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Mardi Gras Merriment; A mini-event to celebrate N'awlins
Topic Started: Feb 15 2018, 12:03 PM (1,647 Views)
azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The blockade is broken, the goods are here, and a batch of scraggly heroes are finally out of the hospital. For the city of Crescent Top, that’s the final signal to open the floodgates and let revelry (and alcohol) run rampant.

It’s Mardi Gras, folks.

A loosely structured mini-event to kick off the opening of what we’ve all waited so long for- the hub city of N’awlins. Let’s explore, meet the locals, and get absolutely shit-faced drunk. If you’ve ever wanted an opportunity to let wild and loose, have silly merriment just for the sake of it, maybe start a bar fight or five, now’s the time to do it. With the entire city in a deep haze of well-earned good spirits and more liquor than anyone knows what to do with, it’ll take the staunchest trouble-maker to bring down the wrath of what loosely constitutes the city’s law enforcement.

If you manage, however, don’t expect them to fish your body out of the slum dregs until Ash Wednesday.

Open sign-ups; since this isn’t technically a real event, more a hope to garner interest in our new city (and get some neat trinkets in the process!), it won’t conflict with the others currently going on.

Enjoy the parades, visit bars with every theme imaginable, see the sights, watch the city come fully to life once the sun sets.

After a lot of time and hard work from some dedicated individuals, she’s ready and open for business. Welcome to Crescent Top, let’s get our Mardi Gras on. Any posts before the party kicks off are welcomed and encouraged. The first official 'event' post will happen on Feb 19th, and the thread will remain open to all interested parties until its completion.
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
“Goddamn it, you’re pulling,” Spike groused.

Claw sighed through her nose, giving one of the locks she was trying to untangle a firm tug.

“There’s seaweed in it,” she replied, flat and deadpan. “Anything you want to talk about?”

They sat in the small room they’d been lent by the city, Claw behind Spike as she picked through his hair. It was spartan, but comfortable- two small beds, a door that locked, with a nice view of the city. For the first time in a long time, the woman had allowed herself to let her guard down somewhat. Crescent Top was shady in its own right, but it was pleasant not having to worry about being robbed in the middle of the night.

Spike shrugged one shoulder. “I dunno. You gonna get mad at me?”

“More than likely.”

“Then no.”

Claw swallowed a laugh. “With that settled, shut up. You wanted me to do your hair-” a wonder in and of itself, almost as incredible as him surviving the onslaught of enemy ships in the middle of a hellacious storm, “—so quit whining. You’re making more of a fuss about it than that bullet in your leg.”

“In all fairness,” he absentmindedly pulled a small piece of hair into his mouth and started chewing on it, “I wasn’t conscious for most of that.”

Claw tugged the hair away. “Will you knock it off and sit still?”

“You’re taking forever,” he whined. “I’m bored.”

“I don’t know if you remember this,” deft fingers pulled the last knot from the chunk she’d been working on and flicked away something that was either a small piece of driftwood or a fish bone, “but the first time I tamed this, it was a disaster that took me nearly a week.”

“Yeah, that was a helluva mess, wasn’t it?” The young man took to fidgeting with the small collection of beads and baubles in his lap, apparently entertained somewhat by the soft noise they made as they clinked together. He’d at least stopped moving as Claw went to work on another tangle. “Man, I was a mess.”

“You’re still a mess,” she said, but without any real ire.

“Rude,” Spike muttered. “And I’m still bored.”

“Here.” Claw paused long enough to fish out the large gold coin she’d acquired from what she’d been assured was a job well done. She still thought the entire thing had been run by madmen and imbeciles, but she’d been paid well for the effort, and the free patch-up after the fact hadn’t gone amiss. “Play with this.”

“’Kay.” He took the dubloon from her and began running it over the back of his knuckles, faster and faster, until it was little more than a dully shining blur between his fingers. Claw went back to his hair, and had a solid five minutes of peace and quiet before he dropped it with a grumbled curse.

“God fuckin’ shit-kicked damn it.” He huffed briefly as he retrieved it. “Hey, boss.”

She yanked a bit harder than necessary on another snarl. “What?”

“When you’re done,” the coin was back in motion, rolling fluidly across bony fingers, “let’s go to the harbor.”

“Are you trying to joke around?” Claw frowned, not just at the persistent tangle, but the idea overall. “Or have you just lost your mind entirely?”

“Whadda you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? After that debacle on the ships,” the knot finally came free, along with a clump of seaweed, “I’d think you’d never want to so much as look at the ocean, ever again.”

He shrugged. “It’s pretty okay, really. I mean, yeah, we had a rough time, but that was way out in the middle of it. ‘Sides, we’ll be heading back east soon, right?”

“I certainly planned on it,” Claw affirmed.

“So,” Spike, apparently tiring of running the coin over his knuckles, took to flipping it in the air with this thumb, “I wanna see it again when the damn thing isn’t trying to kill us. “It’s really big,” he murmured quietly, more to himself than her.

“Well, I certainly can’t argue the second part.” Another thick, raven-black strand untangled. This was going much more quickly than last time. “I just don’t see the point.”

He turned to look at her, green eyes uncharacteristically sincere. “I mean, I’ll go by myself, but…” he paused, let his head be pulled to face forward again. “I want you to come, too.”

Why?

He shrugged. “So we can talk about it when we’ve got nothing but beach.”

She had the feeling that wasn’t the whole of it, but didn’t care to think any further on the matter. Instead, she sighed in defeat. “Fine.”

“Shut up, do not,” Spike grumbled. “Whatever, dillhole.”

“Don’t talk to yourself.” She’d nearly finished unraveling the mess that had befallen his braids. “It’s weird.” She was, once again, rather taken aback by how nice his hair was when tended properly. It grew quickly, she noted, now just a little over halfway down his back.

“I’m not talking to myself,” he stated firmly.

Claw rolled her eyes, deciding this was a conversation she had no interest in today. It wasn’t like she’d win out against a probable mental condition and superstitious upbringing, anyway.

By the time Spike tired of tossing the coin and started spinning it on its side, she’d started to braid. Her fingers flew through thick, glossy strands easily, pausing occasionally to string on a bead or small vertebrae. He’d hand her a bauble one at a time, wanting certain beads on the same strand, others offset by bones in some pattern she saw no rhyme or reason to, but seemed important to him.

