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| Dorset Perception; Reflections of a bizarre past, solo. | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Oct 3 2010, 07:13 PM (287 Views) | |
| Ramsey | Oct 3 2010, 07:13 PM Post #1 |
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Vault leader
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(Guess I'll do an introduction-type story and establish my location, direction, and character. Just a solo for now, but as it develops I will consider opening it up and such, depends on how I feel about it.) The perception of time; lost. It's meager concept and idealistic existence were all at once obliterated, disassembled and forgotten- a thought of insignificant proportions. Everything began to show itself in every sense, and every emotion capable through human conscious was revealed and felt all at once; fear, happiness, curiosity, lust, anger, disgust, euphoria, and hundreds of others that were completely unknown and alien to the human mind. Objects and other reflections of light played with vision as it were a pet, melting walls and morphing faces; as was sound altered. Voices - millions of them, infinite and everlasting - were all emitting noise and strange vibrations at once. He was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He was connected. Alan Schezar was under the effects of 3 doses of Moloko and 5 pellets of Mescalin. A risky, yet interesting, mix indeed. A technicolor sun rose from the desolate eastern hills that cut slivers out of the mystifying light. Alan spent the next half hour staring physically blank at the surreal landscape unveiled across this particular stretch of land, just a minuscule fraction of the entire charred planet in which he walked. He wasn't completely sure of his location, and he didn't care for that; he'll remember once he comes down. For now, Alan sat peacefully enjoying his trip, emitting happiness and peace of mind within this fucked up world that he inhabits. His mind was concerned with meaning and understanding, universal truth and philosophy of consciousness; worrying about food, water, direction, shelter, and survival meant nothing to him now, insignificant and unimportant, like inanimate objects in a sea of endless information and being. He would be in this state for a good five hours more, and then transform into a comfortable, content euphoric happiness, seconded by mild hallucinations and physical ecstasy. He would remain in this phase for nine hours more until, after a very exhausting day, he will collapse and remain dormant and asleep for an excessive period of time. Alan was aware of all this, and knew the potential dangers of being in this condition in the open of this unknown southern wasteland, he would be practically unable to defend himself from a threat if encountered, and portrayed as a madman if confronted in communication with another human being. Yet it was worth the risk, for he had just too curious of a mind and couldn't resist dwelling into that bizarre dimension that he is opened too, where meaning is discovered and truth found. After a long excess of time was spent observing the actions and movements of some spliced and mutated insect- not but 3 inches tall and resembling it's once-pure ancestor: the praying mantis- Alan's mind regained partial control of it's thinking and actions. As the intensity of his trip started to calm down and relinquish, Alan began once again to think of his current situation. It was not but two weeks ago that he abandoned his fellow comrades and orphaned family, the Jacques of the Third Eye, after he was ordered to defend their territory against an attacking drug cartel that deemed the Jacques a troublesome competition to their drug trade, resulting in inevitable war. The Israeli bohemian ran away though; he couldn't kill nor take the risk of being killed, his own survival overtook his hubris and love for his long-time friends and comrades. Guilt and self-hatred filled his abstract thoughts, but dissipated soon thereafter. One cannot dwell on such things for long with a head full of psychedelics, everything is simply too diverse. A smooth wind blew over the land, blowing tumbleweeds and sifting sand, letting out a quiet melody as it passed. Alan sighed. His trip was coming down now, and the emotions of hunger and thirst returning to his general mindset, causing him to take action and set out on the road. He had heard of a relatively friendly town somewhere near here, a little to the west, called Buckettown. He reached into his dust-covered backpack and removed a small bag of caps. Fifty-five caps, all he had left of the three hundred that he scored back in Oklahoma, a successful pickpocket that was spent, mainly, on Psilocybin mushrooms (recreational shrooms) that he bought from some Brahmin farmer he met, along with some quality Jet from the local Jet dealer (a commodity in southern wastes). Apparently the psychedelic fungi grows on the Brahmin feces out in these parts, a piece of knowledge that he'll have to keep in mind when near Brahmin fields. And so fifty-five caps remained in his pocket, and all that's left of his drug purchase earlier this week is a couple hits of Jet, enough to keep him awake and conscious until he finds this Texan desert settlement. He just hoped there was some food there, Alan was starving! It took some time, but Alan luckily found a eroded road and the beginnings of ruins and relics of the past began to show themselves. The wandering seeker was on the right track. |
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Alan Istre Schezar Level: 2 Equipment: Homemade Shotgun, Makeshift Iron Spear, Skinning Knife Cherub Level: 1 Equipment: Makeshift Metal Stake. | |
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| Ramsey | Oct 4 2010, 08:12 PM Post #2 |
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Vault leader
