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| Staltmans Caravan and the Wild Wasteland; A caravan in a wasteland of wild wonders | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Oct 1 2017, 05:33 AM (449 Views) | |
| LeafyPlume | Feb 17 2018, 09:07 PM Post #16 |
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Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
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After what seems like 2 months, it seems like time finally starts moving again. So that’s really nice. Anyway, back to business as usual, that being Vince tailing after this armored fellow with Scunt in tow. Or maybe it was the other way around. Their attention had turned to the scraps of metal and fallen machinery littering the grounds. To the common scav, it probably wasn’t all that interesting. But to Vincent? Oh yes, this was the kind of shit he lived for. Anything that was in pieces and had once been a cohesive unit? Sending a glance towards Slit-Not and the smaller raider, he slips away from their side towards the piles of undisturbed scrap metal. From down here it was kind of difficult to get a scale of how large this structure had been when it was whole. But given the miniaturized nature of the tracks, the way the still standing wood curved in some places. Vincent had the feeling that this was likely a device called a “Rollercoaster”. A pre-war device for leisure and amusement that reached great speeds and whipped around. People rode on them, and it was considered fun. As a man who had never really gone faster than his own feet could carry him. It sounded like a blast in theory. He was rummaging through the fallen wood for anything useful when the duo who went down into the bunker came scuttling out back into the reasonably safer open. Followed by- bugs? Were those bugs? Oh god- he hated bugs. They were possibly the absolute worst thing known to mankind. It didn’t get much worse besides some sort of hideous creepy crawly, except maybe an ENTIRE ARMY OF THEM exploding up from under the ground to ripple in some nightmarish tide. Oh yeah, fuck this. He’s out of here. Vincent slips his bag a little tighter around himself and takes off running in the opposite direction of this bullshit. Far and away, because he definitely wasn’t going to come back, nor was he going to stick around to see what happened to these strangers when the bugs inevitably tore them into little bitty shreds. Or at least, he would have made a clean getaway had it not been for the fact that A.) bugs run really fast, B.) he wasn’t really looking where he was going and C.) he just ran smack dab into one of the wooden supports and now his nose hurts. But he didn’t have a lot of time to bitch about it because one of the multi-legged monstrosities was rearing back on its hind-hundred limbs hissing at him. A viscous yellow fluid dripping off its mandibles as it snaps forward. The jolt Helen sends up his arm is reassuring, even if the quiet hiss of bubbling discharge trying to seep its way out of her chassis was /not/. Vincent barely evades the clip of its razor-sharp keratin by kicking the damn thing square in the head, before half tripping over another one, the heel of his foot catching against its outer shell and he falls. Landing hard on his back, feeling his equipment dig right into his spine as he scrambles in a modified crabwalk away from the advancing creatures. It was right about when one of them lunged at him again he remembered the laser pistol on his person. Fumbling for it as he kicks against the ground to steal a few more precious inches away from HELL INCARNATE before his shaking hands falter between the two of them before finally firing off a beam of energy. The white-hot beam piercing through one of the beast’s segmented eyes. Sending oozy fluids flying out of the hole, only to be vaporized shortly after. It seemed to have startled the first bug because as he scrambles to his feet. He wasn't immediately beset by a good twenty pounds of insect. He was paying no mind to the knicks he was getting on his hands as he puts the pistol back where it belonged at a dead sprint. Nearly running into another wooden support in the meantime, but this one had a few fallen pieces around it. Allowing him to nimbly scamper his way up the rotting wood. Climbing higher and higher on the supports. The still living multi-legged horror seemed to deem the effort required to climb up there as well far too high. It scurries away to join the rest of the Swarm of Evil pouring out from that accursed hole. He wasn’t coming down, or more specifically, he was reluctant to let go of the pole because it was taking all of his strength to stay holding onto it. What a shitty day. Edited by LeafyPlume, Feb 17 2018, 09:13 PM.
