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Staltmans Caravan and the Wild Wasteland; A caravan in a wasteland of wild wonders
Topic Started: Oct 1 2017, 05:33 AM (448 Views)
FallenSanity
Member Avatar
I didn't even know I had this
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
“So… you blind or somethin’?”

Scunt Fuzz flinched a little as the mercenary turned to look at him, the dark black shades hiding the eyes that would otherwise be, presumably, a cold hard stare able to make the small junkie writhe away in fear. Orton had been suffering poor fortunes with it lately though, for reasons he didn’t totally understand.

The cannibal looked around, peering over Scunts head at the surroundings he’d failed to observe in the last however-many hours of walking. Much of the area was nature, with bushland and shrubbery growing over what didn’t even seem to be old tarmac roads. The few buildings that dotted the landscape were little more than old derelict structures, or shanties set up by caravans or wanderers. In front of Scunt was the rear end of a brahmiluff, a good brahmiluff named Lou, and Orton was next to the two-headed steer, lingering a few feet behind next to the little attentive junkie.

“I’m not blind.” Orton reached up and lowered his glasses a little, wincing at the dull sunlight. His eyes were always fairly sensitive, but being coddled by the tinted shades definitely wasn’t helping. He didn’t consider that, but it was obvious. “Why wear the glasses then? Not like it’s sunny out.” Orton frowned, looking down at Scunt with a grimace. The cannibal stood at nearly six-foot five, while the little tweaking fool was barely even five-foot six. How the little addict wasn’t more intimidated by Orton was a question he’d be asking himself for a while.

“The glasses make me more comfortable. Doesn’t mean I’m blind.” Orton looked ahead, and Scunt huffed, twirling the same bladed revolver he’d taken from the mangled corpse of Silas and meandering slowly, apparently giving up on digging an answer out of the tiring cannibal. The two were silent for a measly few minutes, before the rough, oddly high-pitched voice of Scunt was again directed at Orton.

“Stare at the sun too long?” Scunt smirked, chuckling with his own words. “You seem like the sorta idiot who’d look up and forget to look away.” The grimace that spread across Orton's face, and the very clear desire for violence, was totally ignored by Scunt Fuzz as he continued to stare at his new gun. The cannibal rubbed his jaw, looking down the dead road and at Tye, Staltman and Slit-Not, who spoke between themselves at the head of the caravan. He had no out.

“Don-” Almost immediately Orton was interrupted, as Scunt ran between him and the brahmiluff and pretended to stab at the air with the blade of his gun. He spun on his heel and smirked up at Orton, whose grimace only grew. Orton barged past the raider junkie, slamming him aside with his shoulder, earning a loud wince and a moment of bitter, indiscernible muttering. Slit-Not looked back lazily and smirked at something behind Orton. The cannibal turned his head back to see Scunt standing still, rubbing his shoulder, his back to the caravan. After a few seconds of silence, the junkie spun around and jogged to rejoin them, looking up at Orton with a pout.

“I was fuckin’ around, don’t gotta… no need to… man, y’know... dislocate my fuckin’, fuck… shoulder, asshole.” Scunt struggled with his words, stumbling as his confidence did the same. Orton looked at the raider junkie by turning as barely as he could, and shook his head without saying anything. “I just asking… was just asking, about your eyes, pendejo.” The cannibal sighed again, rubbing his head and letting the garden weasel hang from one hand rather than the cradle of two it had been carried in. Orton looked down at Scunt, whose face was, in a weird way, cute, aside from the dirt, the scabs, the scars, and the flaking. His button nose and blue eyes helped his case as he pouted, and Orton let out a faint groan.

“Fine… Was crossing some dunes, south I think... “ It had been a long time since Orton had tried to think this far back in his life. Well over a year for certain. Scunt hurried as closely next to Orton as he could, anticipating the sort of stories he overhead in the Crag while sleeping in the gutters not far from Jagar and the other slaves. “Watching the sunset… I could hear somethin’ sounding like… uh… a big explosion… turned around, saw what looked like a second sunset on the other side of the horizon. Couldn’t see further than my hand for a few days, had to sleep in the dunes for a while.”

Scunt kept pace with Orton for a few moments afterwards, only to stop once it became clear Orton had nothing more to say. The junkie frowned, looking around as if he wanted to gesture to someone, before meagerly catching up to the cannibalistic mercenary, unable to believe what he’d just heard.

“Is that… is that it?” Orton held back the urge to clobber the kid there and then, choosing not to respond to his neediness. “Pfft… Fuck, what a shit story. I bet he has a good one ‘bout that armour.” Scunt scurried ahead, instantly taking Slit-Nots attention and apparently giving Tye the chance to break away and slow down, taking stride on the other side of the brahmiluff, across from Orton, who glanced over in genuine interest at the younger but slightly more withered mercenary.

Tye’s eyes were on Slit-Not and Scunt Fuzz as he spoke, but his words were clearly directed at Orton, who was left a little confused about the whole thing. “Just a heads up, Slit-Not’s a good merc and a friend, but he’s anti-slavery,” Orton looked at Slit-Not in his suit of armour, watching as he conversed rather intently with Scunt, “so don’t like, I dunno your stance, but don’t be a slaver basically. He’ll crush your skull in an instant. Just a heads up.” With that, Tye sped up and joined back up with Staltman, while Slit-Not and Scunt Fuzz meandered a few feet away.

This caravan was a strange set of characters, but it was only going to get weirder. Orton looked through his tinted glasses at the horizon, and failed entirely to notice a silhouette of a man, making its way towards them.
Daniel Orton [HC]
Lvl 6: Copperhead Cook
Rep: -40 Eastern Texas, -250 Texas Rangers, +90 Crag
Equipped: Mirrored Sunglasses, Armstrong Hellcat Necklace, Raider Armour, Culture-Clash Jacket, Crag Swag (Jeans), Black Banana Hammock, Leather Belt, Desert Boots, Skullfucker, Death Knell, Combat Knife, Sharp Hatchet, Hannibals Haymaker, Pre-War Mountain Bike
Status Effects: Internal Parasite
Abilities: Sucker Punch
S:6 P:3 E:5 C:5 I:3 A:10 L:8

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

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

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

FP: fs youre like in a very minor minority where cauze youre autistic and gay and an asshole you can say any slur
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LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
The silhouette didn’t exactly grow on them, in fact, the dim light burning through the poisoned clouds only made the shadow grow shorter. The owner trotting along the far side of the dusty road in a semi-purposeful swagger. He was well dressed for a scav, sporting fairly well-tailored garments.

An AEP7 laser pistol of a slightly unusual color, being a dusty yellow-white rather than dark gray, on his hip. Dark blooms under his eyes, they brought attention to the smattering of old bruises running down his jaw. Some old scrapes on his hands. Broken blood vessels circling his neck and Disappearing behind a neatly knotted tie which bore a distinct copper splash on its synthetic surface. It was gonna be a helluva stain if he ever got around to washing it. He’d clearly been in a fight recently. Unfocused, looking at the ground rather than where he was going.

He drew within a few yards of the lumbering group. The noise finally got his attention. No doubt feeling the prickle that comes with armed men staring you down. The ground no longer being the only interesting thing to look at. A subtle sort of wariness crossing him, pace slowing down considerably. Taking more time to look at them as he did so, he seemed wise enough to not make a move for the weapon at his side just yet.