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A small rodent mammal, about 2 feet in size and covered in a leathery skin, scurried across the harsh landscape, kicking up dust and bits of earth into the bleak stratosphere behind it. It moved without conscious purpose, yet with full determination enveloping it's blissful mind. As Alan watched the unthinking animal pass by his line of sight, he felt a twinge of remorse and envy. O how he longed to be without true thought and conscious mind, to be as ignorant as that creature and yet still feel the utter joy of pure emotion- emotion without prior thought or concern. A life free. Yet, that longing was only a small part of him, as his interest and curiosity behind life and the universe was too great to abandon; the distress and depression that accompany it are insignificant compared to the full stake of existence and skeptical reality. The Moloko was wearing off now, leaving with Alan a profuse mind engulfed with a sizable amount of mescaline, that of which will stay with him for at least six more hours. His trip had simmered to a reasonable level. While Moloko, a much more powerful hallucinogen, completely alters perception and obliterates human-conceived reality; Mescaline simply exaggerates the effects of the human mind, producing a level of heightened consciousness and out-of-proportion reality. And then, just as Alan was in the midst of a mystifying connection with the wild and natural world, a voice echoed from the distance. Was this just part of the hallucinations? Is this real or psychedelically-conceived? Alan suddenly became very paranoid and, outwardly and inwardly, strikingly similar to a deranged schizophrenic. What to do, what to do!? It could be raiders, mutants, slavers, bandits, or even power-armored demons for fuck's sake! He had to run- retreat, flee, escape, survive. But where!? He was in the middle of absolutely nowhere, a desolate and barren flatland with little life beyond that of the natural critters that inhabit the sandy dunes and deceased plants. And yet, Alan had encountered another conscious being. He ran left, towards a nearby rocky gorge, probably drooling with radscorpians and rattle snakes, but it was worth the risk. With trembling hands and negative vibrations reveling all around him, the nihilistic junkie cowered in inquiring horror. |
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Alan Istre Schezar Level: 2 Equipment: Homemade Shotgun, Makeshift Iron Spear, Skinning Knife Cherub Level: 1 Equipment: Makeshift Metal Stake. | |
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| Ramsey | Oct 17 2010, 08:40 PM Post #3 |
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Vault leader
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Suited in a rugged outfit of leather and metal plating; equipped with a customized pump-action shotgun; and gripping the handle of a chain-link leash was a brutish man of at least thirty. Beside him stood two other men, both equally as terrifying, if not more so; and behind them limped the beaten shell of a wastelander - broken, bloody, and retaining a look of absolute sorrow and mourning. He was decorated with a mechanical collar which was held within reach through the use of a chain. The collar, Alan assumed, was rigged to detonate if such a captive were to escape; a tactic he had seen used far too much. One word was on the wandering bohemian's mind: slavers. Alan was not at all unfamiliar with slavers, he had much history with their kind primarily due to the profession's connections and similarities with the drug trade, a very undesirable aspect of the business. Slavers represented all of what he despised in man; human beings without conscious remorse or sympathy for the mind's of others. Sure, Alan was not much of a saint himself and tended to fall victim to the enveloping grasp of ever-tempting greed from time to time, but that was just human nature. Survival comes before morals and values, mental continuation takes merit over good-nature. Yet, Slavers relinquish themselves of all resistance towards ultimate greed and selfishness, general discontent for the fellow man. Alan retreated to a small cowering position, hoping desperately that he was totally and completely hidden behind the collection of boulders and junk in which he had fled to. If he was lucky, the bastards will just continue their trek and not even notice the petrified junkie, leaving him alive and free. Yet, Alan's luck had failed him once again. One of the slavers, a devilish-looking degenerate with dark black skin and dyed red hair, halted his walk to study the clear and recent footprint of Alan Schezar impressed into the anemic Texas dirt, a clear sign to a trained eye. The alerted slaver produced his H&K MP9 10mm SMG immediately and called out to his two comrades, who also readied their weapons. Alan's eyes widened considerably and he turned nearly pale from fright of his impending doom. Sweat poured down his face and neck, his breathing was fast and rapid- yet still fairly silent. He could hear the three slaver's scouring the area. Alan knew, at this point, that he was fucked. The rocky gorge in which he hid was the only outcropping in reasonable distance, most defiantly the first place these damnable villains would expect their culprit to be. Alan panicked; what could he do!? Instinctively, the Israelite quickly pulled back the hammer of his 9mm Mauser. He only had seven rounds, if he were to use them, he would have to use them wisely. After a few very tense seconds of unknowing paranoia, Alan flinched to the sudden sound of activity. He heard movement, boots running upon dried dirt and the heavy breathing of a man in the midst of action. Looking to his left, Alan spotted the figure of the red-haired slaver aiming his SMG at Alan's exposed body. In a dash, Alan dove out of the way, barley dodging a spray of gunfire. He rolled quickly to his feet and ran madly to the thicker concentration of rocks, firing aimlessly in the general direction of his adversary. So much for conserving ammunition. He could hear the stomping strides of his pursuer, the ghastly taunts and battle-shouts of a severely disturbed man. Alan once more made a sprint for further cover, hoping to outrun and lose the savage collector; and suddenly his thought fell upon the other two slavers, he had completely forgot about th- Alan felt a quick, but indescribable surge of blunt pain; his view tinted dark red and, after a half-second of feeling himself fall to the ground, he saw no more. Alan's vision went black, and, a millisecond later, as did his mind. |