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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 | Feb 20 2018, 08:37 AM Post #17 |
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I didn't even know I had this
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Running up and out of the bunker had been a struggle in itself. At the 'entrance' within the bunker itself, Orton and Tye had done what little they could against the endless horde, with Tye unloading the entire drum of his shotgun into the flood of scuttling beasts, blasting their carapaces away and sending their gore all over the place, the syrupy orange blood contrasting with the bleak browns and blacks of this long-old ruin. Once Tye was done, he dropped a drum and bolted, with Orton pulling up the rear and swinging the knife-bat wildly at the bugs trying to crawl up at them both. Whatever damage Orton was doing, he didn't see it. Tye was holding onto the ever hungry wasters shoulder, guiding him up the steps and towards the bright light of the moon. The horrifically well-armoured insects climbed over each other, piling up into an awkward mass in the tunnel, until finally Orton and the bodyguard emerged into the world, the sound of wind and dirt under feet impossible to make out as the horde of centipedes scuttled up and out across the landscape. Tye hoisted Orton to his feet, and the two of them moved as fast as they could. Daniel Orton had always been a fast man, and that leant to his benefit here, as he bolted past Tye and came towards the clearing that the rest of the caravan had established. The first to move was Lou, and as the brahmiluff stood up and began to turn away in fear, Tye caught up, and it became abundantly clear what was wrong. The crawling horde was upon them almost immediately. Scunt Fuzz fired off two shots before falling back to the towering Slit-Not, who swung his sledgehammer like a mace, trying to just keep the insects at bay. Staltman had vanished along with Lou, and had no idea where the effeminate one had gone. As Tye reloaded, slamming a new drum into place, it became clear that they were going to need to work fast. Slit-Not was being swarmed by the great insects, while Scunt and Vincent were both fleeing the bugs in any way they could. Tye had to admire the creativity with Vincent, but as Scunt tried to climb the fence that blocked off the large lit up wheel, Tye couldn’t help but see things going wrong. He rushed over, and prepared to stand back to back in what could be his final moments. In the midst of the chaos, Orton stood alone, swinging his bat at any part of the crawling masses that he could hit, as he slashed his curved knife in tandem. Legs, stalks, mandibles, anything that could come off came off, but the great bugs never ceased their endless assault. Orton felt them biting at his armour, and he had to respond as quickly as he could, smashing his knife, his bat, or his feet into anything that came near. It all felt so pointless. The starved cannibal looked up at the tin-can man, splattering the bodies of the bugs with a hammer now drenched in their sickly green-orange bloods. Chunks of armour had been torn off, but he seemed unscathed, pushing through the underlayer of bug as best he could, stomping on them and crushing them in every method he knew, and yet still it seemed like far from enough. In the distance Tye and Scunt were holding back insects that had easily overrun them, and for a moment, Orton thought he should run. It felt like the best choice. Do it! The cannibal rubbed his brow, before a sharp pain in his side brought him back to reality as one of the hideous insects slammed into him. Orton jolted out of the way, swinging his bat high and bringing it down into a ferocious slam, sending the large bugs brains and blood all over. It was one, in the midst of countless numbers. There really didn’t seem to be any hope right now. In the bleakness of the encroaching swarm, the bleating of a cow was easy to miss. As Tye looked up at the sound he only spotted due to familiarity, he saw Lou burst through the crowd, horns throwing insects through the air, as Staltman tried to hurry in behind her - not chasing the cow down, but running from something. The sharp, terrifying scream that tore the the air told Slit-Not and Tye exactly what was coming. The line of dead trees and overgrowth that had hidden Staltman and Lou were smashed aside, as the towering form of a ghastly barreled into view. Even hunched it was taller than anyone else, even Slit-Not, a towering form of metal and armour. The pale beasts muscles were massive, and a thick, long horn sat on its brow; though covered in scars of all sorts, it was clear this monster was more than capable of doing away with the lot of them. “Tye, get the fuck over here!” Staltman barely had a chance to yell before the ghastly moved. The insects that had swarmed the area were almost immediately turning, retreating as the beast that hunted them made its presence known. Some of the bugs, the larger veterans, attacked the great beast, but they were thrown aside and battered without any sort of remorse. For all their strength in numbers, they didn’t match this apex predator. Tye and Scunt Fuzz, finally freed of the overwhelming horde, rushed to join with Staltman as he grabbed Lou’s reigns and yanked the brahmiluff away. Orton followed close behind, watching as Slit-Not hurried over to get Vince to come with them. The chaos and confusion had left everyone in shock, but the adrenaline kept them going, and as the ghastly hacked away at the bugs that attempted to overcome it, the caravan was given what would be its only chance to slip away. They had to have faith they’d get far enough. |
