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| Old Cowboys Never Die [100% Open!]; Just an establishing story, totally open | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 30 2018, 02:42 PM (87 Views) | |
| Ricktor | Apr 30 2018, 02:42 PM Post #1 |
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Marsh
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Rain. Now there's something you don't see every day out in the wastes. Sure the water's black, smells like dead fish, and causes Geiger counters to blast into orbit, but it's still rain. David pokes his head out from beneath the blasted out house he's been taking cover beneath, and looks up and down the Horizon to the South. To the left the first rays of daylight begin creeping over the hills, causing something of a rainbow to shimmer in and out of view. Hard to understand for most city folks, but even desolation can be beautiful. People like marsh though, men of the frontier, they know how pretty the wasteland can be. Way off in the ruins a crow caws, something probably caught it between it's teeth. As he steps back under cover the buildings around Marsh groan under their own weight and 200 years of decay. Settling back down by his little fire, the old man pulls his rifle close beside him. Pretty as it may be, he's found plenty of nasty characters crawling the old world. Most are just trying to get high, but a cornered junkie is more terrifying than a cornered animal. Beginning to drift back to sleep, David hangs his head forward. 'Damn old bones' he thinks to himself as he nods off. The smell of a campfire and damp asphalt have always been comforting to the old bastard, much more than any bed or meal. As comfortable as his little camp is, David knows he's gotta get moving soon enough. Food stock's down to the wire, and he's out of clean water. The trade line's pretty nearby though, hopefully a caravan'll run by soon. Barring that, some drifter to stick up works just as well. Before that, though, comes some rest. Marsh had been walking what... three days now? He usually makes camp in the desert, but the aforementioned supply situation has forced him to head towards the nearest trading post. So far the journey had been fine, a radscorpion here a raider there but nothing too insane. Of course the wasteland isn't a peaceful place. "Hey man, you got the stuff?" "Yeh yeh, cool it gringo. You damn tweakers are so jumpy" Marsh groans, pushing up off the ground. He slings his 'rifle' back over his shoulder. A druggie and his dealer, just sounds like the two of them. On the plus side, the dealer might have supplies on her. The junkie's probably barely got clothes on his back but he's the real threat. Dealer sounds like she's from mexico, which means she's probably from one of the gangs. Odd to find one so north of their territory, but supplies are supplies. David stomps out his campfire before hauling himself up the broken stairs he was sitting under. There's what was once a window up half a flight, so he kneels down there to survey the area. As he sets his rifle in the windowsill to aim, a shard of glass is knocked loose and falls to the ground. As it shatters on the pave the pair snap to look up at Marsh. "Shoot." "Who's that? Tha fuck you supposed to be, some sorta vaquero!?" The dealer pulls a revolver out of the seat of her pants, waving it around. A shot rings out through the concrete. Marsh frowns and lowers his cheek to aim down the barrel of his rifle. The wall beside him crumbles slightly where the bullet hit. A warning shot. Things here could get messy. The cowboy pivots his rifle on the wrecked mag well. Aiming the thing isn't easy, what with the iron sights being busted off, but he's gotten used to it. He squeezes back the trigger until it clicks. Bang The old rangemaster jerks back as the .32 launches itself towards the junkie, landing firmly in the poor man's stomach. He stumbles back and falls to his rear end, clutching his stomach. Through the blood and spittle he stutters out half of a yell. It's less a loud scream and more a death rattle as he writhes around in his own viscera. Marsh ducks back behind the wall to reload. Cambering another round is a task in itself, especially with a Mexican woman screaming profanities at him. Something about losing a regular customer or some such, Marsh's Spanish is rusty. As she fires off another shot, David cranks back the screwdriver-bolt and loads another .32 in his rifle. He closes the action and takes a deep breath. The old man sets his head back against the wall, waiting for an opening. This is a battle of patience. He's had 30 years of practice. Edited by Ricktor, Apr 30 2018, 02:42 PM.