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Alan Istre Schezar Level: 2 Equipment: Homemade Shotgun, Makeshift Iron Spear, Skinning Knife Cherub Level: 1 Equipment: Makeshift Metal Stake. | |
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| Ramsey | Oct 18 2010, 08:20 PM Post #4 |
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Vault leader
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Hours Later... A sudden rush of thought and mental function emitted from Alan Schezar's previously unconscious mind; bright fluorescent light shined through the thin eyelids enveloping his now-active vision, burning his aureole ever-so-slightly, ultimately waking the disturbed and enigmatic mind from it's unintended slumber. The eyelids blinked open, revealing a pair of bluish-gray cornea, coupled with two severely dilated pupils- he was still tripping on mescaline after all. The confused nihilist pondered his current location: he was laying on his back, facing the cosmic night sky, ever-so-far out of reach yet always seemingly within grasp. A single spotlight was shinned upon him, brighter than his eyes were comfortable with; the blinding light reminding him oh-so-vividly of his deformed childhood and the common plagues of snow-blindness that he would agonizingly endure. At once, as if instinct, Alan attempted to raise his prone body to a sitting position, a task he greatly underestimated. His limbs and head pulsed with terrible pain when ordered to move, he could tell that he had been beaten up pretty badly. Realizing that he could not really look around for another human being, Alan produced a starry moan, at least to note his recent consciousness to anybody near; whether it be slavers, slaves, or his saviors. "Hmmm..." was the only response to his desperate moan, coming from not but five feet away and carrying with it a tone of general disinterest and depression. Alan heard the familiar sound of footsteps coming towards him, accompanied by the rattling of a heavy chain. A shadowed head came into his fixed view, looking down upon the laying wastelander with curious intent and, after studying the unassuming traveler for a moment, disappointment. A disgruntled look remained etched into the stranger's facial features for a few seconds, but then morphed into a friendly smile; engraved with sadness it may be. "Stand up and look level, they'll blast you and toss your corpse if you seem too weak for labor, or whatever we're being sold for." The man spoke with a deep voice, slightly horse from, most likely, dehydration and malnutrition. His noticeably burnt hand reached out for Alan's, offering assistance. Alan was blank of thought for a few seconds, still recovering from the incredible pain of moving, which was now slowly subsiding. The two palms met and each felt equally hardened skin riddled with calluses. Quickly and with a strong twinge of pain, the Isreali mountain man rose to his feet, having to grip the shoulder of his new friend for a moment as the blood rushed to his head. After the dizziness had faded, Alan analyzed his new companion. The man was likely in his late thirties- well built and fit, a thick tan accompanied by a number of painful-looking burns dotted around his dirty body. He wore nothing but a pair of ripped and ash-covered trousers, splattered with different shades of blood, oil, and water stains. As Alan guessed it, this man had been through quite a lot recently. The bohemian wanderer observed his surroundings. He was in a cell, a makeshift cage built next to an old deserted train-yard, and not but a couple yards away sat two poorly built tents and a roaring campfire. Then, as memorable fright filled his weird thought-process, the red-haired slaver emerged from one of the shelters, his SMG in hand. "Fuckin' bastard, that man." came a voice from beside Alan, startling him a bit. His fellow slave returned to his original sitting position, against the gate and as far out of the light as he could get. Alan followed. "I'm guessing that we're slaves, eh?" inquired Alan, who, up until this point, had not spoken a word. The unnamed man produced a grin, as if he found the situation humorous. Suddenly, he began laughing. "Ahahah, really now? What makes ya think that?" he spat in between bouts of laughter, "I think you could've answered that question yourself, boy." He stopped laughing and put on a face of remorse, sighing loudly. "So what's your name kid?" he asked, changing the subject before Alan could react. The former miner straightened his back, as if to seem taller and more intimidating. "Alan Schezar, I come from up north," Alan unintentionally twitched his neck, a commodity of his when under pressure; "what's yours?" The man stared into the surrealist's eyes with the glare of a madman, dwelling into Alan's inner consciousness and mind's eye, digging deeper and deeper into a mess of bizarre memories and abstract perceptions. Alan, barley able to withstand the maddening stare that the stranger beamed into the eyes of the beholder, became uncomfortably hot and felt his heartbeat increase tenfold. How could this man gaze so deeply into Alan's disfigured and distorted mind? Finally, the man spoke; "My name is Howard," he said without halting his unsettling glare, "Howard Pickman." |
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Alan Istre Schezar Level: 2 Equipment: Homemade Shotgun, Makeshift Iron Spear, Skinning Knife Cherub Level: 1 Equipment: Makeshift Metal Stake. | |