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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 | Feb 28 2018, 04:08 PM Post #18 |
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Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
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Describing the goings on as mayhem might have been an understatement, there wasn’t a word in any language Vincent was aware of that would accurately describe what the fuck was happening here. At one point it had been him and the other scav, then there was some yelling. Staltman went hauling ass after his pack animal when /something/ burst out among them into the fray. It didn’t take him long to put two and two together and realize that THIS was probably what a Ghastly was, given everyone was rapidly running away from it, well. Except for the Scutigera were attempting to dog pile- or would it be “bug pile” the pale monster that was suddenly stomping on them. But they were rapidly beaten back into retreat, the Caravan was getting ready to move and Vince was frozen at the top of a pole. Just staring at the beast, in all likelihood if it had the mind. It could have come over there and been more than capable of reaching him. So many repeated flashes of a grisly demise danced before his eyes it took him a few seconds to notice the gap in the retreating bugs where Slit-Not stood, beckoning at him back on the ground. Needless to say, he was relieved to see some support, even if it was very gooey, slime-covered support. Letting go of the pole he had climbed up was something of a challenge since he didn’t possess much overt physical strength. In fact, when he sought to unlock his arms from around it he quickly dropped like a stone towards the ground. [Maybe some part of him wished Slit-Not would catch him but that was silly.] He returns to earth in similarly spectacular fashion, namely falling into a roll and clumsily springing back up onto his feet. "Thanks-" He manages to utter, a little heavier than he intended before absently dusting his clothing off for /real/ this time. Stealing a glance backwards towards the looming form of the ghastly. His stomach did that weird twisting feeling again before he resumed scampering towards the caravan. Trying to put it out of his mind. It was huge and terrifying, he didn’t need to stare at it for any longer than absolutely necessary. Which is to say, not at all. Hopefully, Slit-Not could keep up without all the bugs getting in his way, this fellow was pretty quick when he wanted to be. |
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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 | Mar 1 2018, 07:32 AM Post #19 |
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I didn't even know I had this
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Orton didn’t look back. Whether that was because he didn’t fully appreciate the situation or because he was scared was up for debate though. Behind him, a battle between a an apex predator and the swarm of agony that had pushed the caravan party to breaking point was waged, and though most of the party couldn’t have given a shit what the outcome was, the fact was that regardless of winner, they could be next. For that and that reason alone, Staltman led them as far as he could allow. The thin woodland and the tattered ruins around them were enough cover to give the team some semblance of security, but that didn’t stop Tye from turning around every second chance he got. He had fallen behind early on, in the hopes that Slit-Not would catch up, but as time passed it felt less and less likely. Vince was at the back of the group, while without ever intending to, Orton had found himself at the far front, just past Lou, to whom Staltman was clinging. The ruins of the park slowly began to pass them by, until only the thin woodland was left, unimpressive trees and a menial undergrowth hardly enough to change the tide of a battle if the time came. Orton looked back and slowed his pace, realising that he’d scampered further ahead while lost in the thought of easing the ache in his belly. Staltman shook his head as he passed, wheezing and coughing with every second step. “Vince, hey!” Tye’s gruff voice called out in a whispered shout, trying not to draw the attention or ire of any potentially unseen things. “What the fuck happened? Where’s Slit-Not?” He could only assume the effeminate stranger had at least a vague idea; he’d been the last