“Right in the middle,” he’d say of one, or “no, the blue goes over the black” of another. She tied the ends of the small braids off in little knots, and before long, sat back and examined her handiwork with satisfaction. Spike gave his head an experimental shake, bone, glass, and ceramic clicking softly before turning and giving her a wide, vibrant grin. He popped to his feet and went immediately to the wash basin, staring intently into the mirror above it.

“Lookit that.” He pulled a few over his shoulder, thumbing the braids for a moment. “Getting long. I dig it.”

“That is what hair does,” Claw agreed condescendingly, the tone completely lost on the kid who was too busy preening to notice her roll her eyes as well. “All right,” she stretched a few cricks out of her back, then stood, “you want to go to the harbor, let’s go to the goddamned harbor. I don’t want to be in the slums after dark.”

“You sure?” He finally turned to grin at her. “That’s where all the fun happens.”

“We still have very different definitions of ‘fun’,” she said flatly. “Take your pistol, and-”

“Yeah, yeah,” the kid flapped a hand at her, “keep it hidden, heard ya the first hundred times.”

Claw went unarmed, wearing the clothes she’d been given on leaving the hospital: a crisp-cut, button down shirt and straight, dark pants that actually fit her tiny waist and didn’t hang several inches past her heels; best of all, they weren’t frayed to hell, full of holes, and the shirt was long enough to tuck in. She thought it, overall, a rather impractical ensemble for her usual lines of work, but it was a perfect fit for this city of finery and underhanded dealings. She glanced over at Spike, who still wore the same sweatstained, ragged garb they’d first approached C’est Toujours Ensoleille in. He’d decided against the jacket for the warm afternoon, and the belt cinching up pants that were too big in the waist, too short in the legs, along with the threadbare shirt that showed jutting collarbones and thin, wiry arms, only accentuated that he was still too thin. Nothing like the sack of bones she’d found bleeding in the Athens ruins, but still too thin.

“You need new clothes,” she groused as they made their way into the warm afternoon sunlight. Spike grinned at her, the one that meant he had some secret he wasn’t going to share just yet.

“Don’t worry about it,” he told her.

“I do worry about it,” she said flatly, pausing by a food stall, “because I’m fucking embarrassed to be seen with you. Two fish baskets,” she told the vendor, placing a few cigarettes on the counter. “Even more than usual,” she amended to Spike.

“Don’t worry about it,” he repeated, eyes now flicking all along the street, drinking in the sights of Crescent Top.

While she waited for their food to cook, Claw took a moment to stare, herself. It really was a beautiful city; a mishmash of ancient but well-tended architecture, sprawling balconies and colorful awnings, the streets thronging with N’awlin’s more well-to-do citizens in their finery, musicians on street corners strumming guitars or braying cheerful notes from trumpets, bugles, and saxophones, their clothes less impressive but decidedly more colorful. She breathed in the balmy, salty air, overlaid with the sweet, heady smells of extravagant flowerbeds and more savory aromas of frying foods. Hers, on that note, appeared to be done.

“Enjoy.” The black woman pushed two baskets toward her, laden with a steaming pile of deep-fried potatoes and some sort of battered fish.

Spike winked, procured a cigarette with ridiculous speed, and flicked it at her just as quickly. “Thanks, doll.”

The woman caught it deftly, rolling her eyes, but smiling slightly. Claw rolled her own, shoved the little woven basket into Spike’s hands, and took off down the street. “Eat,” she stated in her best no-nonsense voice.

“Jevuf fuh,” Spike grumbled from behind her, mouth already full of food, “’M eah’tn, y’fuggih eah. Gon geh coh’.”

Claw’s mouth dropped open in mild shock. She disguised it by shoving a wedge of crispy-on-the-outside, mealy-on-the-inside potato in her mouth.

They walked in amicable silence toward the harbor, flashing the citizenship papers briefly before making their way briskly through the shanty-town, across its criss-crossed walkways and much less enjoyable scenery. All the same, Claw felt more at home here than she did in the finery of Crescent Top; at least here, she was likely to be shot in the front, rather than stabbed in the back. They finished their food as they went, approaching the docks perhaps an hour before sunset. They skirted around workers and fishermen, finding a quiet spot that was more removed from the general hustle and bustle.

“Well,” Claw stated unenthusiastically, waving a hand at the gray-blue expanse, “there it is.”

Spike sat himself on the edge of the water-warped wood, staring pensively across the sea toward what appeared like, for all intents and purposes, the very edge of the world.

“Real big,” he murmured quietly. “Real big.”

“Yep.” Claw sat herself beside him, feet dangling over small, choppy waves, the sea breeze ruffling her hair. It was cooler here than within the city itself. She breathed deeply, salt and seaweed and fish, nothing like the arid, dusty smells she’d grown up with.

Spike leaned forward slightly, the same unusually calm, introspective look on his face. “Whatcha think’s out there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He paused, at a rare loss for words. It took him a moment to articulate whatever was going on in his head, still staring at the distant, endless horizon. “That’s all, I guess. Where’s it end? What happens at the end?”

Claw blew a strand of hair off her forehead. Her own was getting longer than she’d like. It was about time to chop it off. “Well,” she began slowly, “there’s no real end. Just other lands. Some are a lot like the ones we know, others are practically alien. At least,” she shrugged, “that’s what I’ve read. The way we’re looking, a lot of islands. It gets warmer, like summer, but all year round. After that, it gets colder.”

“Why?”

She knew she was going nowhere fast, and had nothing to illustrate with this time. “All right, so,” she cupped her hands together in a sphere, “our world, it’s like a giant ball.”

There was that incredulous look, like she was the stupid one. “Balls are round, boss.”

“They certainly are. All right, so-” she huffed out a breath, trying to think of it in terms he’d understand, “—picture a boulder. A big, round boulder, the biggest you’ve ever seen.”

“…okay?”

“Now think of an ant, a tiny ant, on that boulder. Think of how they go straight up, no problem. Try to imagine being that ant, on that boulder, how it must seem flat, because our ant is so small.”

The look shifted, into the slightly pinched one that meant he was thinking about something very, very hard. “I guess,” he finally said slowly. “But then, why doesn’t all the water slide off?”

Claw laughed quietly. “One day, I might figure out a way to explain gravity and magnetic poles. Right now, just enjoy your ocean.”