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| Ramsey | Oct 26 2010, 07:26 PM Post #5 |
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Vault leader
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A cold wind blew through the night atmosphere, chilling the skin of any creatures within it's radius, sorrowfully reminding the two skimpily-clothed caged bipeds of a roaring fire's comforting warmth and security; almost as if the flames acted the part of guardians, protecting those who surrounded it from the endless perils and horrors of the post-apocalyptic wilderness. Alan Schezar watched the inviting flame lick the sky and divide the air in which it touched, and with his glare came envy, wrath, and the sense of his captor's hypnotic greed. Quickly the sinful slave turned away, now facing the ever-morbid face of the strange Howard Pickman. Alan couldn't say that he disliked the man, as he seemed to be within reasonable intelligence and of good heart, but he gave off an aura of enigmatic animosity. The man was brooding deeply, trapped within the midst of a mental complex of thoughts, emotions, perceptions, and memories. Alan knew this, he was certain of it, for he had known and lived within that state of mind for the majority of his life, only to be escaped through the use of chemical keys. Howard's face, when carefully observed by Alan when undetected, showed clear signs of a very intense and distressing internal struggle; his eyes would remain stone solid, fixated upon some insignificant object in the distance, but current sight was not of his immediate concern. He was passing through most of the basic human emotions: anger, sadness, love, disappointment -in both himself and others-, along with many others. One emotion, though, was completely absent; happiness. No feelings of joy or solace circled the disastrous pillars of his mind, they, Alan guessed, had died with his freedom. Overall, the man was a mess, and, by the looks of it, desperately needed closure, some sort of communication to relinquish his dreadful thoughts. Unfortunately, Alan was far too distressed himself to give help and peace of mind to another, especially a man of this nature. Alan was just a kid, a drug-addled waster mindlessly wandering the desolate landscapes of the earth, searching for nothing and hoping for nothing in return; he was a child of the wasteland, nihilistic and bohemian, his set purpose in life being internal peace and understanding as opposed to the common man's idealistic dream of family, riches, security, and power. So, in truth, what help could a creature of his standards be to a man such as Howard? Alan sighed, scratched his dirt-covered hair, and laid back against the makeshift fence. A slave. Property, a piece of equipment, sold back and forth between real human beings as if a brain did not sit within their heads. That was what Alan was now, just an object, another tool in the shed. Suddenly, frightening Alan out of his introspective nightmare, Howard rose to his feet and paced to and fro in the small cage, thinking frantically and wearing the face of a serious man, an expression that preceded action. He was about to do something he probably shouldn't. Alan looked at him with concern, not fully able to speak but giving off the impression of "don't do anything to get us killed." The distressed man simply paced back and forth some more. The Israelite could tell that he had the concept of retaliation brewing up inside of him, clawing frantically to get out, to engross his mind and overload it with hate, revenge, and primal rage! Only one thing held it back and one thing only: fear of death. He was sorely outnumbered and outgunned. They had automatic rifles, blades, and armor while all he, along with Alan, had was their fists and simply clothing. Yet, Howard had one thing they didn't have, and that was the weapon of utter and complete hatred. |
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Alan Istre Schezar Level: 2 Equipment: Homemade Shotgun, Makeshift Iron Spear, Skinning Knife Cherub Level: 1 Equipment: Makeshift Metal Stake. | |
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| Ramsey | Oct 28 2010, 08:05 PM Post #6 |
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Vault leader
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His eyes enveloped every aspect of hate. Apparently, Howard had come out of his mental complex with the result of utter abhorrence, a single and powerful feeling of disdain and brutal vengeance; Howard wanted the blood of their captors. Alan looked over at the now-drunken Slavers; two of them were deep within an intense card game while the other desperately fought sleep sitting in some old, slightly burnt chair. None of them, though, were paying the least bit of attention to the nefarious thinking within the slave pin. "Those bastards," Howard spat, holding the demeanor of a madman, "they keep us chained in here like dogs, waiting to be sold as if we were property." He spoke with a very distinguished and angry tone, speaking more to himself than to Alan. Suddenly, his brooding head shot towards Alan's, their eyes meeting in unbreakable trance. "Listen," he started, "I used to have three children, a wife, a home, wealth, land of my own, all of this belonged to me!" His burnt thumb jabbed his bare chest, "I was a human being then, a producer, a father of children, a collaborator with whatever is left of this fuckin' society. But now? Now I'm nothing, an empty shell robbed of his pride, his home, his family!" He took a deep breath. It all made sense now, Alan thought; the burns, the mental struggle and depression, his morbid appearance, it all made sense. The man had his family and home destroyed in front of him by these degenerate slavers, his entire life slaughtered before his eyes, and in the end his body, and mind, enslaved. Howard was right, he was nothing; lost and robbed of every emotion except for hatred, hatred that cried for