to join the fleeing band, and Slit-Not was likely the only reason he’d made it out alive. As Tye began to well up with fear and aggression, Scunt Fuzz was left shaking, stumbling every so often before regaining his almost entirely lost composure, his hands shaking around the handles of the mountain bike. The ex-slave and ex-raider had only ever really seen a few horrid things in his life; a few assaults, dog fights, a raid here or there, but to see that swarm overcome them so quickly, and then to see the pale behemoth that he’d only heard tales of, it sent shivers down his spine and a mental shockwave through his body. He couldn’t get the image of it out of his head, and whimpered silently, his hands pressing in on his temples as he wished the memory away. Staltman grumbled and held his ribs, ushering Orton over as he tried to keep himself upright. Orton couldn’t help but think that the old man might be on his last legs, and if that was the case, part of him wondered if perhaps it would be better the put the ghoul out of his misery. Surely the others were getting hungry too. last time you ate a g h o u l you nearly shat out your organs you fucking m o r o n The tired waster winced, raising a hand to his face and digging his nails in just a little, trying to let some sort of pain ease his burning mind. Staltman didn’t notice and didn’t too rightly care. Instead, he slapped Orton on the chest, and pointed ahead. As the dull eyes of the cannibal followed Staltmans gesture, he was given an unnerving view - emptiness. The woods seemed to become even thinner up ahead, and if that was true, they’d be sitting ducks to more than just what lay behind them. “G-go check it out… Fuck, this cramp…” Orton obeyed, walking past the heaving beast Lou and through the thin treeline. It didn’t take much longer before he emerged from the woodlands and into bushes, and more importantly, a great expanse of empty, dried land. He groaned a little, rubbing his head and returning. From the look on Orton’s face, Staltman didn’t need any words. “It’s the edge, isn’t it? Fuck... Tye!” Tye ran up to Staltman, with Vince and Scunt Fuzz in tow. He looked at his boss and close friend and nodded, willing to do whatever he was told. “How far out are we?” “Uh… Huh… We’ve been on the move for close to ten minutes, not as far as we should be. Th-” “Set up here. Camp.” Tye looked at Staltman, furrowed his brow, and nodded. He gestured to Orton and Scunt Fuzz, and the two of them began to unpack Lou’s largest bag, revealing a quartet of old, worn out sleeping bags, one nice bag, and a small frayed tent. “Orton, go get some wood. Scunt, Vince, go hunt for somethin’, even if it’s just herbs. Don’t go far, and keep within earshot.” With that, Orton finally dumped his bag. He’d had to grab it right as he and Tye rushed out of the tunnels, and he was damn sure he’d lost it at first. He dumped the bladed-nailed bat next to it, and finally the weird curved blade. Tye looked over curiously and, along with the hatchet, pistol and the weird spike-ended pole, realised just how over equipped Orton was for someone of his stature. Sort of explained why someone so dumb survived this long though. The hungry cannibal made his way into the woods, hatchet in hand. His stomach made another low rumble, and Orton almost keeled over. He winced again, gritting his teeth and frowning, shaking his head. He stood up, and pondered if he’d been smart enough to keep any food on him. He pawed through the bags on his waist and, to his delight, wrapped his hands around a piece of lean meat. Before he even got a chance to look at the lizards jerky, it was gone. Orton couldn’t recall to a passerby how many bites it might have taken him, but it was delicious and he was so glad he’d found it. He actually smiled, rubbing his stomach and sighing a little, as he grabbed at a few handfuls of old branches, bundled them up, and made his way back to camp to start a fire. |
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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 | Mar 1 2018, 11:57 AM Post #20 |
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Touch the Fern, fingers burn.
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It took Vince longer than it should have to realize that something was wrong. By the time he deemed it safe to look around and take stock of the group around him. The skyline wasn’t interrupted suddenly by the looming figure of Slit-Not, he did several dips around either side of the Caravan. Each time expecting to see him but coming up increasingly disappointed each time. The disappointment however, turned to fear when Tye called out to him and asked him where Slit-Not was, his mind raced in circles trying to find an explanation but came up pathetically short. “I...he came back, I saw him-” He gesticulates lamely as though that would produce the missing raider. “But he’s gone. museun il-i iss-eossneunji moleugessda.” They had only been running for ten minutes how could Slit-Not have gotten lost in such a short amount of time? ama geuneun jug-eoss-eulgeoya. A creaking