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| Swamp Fire; Grace Van Vliet #BloodMoon | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 21 2014, 01:41 PM (300 Views) | |
| Cewebwalz | Apr 21 2014, 01:41 PM Post #1 |
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Henshin a go-go baby
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If Grace was more craven, she might've turned back to the ship the second she stepped into the murk of the swamp. The change in texture was the first thing she noticed, the sandy soil of the Texas wastes liked to shift under your feet, while the murky mud sunked you in a bit with each step. It was a dark, organic soil, the sort of stuff you'd kill for if you were a farmer out west. She wondered why no one ever farmed out in the swamps, but then she remembered the grator, and it all made sense. It was mid-day, barely past noon, but the tree coverage was so dense that sunlight could barely penetrate the canopy. It grew dark immediately, and there was no path to speak of. She was told to follow the river, but it bended and turned in such a way that as long as she went straight, she could cut out some time out of her journey. But if she lost her footing she'd be a goner. Her inner sense of direction wasn't bad, but no one other than Grace would trust it when it came to navigating the jungle bayou. Grace was a different breed though, so she ventured off the beaten path, and through the vines and thick foliage. She was no predator, so she made more noise than anyone who knew what they were doing would have. But that didn't matter to her, she was still high off adrenaline. When she came down, her mind might be in another place, but her confidence was much higher than her own ability right now. The first thing that came to mind was that this was the most life she'd ever seen out in the wilderness, and her pace slowed to deal with the branches and foliage that acted as her foil. She heard crickets and other wildlife, something that sounded like birds off in the distance, and the sound of water pockets bubbling under the soil. The desert was dead, the towns and cities were shadows of their former selves, but the swamp was alive. Grace gripped her make-shift flamer tighter. The whole damn biome was unsettling. |
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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-
full-sized avatar "What is Adderal, anyhow?" - Funky Fan | |
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| Midnight Rider | Apr 25 2014, 09:04 AM Post #2 |
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The Super Cereal
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(BLOOD MOON) (You're not very far in the story so consider this more flavor than a complication) One of your first swamp discoveries is an interesting tree, with a peculiar fruit. This particular plant has a dead man hanging from its branches. Upon further surveying you notice an entire grove of trees with hanged men. The bodies are large and covered in red markings. The heat has made the stomachs bloat and in this environment the decay will be rapid. The smell is overpowering and the insects are thick and aggressive. Its an ominous portend of things to come but you may want to move on soon. You wont want to be there when the bodies start falling apart. |
![]() Gordon "Stone" Hennigan, SPECIAL: 5.6.9.3.5.10.3. Level: 6 HC Peter McCullough SPECIAL: 4, 4, 4, 10, 10, 4 , 4, Level 3 HC THE CURSE OF THE MUMMY The spirits have taken an interest in you for all the wrong reasons! Unexpected challenges will come to you during your RPs but the rewards doled out will be much juicier. It is possible to live with such a curse, but if you would rather live curse free, you could simply sell the corpse and wash your hands of the whole situation. Lmgthev: MBP is handsome LonesomeDrifter23: Sometimes I think MBP is a being made entirely of satire. | |
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| Cewebwalz | May 1 2014, 03:04 PM Post #3 |
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Henshin a go-go baby
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Grace Van Vliet has a scarf that her momma gave her. She's been wearing it since she was 17 or something like that, and she's careful not to scorch it. For the past couple of years it had the cool multi purpose of being one of her last mementos of home, and easily her favorite fashion accessory. She liked it a lot. The last thing she wanted was to vomit all over it at the sight of a couple dozen bodies rotting in the humid swamp air. There was a grove of what looked like mangrove trees, with their willowy, crooked branches out. The scene vaguely reminded Grace of puppeteers holding out limp marionettes from boney fingers, like something of a child's nightmare. Grace was no child, but the sight made her gulp, and the thought of rerouting passed through her mind. So, with some hesitation, Grace lifted her scarf up and wrapped it around her nose and mouth. She needed some kind of filter to