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David Marsh An old cowboy type, prefers getting shot at to conversation Inventory: Pipe rifle (tier 1 rifle) Rudimentary revolver (tier 1 revolver) Nuts-n-bolts knuckledusters (tier 1 unarmed) Duster coat (tier 1 clothing) Alabaster Shandy A southern gentleman ghoul from before the war, and a fantastic cook Inventory: Pocket knife (tier 1 knife) Leather Jacket (tier 1 clothing) | |
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| Ricktor | May 1 2018, 06:32 AM Post #2 |
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Marsh
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David turns his head skyward. Looking up at the sunlight peaking through the clouds causes the yelling and commotion to muffle out. Apparently the world wasn't always a barren wasteland, but the old man finds that hard to imagine. Who could wish for anything but the world they have? Deadly as it may be, it's damn beautiful. The desolate planes of the Midwest, the rolling dunes of the Mojave, the old world ashes of the capital wastes, they're all so breathtaking to Marsh. All across the corpse of old America the sprouts of new life can be found, nourished by the old world blues scattered around them. There's nothing else like it, because everything is like it. A reflection of the hearts of men and nature of humanity. None of that meant two licks to the rather loud Mexican below. Marsh grumbles to himself about her incessant yelling before shutting his eyes. How many shots was that, 6? It sounded like a .357, so reloading should take her a few moments. Decent window to shoot. David shifts his weight around so he's sat on his knees before peaking the widow. Down below that woman is leaned against a wall reloading her revolver. Her frustration must be tripping her up, because she's struggling with the slot reload. The old cowboy sets his rifle in the windowsill and takes a deep breath. He straightens out the shot, her left shoulder is poking out. Marsh squeezes back the trigger. Crack The muzzle flashes and the .32 flies true. a fine red mist erupts from the dealer's shoulder as she falls silent. Her pistol drops to the ground It doesn't take long for the pain to register. "W-w-what the hell..?" She drops to the asphalt clutching her shoulder as David rakes back the bolt to load another round. Then the screaming starts. Apparently she'd never been shot so close to the heart before, because the wailing is louder than normal. Sure it wasn't the smallest bullet in the world, but most raiders are so doped up they can't feel being shot up. As he finishes loading the next round, the woman slumps over. Dead of unconscious, either way she's bleeding into her lung. No surviving that out here. As David slowly makes his way back to the ground floor to retrieve her supplies he hears her final death rattle. Such is the way of the wasteland. Marsh kicks the body of the junkie, making sure he's down for good. He sniffs the air: better make this quick before the dogs smell the blood. Giving the man a once over turns up nothing besides a few cigarette butts and empty jet inhalers; not like Marsh expected anything fantastic. The dealer though, she'd probably have something on her you'd think. The old man searches through the corpse's pockets and pack, finding some bad psycho and med-x cut with water. 'Guess she wasn't part of a gang' he thinks, turning over her bag. A half used pack of cardboard matches, a fusion battery, a quarter handfull of .357s that look hand loaded, and three .223s. Better than nothing, especially out here. And there's the howling, which is David's cue to get the hell out of dodge. His plan is to head to highway 211 and catch a caravan for supplies, then merge east onto I-10. He's heard of a ranger outpost called Galveston out near Austin. It's not perfect, but the Texas Rangers have always treated Marsh with some dignity. Better place than any to head to make some much needed repairs, cause it's been around a decade before David's had proper tools or bought any gear. Edited by Ricktor, May 1 2018, 06:33 AM.
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David Marsh An old cowboy type, prefers getting shot at to conversation Inventory: Pipe rifle (tier 1 rifle) Rudimentary revolver (tier 1 revolver) Nuts-n-bolts knuckledusters (tier 1 unarmed) Duster coat (tier 1 clothing) Alabaster Shandy A southern gentleman ghoul from before the war, and a fantastic cook Inventory: Pocket knife (tier 1 knife) Leather Jacket (tier 1 clothing) | |
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| Ricktor | May 1 2018, 01:23 PM Post #3 |
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Marsh
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The dead city greets him with open arms. Marsh begins the trek towards Highway 211 through the ashes of San Antonio. Running as fast has his old legs can take him at first, at least until out of earshot of the dogs. Animals are probably feeding on those corpses now, not that it matters any. Well fed dogs make better food. Damn city's full of those things and worse; supposedly there's a deathclaw nest near the Alamo memorial wherever that is. Best stay clear. Walking among the skeletons of america is more nerve wracking to David than being out on the planes, but it's better than somewhere with people. He stays low, close to walls to keep out of sight. Heaven knows what's lurking around the alleyways. No plants out here to eat, so everything in the city takes what they can get. Usually human. Or themselves. Marsh is keenly aware of this fact, it's just how the wastes are. Just across the broken