woman’s voice whispered somewhere in the back of his head. geuneun jug-eossgo dangsin-eun geuleul jug-yeoss-eo! Her voice raised enough in pitch that he had to stop himself from pressing his hands to his ears. He shoots an apologetic look towards Tye and then, promptly avoids his gaze. That is until of course they were summoned by the caravan’s owner and he still absolutely refused to look at any of them. Those words kept dancing around in his head, mocking him plainly. naneun hwagsin hal su eobsda. naneun geuga jugneun geos-eul boji moshaessda. He repeats over and over again at them, silently. Hunt something- right. He tuned back in just in time it seemed but if was going to hunt something. It most certainly wasn’t going to be food, his tendency to not be particularly hungry, like, ever. [Thanks Jet!] He was going to apply his wit and running ability to find the remains- no no, to find the MAN [Alive and Well hopefully] who had...so graciously stomped his way through the bugs and made an effort to rescue Vince from their clutches. By simply being there? It was a strange feeling in his chest cavity, it kind of...hurt? That was the best way to describe it, most people wouldn’t have done that. Truly, he didn’t think ANYONE had done anything like that. At least, not in recent memory. It was bad enough to have him wasting several minutes finding the tracks of the Caravan in the dirt. Hefting his bag a little on his shoulders and setting off in their direction. Careful to walk between the two great imprints. Using the brahmiluff’s hooves as his guide. He had to keep an eye on them like this, or he would lose them. He knew he would, but goddamnit. He couldn’t be sure if Slit-Not was dead, he hadn’t heard or seen anything. There was a chance he was okay, however slim it might have been. Maybe he had to bite back a few tears, not that anybody was around to see them. Not that he’d made sure Scunt Fuzz wasn’t following him or something, but why would the guy? He disregards the orders of “Stay within earshot” entirely as he breaks into a trot over these ruts. Praying that the sun would stay up long enough for him to see them, to find his way back. He didn’t have a way to see them otherwise, he’d have to stop and wait until morning or risk losing them completely-. The idea that even more time could pass between then and now made his trot break into a sprint. His chest felt tight and strange as he considered what he could find. If he couldn’t find him, well- he just wouldn’t come back. They’d get along fine, wouldn’t they? Its not like they needed Vince, of course they definitely needed Slit-Not but Vince had gone and fucked that up for them hadn’t he? A barrage of mental beration struck him as he ran but he fought to ignore it, and the voice that kept saying- geuneun jug-eossda, geuneun jug-eossda, geuneun jug-eossda, geuneun jug-eossda! sal-inja! dangsin-eun moduege ag-eul gajyeodajuneun jeojuleul bad-assseubnida! The words made him slow down again, into a steady jog. ”ib dagchyeo.” He whispered to no one in particular, keeping his eyes glued onto these tracks. ”neoneun amu geosdo molla!” It didn’t really make him feel better, but it did silence the creaking woman’s voice. He had wit, he had charm and he was lucky...He HAD to find Slit-Not, right? His fingers crossed themselves absently. [Translation: I don’t know what happened.] [Translation: Maybe he is dead.] [Translation: He is dead and you killed him!] [Translation: I can’t be certain, I didn’t see him die.] [Translation: He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!] [Translation: Murderer!] [Translation: You are cursed, bringing evil on everyone!] [Translation: Shut up.] [Translation: You don’t know anything!] |
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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 | Mar 2 2018, 06:43 AM Post #21 |
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I didn't even know I had this
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The clearing of dark dirt that Staltman had made was quite large, with the sleeping bags set up around it in a perimeter. The tent was still not made, likely due to Staltman struggling physically, but Orton didn’t really pay it mind. He dumped the bundle of sticks on the ground and began to pile it up into a small pile. As the old ghoul looked on in confusion, Orton began to rub the sticks together. “Woah, no,” he meandered over, still clutching his side but shaking his head, sitting across from Orton, “you idiot. This how you set up fires?” Orton looked at Staltman with a blank face, nodding and eliciting the most shameful of groans from the caravan boss. “Fuckin’, look, that’s crap. Here.” He grabbed the sticks from Orton’s hands and began to strip them off bark, gesturing over to something behind the confused waster. “Go grab summa those leaves, and whatever little crap else.” Staltman pushed the bundle to the side as Orton did as he was told, grabbing a few handfuls of leaves and standing awkwardly over the spot the wood had been in. Staltman looked at him and after a moment rolled