keep the rancid air out of her lungs, the almost impossibly dank air of the swamp had been penetrated by the floating graveyard. Thoughts lurked in the back of her mind on courses of action, she lifted her homemade flame machine. Burning the grove to the ground was one thing, but the fire might attract the sort of unmentionables that hung up the whole lynch-cemetery in the first place. Grace wasn't exactly scared of the perpetrators, yet confronting them wasn't on her A-list. She'd heard some stories on swamper war parties, and they were the type that you could be a hundred yards down with a rifle and still not have enough time to pick em all off before one caved your skull in. And Grace wasn't going to be a hundred yards away with a rifle. The bugs weren't taking much notice of Grace, and for that she was glad. They were shockingly large maggots and flies that made the insects in Texas look laughable. She reared up the nozzle of her flame thrower, a burst from it would scare em off if she got recognized. Or at least give them a flame to crawl too. She tip-toed around the bodies, careful to not even bump into their feet. She saw that one of them looked like they had been killed pre-hanging, some type of gunshot wound. Even then that was disgusting enough, and flies swarmed inside and out of the bullet hole. Gruesome didn't feel like severe enough terminology, the whole scenario was obscene. The low buzz of the insects was close to a roar right now, and flies hopped from corpse to corpse, sampling different flavors of death. Sunlight poked through the grove, arrows of light, all miraculously failing to touch the bodies. Time of day or something, Grace thought. Everything was so cinemagraphic. She didn't look back to the grove once she finished light-stepping through it, just tried to focus on what was to come ahead. |
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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-
full-sized avatar "What is Adderal, anyhow?" - Funky Fan | |
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| Midnight Rider | May 21 2014, 04:40 PM Post #4 |
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The Super Cereal
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(BLOOD MOON) Grace saw two paths diverging in the woods. The left branch looks pretty normal all things considered. For some distance the trees surrounding it are healthy and the underbrush is thick. Fortunately, the path is well-lit by sunlight streaking through holes in the canopy. Mutated furry swampland creatures scamper along far away from you. Its rather picturesque but hopefully you know enough about these swamps to avoid letting your guard down. The nature that survived the blast is cruel, especially in these parts. You can't see where the path leads but given how well worn it is there must be something down that way. The trees around the right path look as though they've been burned. The earth is scorched and the undergrowth is completely clear. There is the occasional glimpse of flickering lights from still burning fires along the sides of the path. In the distance a billow of smoke lets you know that something is still burning substantially. You do not see any wildlife along this path, it appears that this trek will just be you and the skeletons until you find out what is at the end. Each path looks equally well traveled so poetry wont be able to help you out here. |
![]() Gordon "Stone" Hennigan, SPECIAL: 5.6.9.3.5.10.3. Level: 6 HC Peter McCullough SPECIAL: 4, 4, 4, 10, 10, 4 , 4, Level 3 HC THE CURSE OF THE MUMMY The spirits have taken an interest in you for all the wrong reasons! Unexpected challenges will come to you during your RPs but the rewards doled out will be much juicier. It is possible to live with such a curse, but if you would rather live curse free, you could simply sell the corpse and wash your hands of the whole situation. Lmgthev: MBP is handsome LonesomeDrifter23: Sometimes I think MBP is a being made entirely of satire. | |
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| Cewebwalz | Sep 1 2016, 03:57 AM Post #5 |
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Henshin a go-go baby
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A beetle bug the size of a small dog scurried down the path least taken, and Grace was relieved that she no longer had to decide for herself what path to follow. The smoke would keep away mosquitos and animals, and Van Vliet had dealt with enough swamp monsters for one life time. The heavy gear Grace elected to carry dug into her shoulder blades as she jumped over a fallen tree trunk. Roots freshly ripped from the ground, long brown fingers grasping at air. She found a lot of ash along the path, but mysteriously no corpses, animal or otherwise. This wrecking crew was large enough to scare off anything in the tree line she figured, and she started to have second thoughts about her choice of path. But that bug was pretty gross, so no big deal, she'd persevere. She had raised her scarf to cover her mouth