- Pronoun
- they or she
The final poll looks tight. Very tight.
The Gazette stresses, of course, that it is only a poll of likely voters, and that in the year 181CE, polling is far from prophetic. Further, that this is the first real, contested election of the Soja' – anything could happen. The polls could underestimate Greasewood. They could underestimate Whetmore. (They could even underestimate the Maus gestalt, or write-in votes, or None Of The Above. Theoretically.)
The Gazette publishes an election eve issue, the front page article for which is a ringing endorsement of Calvin Greasewood, penned by Nathaniel Naoki and a pair of Wayfarers – Laura and Dave. It admonishes Whetmore for running as a carpetbagger, and speaks of the credibility of the Frontier Party and the importance of backing the Ranger Union. It asks voters to vote for the best choice, and not the one that speaks to their fears.
Night falls, the sun rises, and 'mon begin to trickle into Frontier Hall to cast their ballots.
They keep coming. They come from all over town, and from outlying hamlets and outposts, and from further afield – half a dozen voters come from as far as Lucky Rock in the northern badlands, enthusiastic to vote for whichever candidate backed the Wayfarers and Rangers that solved their Fiends problem. They wouldn't be here without the transport and poll tax fund. Several Rangers themselves show up – they wouldn't be here without Wayfarer outreach. Even a handful of naturalised clanners make their way to the polls.
Plenty of Wayfarers vote, too:
Nearly all of them for Greasewood, at that.
Finally, by 10pm, the results are counted and certified... and it looks like the polls did miss.
"Civil 'mon one and all, listen well:
"We can confirm that on this day, the Sohavenia Territory has elected...
"Whimsicott Calvin Greasewood, as Governor-General!"
"Pour me a highball, wouldja? Thanks. So... You must be feelin' pretty good about all this, huh, old man?"
"Dunno about good, lass. Mostly I'm bracing for never being less than busy 'til I retire or die, whichever comes first. Don't regret it, though. And I dare say I'm a touch proud... As you should be... Sheriff del Sur."
"Reckon I'll go by Sonora still, if it's all the same to you, boss."
Greasewood smiled, and slid the scotch and ginger down the bar. The Floragato caught it, and downed half of it in seconds.
"What'll you do with this place?" she asked, gesturing to the Sun Stone in general.
The Whimsicott shrugged, and went about polishing his spectacles. "Oh, you know. I'll put the deed in a trust, and let someone manage it in my stead for the duration of my term. I'm sure the Maus will do a fine job of looking after the saloon for a while."
"Yeah, the Maus... Did you make some kinda deal with them? They didn't drop out or nothin', that I know of..."
Greasewood chuckled.
"I happen to speak fluent Meernish. I just gave them a visit and explained the polling situation, my platform, and Senator Whetmore's. In particular, that one pesky plank about cracking down on printing tongues besides Luctemarene. There are a lot of Meernish Maus voters in town, you know? Guess they listened."
Sonora raised her glass. "Cheers to the Maus," she said, grinning. "You want any help closing up shop, boss?"
He shook his head. "No thank you, lass. I'll finish up myself. My 'farewell for now' to this place."
"As you want it, Governor Greasewood."
47%M. Whetmore (Cncrd)
45%C. Greasewood (Frntr)
8%F. T. R. & M. van de Huizen (House)
(0% undecided)
The Gazette stresses, of course, that it is only a poll of likely voters, and that in the year 181CE, polling is far from prophetic. Further, that this is the first real, contested election of the Soja' – anything could happen. The polls could underestimate Greasewood. They could underestimate Whetmore. (They could even underestimate the Maus gestalt, or write-in votes, or None Of The Above. Theoretically.)
The Gazette publishes an election eve issue, the front page article for which is a ringing endorsement of Calvin Greasewood, penned by Nathaniel Naoki and a pair of Wayfarers – Laura and Dave. It admonishes Whetmore for running as a carpetbagger, and speaks of the credibility of the Frontier Party and the importance of backing the Ranger Union. It asks voters to vote for the best choice, and not the one that speaks to their fears.
Night falls, the sun rises, and 'mon begin to trickle into Frontier Hall to cast their ballots.
They keep coming. They come from all over town, and from outlying hamlets and outposts, and from further afield – half a dozen voters come from as far as Lucky Rock in the northern badlands, enthusiastic to vote for whichever candidate backed the Wayfarers and Rangers that solved their Fiends problem. They wouldn't be here without the transport and poll tax fund. Several Rangers themselves show up – they wouldn't be here without Wayfarer outreach. Even a handful of naturalised clanners make their way to the polls.
Plenty of Wayfarers vote, too:
Nearly all of them for Greasewood, at that.
Finally, by 10pm, the results are counted and certified... and it looks like the polls did miss.
51%
39%
5%
2%L. Voclain (Chrtr)
1%S. del Sur (Indpt)
<1%Dayle (MenSe)
<1%None Of The Above
0%S. V. Arpagone (PCLR)
"Civil 'mon one and all, listen well:
"We can confirm that on this day, the Sohavenia Territory has elected...
"Whimsicott Calvin Greasewood, as Governor-General!"
"Pour me a highball, wouldja? Thanks. So... You must be feelin' pretty good about all this, huh, old man?"
"Dunno about good, lass. Mostly I'm bracing for never being less than busy 'til I retire or die, whichever comes first. Don't regret it, though. And I dare say I'm a touch proud... As you should be... Sheriff del Sur."
"Reckon I'll go by Sonora still, if it's all the same to you, boss."
Greasewood smiled, and slid the scotch and ginger down the bar. The Floragato caught it, and downed half of it in seconds.
"What'll you do with this place?" she asked, gesturing to the Sun Stone in general.
The Whimsicott shrugged, and went about polishing his spectacles. "Oh, you know. I'll put the deed in a trust, and let someone manage it in my stead for the duration of my term. I'm sure the Maus will do a fine job of looking after the saloon for a while."
"Yeah, the Maus... Did you make some kinda deal with them? They didn't drop out or nothin', that I know of..."
Greasewood chuckled.
"I happen to speak fluent Meernish. I just gave them a visit and explained the polling situation, my platform, and Senator Whetmore's. In particular, that one pesky plank about cracking down on printing tongues besides Luctemarene. There are a lot of Meernish Maus voters in town, you know? Guess they listened."
Sonora raised her glass. "Cheers to the Maus," she said, grinning. "You want any help closing up shop, boss?"
He shook his head. "No thank you, lass. I'll finish up myself. My 'farewell for now' to this place."
"As you want it, Governor Greasewood."