It turns to curiosity however when his eyes meet the narrow frame of Scunt, flitting quickly to the imposing bulk of Slit-Not. A look of barely concealed Wonder in his eyes as he took in the metal Behemoth, was that what he thought it was? Did he gasp a little? It was possible. But more importantly, eyes were on him, sluggish faculties kicking into gear. Despite the physical distress, there was a certain elegance to his features that lent itself nicely to the grin that cropped up-.

“Annyeonghaseyo!”

He chirped brightly, what in the fuck was that? It was just a random jumble of syllables- but it didn't sound particularly aggressive. In fact, it was more along the lines of an excited jibberish greeting.

"Excuse me!”

There we go, that sounded normal. One hand coming up to wave at the head of the caravan. He hadn’t even spared a glance to the other two trailing further back, it was fairly obvious they hadn’t been seen.

“Hold on! What kind of Armor is that?”

He inquires, staring intently at the cobbled together construct protecting the heavily armored Mercenary.

The stranger stood up straighter, not that it helped much. Those dark eyes were bloodshot, he definitely hadn’t slept recently. But the enthusiasm radiating off him betrayed no evidence of exhaustion. The smile was a little unusual, the way it tugged up just a little too far at one corner. Letting the point of a canine poke out behind his lip.

It was a scar, about the length of a ring finger. Marring the otherwise pleasant features of well- a male, presumably. His voice lacked any significant gruffness but had just enough bass in it to muddle the illusion the rest of his figure was selling. He wasn’t an immediately threatening individual since he barely met the Brahmiluff’s shoulder and even from the end of the caravan it was obvious he was dwarfed by the diminutive junkie of their party.

He just seemed a little- over enthused.
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
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FallenSanity
Member Avatar
I didn't even know I had this
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The eyes of the caravan slowly turned to watch as the seemingly distant figure closed the distance between them. Once the unknown waster was closer, it became very clear that they hadn’t been all that far away in the first place; they were just a very short, very genderly ambiguous person. Orton was reminded of the bartender of Rattmann’s Den, but the rest of the caravan seemed more reminded of a threat.

Staltman stood between Slit-Not and Scunt Fuzz, the massive sledgehammer and the crudely bladed revolver making for an an oddly intimidating pair, possibly aided by the near seven-foot metal clad goliath that spearheaded the caravans formation. Tye stayed behind with Orton, keeping his shotgun held low to try and conceal it from sight. Orton meanwhile stood stupidly, looking as much intimidating as he looked confused. Aside from a small gasp, this stranger had said nothing, and as Staltman readied to speak up, they were greeted by a bizarre mishmash of letters and sounds.

“Uh…” Staltman looked up at Slit-Not, who gave a perplexed shrug along with a small shake of the head, and then at Scunt Fuzz, who did the same. “Wh-” was all that the withered ghoul could get out before the stranger spoke up again, this time showing an understandable degree of interest in the suit of armour Slit-Not was decked in.

“Okay,” Tye whispered in Ortons ear, slinking up around Lou’s right side, “this guy… girl… this idiot looks halfway to death's door already. Probably not a threat, but keep those eyes peeled.” Orton simply nodded lazily, observing the practically miniscule scavver; along with being vertically challenged, the stranger was covered in bruises and what looked like blood. Unintentionally insulting, Orton felt like even Scunt Fuzz could deal with this stranger if they suddenly turned violent.

“This is a power armour frame.” Slit-Nots gruff voice, that sounded like the sort of voice one would imagine a mutant to have, felt far more domineering coming after the soft words of the smaller figure in front of him. “Y’ever seen one before?” Tye rolled his eyes and chuckled as his slave-freeing friend soaked in the attention given to him by first Scunt Fuzz, and now this soft-faced wanderer from the dunes.

Staltman, however, wasn’t very happy with the stop in the caravan's journey, and grabbed the yoke around Lou’s neck to keep the great steer moving. Orton and Tye kept up from the rear, while Scunt Fuzz rushed to the head of the caravan by the ghouls side. Slit-Not looked at the caravan as it passed by, and decided to join up, trailing a few meters behind to continue speaking with his new friend. Looking over his shoulder, Orton couldn’t help but stare at the peculiar figure, before looking ahead at the behest of a sudden collision.

On the ground, Scunt Fuzz looked up at Orton and scowled, scampering to his feet and walking a step behind the cannibal who hadn’t yet taken a liking to him. “Hey, this new person, are the-” It seemed that Scunt hadn’t noticed Staltmans personal bodyguard on the other side of the brahmiluff, because as soon as he did notice, his attention was entirely taken. “Tye, are they joining us? Fuckin’... I was talking to Slit before they popped up…” Tye gave Orton an indignant look and stifled a sigh, before looking down to the junkie who was now next to him.

“Up to Staltman. I can’t see him being happy that we added a stranger to the group; it’ll just turn into another mouth to feed, and that pistol looks like it would fall apart if it was dropped.” Tye turned around, walking backwards for a few steps as he looked their new guest over for a moment. “I can’t see them lasting in a fight, so it’s not like we can justify a new capable hand in our midst. Don’t freak your shit, Cunt.” Tye turned back around and gave Scunt a loud clap on the back. “They’ll be gone soon.”

Lou didn’t like being pulled along by most people, but Staltman had been caring for the brahmiluff for years now. Ever since Lou had been born in fact, and that’s why Lou trusted him. Other ghouls scared Lou because he’d been attacked by so many of them in the past, but never Staltman. Staltman was a good ghoul, and Lou liked Staltman. The new people were friends of Staltman, and that meant they were probably good people too. Lou let out a deep low, both heads craning upwards just slightly to stare at the increasingly darker sky. Lou wanted to eat, and then go to sleep. Lou was going to.
Daniel Orton [HC]
Lvl 6: Copperhead Cook
Rep: -40 Eastern Texas, -250 Texas Rangers, +90 Crag
Equipped: Mirrored Sunglasses, Armstrong Hellcat Necklace, Raider Armour, Culture-Clash Jacket, Crag Swag (Jeans), Black Banana Hammock, Leather Belt, Desert Boots, Skullfucker, Death Knell, Combat Knife, Sharp Hatchet, Hannibals Haymaker, Pre-War Mountain Bike
Status Effects: Internal Parasite
Abilities: Sucker Punch
S:6 P:3 E:5 C:5 I:3 A:10 L:8

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

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

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

FP: fs youre like in a very minor minority where cauze youre autistic and gay and an asshole you can say any slur
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LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
At last, he picks up on the others, briefly. He had to crane his neck uncomfortably to take in the scope of their caravan. But it allowed him to espy the hunched shoulders of the mercenary on one side of the pack beast. Another man in rather unsettlingly dark sunglasses who hadn’t betrayed he even knew what was going on. The ghoul, the junkie, and the construct were looking at him directly. Exchanging wary glances with one another. His little interjection had brought them to a stop. Nothing was pointed at his face yet, Vince took that as encouragement rather than just his luck holding out.