from the smoke exhaust of the forest, it burnt her lungs through the fabric. It tasted like nostalgia, and she bitterly kept moving forward. Some crazy loner people in the wasteland had imaginary friends accompany them to fend off the loneliness, others buried themselves in society. All Grace ever had following her was fire and brimstone, and society wasn't particular fond of those, so Grace felt the sting of being a lonely mess often. Maybe swamper's were burning a road through the forest? But it didn't lead to any settlements thus far, so it might've been a trade route of some sort, theories pin balled through her head about the nature of the forest fire project she had been following for miles now. She felt tired and anxious, her curiosity outweighed any sense of fear like usual. She had to be crazy she thought to herself, she didn't know many people that weren't, but none of them ever charged head first into a burning forest path with a make shift fire extinguisher flame thrower. That simply wasn't in her nature, when she was little she chased a stray dog that wondered to her town into an abandoned house and almost caught rabies and a few teeth in her throat. Everyone was so concerned for Van Vliet, but Grace walked back into that house once a week for a year hoping to find that rabid puppy again. The world was a funny place when she was younger, and she didn't have much to laugh about anymore. The smoke thinned out, and the burnt to cinders forest pathway was clearer. Her eyes stung less, and she went to wipe away tears only to swipe ash out of her face and onto her sleeves. Black clothing. That's why it was the only thing she wore, she smiled to herself. People looked at you like you were crazy when you had on a burnt crisp tyedie, a black sweater on the other hand you could pull off a little easier. She wondered why she didn't run off to a settlement somewhere other than the weird swampland. "Oh hey Grace," speaking out loud to herself was a terrible idea, and she sounded a little silly muffled under her scarf. "Why don't you go and see the Louisiana border? The one with the most violent dangerous work in your field with the worst pay? Where sight seeing amounts to burnt swamp trails where you can't talk for two minutes without coughing up a lung? Where the critters are bigger than you and the people barely speak audible English?" She held in a cough, the smoke was starting to thicken out again. Wallace was cool though. His English wasn't all that bad to comprehend, just a little disappointed that the one friend she made in the last year disappeared after a measly alligator attack. She hoped he was okay. She reached a clearing without too much burnt plant life, and dropped her gear to the ground to rest. The grass was green and their was a good dozen feet between her and the nearest burnt tree. Doing the math, she figured that whoever these people were had used at least about a hundred gallons of flammable liquid. It wasn't gasoline or kerosine, and they had burned at least a dozen miles of pure green swampland that was dripping with humidity. She wondered if they were using a mixture they concocted themselves, it smelt almost like burnt licorice. She wondered how many people alive knew what that smelled like. She closed her eyes, almost daring to doze off, before coming to her senses and grabbing her gear and waltzing back into the crispy swamps. Resting here might've been a death sentence, and she was nowhere near exhausted enough to go through the trouble of finding a resting place. The thought of her catching up to whoever this band of pyromaniacs crossed her mind, and she welcomed it. Anything to relieve the anxiety she was feeling, the curiosity burnt worse than the fires. Her clothes were slick with sweat, dripping through the breathable fabric and sticking to her skin. It wasn't comfortable in the slightest, she usually wasn't engulfed in the flames like this for so long. She bit her lips and ventured forward... tip toeing through the underbrush. She was getting closer, catching up. The destruction was fresher and rawer, the tree trunks radiating more heat. She wondered if she would hear voices, or would just come across an encampment. Or maybe they were going to sea, and she was just following a path to no where for her, and they had already departed out onto a river or the ocean. Or maybe they were crazy cannibals that were going to eat her, really all these guessing games were fruitless. |
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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-
full-sized avatar "What is Adderal, anyhow?" - Funky Fan | |
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| Cewebwalz | Sep 12 2016, 04:31 PM Post #6 |
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Henshin a go-go baby