Spike seemed all right with that. His cheek dropped to her head, gaze turning toward the encroaching sunset. They sat there in comfortable silence for some time, listening to the distant bustle of the docks, the more ambient sounds of the ocean lapping quietly beneath them. A few seabirds would call out occasionally, sweeping and diving across the late afternoon sky as they caught (and occasionally fought over) their supper.

“It’s really pretty,” Spike finally said. “Can’t wait to tell everyone at home about it.”

“It’s been…” Claw allowed herself to lean against his shoulder. The pragmatic side of her balked. Some insolent, long-buried part of her told it to fuck off. “It’s been an interesting trip. I’m glad we made it.”

“Speaking of interesting,” She didn’t see, so much as feel the toothy grin, “we gotta stay a few more days. I been listening around town, there’s about to be this killer party.”

“Fat Tuesday,” Claw agreed. She’d heard similar talk, and quite frankly, thought she’d earned the right to drink herself into oblivion along with the rest of the city. “We’ll stay for it. But I swear to God,” she sat up and gave him a narrow-eyed glare, “I am not pulling your ass out of any fires.”

Spike rolled his eyes, grin shifting to the one that spelled TROUBLE in huge, flashing red letters. She had a split second to realize his plan, not nearly enough time to do anything about it, as he shoved her face-first into the water. She came up screeching and spluttering to his outstretched hand, half-tempted to pull him after her as he cackled hysterically. She was hauled back onto the dock, and the resounding crack a moment later made several dock workers look over curiously. The trip back was less amicable, Claw fuming, shoes squelching, leaving a wet trail behind her, Spike still laughing as he clutched the red, hand-shaped welt across his face.
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
vexedBubble
Member Avatar
Ghoul
[ *  *  *  * ]
The waves were soft. Alida, laying her one piece of property in the docks of Nawlins, almost allowed the rocking of her boat to send her to sleep, looked up at the stars. She remembered the first night she properly looked up from the earth into the night sky, the stars speckling the heavens like freckles on a face, or blood on a wall. The lights from the city did not allow the night to truly reveal itself, but it was beautiful nonetheless. She picked dust and hair off the semi-transparent gem, smiling softly to herself. She felt, for the first time she could remember, completely at peace.

It was boring.

She slipped the ring pop into her pocket and struggled off the boat, her arm and face still pulsing with pain. Standing on the jetty, she looked up to the city making sure her Gator Trade Slip was safe in her shorts pocket, leaving the boat guarded by mines.

Alida, her shoulders back, strutting towards the main city, breathed deep and ran a hand through her hair. Tonight, heros drink free. Tonight, she was going to have fun. Tonight was her night.
| Alida Brandy | Lvl 1 | "a mix of zooey deschanel and the entirety of ww1" - Fom
| S:3(-1) P:8(+1) E:7 C:8 I:4 A:6(-1) L:3 | Hungry like the Wolf! - stat adjustments for 2 solos/tags
| +75 N'awlins |
| Pipe Rifle | Switchblade | Flintlock |
| Denizen of the Dark | Sex Appeal | Fast Learner |

| Mór-Ríoghain | Lvl 1 |
| S:4 P:8 E:8 C:4 I:5 A:3 L:8 |
| Hatchet | Handmade Bow (with arrows) |
| Hunter | Creep |
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Funkifan
Member Avatar
The Cobras' Leader
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Edgar's aching muscles finally got the best of him, and he decided to rest for the night. Most of the crowd who had lifted him up and carried him to the hospital, while celebrating him with cheers and holler, alongside the musicians that had accompanied them had dissipated as the moon began to illuminate the city with pale, silver rays.

He walked out of the building, were the Baazar was hosted, before heading towards the small room that had been lent to him at a hotel, as a way to thank him after the victory on the waters of the pier. He waved at the few remaining folk around, smiling at them as they returned back to their homes. Rubbing his eyes, and thanking whatever power had allowed him to remain in one piece, besides some scrapes and bruises that had been taken care by the staff at the Abbatoir, he moved upstairs, walking into the lobby, he went upwards, opening the door of his room, a simple, although finely furnished room, covered in emerald wallpaper, with flowers of a cream coloration. A large bed stood to the right, and next to it, there was a nightstand. Opposite to the bed, stood a fancy wardrobe, finely crafted. A window stood on front of him, an amazing view of the city extending below.

Exhausted, he barely took a peek, before leaving his helm on the table, dropping his rucsack on the floor, taking off his shoes and crashed into the bed.

Wincing a little, he covered himself with the sheets, and soon, fell asleep.

Nightmares didn't came forth this time, his mind at ease.

Finally, he would be able to get some rest.

As he grasped on to Morpheus' arms, a figure stood on the doorway. A crimson feather boa was wrapped around its neck, and puffs of smoke soon followed after, rising up towards the ceiling. A leg was propped up in the door.

"Hm..." The whisper was followed by a hum, as the door was closed shortly after.
Edgar Algae -HC-

SPECIAL: 3-5-7-8-6-7-4

Level: 4

Edgar is a tall, attractive man, with red bright hair, green eyes, and tan skin, due to his Hispanic heritage. He currently wears a yellow t-shirt, with cargo shorts, a Leather Jacket (Tier 2, Good CON, plus on intimidation checks). Attached to his left wrist, he possesses an Automedical Assistant. On his back, he carries an XL Rucksack, that contains several items of his', like a Medical armored Suitcase, filled with all sorts of medical equipment. His weapon of choice is the Study Group Special, a modified mini-zapper.

He is Good Natured, Spongey, and has Sex Appeal (For the girls)


+120 BT Reputation; +90 Nawlins Reputation
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FallenSanity
Member Avatar
I didn't even know I had this
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Elizabeth had been in Crescent Top for barely three days now, and already shit was hopping. Some boat had come in recently and apparently it was a really big deal because it had lifted some trade embargo or pirate invasion or something. Elizabeth didn't know, and Elizabeth didn't care - she was going to get shit face and that's all she was focusing on.
Edited by FallenSanity, Feb 20 2018, 08:40 AM.
Daniel Orton [HC]
Lvl 6: Copperhead Cook
Rep: -40 Eastern Texas, -250 Texas Rangers, +90 Crag
Equipped: Mirrored Sunglasses, Armstrong Hellcat Necklace, Raider Armour, Culture-Clash Jacket, Crag Swag (Jeans), Black Banana Hammock, Leather Belt, Desert Boots, Skullfucker, Death Knell, Combat Knife, Sharp Hatchet, Hannibals Haymaker, Pre-War Mountain Bike
Status Effects: Internal Parasite
Abilities: Sucker Punch
S:6 P:3 E:5 C:5 I:3 A:10 L:8