The tension grew considerably, an unknown decision having been reached in the span of a few seconds. Waiting, waiting, waiting- Aha! He got an answer, and it was shocking. This stranger just gawked at him for a few seconds. Before mentally picking away at the improvised armor that had been affixed to it. It wasn’t the worst job in the world, warped plates of metal from everywhere riveted onto it. Sparing only a temporary glance for the rest as the Caravan got moving again, allowing the armored mercenary to get closer to him. The excitement was palpable, a genuine power armor frame. In one piece, operational. It likely didn't help the ego-boost someone might experience when being practically fawned over.

“I have not, well- only pieces. Never a complete frame!”
Came the effervescent reply, the stranger had clasped his hands behind his back as Slit-Not trailed back to walk along with him. Though he did have to maintain a quick step to keep up with the other’s lumbering gait.
“I am a jeongbigong- a Mechanic, I do…weapons, farm equipment, anything like that."
He elbows the rough bag thrown over one shoulder. The dark material similarly had some rather gory splotches on it. Although whether they were as fresh as the one on his tie was up for debate. He drops back a few steps only to scramble up to his companion’s other side to look at the rest of it more closely. He clearly seemed to be resisting the urge to touch it, in much the same way a kid would fidget when they wanted to nab a coveted sweet or treasure.

“Do you know what model it is?”

A mere visual inspection hadn’t given him nearly enough information. It was like a starving man being forced to sit inches away from the richest ambrosia. His eyes were firmly trained on the man encased within, the answer, by god the answer, it could shape anything and EVERYTHING! Okay well not really, but to see one of those, to work on one, was it his dream? His ambition? Maybe not, but it was still an incredibly tantalizing prospect.
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
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FallenSanity
Member Avatar
I didn't even know I had this
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
A John bing-bong? What the fuck?

For the most part, Slit-Not didn’t listen to what his new friend was saying. He noticed the short stranger reaching out hesitantly, as if wanting to touch the armour but feeling scared. Slit-Not looked down for a second, grimacing and shaking his head; if this kid didn’t even want to touch his armour, chances are they weren’t gonna be a heavy hitter in a fight.

The caravans crew definitely didn’t have high hopes the longer they thought about the waster who had joined in with them. While Staltman seemed entirely nonplussed, both Tye and Slit-Not saw the short figure as little more than a waste of attention and effort, with Slit-Not only won over by the attention he was given. To Scunt Fuzz and Orton, the new person seemed little more than annoying, and Orton especially wasn’t excited to have a second energetic annoyance travelling along with them. He sighed with an interruption, as his mountain bike hit a small rock in the road.

As Slit-Not slowly and barely listened to the question posed him, he was left to think for a moment about just what he’d been asked. He didn’t think of what model his frame was when he found it - in fact, he didn’t even know these frames could have models. He looked down at his suit for a few moments, looking over to the caravan as if to expect someone to help him figure out the ‘model’ of his frame. Slit-Not let out a sound of disgruntled confusion, shrugging heavily.

“I dunno, never really looked.,” he lifted up his hammer with one hand, clonking it against the metal plates that decorated his torso, “but I know it doesn’t really matter now. It’s my model. I found this thing on uh, on a corpse, some raider schmo that had his head, just…” Slit-Not gestured with his free hand a mimic of an explosion by the side of his, making a feigned sound of crushing or breaking with his mouth. “Y’know, just, gone. He was standin’ there looking stupid, so I yanked him out, tossed him aside, and now,” the armour clad raider looked over at Tye and smirked happily, “now I’m the tall one, eh asshole!” Tye flipped him the bird as Slit-Not laughed, looking much happier than his withered face might imply.

Orton remained at the back of the caravan, barely taking in his surroundings as the few houses and buildings in the strange dead flatlands became rarer and rarer. The road was overgrown with roots and grass, though most of the trees in the area had been chopped down by unknown individuals. Orton rubbed his head and yawned, shaking his head softly as Tye nudged his shoulder hard. The tired cannibal looked at his employers security expecting to be told something weird and exclusive, only to see Tye staring off at something in the distance that Orton was unable to make out.

“A cabin.” Tye spoke softly, reminding Orton of how people spoke during hunts. “Must be some farmers there. About... “ Tye looked around awkwardly, rubbing an eye and clearing his throat. “... Let’s say one-hundred meters away. I’m gonna go to Staltman, keep an eye on Slit-Not and the new kid.” With that, Tye trotted ahead to rejoin Staltman, instantly opening up conversation and leaving Orton to look back at the hulking metal goliath and the miniscule human by his side.

“Hey,” chirped the incredibly annoying junkie who had just appeared next to Orton, “what was Tye saying? Looked impor’ant.” Orton shrugged softly, gesturing at the small light he could barely make out but had assumed was the cabin. Scunt stared at the small fire and slowly noticed the cabin behind it, and let out a sound of feigned surprise. Scunt trailed off for a few seconds before jogging back into place, smiling up at Orton in some gross attempt at innocence. He reached out and gave the mountain bike a firm pat, nodding happily.

“You should lemme rid-” Orton turned his head sharply towards the junkie raider, who pouted but made the safe choice to shut himself up. The two of them walked for a while, before Scunt decided to drop back and join up with Slit-Not and his admirer, staying quiet as they spoke about a topic he had clearly missed.

“I don’t know much about it, honestly. Just that it’s good shit. The core, that battery in the back,” Slit-Not gestured over his shoulder, “cost me, like, three months of work, but the things held up for years, so, I’m not gonna bitch and moan.” Scunt rolled his eyes before deciding to inject himself into the discussion. “Y’know, a lot of people think the, fuckin’... the Warheads have some power armour suits in that big-ass plaza. Kingpins, too. Oh, fuck, and I heard someone say the J-” For the second time in as many minutes, Scunt was interrupted with a sharp hateful glare. “The Warheads have as much power armour as I do, Cunt Fuck. One suit, and it’s a piece of shit, that’s why it’s in their scrap heap. Don’t buy in to rumours and conspiracies that the Crag produces - most of them are as full of bullshit as the dickheads that run that place.”
Daniel Orton [HC]
Lvl 6: Copperhead Cook
Rep: -40 Eastern Texas, -250 Texas Rangers, +90 Crag
Equipped: Mirrored Sunglasses, Armstrong Hellcat Necklace, Raider Armour, Culture-Clash Jacket, Crag Swag (Jeans), Black Banana Hammock, Leather Belt, Desert Boots, Skullfucker, Death Knell, Combat Knife, Sharp Hatchet, Hannibals Haymaker, Pre-War Mountain Bike
Status Effects: Internal Parasite
Abilities: Sucker Punch
S:6 P:3 E:5 C:5 I:3 A:10 L:8

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

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

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

FP: fs youre like in a very minor minority where cauze youre autistic and gay and an asshole you can say any slur
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LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
Of course, Vince listened with rapt attention to Slit-Not recounting the rather short tale of how he came across the frame. Although he did wince slightly at the implication of finding it on the body of someone who recently had their brain splattered across the pavement. Likely in much the same way as a rotten cantaloupe would burst apart when flung against the ground. But it was rapidly forgotten in the brief exchange between the mercenaries.

The land was as bleak as ever in his opinion. But the addition of relatively good company made the throbbing in his skull all that more bearable. It wasn’t exactly the direction he was intending on going but, hopefully, mixed in with this group he wouldn’t be noticed-.