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Her thoughts quelled themselves, focusing on the journey. The warm swamp air washed over her in a breeze, the fires had sucked the moisture out of it. Her only relief was that this handiwork didn't seem to match the gallows show earlier, the burnt forest and the hangmen on the tree seemed like two different modus operandi. Whoever had strung up those men was a different animal, thankfully. Voices? She heard voices. She stopped her movement and dipped to the side of the trail, ears honing in. The crackling of the flames overshadowed any clarity, all she could interpret were fellow humans off in the distance further down the path she had been following. She looked up in the sky, past the burnt canopy, and thick smoke poured out like she hadn't seen before. A camp fire maybe, perhaps just their most recent tinder burning excavation. The rat race she had been chasing, the worst tracker in the world could've came upon them with ease she thought. Anyone who wasn't afraid of being found was too cocky for their own good, she wondered how many of them there could've been to warrant such a brazen display. Grace wondered if she should prepare her weaponry, or whether that would come off as a sign of hostility. Her preference would be to befriend this band of whatever's, and she was unassuming enough to not be shot on sight hopefully. The thought crossed her mind to disappear in the underbrush, circle past their camp or fireworks exhibition, and beat them to whatever they were chasing towards. But the stranger she vaguely knew was preferential. That beetle wasn't so scary in retrospect, she could've prepared it over an open flame and had strange insect lunch. The voices became more audible as she inched forward, a mixed bag of men and woman, not even visible through the haze of smoke yet. Her throat gulped out of it's own will, her body was more scared than her brain was. Crackled knuckles in her own fists, she submerged through the thick haze of smoke, and through clenched eyes saw the visuals of a camp sight. A dozen strangers, surrounded three huge camping cabin tents. Five groups ranging from two to four lounged about carelessly, eating around campfires and cleaning their riflery. They were clothed haphazardly with typical drab colored wasteland ware, accessories consisting of knives and ammunition belts. A white flag flying above the camp was decorated with a simple Red Cross, painted lazily with paint dripping. A few select members seemed to be the officer core, dressed in white or black exclusively, with no heraldry except for silly hats. Grace barely started to formulate a religious connection when they took notice of her. A dozen rifles and pistols pointed themselves at Grace, and members of the fire nation spilled out of the cabin tents to inspect the scene. "Hands up!" A boy no older than fifteen was the first to notice her, nervously screaming at her to drop her weapons. Grace lifted up her arms, and one of the aforementioned officers, dressed in rags dye'd white it seems, rushed to the scene. He began to search her without a word, pulling out coke bottles filled with gasoline and a landmine. He looked at her incredulously, raising an upper lip and eyebrow in confusion. He signaled to the rest of the camp to call themselves with a single arm flying up, and the fifteen year old who first apprehended her rushing to the scene with a rifle pointed at her back. "Who the hell are you?" The officer had light skin and dark eyes, clean shaven, and messy hair hidden under a white cap that reminded her of a yammakuh. His voice sounded more like a lounge singer than a mercenary, very soft and melodic, and he was a hair shorter than average if Grace had to guess. "Grace Van Vliet. I'm just trying to get out of the swamps towards some civilization." "And your religion?" His mean stare indicated he felt particularly strong about this subject, and Grace was pretty well acquainted with these religious fervor types. She nervously stepped back, wondering if fire was an appropriate answer, but reserving her inner trouble maker. "My father was a Christian priest," she struggled to remember some bible quotes in the moment, "although I haven't attended mass since I began to follow my current profession." He harrumphed, before turning to the boy behind him. "Not a draun worshipper, thank god." Venom in his voice subsided, he began to introduce himself. "My name is Joakim, and this is Boris." He pointed to the young soldier who had been eagerly jabbing his rifle into Grace's backside, an olive complexioned, green eyed callow youth with poorly trimmed hair. "Boris is a convert of mine, we found him out in these swamps when he was just a boy. We are Catholic missionaries operating out of Louisiana, originally from - never mind that actually, but we are here to circumvent and quiet these cultists causing our more peaceful members so much spite and trouble." He pushed Boris's rifle down , his eyes a little worried over his eagerness. "You are welcome to accompany us until we find more stable civilization. What exactly is your profession?" Grace nervously withdrew a foot backward now that a gun barrel was no longer kissing her backside, "Mercenary." Joakim just laughed. "Then