Elizabeth 'Eli' Stoudemire
Lvl 1: Humble Hobo
Equipped: Knife, Revolver, Coat
S:3 P:8 E:4 C:6 I:4 A:8 L:7

CP: FS has a bachelors degree in poor taste and a masters in bad manners

LD: Orton can be whatever Hamiltons version of The Nightman is

FP: fs youre like in a very minor minority where cauze youre autistic and gay and an asshole you can say any slur
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Cewebwalz
Member Avatar
Henshin a go-go baby
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Jesse was kneedeep in the barrel. Alcohol alcohol alcohol. Boozing. The life of a pathetic, disgraceful, dishonorable, tipsy man. He was kind of broke too, but Joseph was buying the drinks, and companionship was worth-

He turned to the right of himself, the club was insanely crowded, and the fact he and his buddy found two stools at the bar was a stroke of luck. Jesse had downed half of his ...funny tasting drink, and was already ready for another round. It was that type of night. He would try and cover the next couple, Joseph had been very charitable to him while he was here.

"Yo Joseph, next rounds on me."

No response. It was a very crowded and loud area, the sound of glass tingling and voices laughing rung out. Jesse figured he was down though, raising his arm to the bartender as he turned to see Joseph, but rather only found an empty stool. Jesse glanced back and looked around, searching for him. Two figures shuffled closely, laughing and boogieing on a dance floor crowded with more drunks than dancers. Joseph and a mystery gal seemed to be enjoying themselves, and Winters would rather die than cockblock anyone.

He downed his drink in one fell swoop, before he carefully navigated around the bar, pushing to the corners of the club he was in. Sunshine burned through the windows, it was still so early and everyone was already out and about. He burst through a door, only to see a few drunks on the street force themselves through the door. The fresh air was like heaven and hell, coaxing him to throwup, but he stumbled past them and into a street full of revelry.

So this was Mardis Gras. Jesse kinda liked it.
Jesse Winters - Penitentiary Pugilist
8(+2).5.7.5.5.8.4, Level: 4 -HC-

Grace Van Vliet - Indie Incinerator
5.7.7.5.5.4.7, Level: 3 -HC-
Quote:
 
Lmgthev:� Like tbh I agree CP is not the golden boy at all
Lmgthev:� You're like John Candy from Cool Runnings
Lmgthev:� Washed up has been who teaches the newcomers the trade� :D

full-sized avatar

"What is Adderal, anyhow?" - Funky Fan
Online Mini Profile Goto Top
 
Blue
Member Avatar
Showdown Record: 1 - 1 - 1
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Gilbert stares thoughtfully into the distance and scratches the lizard dog behind it's ears. He hopes the party rocks.
Gilbert Rose Level 5
S.P.E.C.I.A.L: 3 5 3 8 6 9 6
Weapons: Type 57 Machinepistol, Stun Grenades
Short, thick brown hair and beard, lanky and surefooted.

"Doctor" Jasper Cobb Level 1 -HC-
S.P.E.C.I.A.L: 4 6 6 3 10 6 5
Weapons: Scalpel
Short, with round features, looks unsettling to most.

Sebastian Coates Level 1 -HC-
S.P.E.C.I.A.L: 7 3 6 6 4 7 7
Weapons: Homemade Shotgun, Cultist Knife (Tier 1)
Average height, bulky for a ghoul.

Sun Apr 30, 1:17:19pm
cewebwalz: your my spaghetti daddy blue

Tue June 19, 9:52:57pm
lonesomedrifter23: ^Blue the best mod in the business
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LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
Apparently going out to sea and making merry wasn't quite enough for THIS blonde trouble-maker. With his arm finally out of its sling [thanks to a solid week of rest and relaxation], he was ready to go out on the town again! Although that's no surprise, given his chemical proclivities and taste for the decadent. When he caught wind of yet another party starting up in a fancy town. Vincent had wasted absolutely no time getting there. Or well, he would have, had he not gotten lost part way and lost a day. Finding that when he arrived there, preparations were very much set to begin and the early peals of music were floating on the air. The sun hadn't stopped its incessant march skywards but that hasn't stopped the locals from cracking open kegs and letting all sorts of debauchery begin in plain daylight.

"Creh-scent Toh-p." He utters quietly, Vincent's eyes were fixed on the town's sign, population- wow. That was a lot of people, a lot of people meant a lot of things, and for a scav with two working hands that meant lots of things to pilfer. His fingers were already feeling /sticky/ for lack of a better analogy, although that one sounded rude. It seems he had gotten here just in time. But it was plain to see that it was going to be plenty of fun! The scent of food was the first thing to catch his nose, but he wasn't hungry. No, not really, hunger wasn't something he experienced often and especially not after a solid hit of Jet after fixing a bad connection in some backwoods hooligan's laser musket. Funny name, not funny properties, from what Vincent knew it could tear apart a solid target with a flurry of beams. But it looked awfully heavy so he hadn't tried to steal it. Although given the sheer amount of /things/ on display, he kinda wished he had. Because, well sometimes he got the inkling to be a good citizen and Not steal things but- to be perfectly honest what was the harm? It was a big event, they wouldn't notice a few little trinkets going missing.

The first of said trinkets? A beat up box of bleach powder he needed to touch up his 'do, as it was starting to go dark again, specifically at the roots. His first action of preparation for this event was finding somewhere with a suitable quantity of water to bleach his hair back into stark near whiteness. Nevermind the chemical odor, or for that matter a few ghost-white strands coming out when he tugged them. When he rinses it out, taking time, of course, to let it dry. It looked INFINITELY better, yeah, he was feeling sharp. Or well, he always felt sharp. But now he felt /particularly/ sharp, rather like the razor edge of an old motherboard you picked up without thinking about it.

What was he thinking about?

Oh right, his hair. Lookin' good. Even if his reflection was a tiny bit warped in a cracked, ugly mirror. The tip of his tongue worries the scar going up his cheek. Was it always so noticeable? Ugh, this is why he didn't like looking at these things. Moving on, he needed to stash his goods and get out with the rest of the people! Time to be a social butterfly, or maybe a social moth. Some sort of winged flying thing.

Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
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Skyhawk347
Wastelander
[ *  *  *  * ]
Saying that Crescent Top was crowded was like saying a deathclaw's claws are "a tad bit pointy".