Vague memories of the last few days came back. A quick bender on hooch and jet, he’d been a little mouthier than intended. The bruises on his neck ached-. Alright, maybe he’d caused more trouble than he realized because plenty of other places were starting to hurt now that he was thinking about it. But did his best to keep pace with the Raider beside him.

Suddenly there was another voice and he jumped. Gaze jerking into the direction of the intruder. It was the same fellow from before when he’d first met the group. He stiffly moves his hand away from the pistol, slowly, deliberately. In an attempt to disguise the action as though he hadn’t been this close to drawing and possibly putting a red-hot beam through the junkie’s head. He sniffs sharply and doesn't spare Scunt another glance.

However the back and forth revealed a /very/ interesting piece of information. They came from the Crag? He hadn’t heard much about it aside from a few muttering, grumbling drunks who’d come away from the place with some scars and horror stories. It seemed like a good place, somewhere to disappear.

“Fascinating.” He finally replied, eyes sweeping from bottom to top once again. Oh, the things he could do to that machine. He was practically stripping it with his eyes. If only he could get all of those plates off to expose the servos within. It was like gazing at the sultry form of a potential lover-.
“Seems like you and your company are well traveled.” He makes a vague little gesture with his hands, trying to stifle a giggle.
“I don’t doubt that it’s a mighty fine piece of machinery but-.”

He reaches out, finally grazing a ding in the metal with the tips of his fingers. Looked like a bullet had scraped across it. Leaving this interesting little divot, like a furrow in the dirt.
“It looks kinda beat up yanno? …I’m sure you have other stories.”

He’d firmly pressed his hands together entreatingly. “C’mon, please? Won’t you tell me about all the trouble you’ve gotten into?” The scav certainly seemed enthusiastic about the prospect.
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
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FallenSanity
Member Avatar
I didn't even know I had this
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
“The fuck?”

The caravan had been, unknowingly, ascending for the past few minutes. The hill was gentle, so it was easy to miss, but now that they were at the top and able to overlook a fairly large area, it was clear now that they’d travelled somewhere quite a bit more interesting than Staltman might’ve intended. It looked like there had been a fire here at some point, probably recently, based on the dark ground and the lack of trees and plantlife in the area. The darkness of the evening sky would normally hide the buildings that had remained standing, but by some unknown stroke of luck, the only building that was left standing was lit up - and like a fucking Christmas tree.

Orton looked at the bizarre thing that had caught the attention of the caravan, rubbing his eyes and frowning as he tried to make out the glowing lights that dotted the distance. Aside from a string of lights that were held high above the rest, he had no way of figuring out anything. He reached up to rub his eyes only to ram his sunglasses into his face, murmuring under his breath and yanking the stupid things off.

Now, everything was lighter, and Orton could clearly make out the large metal frame that held the string of lights in place, as well as a strange, blocky-looking building in front of it. Aside from that though, there seemed to be no other lights in the area at all. Tye walked in front of Orton, standing next to Staltman and scanning the burnt out ruins.

“Looks abandoned. Probably raiders or bandits keepin’ the place locked down from that spot.” Tye pointed at the blocky structure, which he seemed to imply was a building. Staltman shook his head, petting Lou’s heads one at a time. “I dunno Tye… Somethin’ about this feels off.” It was then that the sound of servos and pistons caught the trio's attention, as Slit-Not and his fans finally made it to the caravan.

“Stories… Hm…” Slit-Not responded to his guest as soon as he could, thinking for a few moments before smirking down at her. “No, not yet. How ‘bout you give us a name instead, huh? I’m Slit-Not,” the armour-clad man pat his chest once again before shrugging in the direction of his second biggest fan, “and that’s Cunt Fuck. Those guys…” Scunt mumbled under his breath as Slit pointed at the caravan ahead of them which had come to a stop. “Well, the guy in the glasses I don’t know. The dick with the shotgun is Tye, and the ghoul is Staltman.” Slit-Not shook his head and laughed as they slowly closed the gap between themselves and the stationary group.

“I get your name, you get my stories.” Scunt Fuzz shook his head, knowing full well the sort of nonsense people like Slit-Not spouted. Though he couldn’t deny, if Slit started to talk about his adventures, he’d be just as enticed as the new prettyboy. Scunt zoned out as the two of them spoke, only returning his attention when the three of them came up to the others, who seemed to be paying a lot of attention to something. Tye looked at Slit-Not and pointed over to what Scunt assumed were lights, and for the first time since they’d started walking Slit-Nots attitude shifted from laid back to something much more serious.

“You think it’s inhabited?” Tye shook his head, barely getting a few muffled letters out before suddenly dropping to his knees. “Shit, everyone get down!” Staltman and Scunt fell to a crouch and kneel respectively, while Slit-Not backed a few feet down the hill and lowered himself as deeply as he could. Orton was hesitant, but followed suite, as Tye pointed ahead towards a spot in the road now filled with what looked to be about five dark silhouettes.

“Tribals, look at their clothes and weapons. The fuck…” Tye swore under his breath as he crawled a few meters ahead, possibly trying to get a better idea of who the patrol consisted of. The shadowy figures travelled away down the road and Tye was forced to resign himself to not knowing, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking of a new plan. He looked over at the lit up structure in the distance and then at Staltman, who gave a curt, albeit tired, nod.

“Okay, we’re going to head through there. No clue who those tribals were, but if it’s Red Shepherds then we’re in their territory, and being caught won’t end well. Once we’re through, we’ll find a road and head to Corsicana like we planned.” Orton nodded lazily, scratching his neck as he tucked his sunglasses over and under the belts around his waist. The rest of the caravan seemed more than ready to commit, but this shift meant things had just gotten much more dangerous, and something told Orton that as the night grew older, those dangers wouldn’t begin to dwindle.
Daniel Orton [HC]
Lvl 6: Copperhead Cook
Rep: -40 Eastern Texas, -250 Texas Rangers, +90 Crag
Equipped: Mirrored Sunglasses, Armstrong Hellcat Necklace, Raider Armour, Culture-Clash Jacket, Crag Swag (Jeans), Black Banana Hammock, Leather Belt, Desert Boots, Skullfucker, Death Knell, Combat Knife, Sharp Hatchet, Hannibals Haymaker, Pre-War Mountain Bike
Status Effects: Internal Parasite
Abilities: Sucker Punch
S:6 P:3 E:5 C:5 I:3 A:10 L:8

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

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

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

FP: fs youre like in a very minor minority where cauze youre autistic and gay and an asshole you can say any slur
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LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
For the most part, Vince was unaware of what was going on at the front of the Caravan. Being captivated by the way the frame moved with such ease. The clicks and whirrs of unseen machinery shifting the alloy coated joints so smoothly. It was art, it was beauty and passion all rolled into one lovely package. His attention couldn't be bought by a few rowdy men talking among themselves when such a prime specimen. He was equally numb to the subtle strain that came with doggedly trekking up the gentle incline to keep up with the rest of the group. Vince wasn't sure what he was doing. Following these people right back in the direction he had come from.

Hopefully a bit of anonymity could be afforded by mixing in with a much tougher crowd. Safety in numbers and all that.
He kept his eyes firmly trained on the Raider as he introduced himself. Only partially stifling a noise of disappointment when told he couldn’t have those stories just yet. Slit-Not-, the named rolled off his tongue easily in theory. But then came the others in rapid succession almost leaving his mind as quickly as they entered. His eye following the gestures of the armored behemoth. Cunt Fuck, interesting, then another tall man whose name was apparently unknown. Followed by Tye, his shotgun was noted with a brief cold chill since it was pointed out. Finally, there was Staltman, a mild wave of nausea rose in his throat as he observed the Ghoul. Although he very much seemed to be in charge of the operation.