we may have a place with you here yet, come, join us while we rest for the next portion of our journey." Joakim and Boris took the lead. Grace took notice that Boris had an elaborate gold chain and cross around his neck, while Joakim had a wooden bracelet with the aforementioned Red Cross on their flag embellished upon it. Boris was dressed like any other young braggadocio gun for hire, ammunition that didn't even seem to match his rifle cartridging strung around his waist belt. Grace took a seat, joining two strangers at a fire along with Boris and Joakim. One of them seemed like a regular mercenary, the other had a hazmat suit piled in a heap next to him, along with a seriously imposing flamer strapped across his back. Grace hadn't seen a military style flamethrower up close before, and this one seemed like the genuine article. She wondered if any of the other mercenaries carried similar gear, it seemed unlikely that one man was able to slash and burn all that bayou real estate. They sat on the ground, Grace criss cross apple sauce, the rest balancing themselves on a knee or with their feet firmly planted on the earth. Before her heart even settled from the adrenaline rush from earlier, Boris turned to her with a cheeky grin. "Did you hear what happened in that pier town?" Grace looked at him cockeyed, shrugging. "Not sure if I'm familiar, I'm not too involved in wasteland gossip." "A monster nearly mauled an oriental to death, they found the damn thing frozen in chunks they say." Grace's mouth hung open, paused. "I wouldn't know anything about that." Joakim's eyes swiveled at the almost nonexistent change in her voice, and his lips almost let out a smile before he started to speak. "Heh, just a rumor." He took a swig out of his canteen, water droplets dripping down his chin. "The real danger is those armored goons and those slaver worshippers. I hope they exterminate each other." Grace's mind racked for a moment, he must've been referring to the confederate skirmishes that kept rocking the region on and off for years now. "Amen to that." She was no fan of most of the wasteland armies, they didn't really give out the short term contracts she chased. Not that she did much chasing these days, the work did a number on you, boredom and starvation was her only motivation for it anymore and she was still green eared by most standards. The other two members of their little campfire jamboree didn't seem to have much to say, and sat entranced by their own thoughts, Grace reckoned. Boris on the other hand was on the first part of a profanity fueled essay on the confederates, some bad blood seemed to be flowing right now, but his temper and voice didn't seem to flare at all. Seemed like something he had already poured his feelings over, and by the bored looks on faces surrounding the campfire, this was his usual audience. "We're surrounded by the most dangerous armed military force in the wasteland," Joakim cut off Boris's rant short, "but the fools are too busy killing each other. God help us if these swamp demons stop ripping each other apart and turn their eyes towards the wasteland." A silence fell upon the small gathering, Grace running over what he said. No way the swampers were that dangerous? |
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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-
full-sized avatar "What is Adderal, anyhow?" - Funky Fan | |
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| Cewebwalz | Sep 30 2016, 07:40 AM Post #7 |
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Henshin a go-go baby
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The holy mercenary missionary company seemed to transition from rest and relaxation to the road again instantly. Tents were zipped up in minutes, supplies packed away, and the camp fire flames washed out with buckets of nearby swamp water. Grace stood idly to the side, her help uncalled for. They traveled through the dense swampland in a method a tad more complex than Van Vliet's "don't die prayers" strategy. They formed a long line of people, and at the top of the line the flame throwers were positioned tactically. Behind them was Joakim, who directed their progress with a map, compass, and telescope that looked like it was ripped right from one of those boardwalk machines that let you watch the distant ocean. They ripped into the ripe, moist tree bark like kindling. The smoke was abysmal, massive pillars floated off into the sky like something out of a horror movie. The smell was something Grace could appreciate, but it's intoxicating qualities seemed to upset anyone without equipment on not named Joakim. Lookouts with long ranged rifles spanned the perimeter's, although you'd have to be very brave or very foolish to attack a caravan of armed religious nut jobs. Their flag waved high from the center of the Catholic column, they didn't seem to care much for stealth. The progress was slow, but no doubt it was the best you could afford in the swamps with such a large group and no native journeyman