his eyes. “Put the leaves here,” he pointed to the middle of the clearing, “and then do the same with the bark.” As the dry leaves and bark were laid out into a pile, Staltman spoke clearly and slowly, in a way that would be insulting to someone smart enough to pick up the patronising tone. “See, this is called tinder. It’s the base of the fire. Then,” he set about building a small tower around the dry pile with the smaller twigs and sticks, looking at Orton with a lousy grin, “we make the kindling. Leave one side open, and make sure it’s sturdy.” Orton nodded, furrowing his brow a little as the ghoul worked. Staltman grabbed the logs and branches and began to set them up in the same way as the kindling, leaving one log off with a small gap, on the same side as the kindling opening. “Then, we just,” Staltman held up the same lighter Tye had used in the tunnels, reaching in and lighting up the tinder, “start the flame. Blow in there.” He pointed to the opening and groaned, falling back onto one of the sleeping bags. “I need to rest… Fuck.” As Orton blew the fire up, Staltman began to unload some of the packs from Lou, who had settled down next to him. Orton looked at Staltman and his wares. Most of them seemed like things Orton couldn't even conceive a use for. As Tye patrolled, Orton and Staltman were left together in silence, until the elder ghoul leant over with a smirk. "Hey," he said in a hushed, gravelly tone, "you place any bets on the Pushball games? I'm backing the Howler Eagles." Orton didn't understand most of those words, and simply shook his head in a hope to move on. Staltman grunted, scratching his neck and leaning back a little while he reached down and opened up a pack from his side. "Listen, you wanna get into pushball? Gimme something and I'll give you some merch back." Orton didn't see a reason not to. He reached down into his pack and pulled out the first things he grabbed - three parcels, all tied together neatly by straps of duct tape. Orton didn't remember them but he didn't really care either, they seemed like shit. Staltman took them and opened the packages up, laughing as he stowed the three-piece duct tape suit away, and grabbed Ortons new merch. "A Tee-Shirt launcher. Sorta rare, but at least it's fun. Not as worthless as Tye," Staltman laughed and gestured to the bodyguard passing by, "that idiot put his money on the fuckin' All-Stars!" Tye had made a short patrol around the camp, clutching his shotgun and peering out into the nearby clearing, paying no attention to his employer as he mocked. After a second round, he trailed off, passing through the treeline and out into the open meadows. When he returned and Orton looked up at him, Tye sighed, speaking loudly for both him and Staltman to hear. “Keep an ear out,” he kept his eyes to the woods, never straying, “we’re… literally and figuratively not out of the woods yet.” Scunt Fuzz wasn’t many things. He wasn’t smart, he wasn’t strong, and he wasn’t fast. But he was keenly eyed, and well tuned, even when suffering withdrawals. He had spent most of his life in the wilderness, which meant he had no trouble finding the right berries, the right fungus’ and even the sweetest wild herbs; not skills he was often able to show in the Crag. As little as it was, he was happy to be able to provide some sort of service, as the sounds and sights of the past hour continued to etch themselves into his mind. “Okay, we…” The young junkie trailed off as he realised he was alone. He had thought Vince had been behind him, following close, but now it was clear that wasn’t the case and it left him feeling suddenly empty. The frail man made a beeline back to camp, his eyes darting around in every which way as he tried, desperately, to find what could now be another lost man. Keen as he was, he was still simple minded. Any thud or crack was just nature, and that meant it fell upon Vince, alone and wondering, to hear that familiar sound of pistons and metal, and the heavy heaving of a man's breath. As the tired, blood drenched figure looked down to see the welcoming smile of his new friend, he couldn’t help but laugh. “Hey, bing-bong.” Edited by FallenSanity, Mar 2 2018, 07:52 AM.
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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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| FallenSanity | Apr 2 2018, 07:58 AM Post #22 |
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I didn't even know I had this