Ryan had never seen so many people all in one place. Sure he had seen the bombed out ruins of major cities before - most of them looking like they got tag teamed by two giant fuckbots - but the old French Quarter was more or less intact. Hordes of cheering people crowded the streets or the balconies of the pristine buildings, all celebrating... whatever the hell Mardi Gras celebrated. Getting drunk, apparently, if the number of inebriated people in the street was any indication. Maybe it had some other meaning before and maybe it still did now, but from what he could tell it just seemed to be an excuse to get smashed for a few days.

The size of the crowd made him feel kind of uncomfortable, really, a feeling made worse by the fact that he didn't have his trusty rifle with him. He felt naked without it, and not in a fun way. The gun laws here were strict, so instead of bringing it in, the blonde hunter had to leave it with the guards at the security checkpoint. His rifle got a tag with a number on it and Ryan was handed a ticket with the same number, and he had been reassured three times he would get it back on the way out. He swore to God, if they somehow screwed it up...

Well, at least he still had his knife, so he wasn't completely defenseless.

He decided to stop looking at the preserved architecture and crowds in amazement, and rubbed his hands together, trying to figure out what to do next. He didn't know much about Mardi Gras, but he had to figure that getting drunk or buying trinkets would cost him money. And there was the problem. He didn't have any money on him. He didn't even know what these people used for currency; hides, coins, paper clips, hell it could have been those bead necklaces people were wearing for all he knew.

'Well,' he thought. 'At least this might be a good experience.'

He thought about some of the attractions he had heard about and his mind went to the Bazzar, one of the largest markets in the wastes. Well, there was nothing wrong with a little window shopping, right?

(OOC: Does booze cost any money for this mini-event? Hi, by the way, I'm new here.)

Edited by Skyhawk347, Mar 17 2018, 05:31 PM.
Ryan Hawkins - Level 1
SPECIAL: 5, 8, 7, 3, 6, 9, 3
Equipment: "Talon" (customized rifle), handyman's auto revolver (PC), knife, throwing knives x5, duster coat (desert camo), tan wide-brimmed hat, biker goggles, blue bandana, blue jeans, gloves, gecko-skinned boots
21 years old, 6'1" and wiry; boyish face with shaggy blonde hair, grey eyes, and a mutilated left ear (upper part has been bitten off)
Traits: Scatterbrained, Small Frame
http://s3.zetaboards.com/The_wastes/topic/9048978/1/

Companion
Blue Collins - Level 3



thefortunepsker: Youre like
thefortunepsker: What we need
thefortunepsker: In the cbox dynamic
thefortunepsker: A straight man

JewsphGordonLevitt: I need to get in my writing zone, so activate my thot powers

thefortunepsker: skyhawks like the old man of the cbox
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Mixtli
Member Avatar
Resident Canadian
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
"Hey ami, you want a fucking drink?"

Slater whirled to face the stranger. "What did you just say to me?" he growled at the other man.

"I asked if you wanted a drink," the man slurred as he staggered over to Slater. "I know you're one of those guys that helped out with those pirates-" he took a moment to spit on the floor of the small bar that Slater had sat down in to get a moment of rest, "- and I thought that the least I could do to show my appreciation for the risks that you had taken just to help us all out."

Slater grinned while he struggled to keep himself from rolling his eyes. "Damn, if I knew that this place was so friendly I would have come by myself and fixed everything way sooner!" He winked at the stranger as the man handed him a large bottle filled with some sort of liquor. "I was just on my way out, so I'll take this with me."

"Later, friend! Thank you so much for everything!"

Slater grabbed his hammer and slung it over his shoulder as the door shut behind him. He pulled the cork out of the bottle with his teeth and took a pull of the mystery drink. "Oof, that's good stuff." It burned going down, and he could already tell that it was going to be a fun night.

A small group stopped walking when they saw the scarred man drinking straight from a bottle of booze, and Slater pointed at them with his new hammer. "Whaddaya think of what I took from those dirty pirates?" The group cheered, and continued on their way. Bunch of partying idiots. I bet there's some good shit around here just begging to get snapped up.
Thomas Grey, level 5, Ranger Rep +10, BT Rep +118, Brick Rep +15
SPECIAL: 6, 7, 7, 4, 7, 6, 3
Equipment
Weaponry: Colt Army revolver, pocket revolver, 1x smoke/stun/baseball grenades.
Armor: Pack rat clothing, leather greaves, reinforced chaps.
Appearance: Caucasian. Tall, strong build, short thick curly brown hair. Dark eyes, a frown, and a cleanshaven face. Grey shirt with 3/4 sleeves and leather bracers. Jeans with reinforced leather chaps, and a tool belt.
Companion: Elizabeth Sharpe - 4, 8, 4, 3, 5, 10, 6 - Small stature, but makes up for it with knives, a crossbow, and attitude. Level 5. +5 BT Rep.
John Slater: SPECIAL 8(+1).4.10.5.5.4.5.
One bad hombre
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azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The hot, humid air thrums with the low buzz of insects, the distant whisper of waves breaking, and something else- a heady excitement that’s tangible throughout the entirety of Crescent Top. Shop and stall owners scurry to prepare for a massive influx of locals and tourists alike; it’s that time of year that made the city famous hundreds of years ago, and though time has made a few adjustments, the traditions have withstood its test.

As the sun dips toward the western horizon, throwing fingers of fire across the waters of the outer city, the anticipation grows thick enough to cut. Fisherman pull in the last of their catches with fervor, dock workers rush home to shuck their bland, salt-stained clothes, streetside stalls are being erected in droves. There isn’t a grill or stove left unlit, the smells of a thousand different dishes masking the salt-spray and fishy aroma that tends to permeate harbor towns.
Whores paint themselves with the utmost care, donning their most extravagant finery. Streamers and paper flowers festoon every balcony and awning, while the crowd swells with heady anticipation. Every eye is on the sun, waiting for the moment it finally sinks fully below the water’s horizon.

As the last glittering fingers of daylight fade, neon lights splutter and tiki torches flare to life, while the first joyful blasts of trumpets bring the fervor to a head. The men, women, and children create a deafening cacophony of singing, laughter, and bawdy jokes. It isn’t too loud, however, to drown out the music that swells through the streets. Horns, drums, and strings fill the avenues with energy, marking the official opening of the revelries. A unanimous cheer thunders through Crescent Top, overpowered by sonorous, dulcet tones that are magnified loudly enough to echo to every corner of the city.