street he sees something promising: a police station. One problem, something's inside. Could be a person or a beast, either way it's not worth risking his neck for a few bullets. At least not in such close quarters. So Marsh walks on down the road, sure to keep quieter than before lest one of the beasts of the ruins pops out. How long has it been? A couple hours? The sun's up and the rain's stopped by now. David's still drawing breath and that's good enough for him. until he hears the one thing he didn't want to hear. "Run man, fucking run!" Then a scream. Then the barks of what sounds like a pack of dogs or wolves. Marsh has five shots between his pistol and rifle, sure as hell not enough to fight a pack of dogs. So what else does a sensible waster do? He runs. Old age be damned, adrenaline's a hell of a drug. The cowboy pulls himself through the busted window of a bar and ducks behind the counter. As the sound of tapping paws run by, David makes a break for the kitchen and out the back. If things carried on like this, getting out of San Antonio could be troublesome. Stepping out into an alley the cowboy looks around to get his bearings. The dead city is more alive than he thought. As he walks, the daylight begins dipping towards the horizon. Thankfully Marsh's near the city limits at this point, and highway 211 is within view. He breathes a sigh of relief, as he's finally out of that hell pit of a city. Beautiful as it is, San Antonio wants anything human dead and eaten. It's not too long before the old man is down on the highway, waiting for a caravan to pass by. He makes camp for the night on the road, and does a little bartering with a trader that passes by; warning the man about the dogs infesting the city near by. A nights rest can do more good than most people seem to think, especially for guys like David. A lean-to made from an old tarp and some metal scraps against the road barrier is all he needs for a night of sleep. David keeps his pistol ready, in case those dogs or something worse come sniffing around. Thankfully it's a rather uneventful evening. As morning breaks over the wastes as it always has for the past 200 years. People have died overnight, that's as certain as it gets. It's the way of the world, and there's no fighting it. As he collapses his lean-to, David orients himself with what's left of the nearby road Signs. Finding the direction he wants to go isn't hard, I-10's pretty well marked. It's the most direct route from San Antonio to Austin, and then to Crown Top. Time to get the show on the road. [CLOSED] Edited by Ricktor, May 1 2018, 02:28 PM.
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David Marsh An old cowboy type, prefers getting shot at to conversation Inventory: Pipe rifle (tier 1 rifle) Rudimentary revolver (tier 1 revolver) Nuts-n-bolts knuckledusters (tier 1 unarmed) Duster coat (tier 1 clothing) Alabaster Shandy A southern gentleman ghoul from before the war, and a fantastic cook Inventory: Pocket knife (tier 1 knife) Leather Jacket (tier 1 clothing) | |
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| Cewebwalz | May 19 2018, 12:03 PM Post #4 |
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Henshin a go-go baby
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Sorry for the wait kiddo. Your writing was interesting, I found it very analytical and bordering on this first person omnipresent kind of feel most of the time, that's a very unique style around here. David Marsh feels like a true wastelander, it's a wonder he hasn't gone crazy from scouring our beautiful, burnt out world for scraps. I think a more structured story would've been interesting, this seemed like a slice of life that mirrored the rest of his time in the wasteland. Violence without reason, a blur of frantic scrambling for anything valuable, only to be chased away before you could catch your breath. Marsh mentions that it's been ten years since he's been to a real settlement, but what about ten years since real human contact? I would be interested in the breakdown there, or maybe he hasn't had any interactions other than distance shootouts? I haven't done any real research on this subject, but prolonged isolation from humanity is usually rife with mental I really liked your descriptions of the grandeur and the overall setting, I really can't ask anymore of you here. In the original Fallout rain was supposed to glow, so in future roleplays you can always switch it up with the descriptive elements if you ever revisit this rainy day feel. The minutia on the other hand could've been way better, a knack for small details really could've added a lot to this roleplay. The dogs are never described, the man who shouts at Marsh to warn him is but a stranger, and the junkie and the dealer are barely elaborated upon. David is basically a raider in all but name, and his wasteland antics might get really interesting soon. He feels a bit like your handy man uncle who takes castle law way too seriously. I would make his enemies much more competent in the future, he had to run from the dogs and that was a great element, but the junkie and the dealer basically both went down like a bag of hammers. Most people who survive in the wasteland have already been doing so for years, you would think they would have more sense than those two. One last note, most people don't colorize any of their sentences on here, but I thought it made the rp more aesthetically pleasing. Onto rewards.
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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-
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11:33 AM Jul 11