while he rested, delivering its infamous spray before scampering off untroubled. Despite submitting himself to no fewer than six baths in a single day, utilizing soaps, salts, and even a questionable vinegar rinse, the odor clung to him like a curse. His business engagements suffered accordingly; more than one meeting ended abruptly as associates fled for fresh air.
Humiliation soon gave way to indignation, and the afflicted man has since declared a personal campaign against the entire species. He is said to have offered a bounty on skunk hides to any trapper or hunter willing to cleanse the territory of what he called “nature’s most spiteful invention.” While his vow has amused Blackwater residents, some fear that overzealous hunters may cause more disruption than the creatures themselves. For now, the skunks of West Elizabeth appear unbothered, while one wealthy citizen remains locked in a malodorous feud he seems unlikely to win.
Cowpoke stunned at sudden disappearance of horse
By Donna Deshner
A cowpoke in Valentine was left slack-jawed this week after his horse allegedly disappeared into thin air while he was quietly petting the animal. The man, still shaken when The Five States Herald reached him, insisted he had been brushing the mare’s neck for “nearly an hour when it suddenly disappeared.” According to his account, there was no spook, no bolt, no sound, just a blink, and then empty space where his mount had been. In a town where horses are considered partners as much as property, the loss has rattled more than just its owner.
Several bystanders told the Herald that a stranger had passed by moments before the disappearance. The figure, described variously as “ordinary” and “unnervingly calm,” was said to have lifted a hand toward the horse and about a minute later, the animal vanished. Though some witnesses murmured of trickery or sorcery, no one claimed to see the stranger make physical contact, and the individual has not been identified. These accounts have brewed unease among Valentine residents already accustomed to peculiar happenings cropping up around traveling gunslingers and wandering opportunists.
Lawmen, however, remain unmoved by talk of magic or unnatural theft. Sheriff Malloy dismissed such claims as “tall tales grown taller in the telling,” asserting that the horse was likely spooked and fled before anyone registered the movement. Still, with no tracks found in the churned mud and no sign of the missing mare on the surrounding roads, the townsfolk are left balancing skepticism against a mystery that refuses to settle. For now, the house remains missing as does the stranger, if he exists at all.
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A quiet reckoning along the Lannahechee
By Aloysius Levron
The city of Saint Denis has grown so swiftly in recent seasons that many who stroll its boulevards scarcely recall the narrower, quieter streets of years past. Gaslamps now gleam against the soot of unending industry, and the clangor of rail and foundry has become the city’s constant heartbeat. Yet beneath this outward sheen of progress lies a disquiet that citizens whisper of but rarely confront directly: a creeping sense that Saint Denis risks mistaking bustle for prosperity, and noise for advancement.
The Five States Herald has received no shortage of letters from residents who feel the city tilting toward excess. “Saint Denis takes more than it gives,” wrote one shopkeeper of Bastille Street, lamenting the rising cost of rent that threatens to drive out modest trades. Dockworkers echo similar grievances, citing the fierce competition for wages that never seem to rise as swiftly as the price of bread. Still others voice concern that Chief Lambert’s growing constabulary, while vigilant in its aims, is increasingly stretched thin across a metropolis that expands faster than law or reason can follow.
To wander the markets of the 5th Ward is to witness a carnival of wealth and want in equal measure: fine carriages rolling past hungry children, merchants haggling with the desperation of men who cannot afford to leave a single coin on the table. In the early hours before dawn, the smoke settles low over the factories, and a traveler might fancy himself in some great engine’s belly, rather than a city meant for human living.
And yet it would be unfair, perhaps even untrue, to say Saint Denis is a city in decline. Rather, it is a city wrestling with itself. Progress has always demanded a price, but the measure of a society is found in who must pay it. If our civic leaders wish for Saint Denis to become the shining jewel of Lemoyne, they would do well to heed the soft warnings carried in these unsettled streets: that a metropolis which forgets the laborer, the shopkeeper, the immigrant, and the poor will find its splendor ringing hollow.
Snowfall across the Five States confounds residents and rattles commerce
By Adam Parvey
Snow has drifted across all five states once more, settling upon mesas, marshes, plains, and mountains alike with an indifference that defies the laws of season and geography. Traders from Annesburg to Armadillo report supply routes buried or rendered near impassable, and several freight coaches have already been lost to hidden ruts or sudden skids along frosted trails. As wholesalers struggle to recover waylaid goods, merchants warn that prices may rise in the coming weeks, with some staples already growing scarce in the more remote settlements.
Yet the oddity of this snowfall extends beyond mere inconvenience. Across New Austin, where the desert heat typically scorches even the memory of winter, residents expressed disbelief as flakes drifted through the dry air without so much as cooling a single brow. “It seems the temperature has not changed,” one man remarked during a supply stop near Rio Bravo. “It’s still hot but for some reason it’s snowing.” Similar accounts have poured in from the Heartlands and the Grizzlies alike, regions whose climates rarely, if ever, align in this fashion, leaving both scholars and common folk grasping for explanations.
In the absence of a scientific answer, conjecture has flourished. A traveling member of the Respawner sect, encountered preaching near the Lemoyne border, declared the snowfall proof that the world is but a “false reality, stitched and restitched by powers unseen.” Many dismiss such claims as feverish mysticism, yet the unusual weather has undeniably stirred unease. Whether this phenomenon heralds a shift in climate, a quirk of nature, or some force not yet understood, the Five States now brace for a season that refuses to conform to any known pattern.
The Five States Herald 