A brief moment of silence as he attempted to commit the names to memory just so he wouldn't have to rely on a third party for introductions. Then came the request for his name and he looks back at the both of his companions.
“The name is Vincent Awley, I’m pleased to meet you Slit-Not and…Cunt Fuck as well.”
No sooner had he gotten his reply in edgewise did their attention yet again be jerked away to something else.

”Get Down!”

The words hit him a little quicker than the Raider’s shift in demeanor and Vince hits the dirt like everybody else. Edging closer to the side of the Caravan relying on his miniscule stature to stay relatively out of sight as his hand found Helen, snatching her out of her holster. Ignoring the mild displeased buzz that ran up his arm. He takes his eyes off the lingering forms of the head of the Caravan to check her cartridge feed. Four shots left in this one. He had another two in his bag. They’d need to be recharged soon or He was gonna find himself further up the creek than he cared to go. He clicks the compartment closed, the grip felt a lot warmer than it did a minute ago.

The evening air was still. Tense enough that even he could feel the rapid exchange between the three men up ahead. He still stuck behind the Caravan itself however. Sneaking little peeks at them. Perhaps it was just the fact that he had forgone food in favor of yet more chems to keep him moving. There was a ball of churning bile in his stomach. He hadn’t exactly planned on a potential firefight today. But if the way that the oddly named Cunt was so focused on the road ahead was any indication.

Vince may just get a lot more than a firefight today. (Of course he’s just Thrilled about the prospect.) He didn’t care for the look of the trees, or that strangely bright building he finally got an eyeful of. While it was inherently impressive to see that much light coming off of one thing in the Wasteland. It could only mean trouble. He wasn’t a stranger to trouble by any means. The bruises and scrapes littering unseen parts of his body could attest to that. But the urge to jump back and take off down the road in the opposite direction was strong.

But between weighing the options, stories and a potential poke at a functional power armor frame was too good to pass up. So he stays, clicking Helen’s safety off.

He was ready, as much as he could be.
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
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FallenSanity
Member Avatar
I didn't even know I had this
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The darkness was imprisoning. The only light source was too far away to be of any use, and was just bright enough to force everyone's eyes to slowly readjust to the contrast. Orton lagged behind Lou by just a few steps as he struggled to recompose himself, whereas Staltman had adjusted so quickly he was already shifting the travel route.

“I don’t trust the road,” he said glumly, his gravelly voice hushed as if he thought someone could be listening in, “we’re gonna go ‘round, through that building. Pro’ly filled with ghouls or something, but we’ll clear that out. Tye, w-” Before Staltman could get out another word, the sounds of gnarled yelling and snarling began to fill the air. Once again, the caravan ducked down to attempt to get out of sight, each member panning the area around them to see what the new problem was.

In a bizarre turn of events, it was Scunt Fuzz that noticed it first, tapping Slit-Not on the shoulder whose very motion alerted the rest of the caravan. Down in the burnt out ruins, a young man was sprinting for his life, trying to outrun a small pack of ghouls. Scunt lifted up his pistol to take aim, only for Tye to lean over and push it back down, shaking his head. “We don’t alert anyone to our presence, not if there’s a visual threat. He’s fucked. Not our problem.” Scunt looked from Tye to the passing man and his rather devout fans, and sighed before nodding; compromising morals was apparently fine, so long as you did it for the people who’d released you from slavery.

“This whole place is a fuckin’ deathtrap boss. Would be better if we just avoided Waxahachie altogether.” Tye didn’t seem to make requests or inquiries often, instead preferring to tell Staltman exactly what he thought was wrong. Staltman pondered for a moment, but once the threat was gone, he didn’t show even the slightest hint of alteration; he moved on, leading Lou into the burnt out ruins, and with them went the whole group.

Though burnt out, the ruins of what was supposedly once a town looked incredibly strange. Much of the buildings seem to be made of incredibly large bricks, and nothing seemed to resemble housing. As they passed through one oddly shaped ruin, with more walls still standing than anywhere else, Slit-Not decided to try something out and kicked one of the standing walls, watching it crumble into thin sheets with no effort at all.

“This place wasn’t a town before, was it?” Slit-Not looked a little confused, thankfully seeming just as out of the loop as Orton, Scunt, and Vince. Tye shook his head, sighing. “Used to be nothing. Place’s been uninhabited since forever, then it got some junkies squatting a few months back…” He picked up a piece of weird wood and handed it to Orton, who looked at it before tossing it to anyone behind him. “Used to be some weird castle thing, I dunno. People before the War had weird shit goin’ on.”

A common sight, as they group wandered through burnt out husks and past long-forgotten ashy trees, was that of corpses. Rabid mutts, wasters, and bodies too mutilated or burnt to recognise were hard to miss. Staltman seemed wary of each one, and Tye stopped every so often to examine the bodies, remaining quiet each time. Finally, Tye motioned to Orton, who moved around to the other side of Lou, unintentionally shifting Scunt Fuzz into his old spot, and staggering the ratio of security on the caravan.

“Most bodies here’ve been shot, some mauled. Looks like a bear’r something, keep your eyes open. Might be hunters lookin’ for some fresh meat…” He looked over his shoulder at the brahmin, wandering happily by its master's side. “... Lord knows we got some easy meat here.” Orton looked at Scunt Fuzz, fumbling with his pistol, and grumbled. Between the caravans populace, only three people looked even slightly able to fight, and two of them were wearing little more than leathers. If a bear came barging in on them, Orton didn’t intend to stick around to fight it.
Daniel Orton [HC]
Lvl 6: Copperhead Cook
Rep: -40 Eastern Texas, -250 Texas Rangers, +90 Crag
Equipped: Mirrored Sunglasses, Armstrong Hellcat Necklace, Raider Armour, Culture-Clash Jacket, Crag Swag (Jeans), Black Banana Hammock, Leather Belt, Desert Boots, Skullfucker, Death Knell, Combat Knife, Sharp Hatchet, Hannibals Haymaker, Pre-War Mountain Bike
Status Effects: Internal Parasite
Abilities: Sucker Punch
S:6 P:3 E:5 C:5 I:3 A:10 L:8

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

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

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

FP: fs youre like in a very minor minority where cauze youre autistic and gay and an asshole you can say any slur
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LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
It was nice to be among men of similar mental standing. That is to say, three airheads and a feigned one. Or at least that is how Vince thought of himself, never mind the multitude of close scrapes and fights he’s been in due to the very obvious lack of presence he had going on. It was all an act and anybody who said otherwise? Well, it might be time to split because they were getting wise. When nobody did anything about the youth being chased, neither did he. No reason to start anything, especially with the far more pressing question of just what he was doing following these people.

They weren’t going in the direction of the town he came from anymore. Quite the contrary, the Caravan had subtly veered off its original course and now took them through a peculiar ruin. He had to step rather lightly to avoid the debris and junk, not to mention the decaying corpses. Filling the air with an unpleasant cloying stench. Of course, he didn’t make particular note of the injuries. Or even the condition of the bodies. The rotting flesh was rotting flesh in his mind, it wasn’t something that warranted focusing his flighty-at-best attention span. No, it was content jumping between the other members and the strange ruins themselves.