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The crunch of leaves and twigs had Tye, Staltman and Orton immediately react, with Orton and Tye pulling up their respective firearms, as Staltman, seated on an old log, drew out a knife and held it out towards the giant shadowy figure that made its way towards them. When the smaller, lithe shadow appeared next to it, Tye began to question what he was seeing. The mechanical hissing of pistons happened to answer his question, as Slit-Not staggered into view, with Vincent on his tail. Orton and Staltman finally stood down after Tye, and the three of them stood in awe of the metal-clad, blood soaked man before them. “Ha… He…” Before Slit-Not could say anything more, he fell to his knees, and then with a resounding, dust blowing thud, collapsed in the dirt. Orton looked at Tye, who let out an exasperated sigh. “Guess we’re sticking around for a while.” Moving Slit-Not had been one thing; Tye and Orton had made sure to remove him from his suit and lay him nearby, while rolling the suit to the side of the campfire, where upon it Vince was sitting, mindlessly examining any parts he could. Staltman rubbed his neck, looking at the dwindling fire. “So, what’s the plan?” He spoke calmly, looking to Tye as if for guidance. “We stick it out.” Tye didn’t seem keen on spitballing, and kept his eyes to the surrounds. “Hmph. Might as well eat.” Staltman reached into his bag, and pulled out a few lunchboxes and a small, white metal box, sliding them over to the fire. As Scunt Fuzz returned to the camp, solemn and silent, he couldn’t help but leap as he saw food. “Oh man,” he said in a jovial tone, “eats! I’m fuckin’ starved!” Tye looked back at him, raising his brow and shaking his head. “S’if you earned your keep. Basically worthless.” Scunt grimaced, looking at the boxes and opening one up, revealing all manner of foods - meat, beans, grains, and even some assorted leafy greens. He pondered, before looking at Staltman curiously. “Mind if I cook this?” Staltman and Tye looked at Scunt, with Tye’s frown met by Staltmans sly grin. The old ghoul nodded, and Orton was left to watch as the young, unassuming Scunt Fuzz began to use everything available to him to turn some random assorted bits into meals for each of them. It took about thirty minutes before he was handing each of them a bark plate, with cooked meat and beans, peppered with ‘razorgrain’ and finished off with some ‘lettuce.’ By now, the smells had lured Slit-Not from his slumber, and he sat next to Vince wearily, rubbing his head. He was the only reason Orton wasn’t alone in not eating, as the cannibal simply peered at his food. He tended to not like anything like this, prepared and organised, and the last time he’d had anything like it, it had been cannibalistic, so he’d been fine. Still, food was food, and Orton suddenly felt as if he was perhaps hungrier than he thought. For a few minutes, everyone was silent. The fire kept them warm, and the food filled them, with Staltman handing a bottle of warm water around for everyone to drink from. After about five minutes, someone finally spoke. “This is fucking nice, Scunt.” The party looked at Slit-Not, as he devoured his meal, potentially even eating chunks of bark unless Orton’s eyes had fooled him. From there, chatter finally began again, with Tye leading it. “So,” he said with a grin on his face, “how’d the fight go?” “Better than a night with you.” Slit-Not and Tye laughed, before Staltman interjected. “How did it go though? We still gotta expect those things coming for us or what?” “Naw, the scuties won’t be after me s’long as the ghastlies’ on their tail. Looks like some fuckin’ territory thing, I dunno.” “Good. Tye, we’re moving as soon as we’ve eaten.” The hum of protest that came from everyone was enough for Staltman to let out a sharp, piercing whistle, shutting everyone up immediately. “I don’t care how far those beasties are,” he looked to everyone, even Tye as he spoke, “we gotta go. Remember, this aint some fuckin’ happy travels shit, this is a job. I’m behind. We move, tomorrow.” No one really spoke after that, aside from Vince and Slit-Not, who continued to mingle and chatter about the armour long into the night, while everyone else slept. Orton lay in his bed, arms around his stomach, wondering why he was forgetting to eat. He wasn’t a smart man, but routine was routine, and not eating meant most of his routine was fucked. He wondered if it would matter tomorrow. He wondered if he’d even remember. The next day came just as it normally did; with a yell, darkness, and Orton rolling out of bed. Normally he felt empty, but today he didn't. Looking at the fire, Orton rubbed his head, remembering the meal he’d been fortunate enough to enjoy, and standing up calmly, hoisting his pack onto his shoulder. Slit-Not and Tye stood just past the edge of the woods, staring out into the landscape ahead. Vince and Scunt sat on a log, and Staltman packed the last of his goods onto Lou. With a beleaguered sigh, Orton picked up his bike, his garden weasel, and his tee-shirt launcher, and thought if perhaps he needed to deal with how much crap he had on him. The party gathered, and Staltman took place at the front, speaking loud enough for the rest to hear. “Alright, we’re headed to Corsicana people. Should be a full days walk, ‘ssumin’ we go fast and don’t stop much. Any complaints, no, good, let’s go.” He didn’t give anyone enough time to get a word in edgewise before he was off, with Lou lowing all the while. The sound of obedient feet soon followed, and the party of seven made their way in whatever wild, potentially clueless direction the old ghoul led them. Aside from some mindless