release, for action! Oh yes, Alan saw all of this now, but what could he do, sit back and watch? This man was going to do something and had nothing to lose, but Alan did. Alan was still young, he had nothing to begin with save his strange consciousness, and this man, unknowingly, could cause that to cease. Alan had to stop him from retaliating. "O-ok, I can't possibly know what your going through, but you can't do what we both know your thinking. These guys have guns man! They'll spray you down in an instant, without the least bit of merciful regret, they're fucking twisted!" Alan tried his best to explain this to the stranger in front of him without sounding too cowardly, but reasonable instead- logical. Howard didn't seem phased. Without speaking, the broad-shouldered man returned to his original seat. Alan followed suit. A long silence passed where both slaves sat still, contemplating each end of the situation, wondering what to do and what futures could emerge from their decisions. The bohemian druggie put his head into his palms, a sign of defeat and acceptance of defeat. Howard, however, kept his head straight and still, staring blankly with unblinking eyes. Finally, the disturbed captive broke the silence; "Alan," he said in monotone, "stay here and shut your eyes, my son. Pretend it is not happening, just close your eyes and pretend it's not happening..." his voice began to crack up. Alan raised his head with a look of utter confusion, what the fuck was he talking about? Then, without changing his expression, Howard stood and walked with demonic speed to the other side of the cage, facing their oppressors. He stuck his arms out through the gaps between the bars, gleaming insanely at the red-haired slaver opposite to him. "Excuse me." he shouted in demented monotone, startling the slaver. The freakish-looking waster cocked his head sideways, squinting his bloodshot eyes. "What da fuck you want, eh meat?" Howard smiled. "I'm thirsty." |
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Alan Istre Schezar Level: 2 Equipment: Homemade Shotgun, Makeshift Iron Spear, Skinning Knife Cherub Level: 1 Equipment: Makeshift Metal Stake. | |
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| Ramsey | Nov 10 2010, 09:04 PM Post #7 |
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Vault leader
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Alan reveled in horror. Heavy vibrations of upcoming terror and violence were circling his scrambled mind; swooping, merging, and splicing with the altered effects of prominent exhaustion and the come down of the mescalin he'd eaten earlier. An aura of undefined hatred and primal vengeance surrounded the rugged figure of Howard Pickman, entrapped within the grasp of psychopathic rage, liable to do just about anything. The man was suicidal, not in fear of death nor the revelation of what lies behind, for he was dead already- the slavers had murdered his personal being. They tolchocked and knifed his once-content emotions and relationships; the bastards executed his only true productions in life, mercilessly ending the existences of the man's dearest offspring and monogamous partner. Were it Alan in his place instead, the nihilistic intellectual's outlook would be must less dramatic and emotional, as external affairs, in the end, do not murder Alan's psychological well-being, they simply injure it. The wild red-haired Slaver stumbled over to the makeshift cage; obviously wasted, obviously careless. If Alan had to guess, this slaver had not relied on his two companions passing out and leaving him all alone on guard duty, a tiring and ultimately boring position to fill, especially when drunk and sedated on high doses of Morphine, or some other form of opiate. Alan knew this through general experience, the man having the basic signs of an opiate-filled mind. "Thirsteh huh, ya rot piece of waster meat? Didcha' think I'd viddy givin' yous sum of my precious liquids, eh? Ha!" the man spat. The wild-haired Slaver was now close to his imprisoned captive, dangerously close. The man was oblivious, far too out-of-whack to comprehend the eminent risks of conversing with the property, he had forgotten about the power of a slave's contempt against his captor; especially a captor responsible for the death of everything said slave knew and loved. "Weeellllll, I dun thinks thars a' gonna be any sumthing fur ya to sip on dis night, you lime piece of shit!" He said in a mix of slurs and scoffs. The illiterate bastard then collapsed against the iron bars holding the border between he and his possession, that being Howard. The slaver was laughing uncontrollably, maniacally, and ignorantly. All the while, Howard continued to smile. Suddenly, yet not unexpectedly, Howard's thick limbs thrust out through the makeshift cage and violently gripped the neck of the laughing fool, letting loose an unmatched expression of pure, primal rage through his experienced hands; choking with all his might to mercilessly end the bodily life of his oppressor. Howard's figure seemed to glow with manifested salvation, final gruesome resolution. Alan could barley watch, yet his eyes remained glued to the situation. The slaver flailed hopelessly, scratching desperately at the slave's death grip, crying insensibly at the very near aspect of his own death- the end of his humanistic existence, and possibly the end to his existence in total, the complete and utter halt of conscious thought and being. Alan shuttered at the sight. The nihilistic druggie had watched men die before, the look of absolute fear and shock, understanding and euphoria, just about every sensation known to man, and beyond. This gruesome ordeal went on for about five everlasting minutes, five minutes that, to Howard and Alan, only lasted five minutes. But for the red-haired slaver, those five minutes prolonged into eternity, his mental endorphins releasing in panic, and the crawling blanket of death quickly shuttering his perception. Yet, in the end, the slaver let out a final wheeze, the recesses of his vocal cords voicing their last breath, forever ending his miserable existence. The flailing stopped, the breathing and pulsating stopped, and finally the man fell limp; now only a bodily corpse, nothing but decomposing flesh. The murderer let the body fall to the dirt. The two slaves stared in surreal disbelief at the limp carcass sprawled out in front of them. |