or guide to lead the way. She wondered what they were burning towards, surely it had to be something of importance if they relinquished this much time, effort, and manpower for their goal? If their paths converged it would be convenient, if not Grace would have no qualms abandoning her new found friends. Their goals didn't mix, gasoline and water, Grace had no interest in dedicating a life to religious zealotry. She moved over to the lone figure of Boris, who was on the eastern perimeter of the phalanx. She nudged him with an elbow and he looked at her quizzically, she wondered if she gave him the impression that they had bad blood ever since the rifle incident. He was kind of an asshole admittedly but Grace was bad at holding grudges. "Hey," Grace turned towards the flame throwers roaring in the distance. "Where we headed?" Boris scoffed, eyes rolling, as if the mission was so important that a minor disturbance like Grace was severe protocol being broken. He answered anyway. "The hand of God is driving to a Swamper battleground settlement. After extracting information from one of those heathens. we determined it to be a strong campground for an extended stay in the region." Grace thought he was repeating some of Joakim's rhetoric here, it was much more stoic than how he usually spoke. "You're going to establish camp in a war zone?" She didn't mean to sound so demeaning, but Boris didn't seem to notice. "Precisely. We're not really afraid of these scourge war tactics. The flame throwers are enough to clear out a entire village in about ten seconds, they see flames and think that swamp monsters are crawling out to breathe fire and spit rapture. We don't see as much "fighting" as I'd like admittedly." Boris sounded sincerely disappointed, where'd a kid this young get a taste for bloodshed like a yao guai! It almost worried Grace, but curiosity pushed it to the back of her head, and she moved onto the next question. "What's the plan after you set up camp?" "Establish a monastery. Build shelter, find shelter, whatever's easier. Then we do reconnaissance until we discover the heart of the swampers, and we either rip it out or burn it out of their chest. Teach these children the way of Christ like Joakim taught me if possible. We don't want to stay forever, we just want to make a difference." He turned hard to the side, the convert's eyes scanned the tree line. Grace and him crawled forward in silence, their pace was constricted to the speed of the inferno division leading the way. "Where's the swampers you're searching for located?" She wondered if it would be wise to abandon ship earlier than anticipated, they would no doubt expect Grace to join in on their campaign. The fire extinguisher she held would take on a metaphorical heaviness the longer she stayed with them. So much for moral ambiguity. "Heart of darkness, Joakim say's he's unsure any military force has touched it since the man-made end times. If they did, they would've slashed and burned it to the ground, and it's still standing, so the idea isn't far fetched." Boris didn't seem nervous or worried in the slightest, Grace was already quivering with doubt if any of them would make it back to real civilization. They talked about these swamp tribals like they were the Black Death incarnate, but wanted to march into their capital, use it as a beachhead. "Good luck." The only words Van Vliet could muster. "Faith is all the luck we need hopefully, but just in case, let's hope your luck brings us an extra step closer to victory." Boris suddenly jerked to the side, and Grace stepped to his angle to get a better glance at what he saw to indicate such a reaction. He slowly raised his rifle at a seemingly random patch of burnt tree life, pushed the action back, and aimed down the sights. Without a single bullet fired, a figure darted out from the underbrush and into the deeper jungle. Boris was almost a dead eyed marksman, the gunpowder ignition popped Grace's ears and shattered bone off in the tree's somewhere. Groans and shouts and pain, his shot landed true she figured. Boris just sighed and charged the charred treeline. Shouting back at Grace and the rest of the convoy, he hollered "I was aiming for the vitals, I'm too rusty!" The entire battle caravan seemed to have their attention grabbed by the gunfire. Grace was behind him as quick as her feet would allot, jumping into the woods to find Boris casually aiming a rifle at a man lying on the ground. His leg was bleeding heavily, he could barely crawl. Boris the eagle eye marksman himself began to introduce himself. "Try to draw a weapon and I'll shoot you in a heartbeat. Why were you spying on us?" In the thickest bayou Cajun redneck hillbilly accent Grace heard in sometime the man coughed up pain and profanity. "Oh chough foocker. I'll gutchu, gawd willing." Grace was about to say something, when Joakim burst behind her, analyzing the situation as the rest of the caravan stayed in careful formation. Security reasons didn't allow for them to come to the Swamper, so Joakim