He was grasping for a word, looking at it. He wasn’t an expert on anything pre-war, well he wasn’t an expert on anything. Except maybe mechanical things...Maybe, okay stop the thought train there buddy. Moving on, back to the matter at hand. Namely the pile of sheetrock and dust that was once a wall. Maybe to someone else, it would’ve been obvious how rickety and not-wall-like it had been. But the effect was lost on Vince, instead, he stared up at Slit-Not once again, before snapping into quick applause.

“Wow! Nollal Manhan!” He cries suddenly, more of that bizarre jibberish rolling off his tongue. “That was impressive!” Sidling up to the Raider’s left-hand side again. Pressing his hands together briefly as his gaze flicks over the suit of armor for what was surely the thousandth time since he laid eyes on it. Of course, reason told him that it was the reason he could do that. “I knew you were tough, I mean the Scars but you’re just so Strong!” He placed careful emphasis on that word, oh the amazement, the awe.

Frankly, it was a bit thick on the flattery. But this guy didn’t seem particularly brilliant anyway, so it was probably genuine. Just look at the metaphorical sparkle in his eyes, he’s just SO impressed by the whole thing. Bless him, it must truly be awful to be small and presumably weak. He certainly wasn’t lining up to smash a wall, now was he? It wasn't anything strange really, the people on top of the totem pole were always the one who got the admiration.
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
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FallenSanity
Member Avatar
I didn't even know I had this
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Scunt Fuzz rolled his eyes and shook his head, looking away lazily as Slit-Not puffed out his chest, all too easily amused by the almost cartoony praise he was getting from their miniscule new ‘friend.’ He seemed very pleased with himself, as if in his mind the armour wasn’t half of his current aura. As Vincent and Slit were left to themselves, Scunt slowly wandered through the scorched landscape, kicking at one of the few still-standing trees as he did so.

Regularly, a group of this size and minimal skill wouldn’t split up like this; Orton and Tye were off talking privately, Slit-Not and Vincent were meandering some ten meters behind Staltman, and Scunt Fuzz was in his own little world. The main difference and justification, however, was that the environment made it impossible to lose each other; between the flat land and the burnt out woods, the only thing breaking eyesight was the dusty ruins, and none of them were big enough to cause a problem.

“Orton,” Tye spoke commandingly, as if to give an order, “you see that?” The leather-clad mercenary looked over to where his superior was pointing, at a tossed up patch of dirt and grass that looked like it had been the small scene of a hectic fight. Of all the bodies around them though, none were even near this patch. Orton wandered over and looked around, noticing nothing more than a strange knife, wedged into the ground. Orton grabbed at the leather handle and yanked it out of the ground, looking at the strange hooked blade. It was rusted and had strange little rock-hard things littering the surface, but it still looked razor sharp. For a moment, Orton was actually kind of surprised.

Tye walked up behind Orton and past him, looking at the ground beneath their feet. He knelt down while Orton held on to the thick-headed blade, analysing the prints that Orton had managed to miss. “One set of shoeprints, rest are feet and claws. Probably from that dummy bein’ chased by ghouls. Nothing to worry about.” A simple nod was the only response the increasingly hungry cannibal gave before the two of them made their way over to Staltman, who had come to a stop a ways ahead.

The buildings around them were bizarre. On one side was a series of large buildings with old walls and tiled rooves, but they looked essentially uninhabitable, not to mention looking somehow fake. On the other side, strange stone barns, the sort of thing you’d see on a farm but, again, strange in sight and almost fake. Finally, just ahead of them, stood a large gate, made of the same cheap, fake looking stone and plaster. It extended into a pair of towers and a long, arching wall that was ruined on both ends that could be seen, hidden beneath old dead trees and the debris of makeshift defences. Beyond, stood the lit-up land none of them knew.

Tye shook his head, looking around with a scowling expression - he didn’t agree with something, but Orton didn’t notice or didn’t care, and neither did anyone else. The shotgun-slinging fighter stepped forward towards the wall, only for Staltman to grab him by the arm and hold him back. “Hold on, idjit.” Tye frowned and shrugged his friend off, but didn’t take another step. There was a moment of long silence; Slit-Not was quiet, Scunt Fuzz was quiet, Tye and Staltman were quiet, and even Orton, who tended to not read situations well, was quiet.

There was no sound. Staltman grimaced and whispered under his breath, low enough that only Tye could hear him. Scunt Fuzz, ever curious, leant in to try and hear more, only to grumble with upset as Tye nodded at whatever Staltman had said, motion for Orton to follow him, and began to slowly flank around the lefthand side of the wall.

The structure was bizarre. The towers and gatehouse were shorter than the tallest peaks of the other buildings, but the wall went on for well over fifty meters on both sides, and even had areas patched up along it. Orton left his bike with the rest of the group, and held in one hand his Skullfucker, while holding the curved blade in the other. He didn’t know what was going on, but being on the defensive seemed like a safe call.

“Alright…” Tye’s voice was so hushed, Orton almost missed it. “Staltman thinks it might not be a bear. Bear’s don’t circumvent walls… Not this type…” Orton just nodded, not really understanding what was going on, but trying his best to keep up.

“Stal-” The old ghoul hushed the young junkie instantly, holding both his hands up. He reached back to pet Lou, keeping her content and quiet. Scunt Fuzz shook his head and frowned, slumping down against a dead log, while Slit-Not gazed around, trying to see whatever Tye and Staltman were so fixated on. He couldn’t pin it like them, but he knew something was far from right.
Daniel Orton [HC]
Lvl 6: Copperhead Cook
Rep: -40 Eastern Texas, -250 Texas Rangers, +90 Crag
Equipped: Mirrored Sunglasses, Armstrong Hellcat Necklace, Raider Armour, Culture-Clash Jacket, Crag Swag (Jeans), Black Banana Hammock, Leather Belt, Desert Boots, Skullfucker, Death Knell, Combat Knife, Sharp Hatchet, Hannibals Haymaker, Pre-War Mountain Bike
Status Effects: Internal Parasite
Abilities: Sucker Punch
S:6 P:3 E:5 C:5 I:3 A:10 L:8

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

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

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

FP: fs youre like in a very minor minority where cauze youre autistic and gay and an asshole you can say any slur
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LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
The change in atmosphere was thankfully obvious enough to penetrate the damnably thick skull of the Mechanic. His unnecessary glorification of a raider in presumably stolen armor having subsided in the oppressive silence. His eyes just barely caught the backs of the three up ahead of them veering off to the side to investigate the wall that made up such a considerable looking barrier. But whatever had set them on such high alert was still lost on him as he looked over to Slit-Not once again. Making a special effort to creep a bit closer, since well, a bullet would probably bounce off that armor. As beat up as it was. So it was usually a good idea to stay behind cover, even if it was mobile.
“What do you think they are looking for?” His voice seemed to pierce the silence even though he wasn’t making any effort to shout.