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Alan Istre Schezar Level: 2 Equipment: Homemade Shotgun, Makeshift Iron Spear, Skinning Knife Cherub Level: 1 Equipment: Makeshift Metal Stake. | |
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| Ramsey | Nov 17 2010, 08:34 PM Post #8 |
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Vault leader
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The deed was done. The two men were dead, goners, souls sentenced to eternal damnation. Alan's slave-mate had murdered one of his captors, and it was only a matter of time before the remaining two sensed the lingering aura of death and mischief that tended to follow the poor Israelite through his travels. It acts as if a curse, genetically bound to Alan's being, ensuring, day after day, that the tortured bohemian's existence was one of endless struggle, pain, and mental instability. What could he do to escape this grip, this leash which trapped the man within the property of internal toil?! There was an extended silence that followed Howard's accursed crime, if was even a crime at all. Crime didn't exist anymore, for there was no law, no order, no government to enforce. Anarchy, pure uncivilized anarchy, only the primal pursuit of survival remained; that of which will never fade, not as long as the human mind operates in the fucked-up way that it does. Nonetheless, the silence was finally broken by Howard, who, at this point, was a man possessed beyond the extent of rejuvenation. He had tasted the blood of his captors, and through the demented processes of his mind, he wanted more. The madman grabbed the limp foot of the red-haired slaver and pulled the corpse towards him. He then frantically searched the body, looking for, if Alan had to guess, any sort of weapon, key, or tool to engineer his escape from this claustrophobic cell- and unleash untamed violence upon his remaining oppressors. Alas, the man found his answer: a crowbar. Crude, yet effective. With corrupted joy, he began swinging away at the makeshift cell bars, which were made of some rusted metal, long past it's hayday. The crowbar preformed excellently, bending and snapping the eroded bars with ease; or perhaps it was just the brutal nature of Howard's rage-fueled strength that achieved the freedom granted. Alan, just then returning from a state of shock and disbelief, rose to his feet and scrambled out through the bent and broken iron, Howard right behind him. Alan looked back at his fellow escapee. "C'mon man, we gotta get the fuck out've here fast," Alan spoke in a frantic tongue, whispering his words and shaking with pure adrenalin, "they probably heard you with the crowbar, we have to fucking run!" Howard replayed simply by shaking his head and, without even taking into consideration the nihilistic junkie's response, he grabbed the late slaver's shotgun, which lay unattended upon the man's chair, and walked with demonic speed towards the illuminated tent where his prey dwelt. Alan stood in momentary indecision. He could run, like he had planned to, and escape with his life; or he could stay, help out his misguided friend, and possibly come out of the situation with a substantial amount of loot! He glanced between his two options; the dark, unforgiving, desolate wasteland that surrounded him, and the primal figure of Howard approaching the remaining slavers. A battle was about to erupt. Regretfully, Alan ran behind some nearby dune, shielding himself from any stray shots, and listened intently at the slaughter that was about to unfold. There was a seemingly eternal silence before the first shot was fired, that of which was defiantly a shotgun blast, and after that there was screaming. A lot of screaming. More shots were fired, this time coming from some sort of SMG, and then- then came the ear-piercing howl of a madman, possessed by vengeance incarnate, with no regards for pain or death, simply the satisfaction of murdering those who did him wrong remained. The howl was long and loud, most likely able to be heard within a considerable distance, and following it came the unmistakable sound of a flesh-rending impact, the sudden crunch of bones snapping, and finally the macabre groans of a dying man. A dead quiet fell over the wastes, unintelligible insects being the sole occupants of the night air, everything else hid in dread fear and curiosity. At long last, Alan gathered the courage to peek out from his hiding place and gain final resolution behind his poor companion's fate. The dark and cloudy haze portrayed the scene as silhouetted, only the still figure of the victor, hunched over on his knees, brooding over the ghastly corpse of the deceased, remained. Was it Howard? Had he won, or was this the surviving slaver, observing in terror the body of his former slave? Alan wondered what to do. He sat staring at the lone outline for a little while before the figure stood, seemed to look around, and finally shouted; "I HAVE TAKEN JUSTICE UPON MY OWN MEANS," his voice was riddled with tears and pain, "I HAVE SINNED, AND THROUGH THIS HAVE BECOME THE SINNER!" From Alan's perspective, it seemed the man, presumably Howard, was speaking to whatever God he found refuge within. The man then fell back to his knees and sobbed. Alan felt astonished at the outcome of this situation. Howard had won, he had sought revenge upon his antagonists and received it, through means of brutal slaughter. Solemnly, Alan walked across the camp-sight towards the distressed Howard and placed a reassuring hand on the man's back. They were slaves no more. |