carelessly grabbed him by the collarbone and Boris followed his lead. All the Swamper had to say to that was incoherent curse words and idle threats. He sounded a bit like Wallace, a painful sting of nostalgia for Grace's only friend went through her. They dragged the Swamper, an older man with grey beard, grey hair, and the muddiest rags for clothes you'd ever see to the center of the long line of missionaries. His voice didn't even get hoarse, just angrier and more spite filled. Grace couldn't blame him, she took initiative in negotiations before Joakim could spread more of his blood on the ground. "Please tell us you're just some stranger who was on his way home when you ran into us." The caravan gave Grace a disinterested look, but didn't seem to show distaste in her words, just bored confusion. "Foock you mo' ah all, harlot beezlebub." Grace gave up at this point, and took a step back to let Joakim talk freely. "You could be a man of Christian faith. Do you worship Draun?" "I wurship duh sun an' sky an' Draun whith evuree breath, whoreson." "An opportunity to repent is possible." Joakim pulled a bible from seemingly nowhere, Grace could bet money he was about to recount verses. "Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins, and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost." The Swamper cackled like a hyena and spat at Joakim's feet. Joakim sighed, holding his breath on the chances of salvation thus far. "Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God." The Swamper raised an eyebrow, holding back laughter through gritted teeth. "I'd rathur burn than turk ah step wiff you, ghoulcrawtch. Swamp is all the heaffen I needs." "I have a doctor with me. Your wounds are minor, the world is full of wonders. Much to see, much to live. Open your mind and join us, I have no grudge against you or your soul." Joakim's soft voice was befitting, the entire caravan made barely a sound as they listened in intensely. "Mah lyife belahngs tuh the mud." He symbolically rubbed soil into his wound, holding back agony, Grace looking on in bewilderment. "You won't' leave this place alive, my ansisters swayre upon yer deaf heathen. Draun numbahs yer days." Joakim shrugged his shoulders, relinquishing hope. "I tried." He held out his arm to those around him, and a hand lent out a short blade through the crowd. The swamper tried to push himself backwards, but Joakim's footsteps were quick and calculated. Before he could muster out another curse word the knife handle ran down the natives neck, and blood gushed forth like a river. His death gurgles coughed up the blood running into his lungs, and as his life force fizzled out of him Grace's temperament turned sour. These weren't the traveling companions for her, she decided. She turned and walked off into the dense swamp, the missionaries too engulfed by the public execution to notice one of their own ranks disappearing into the fauna. |
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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-
full-sized avatar "What is Adderal, anyhow?" - Funky Fan | |
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| Cewebwalz | Sep 30 2016, 09:46 AM Post #8 |
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Henshin a go-go baby
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~~~~~ The tree trunk branches Van Vliet ascended served as scaffolding. The night sky was as black as her fashion sense, and she wasn't reckless enough to sleep on the ground and too tired to carry on. This was one of the shorter tree's, but they were all a mile high out here. Cool swamp air hit her as she broke through the canopy, finding a branch large enough to sleep on. The blood red moon smiled in the sky through smoky grey clouds. She wondered what there was to smile about. |
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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-
full-sized avatar "What is Adderal, anyhow?" - Funky Fan | |
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| LMGVagabond | Oct 3 2016, 03:56 PM Post #9 |
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Crispy, Creamy, and Quite Dreamy
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As much shit as you give yourself as a writer, there are parts of this RP that beautifully paint a scene. Your use of imagery is masterclass and well structured, something that relatively few people can pull off well. Your descriptions of characters are also very well done. However, I can see your frustration with the writing process with the Major League-esque anticlimax of the ending. I know what its like to be in that situation with writing, but please please try to stick with it. If you could pump out a jumbo thick RP it would be a classic, just like the long CP RPs of yore. Anyway enough jerking you off, here's rewards.
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Luis d'Duret 6.3.5.9.7.3.7 Level 1 Root Beer Level 1 PLEASE UNMOD ME ;( ;( | |
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6:23 AM Jul 11