“There’s nobody here, except for maybe some yulyeong or maybe some Demons eh?” Of course he was kidding, the chiding tone of his voice just radiated confidence.
“But I am not worried, after all, we have you here don’t we? I think that’d scare off any Goemul creeping around, looking to gobble up some naughty children.”
But he wasn’t so idiotic as to not keep his grip on Helen, the scrappy laser pistol giving a small buzz up his arm as he did so. But the green light was still on, she had a charge and she wasn’t afraid to use it!

Although he hadn’t the slightest idea of what might have been here. Nor what might still remain. There was a good possibility that it WAS ghosts, or monsters. Or something horrible like that. He really hoped it that it wasn’t. The train of thought made him swallow thickly, making a bit more effort to sweep his eyes across the ruins in hopes of perhaps catching a glimpse of a horrible blue woman rattling chains as she drifted across the floor. Since if he saw it first, well he would probably be able to bolt. None of these men looked particularly fast.

At least, they probably weren’t as fast as he was. He could probably outrun them. But how fast were ghosts? Vincent’s brow knits together as he ponders this new train of thought. Trying to reason out just how fast an incorporeal spectre might be. Ignoring any and all rough terrain...Ghosts supposedly could travel through walls. So there was always the risk of being cornered and it just phasing right in front of you. Ready to suck out your soul, or whatever it was ghosts did.

Did they drink blood? No...that was something else.

Shit-!! He wasn’t paying attention. His eyes snapped up off the ground-.
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
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FallenSanity
Member Avatar
I didn't even know I had this
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Tye led Orton towards a pile of debris and old scaffolds made of what appeared to be rotted wood and twisted metal, climbing up onto it to get a better view. The strange place they were in seemed to encompass little more than the ruined buildings behind them, and a number of decayed ruins ahead, these ones seeming much less like houses and more like shacks. Tye pointed to a sign, splayed out on the dirt on the other side of the wall.

“Screams Halloween Theme Park. Pre-War world was a joke, I swear.” Orton didn’t get it, and didn’t respond. Tye peered over the area, looking for something Orton didn’t comprehend, before murmuring under his breath. The caravan guard slumped down on the debris, scratching his head and resting his shotgun between his legs. “No bodies in there, means whatever did the hunting probably came from within… Gonna have to tell St-”

The sound of creaking metal caught Tye and Orton instantly, causing both to prep for a fight, Orton holding his bat and curved blade tight while Tye fell prone, ready to blast anything that might come by. The duo were still for barely a minute before Orton grew bored, stepping over the debris and beyond the wall, skulking ahead despite the hushed cries from Tye behind him. The bodyguard huffed, crouching and moving forward, not wanting the madman wandering ahead to alert any potential threat too soon.

For whatever reason, parts of the ‘theme park’ were still well-lit, and judging by the hum that seemed to carry through, they were also active. Orton walked through a busted down shack, ignoring or not noticing the clumps of plastic and metal underfoot as he wandered past a large lit building, with the words ‘Spook Train’ lit up in bright red. Tye gave it the once over before frowning, shaking his head. This whole place was bizarre, and aside from the massive wheel in the back of the park, there was no constant source of light for the whole area. Shadows were deep and heavy, and it meant anything could be anywhere. He didn’t like it.

“Well,” Slit-Not said, looking down at Vincent and smiling awkwardly, “for me to answer any of your questions I’d need to know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Staltman hushed again, before finally moving ahead, with Scunt Fuzz and Slit-Not following close behind. Slit-Not ignored the elderly ghoul, speaking just as he normally would. “I dunno if a deathclaw or mutant bear’d give a shit about me in some rusted armour. And m-” Staltman turned back and growled, shushing again and shaking his head.

“Shut the fuck up.” Slit-Not frowned and shrugged, looking off into the distance before the lights of the wheel ahead caught his attention. Ruined, tilted shacks and other bizarre buildings blocked their direct path, but it looked like wherever they were had been some sort of strange bazaar once. It was only the slow words of Staltman that made he or Scunt understand their location at all.

“Sign says this’s a theme park once. Keep y’self close, boys. Look out for Tye.” Staltman spoke with a gravelly tone, but it remained hushed and silent, just as he hoped everyone else would keep. Scunt Fuzz had never known a creature to be as smart as Staltman and Tye were acting it to be, but Slit-Not was running through the annals of his memories as he tried to figure out what it could be.

Orton stopped in his steps, looking back to the source of the whistle he’d heard. Tye was on one knee, his gun held up ready to fire, and both of his eyes were on a nearby shack, built up onto a slightly elevated platform. Tye gestured for Orton to approach, and without hesitation the increasingly hungry mercenary obeyed, wandering up the concrete steps where he noticed the large claw marks and trails of blood that stained the ajar doorway. Making as little noise as possible, Tye walked up behind Orton and sighed, shaking his head. “Sign says ‘Red Scare’... looks like this was a bunker’r something. Probably the beasties home.” Orton didn’t need to hear much more than that. He had forgotten what he was doing before by this point; his mind was set on killing whatever got in his way, and if that meant killing some big bad beast, he’d give it his best shot, even if he didn’t have the same expectations as Tye, Staltman, or Slit-Not.

The heavily armoured raider strode forward suddenly, catching everyone off-guard with his action. He stood next to Staltman, causing the ghoul to stop and look up, confused and seemingly offended. The scavenger shook his head, a look of concern the only thing on his face as he finally realised what was going on.

“Old man, are you leading us to a fuckin’ ghastly?”
Daniel Orton [HC]
Lvl 6: Copperhead Cook
Rep: -40 Eastern Texas, -250 Texas Rangers, +90 Crag
Equipped: Mirrored Sunglasses, Armstrong Hellcat Necklace, Raider Armour, Culture-Clash Jacket, Crag Swag (Jeans), Black Banana Hammock, Leather Belt, Desert Boots, Skullfucker, Death Knell, Combat Knife, Sharp Hatchet, Hannibals Haymaker, Pre-War Mountain Bike
Status Effects: Internal Parasite
Abilities: Sucker Punch
S:6 P:3 E:5 C:5 I:3 A:10 L:8

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

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

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

FP: fs youre like in a very minor minority where cauze youre autistic and gay and an asshole you can say any slur
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LeafyPlume
Member Avatar
Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
[ *  *  *  * ]
“Monsters!” He chirps, wiggling his fingers to accent the word. “You know, ghosts and demons- they say in old places, all sorts of scary things hang around.” Of course he had been about to elaborate further on his rather eccentric knowledge regarding these creatures, when they were thoroughly hushed by Staltman. Vincent recoiled a little bit, shoulders hunching on themselves as he scuttled quickly to catch up with Slit-Not and Scunt. Though the words “theme-park” reached his ears, he had some vague inkling of what a ‘park’ was, but the Theme didn’t add up- Oh wait. Yes! His mind grasped idly at the straws and actually got them this time. Theme was a word that usually applied to the design or certain specific traits of an object or place in order to fit a mood or atmosphere!

He was so smart, look at him and his grasp on the English language, cue a mental high-five there because puzzling that out made him feel really smart. Although it was short lived when suddenly some of the group fell into position. Muttering among themselves about something, what exactly he didn’t have any idea. But he kept up with the group nonetheless, taking stock of the sign and in due process then the blood and the claw marks. Feeling his face blanch a little bit at the sight of them. Good lord, those didn’t look ordinary-.