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Alan Istre Schezar Level: 2 Equipment: Homemade Shotgun, Makeshift Iron Spear, Skinning Knife Cherub Level: 1 Equipment: Makeshift Metal Stake. | |
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| Ramsey | Nov 18 2010, 05:35 PM Post #9 |
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Vault leader
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The night sky stood still, unfazed by the insignificant affairs of human beings, an observer; always watching, always studying. Below the surreal array of stars, galaxies, solar systems, and space sat the morbid creatures, feasting quietly in the midst of their sins. Or, better put, Howard's sins. They had come to the conclusion to remain at the slaver camp for the night, as the darkened wasteland was home to all sorts of dangers and predators. Humans were the prey. Alan ate his roasted Molerat with great values of disinterest and apathy, this ordeal having put him off of his appetite. Howard, however, ate happily, peacefully, as if he had not just taken the lives of three men. They had not discussed the whole matter of the situation very much since it happened, in fact they only spoke of it once, and that was regarding the stench of the corpses and the need to place them elsewhere. They had stacked the inanimate lumps of flesh a fair distance from the camp, yet still within the range of their fire. Fresh blood like that will attract many a wasteland beast. This could not go on much longer, Alan thought, he could not just act as if nothing had happened, as if the brutal murders of three human beings had not just been committed. Alan had no distaste for it, he was actually very happy Howard did what he did (for his freedom was granted), the curious Israelite simply wanted to discuss it with his companion. Alan watched in bizarre interest as Howard ate away at a roasted Molerat limb, seemingly void of thought. Truly, what would he have to think about? The man was deranged with insane primal vengeance before, that of which consumed every aspect of his mind, and now that he had found resolution, what could he possibly be thinking about? If Alan had to guess, his primary thought was solely focused around the act of chewing, swallowing, and chewing some more. Howard ate like a man starved - which is basically true - and, once finished, lied back in his chair, content, full, satisfied. Alan stared at him in disbelief. A silence lingered. "Julie," Howard finally said, pausing for an ample amount of time before continuing, "was the name of my wife. Gregory and Jennifer were my children, both young, both innocent. I watched them burn before my eyes, I watched the fuckers rape my beloved wife, an-and..." his voice cried with horrid memories, "they went for my Jenn next." He sighed deeply, shuttering, "But it is done. They're dead. Both my family, and their killers. Now I am alone; homeless, poor, and depraved of all my belongings. What, I ask you, what the fuck am I to do with myself!?" He looked directly into Alan's eyes, just as he did when they first met, and gravely peered into Alan's mind. The traveling psychonaut considered his response to Howard's morbid statement. Alan wanted to say his mind, but he wondered if even that was too strange for this once-ordinary man. Howard had only been fucked in the head since the atrocity put against him, before that, Alan guessed, he was probably a fairly normal guy. He worried about food, shelter, relationships and social encounters; all the things Alan deemed insignificant. Alan had been fucked in the head for a long time, far longer and far greater than Howard, yet in response to the many atrocities he had endured, not once did Alan seek justice. He did not become psychopathic, nor did he become infected with vengeance. Revenge was not an aspect of Alan's weird consciousness, he was far too nihilistic about human affairs. He found no connection to people, he felt no sympathy or love, nor hatred or discrimination. He thought it, of course, but that was all; his emotional opinions rarely left the cravens of his mind. It was this mindset that separated Alan from Howard, and through this they could never truly communicate, they would always be on different wavelengths. And so, Alan repeated what he has told everybody else that has asked him such a question as Howard did, "Nothing, do nothing, that's what I do." Howard scoffed, he did not take the answer seriously, nobody ever did. With that, Alan's companion grabbed whatever sleeping supplies he could find, that being a couple blankets and one pillow. They were to sleep outside, for the tent had been shredded by gunfire, and doused in blood. Alan huddled up within his itchy blanket and turned away from Howard, who lied uncovered atop his "bed". He seemed to be contemplating deeply, pondering his life and what has become of it, remembering solemnly the soft touch of his beloved wife, the joy brought to him from children, their smooth, innocent faces; all of it now solely compressed within his memory and emotion, no longer within existence outside of his own thoughts. For a long time Alan tried to sleep, yet he could not. He could not stop thinking about Howard and his family, the peaceful existence they once lived, and the sudden change brought about by the abhorred effects of humanity's greed. The mental torment Howard had been put through, it was only due to an emotionless waster's need to satisfy himself, whether than be through drugs, booze, women, antique cereal boxes; or perhaps it was the sole joy one might receive from bringing others' pain. Alan's train of thought was suddenly broken by the oh-so-recognizable click of a pistol hammer clocking. Alan stayed still, waiting for whatever came next. "Alan," came a calm voice, "tell my wife I love her." Alan was all the sudden filled with remorse, sympathy, sadness, depression, the need to cry, the need to mourn. Subconsciously, Alan replied, "She knows." In the next minute, a lone gunshot echoed throughout the night. |