Carnival time is here, Mardi Gras has begun.

Under the florescent rainbow of streetlights and bar signs, the glittering masks and headdresses that seem to have appeared like magic in stalls and on massive, multi-tiered hangars carried aloft through the crowd, range from simple marquis masks to incredible constructs of feathers, polished shells, and glittering seaglass. The primary colors are green, purple, and gold, though every color and hue on the spectrum can be spotted once the parade begins in full. Drawn by two massive packbeasts, their species indistinguishable under elaborate costumes and ridiculous jester hats, the first float bears the grinning head of some great seabeast, opalescent teeth and glimmering emerald-green scales flashing brilliantly as they reflect neon signs and blazing torches.

The men and women riding atop the construct wear similarly fantastic, often outlandish outfits, headresses as tall as two feet and made with branches of brilliant coral, interlaced with seashells and starfish, making their wearers appear to be more mythical undersea creature than human. The obvious focus of the float, standing on a pedestal that’s a mosaic of coral, colorful glass, and shimmering seashells, is a beautiful young woman in a very small outfit. Little more than a brassiere one would attribute to a mermaid of the old days and a bottom that barely maintains her decency are both the same brilliant green of the float’s head. The tiny ensemble is offset by her headdress, a wonder of craftsmanship framing a tawny, narrow, fine-featured face and waves of silky black hair. Like a bird above the waves, hers is constructed of feather and bone, sprouting up in an arch of color. The feathers themselves are a circular fireburst of blue and green at the tips, long green plumes as fine and shimmering as the woman’s tresses sprouting in both directions down the sides. Beside her is the source of the song, belting his jovial lyrics into a megaphone of some sort. In a long purple cape over a very expensive gold suit, his dark face is framed by a crown of golden coral branches and starfish. Each rider is throwing strands of purple, gold and green beads and various trinkets- small party poppers, marquis masks, colorful fans, and handfuls of hard candies. The treats are swept up almost as soon as they’re tossed, but there seems to be a near-endless supply.

Quote:
 
Every player receives x10 Strands Of Beads, to be used during the event as currency.


Some may recognize these, as well as the decorations, as the cargo the breakers of the blockade fought so hard to procure. Whether or not it was a worthwhile endeavor is best left up to those who are enjoying the spoils of battle.
Just behind the float comes the source of the music- a brass band in fine white suits, braying the upbeat melody as loudly as they can, dancing along to their own beat. As the first song ends, they flow seamlessly into the next. Many of the crowd join in, a mismash of uncertain headbobbing all the way to elaborate, fleet-footed routines as the brass swells; others are more interested in the street vendors, selling more elaborate and well-crafted masks and trinkets than those being tossed, along with all kinds of fried food and beverages, virgin and alcoholic alike. The grub and drinks out here are cheap and fast, not unlike many of the men and women posing seductively in outfits to rival the skimpiness of the beauty on the float.

Other mobile phenomenons follow the first, each just as fantastic as the next. Some lean toward elegance, others are much more light-hearted as people in jester masks and outfits that would give a rodeo clown pause dance and perform various acrobatics across the mobile stage. Each float bears a face to match the theme, from fantastic fish, riverboats, laughing jesters, stately royalty, elegant birds, and tribal tiki masks, to name a few. Folks on outrageously tall stilts, others in full facepaint and the pelts of dangerous animals, some of them in full skull headdresses (a grator, swordfish, and some unknown undersea horror are only a few), ensembles of so many long, brilliant feathers that their wearers look like giant exotic birds, showgirls giggling and waving to the crowd, and musicians who, though many are playing different songs, still manage to come together in a symphony of merriment, are only a handful of the entertainers one can spot as the parade moves through Crescent Top.

The party is officially underway, no expense spared, no extravagance forgone. The streets are only the beginning, however. The various establishments have their own celebrations to discover and partake in. Street beer and carnival food are only the tip of the iceberg- visit some of the local bars and back alleys to find out what makes Mardi Gras a truly unforgettable experience.

Food and Drink- Heroes Drink Free (And other PC’s because whatever it’s a party)
 

King Cake- Deep fried, braided dough in a ring shape. Crispy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside, comes in a variety of fillings and is coated in purple, green, and gold sugar.
Crawdads- A bit bigger than their ancestors, no less tasty. Impress your friends by sucking the head.
Mirelurk Cakes- Succulent, flaky white meat mixed with just enough spice to kick and deep fried to perfection.
Dirty Rice- Spicy and hearty, the dish is a mix of rice, finely chopped vegetables, and several rich meats.
Crepes- Basically a thin pancake, these are stuffed with a mix of cheese and jerked Clucker.
Shrimp and Grits- What the hell is a grit? Whatever it is, they’re great served with Cajun shrimp.
Arsonist’s Chili- A mix of beans, Brahmaluff meat, and enough heat to make your ears smoke.
Fish Fry- A heaping basket of beer-battered fried fish fillets.
Funnel Cake- It wouldn’t be a carnival without some pure artery-clogging goodness. Thoroughly doused in powdered sugar.
Milk Punch- Milk, sugar, bourbon, and vanilla. More potent than the taste lends.
Pina Colada- This batch is mostly spiced rum, but coconut milk and pineapple juice make it easy drinking.
Ramos Gin Fizz- Shake up your standard gin fizz with the addition of orange flower water and frothy egg whites.
Emperor’s Staff- An oversized Long Island Iced Tea with a sweet cream floater.
Hurricane- Equal parts light and dark rum, mixed with a bit of lime and just a hint of fruit.
Craft Beer- Crafted with what, exactly? Who cares, it’s strong and doesn’t taste like swill.
Swill Bucket- For the brave (and most desperate to get plastered), this concoction of whatever dregs weren’t enough for a full drink is a bit like chugging gasoline, but with much more entertaining results.
Virgin Daiquiri- Made with orange, pineapple, strawberry, coconut, or a mix of whatever flavors you like.
Virgin Mudslide- It’s pretty much a chocolate milkshake.
Fruit Juice- Assorted flavors.
Coconut water- Stay hydrated and keep those electrolytes balanced. Comes with a tiny decorative umbrella.
Sweet Tea- The South’s finest. Served with lemon.
Purified Water- Exactly what you’d expect.
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
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TheTyrantOfTyrus
Member Avatar
What is YOUR meat agenda?
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]


The black shirt itched. Her black slacks chaffed. Her black leather jacket was stiff, not yet broken in. Around the burls she called knuckles was wrapped clean, boxing tape. Gauze wrapped about her terrible visage.