Slit-Not was on the move again, and in proper form Vince jogged right alongside him because fuck it this was his friend thank you so much. He wasn’t gonna be left alone with a guy who’s name was slang for female genitalia... At least he was pretty sure that’s what it was slang for. He wasn’t really coming up with anything else that he’d heard in recent memory aside from some comparisons to certain types of domesticated felines. But that wasn’t pertinent to this situation was it?

No he caught the words “Ghastly” and without even thinking quickly piped up with-

“What’s a Ghastly?”
A little bit louder than he intended to, catching himself moments after he said it. Covering his mouth because, fuck he’d been hushed twice and there he goes spouting off again. The door being slightly ajar on the building in question made a slimy feeling crawl up his spine. Although he couldn’t place why at all, it wasn’t anything he’d ever heard of after all-. But there was no denying that cloying, slightly primordial fear that came with facing down what was simply The Unknown.
Vincent "Chelsea" Awley
Exiled Gang Member/Raider and gifted mechanic. Comparatively smooth-talking by wasteland Scav standards.

Harvey "Barracuda" Kruller
Sunstroke and fevers abound, watch your fingers. This guy is a biological weapon in the making.
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FallenSanity
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I didn't even know I had this
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Tye and Orton descended into the strange tunnel, with the weathered mercenary leaving his shotgun low, his finger resting gently behind the trigger. Orton followed close behind, tracing his knife across the stone walls, bumping over the deep gouges that had been left behind by the great unknown beast they were hunting. Orton had long forgotten what they were doing this for, but Tye had taken a different approach to simply keeping their route clear.

“You ever seen a deathclaw up close?” Tye spoke loudly enough that his voice was able to reverberate through the tunnel entrance to the semi-stranger behind him, who felt a little lost by the question. He recalled deathclaws being the large, fast reptilian monsters that were almost as legendary in the Wasteland as some other unbelievable rumours. He wasn’t one to ponder though, so he had to simply assume that was the ‘deathclaw’ that the bold bodyguard spoke of.

“A few times,” Orton mumbled, barely audible enough for Tye to hear him. The caravan guard nodded, only barely paying attention as he came to a metal platform, made of a sheet of gridded steel and rusted around the edges. As Orton came in behind him, the two stayed silent, as they observed the room around them.

They were in a large room, or at least a room larger than you’d expect from a tunnel. There were three doors on each side of the large concrete room, though two of them were shut tight and looked heavily painted, while the third, across from the entrance, was wide open. Tye scratched his neck anxiously as Orton meandered into the middle of the room, wandering through the strange back-and-forth railing and stopping at the large areas of railing that had been crushed underfoot. Whatever lived down here, it was big.

Elsewhere in the room, strange terminals stood, with long streams of old paper rolled up next to or on top of them. Near the doorway, which Orton and Tye both realised was not open, but in fact missing the door entirely, sat an old, almost black skeleton, hunched down in the corner. Tye picked up the rusted revolver lying next to it and opened it up, frowning. “Out of ammo. Guessin’ this might’ve been where the last of the towns survivors tried to hunker down…” He looked around the room, placing a hand on the concrete walls and rolling his eyes.
“Unless some dumbass pre-War fucks thought this place was actually good enough to protect ‘em.”

---

“I’m leadin’ us safely! We don’t know what’s in here, could be a fat-assed molerat!” Staltman shoved Slit-Not, or he would have if the power armoured frame didn’t keep the large raider in place. He looked at the rest of the team and frowned, clearly fed up. “You all need to shut the fuck up, and follow. Nothin’ more. Until Tye gets back, we don’t know what’s out here. So listen to me, or fuck off.” With that, the caravan moved again, in silence.

Staltman led the rest of the caravan party ahead for a while, shaking his head as they passed the opened up bunker. The caravan leader looked up at the large red sign, scratching his jaw and sighing.
“Smoothskins did the weirdest shit ‘fore the bombs.” They moved on, with Slit-Not lingering at the back of the group. The darkness was strong now, and the lights of the park were the only light left, but further away they lit up the horizon. Up close, they just gave a dull mixed hue to the land around them, and it cast deep, long shadows in every direction.

Slit-Not and Scunt, who were lingering behind more and more, were easily distracted as they came into view of the bizarre hill ahead of them. It looked old, and clearly fake; in some places there were huge holes in the synthetic material used to make the hill, showing the girders and mesh interior that formed the actual hill. Slit-Not grimaced a little at the mess, eyeing the huge roller coaster rails that had collapsed onto the hillside, rusted and rotten. The whole thing was just a pile of scrap now, and the fact that it was mostly unpicked was incredibly unsettling.

The caravan stopped, as Staltman looked around the ruined, rusted old buildings, and then up at the few lit up signs around him. ‘Attack of the Zetans’ and ‘Spook Train’ were clear to all with the ability to read, and though it wasn’t clear what it meant, Staltman knew he wanted to remain bathed in the soft blues and whites. Staltman looked over at Slit-Not and frowned, gesturing to Scunt Fuzz. “Get over here, we’re gonna set up ‘till the others get back.” Slit-Not shook his head, and decided to go for a walk.

---

The dark halls of the bunker were bizarre to look at. There was no light at all, with the few bulbs still lit in the lobby unable to light up the twists and turns here. Tye held a lighter up, its flame flickering slowly and providing a golden glow, and with Orton standing behind him, it was the best they were going to get. Shards of wood and the sound of cracking bone under foot led Tye to assume many things, whereas Orton didn’t even pay it any thought, mostly because he didn’t think it was anything important.

Eventually, Tye was forced to kneel, as the crunching sound became too much to bare. He looked around the rubber floor, pawing over the old, worn out bones of the people who had died in here. It was so strange; the weapons that littered the area were mostly handmade, and the bones were old but in good condition. Yet, Tye had never heard of any settlement around here, which meant it had to be fairly old, and wiped out just as long ago. As he picked through the bones and wooden chunks, he came across something that looked very out of place.

Orton looked ahead through the darkness, twisting the knife and bat in his hands. He wanted to hit something now, he wanted to rip and tear and murder, and he knew Tye was out of the question.
“A fucking carapace, shit.” Orton looked at Tye as he sprung up, missing what he’d said. “There’s bugs down here, keep your eyes open. We should ge-”

"Die, you Capitarist pigdog!"

Tye blasted three shots without hesitation at the wooden board that had burst out around the corner in front of him, sending the wooden shards all over the place. He hadn't even had the chance to see the incredibly racist picture of a Chinese soldier, and he didn't have any time to examine what he'd done as a storm of scuttling filled the halls of the bunker. Tye looked at Orton, who looked back, and without another word, the two of them began to run.
Edited by FallenSanity, Mar 1 2018, 07:25 AM.
Daniel Orton [HC]
Lvl 6: Copperhead Cook
Rep: -40 Eastern Texas, -250 Texas Rangers, +90 Crag
Equipped: Mirrored Sunglasses, Armstrong Hellcat Necklace, Raider Armour, Culture-Clash Jacket, Crag Swag (Jeans), Black Banana Hammock, Leather Belt, Desert Boots, Skullfucker, Death Knell, Combat Knife, Sharp Hatchet, Hannibals Haymaker, Pre-War Mountain Bike
Status Effects: Internal Parasite
Abilities: Sucker Punch
S:6 P:3 E:5 C:5 I:3 A:10 L:8

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

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

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

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