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Alan Istre Schezar Level: 2 Equipment: Homemade Shotgun, Makeshift Iron Spear, Skinning Knife Cherub Level: 1 Equipment: Makeshift Metal Stake. | |
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| Ramsey | Nov 18 2010, 06:21 PM Post #10 |
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Vault leader
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Alan lay sobbing within the safety of his blankets, fighting the desperate need to scream, the desire to shout and look to the sky for answers. The unmoving corpse of Howard sat peacefully beside the fire, sleeping, gone within eternal sleep. Dreaming. Expanding. Knowing. Howard was past death, he had found the answer, the truth behind the question of life. Even if he is non-existent, he has still found the answer that Alan seeks. Alan sat with his legs crossed, staring blankly at the still body, intoxicated by the licking flames and night wind. What was it that brings a man to end his own life? Is it torment? Is it curiosity? Is it loneliness, depression, the sensation that life is simply too horrid to be lived? It had been love that drove Howard to death by means of his own; love for his wife, love for his children, love for his success, love for his peace of mind. His love had been taken from him, and although he achieved vengeance, his love remained murdered, dead, buried beneath the ruins of his former home. The greed of man had murdered his love, and through mans' sin justice, in some form, had been put forth. Howard acted upon his own, he placed no faith in any God or deity, he took matters into his own hands. Was that right? Is it righteous to exact your own absolution? Religion becomes the collector of such thoughts, ensuring unending misery upon the sinner, and the promise of reconciliation with those lost. Is this human nature to place such complexes in the hands of the unknown? Or is it human nature to act upon your own accord? The latter seems more logical, yet human nature has been fucked and stabbed and raped and skinned far too many times that it barley resembles it's former self. Humanity has defined it's own nature, and in doing this, has created a deformed, mutated, disfigured manifestation of human nature. This apprehension will only grow, expand, mutate, and multiply as humanity continues to exist. The human race exists as a virus, a bacteria too consumed within itself that it fails to acknowledge the universe beyond, the universe it pays no mind to, the universe that pays no mind to it. The moon levitated atop the clouds and, just as it emitted florescent light upon the wasteland, it ceased, blocked behind the clouds. Alan left the corpse untouched. Morning was coming soon, for the red glow of the enigmatic Sun was slowly creeping in the eastern distance. He decided he would not stay here long. Sleep wasn't an option, Alan was too distressed, trapped within the debate of human nature. Emotions flowed through the channels of his thoughts like river water. Alan needed to forget, he needed to escape from this damnable existence, from the severity of emotions and sorrow of introspective depression. It was an indescribable feeling of pure melancholy that encompassed his mind. Escape, escape, feel this no more! And so, Alan did as he usually did to escape: morphine. One little prick, and these feelings would be no more, he would be content, happy, in blissful peace of mind. With orgasmic euphoria, Alan fell to his back; a belt tightly tied around his bicep, an empty syringe to the right of him. No more depression, no more mourning, no more sorrow, anger, remorse, sympathy, no more emotion except for one: euphoria. Only two objectives circled within Alan's thought process now, he need to get to Buckettown, and he needed to get another fix. The sun rose and revealed to the curious wasteland the outcome of one man's emotions: blood stained the grounds of the campsight, a tent lay shredded and soaked with blood; one corpse lay in a pool of blood, a pistol by his side; three mangled bodies were sprawled about some distance from the campfire, surrounding them being an even larger pond of thick blood, bugs feast upon the macabre results of human nature; and lastly, a single giggling youth lay by the campfire in perfect happiness. |
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Alan Istre Schezar Level: 2 Equipment: Homemade Shotgun, Makeshift Iron Spear, Skinning Knife Cherub Level: 1 Equipment: Makeshift Metal Stake. | |
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| Zilabus | Nov 20 2010, 09:00 PM Post #11 |
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Er'ry day I'm overseein'
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I rarely give out level ups for a first mission, but I think you earned it. The post have thought and voice, the narrative is solid, and the plot itself is well crafted. The pacing is solid, and the timing is consistant. If there was an complaint I could bring up, it may be that such sweeping philisophical and psychedelic themes can feel like 'too much'. Then again, that kind of thing is quite enjoyable from time to time, and I enjoyed this. What will happen to Alan with his chems spent up? We'll see, I suppose.
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Eli "Slim" Ambrose SPECIAL: 3, 9, 2, 7, 9, 3, 7 Level: 5 Bucket town reputation: -175 Equipment Weaponry: Molotov, Cherry bombs, Combat Knife, Laser pistol, Tack Mines, Smoke grenades, Syringes. Armor:Post-war suit Tattered leather jacket Inventory Homemade shotgun, Gumballs, Bedspread Mentats x3, Psycho x2, Jet x1, Wiskey x2, vodka 4 1/2 x Hides, 15 LSB dollars Appearance Caucasian Very tall, lanky, and slim, jet black hair in a greased into a subdued pompadore style. Dark eyes and a cleanshaven face. Brown Windowpane suit. Kelly "Featherweight" Capozzi | |
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