Aryanna Leatherback bore the livery of some organization on her shoulder, a black Spade. Her Sunlight left unstrung, her Spirit-binder stuffed in her old, worn boots.

A cacophony of dischordant notes from untuned instruments rang against her eardrums. The invasive noise drowned out the blithering and the blathering and the blubbering of the people around her. They wore rainbows, spoke mysteries, perplexed Aryanna Leatherback to no avail.

From high above, more buoyant than clouds, seemingly weightless, they came. A bevy of birds, long, pink polebirds, lifting themselves from the dampness and deftly they swung themselves over Aryanna Leatherback. They plucked at her long hair and dropped beads over her head.

One perched itself way too close and slipped a wooden claw upon a cobblestone. She found herself falling into a puddle of muck. The Leatherback stoically brought her to her feet, feathers and bespoken dress speckled with thick slime.

"God, I need a drink." Nursing a bruised head, she spoke. "The Leaky Tikis nearby, so let's go, bitch."
Edited by TheTyrantOfTyrus, Feb 24 2018, 11:28 PM.
Marshel Vic HC
7 4 8 6 6 4 5

Aryanna Leatherback
9 2 7 2 4 8 5

Charlie Klams
5 4 5 6 8 8 3
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Blue Collins
Member Avatar
Head raider
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Blue Collins didn't quite remember how he had gotten out of his third brush with slavers. Nor did he care; he had managed to get out before anything really bad had happened to him, and now he was in Nawlins, partying. And yes, he had acquired as many strings of beads as he could; those were novelties. Free food appealed to the young man who had never had much, even in his relatively halcyon youth, so did the spectacle and festivities that he had only read about in picture books. I am happy today, those were his thoughts.

He would then seek out someone to party with, hopefully someone who didn't look too dangerous...
Endymion 'Endy' Soap - Level 1

Flame Collins - Temporarily Seperate from Blue - Level 3

Shintaro Kanzaki - Level 1
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Spike stood in front of the small mirror, brow furrowed, trying to make sure he’d done everything right. This thing was harder than it looked.

“Jesus Christ,” Claw groaned, impatient and exasperated, “can I look yet?”

“No,” he said firmly. “Almost done.” Shit, he’d missed a button. Why were there so many?

“It’s almost sunset,” she told the window, facing it as she sat on her bed. “Unless you want to miss the start, you’d better-”

“Will you calm your tits?” There, that was better.

“I still don’t know what all the fuss is about,” she groused. “Your hair looks fine, and there isn’t much you can do with those rags, anyway.”

Spike grinned at himself in the mirror, adjusting a few braids to hang just so. He agreed about his hair, it was the new clothes he’d received and had yet to show Claw he was fighting with. It was an odd ensemble, nothing he’d ever seen before, but he was pleased by the effect. He thought Claw would be, too. She’d eventually forgiven him for the impromptu bath; at least, once he’d washed her clothes and her shoes finally dried out.

It had totally been worth the look on her face.

Pretty sure he’d finally put everything where it was supposed to be, Spike had a sudden and rare pinch of doubt in his stomach. It was so different, and he had no way to tell if it was good different, or ridiculous different. A light gray jacket, shorter and of much finer cloth than the one he’d thrown carelessly on the floor, with matching pants and a creamy white undershirt, were very comfortable and fit him perfectly across the shoulders and waist. He liked the effect; it made him look a bit taller, slightly less scrawny, than did the clothes Claw so tactfully referred to as ‘rags’.

He turned around to face her, taking a breath. “Okay, you can look.”

“Well it’s about goddamn ti-” she started, stopping short as her eyes went huge, mouth falling open in shock. Spike adjusted the jacket absently, frowned at her.

“What’s your problem?”

“I…” She was completely lost for words, “-you…”

“Does it look okay?” He pressed.

Claw stood up slowly, staring him up and down with the same slack-jawed expression. “How?” She still didn’t seem to be able to speak more than a word at a time, which was not at all helpful.

“They gave it to me getting out of the hospital, same as you, for the job,” he explained. “Why you lookin’ at me like that? Did I put it on wrong?”

“No, I just…” She stopped, then smiled wider than Spike had thought she was physically capable of. “Kid, you look great. Where’s my grimy sweatstain and what did you do with him?”

Spike grinned back. “So you like it?”

“Yeah.” She adjusted the front of his jacket briefly. “I do. Just try not to destroy it tonight, huh?”

He shrugged. “Do what I can.”

“I suppose that’s the best I’m going to get.” Claw stood on her tiptoes and brushed nonexistent dust from one of his shoulders. “Well, are you ready for…whatever this is going to be?”

“It’s gonna be a blast,” Spike told her with confidence. “From what I heard, we get to drink all we want, there’s gonna be costumes and all the best whores and games and-”

“Just please, please,” she cut him off, gripping him firmly by both arms, “try to stay out of trouble.”

Spike snorted. “No, you try to stay out of trouble. Y’know, I had it pretty easy before you came along, then it’s all psychobitch this and twister that and coyotes and demonios oscuros and poison gas-”

“That was an accident,” Claw ground out, then her face softened slightly. “You know what? Have fun. You earned it, just try to make it back to the room instead of passing out in the street, all right?”

Another shrug. “Do what I can,” he repeated. Claw huffed in defeat.

“All right, smartass.” She smiled again. Spike grinned back, took her hand, and pulled insistently.

“Let’s go, it’s almost sunset.”




Claw had never been a fan of crowds, and this one was no exception. All the same, she allowed Spike to lead her through the throng, managing to slip through toward the edge of the street as the last rays of the sun faded. When the the lights came on, she drew in a short breath despite herself. What followed, she’d never properly be able to put into words.

The parade was like nothing she’d ever seen before, would probably never see again. A bright flash of light directly in her face made her yell and flinch back, hands up. Even over the crowd, she could hear Spike laughing. It took a moment for the afterimage to fade, and she saw that he had a small device in his hands, now pointed back toward the spectacle.

“What the hell was that?” She shouted, barely able to hear herself over all the noise.

“It makes pictures!” he yelled back. “I dunno how, just ‘point it and push the button’!”

And now she was being pelted with things. Whatever this insanity was, she had candy in her hair, the music was nearly deafening, and none of the locals seemed to find anything strange about it. Claw looked around, saw that everyone was now sporting garlands of beads around their necks, and shrugged inwardly. She scooped up a handful and pulled them over her head, looked over to see if Spike had done the same-

He was gone, and she wasn’t the least bit surprised. When a laughing stranger, drink in one hand and a green mask in the other, slipped it over her eyes, she didn’t immediately try to punch them somewhere tender. Instead, she adjusted the marquis mask and started making her way down the street.

Parades were well and good, but she had other objectives in mind. Namely, getting as drunk as possible in the shortest amount of time.




Claw would find her own fun to get up to. As she so often pointed out, their ideas of ‘fun’ rarely matched up. Spike also had plans for getting obliterated so far out of his skull he’d have to pick it up the next morning, but alcohol wasn’t going to cut it.

Not that it wasn’t a good start.

“Hey!” He was still shouting to be heard over all the noise, and had the feeling he wouldn’t have much of a voice left by the time all was said and done. The man behind the booth looked at him expectantly, even while shaking a drink with one hand and serving another with the second. “Two of whatever’s the strongest!”

“You sure about that, sonny?” A grin to rival Spike’s own spread across his face. “I got better fare.”

Spike flapped a hand dismissively. “Not tryin’ to get fancy. Just drunk.”

“Your funeral,” the man, still grinning, said as he took an unlabeled jug from under the booth. Whatever he poured out of it was murky, an unimpressive brown color, and went to the rim of the double shotglass before it was slid over. “Double swill bucket, enjoy. Try not to puke,” he turned to the throng that was crowded around and began preparing his next order, “it’s even worse coming up.”

Spike gave it a brief examination, decided to take his chances, only wishing that he had someone to show off for. Retroactively would have to be the next best thing. “Here,” he told someone standing behind him, pressed the camera into their hands, “point it at me and push the button after I take this.” He picked up the glass, took a deep breath, and threw it back in one long swig. It couldn’t be that bad.

He’d been wrong. His eyes bugged out, a hand clapped over his mouth, and it was all he could do to swallow rather than spray the foul mix of liquors into the crowd. A bright flash of light, highly disorienting, as several onlookers laughed uproariously. If nothing else, he thought idly, taking his camera back and trying very hard not to vomit then and there, it would make everything he drank from here on out seem like a fine aged wine. There was also the fact that it went to work almost immediately. A burning warmth spread down his throat, all through his stomach, and he knew his head would feel it very soon. He flicked two fingers away from his forehead at the barman, who laughed, seemingly impressed.

“Happy Fat Tuesday, my friend!”

“Yeah, right back-” Spike was cut off with a brief fit of coughing, God that was foul, “right back atcha, brother.” He slipped back into the crowd, pausing here and there to gawk at all manners of incredible sights, snap the flashy thing at a few of them, and let the alcohol hit his brain. It didn’t take very long, he had a heady buzz brewing after just a few minutes, and stopped for another dose of whatever awful concoction a “swill bucket” was. The second one went down a bit easier- he couldn’t tell if it was better quality, or he’d burned off a few taste buds with the first. Whatever the reason, he didn’t care, just didn’t want to get too drunk too quickly. There were too many hours before sunrise, too much to see, to be passing out before he’d experienced the whole of what this party had to offer.

With that in mind, he had a hard hit off the jet canister he’d pilfered from Claw’s bag. With any luck, he’d get it put back before she noticed. If not-

Well, that was Future Spike’s problem.

He still preferred psycho, but the swift knock of clarity and sudden surge of euphoria would do well for now. There was plenty of time to sample the small pharmacy he’d brought along. He wondered briefly where Claw had gotten off to, if she’d slapped anyone yet, before getting distracted by an energetic group dancing along behind one of the bands. Grinning, he flicked a braid over his shoulder and followed after them.
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
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FallenSanity
Member Avatar
I didn't even know I had this
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Stories of Crescent Top were fairly common back in Elizabeth's homeland, and especially so among the soldiers of the Confederate Army. She'd been told by a squad that had spent their leave in Crescent Top that the city was like nothing else you could imagine, walled and built from any sort of crap they could find in the ruins of the old town of New Orleans. Hundreds of businesses make the city a centre of commerce, and an array of unique and strange goods decorate much of the cities upper areas, providing a visual that is starkly unique compared to the dreck and sorrow of the wasteland.

Elizabeth didn't remember much about the society of the city, beyond that importance of hiding your firearms. To her mind, that was entirely irrelevant; the Single Action Army she had carried since her first days with the Confederate Army was broken in more places than most people could count, and was fundamentally useless. That was why she'd come here, to get it repaired, and when she found out that the town didn't take kindly to guns, she started to consider that she'd made the wrong choice.

The dawn of the 'Fat Tuesday Celebrations' were all that had kept her around. If she was going to move into Texas, she at least wanted to enjoy herself beforehand. Louisiana had been a home to her, and it felt only right to spend the last good days she'd have in it having the most fun possible.

Elizabeth had left her temporary abode in the Flooded Districts to come into the shaking excitement of the streets, the colours and music drastically different to any other experience in her life. As beads were tossed every which way and people took themselves to partying in the street, Elizabeth knew she was going to have fun.

Time to find the strongest drink I can.
Edited by FallenSanity, Feb 21 2018, 04:35 AM.
Daniel Orton [HC]
Lvl 6: Copperhead Cook
Rep: -40 Eastern Texas, -250 Texas Rangers, +90 Crag
Equipped: Mirrored Sunglasses, Armstrong Hellcat Necklace, Raider Armour, Culture-Clash Jacket, Crag Swag (Jeans), Black Banana Hammock, Leather Belt, Desert Boots, Skullfucker, Death Knell, Combat Knife, Sharp Hatchet, Hannibals Haymaker, Pre-War Mountain Bike
Status Effects: Internal Parasite
Abilities: Sucker Punch
S:6 P:3 E:5 C:5 I:3 A:10 L:8

Elizabeth 'Eli' Stoudemire
Lvl 1: Humble Hobo
Equipped: Knife, Revolver, Coat
S:3 P:8 E:4 C:6 I:4 A:8 L:7

CP: FS has a bachelors degree in poor taste and a masters in bad manners

LD: Orton can be whatever Hamiltons version of The Nightman is

FP: fs youre like in a very minor minority where cauze youre autistic and gay and an asshole you can say any slur
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