banter at the random stopping points, the party was mostly silent, sticking to side roads whenever it was able to. By the seventh hour, at which point the party had spread out and enjoyed very few stops, Staltman came to a halt, patting Lou to let her graze. One by one everyone came to rest, as Staltman handed out a few bottles and boxes of old pre-War food. As he looked around, Orton noticed that on both sides of the road were old, rusted out sheds, and a single, barely standing house. The sides of the roads dipped down into old dried out lakes, and the area felt like an abandoned farm. He looked at the house, and watched as something was placed up against the window from within. An hour passed and by then Orton had forgotten. Staltman rallied everyone together, and they were off again, down the same long broken road. After just over four hours of walking and resting, the party came out into the ruins of a small town, and an intersecting highway. Staltman and Tye read the road signs while Orton and the others peered aimlessly at peeling white paint and scavvers squatting in the old houses. The wasteland was cruel, and Orton wondered how long people had survived in these areas. “Alright,” the croaky voice of the ghoul snapped everyone to attention, “we’re not far now. Bout three hours down here, give or take,” he gestured to his right, “and we’ll be in Corsicana. Let’s move.” The dreams of the ghoul caravan runner were held on high hopes, but those didn’t mean much. An hour passed, before a strange sound surrounded the party. The landscape was flat, and when Orton and the others turned around, they had no trouble spotting the five men, dressed strangely, mounted upon the ugliest animals most of them had ever seen. They were quadrupedal, with long faces and hooves, and Orton wondered if they were ghouls; their skin flaked and torn, their hair matted, their eyes black or pale or milky white. They had exposed teeth, gnashing at the long strands of drool that seeped from their maws. Hideous in ever respect. “Uglies,” Tye muttered under his breath, “we’re fucked.” “Calm down, let me talk and we’ll fine.” “Your funeral old man.” The five riders surrounded the party, their weapons - bizarre as they were - all drawn. They circled for a few moments, before finally one rider stopped in front of Staltman, pointing a long, curved blade, almost black in colour, at the old ghoul. The rider, who bore a short black beard with a defined handlebar moustache and goatee, was dressed in a dark golden cloak, with intricate detailing and green and red embroidery at the hem. Most surprisingly, it had a thick black fur lining, ending at the riders feet and climbing up the hem of the coat over his chest. It looked somewhat regal, but also somewhat stupid draped over the tattered jacket and rags that made up the rest of his outfit. “You, good sir,” he had that soulful southern drawl that had become a fine rarity in some parts of the Wasteland, “look to be in a fine little pickle her, hm?” Staltman groaned, rolling his eyes before stepping towards the presumed leader. “Pickle you’ve put me in, o’course. I get it, I’ll pay you, jus-” “Not a doin’ friend.” The ghoul grimaced, looking up at the gaunt man, whose cocky smile felt both as infectious as it was arrogant. Orton looked at the horseman in front of him, frowning a little. Unlike the leader of the horsemen, this man was fleshy, with big cheeks and a bulbous nose. He wore a pale coat, that looked incredibly old, and held a sword not unlike his leaders, though much older and rusted, and sat upon a saddle less extravagant than his the golden-cloaked boss. He glared down at Orton, pointing his long curved blade down at the growling man before him. There was a moment when the two of them felt a spark of instant contention, and if it hadn’t been for the charisma draw being shared between Staltman and his new conversee, it was likely they’d already be at eachothers throats. “Y’see, you’re a well supplied caravan, passin’ through my- I’m sorry, our territory. That’ll mean a payment,” the gaunt rider smiled and gave a look over to the noisy brahmiluff, “a lump sum.” Staltman shook his head, resting a hand on the knife tucked into his belt. He was a brave man, but a fool. All the rider could do was shake his head, laughing under his breath. “You got big balls for a ghoul, y’know that,” his smile instantly faded, “but this isn’t time to act big, fella. This- Oh shit, where the fuck are my manners?” He lowered his sword arm, shaking his head and laughing as he rubbed his brow in embarrassment. “Names Rafael Rodríguez. That there,” he gestured to the rider to his right, who didn’t avert his eyes from the twitching Orton, “is my second, Carlos Alvarez, that’s Sam Barr,” Rafael waved to the rider to his left, in front of Tye and Scunt, “call him the Long Gun. And those two at the back are Clayton Hardin,” the gaunt rider lazily waggled a finger at the riders pacing in front of Slit-Not and Vincent, “and Jorge Luis. Good group, hm?” “Jorge Luis Hernandez, boss.” A coy but thrilled voice piped up before Staltman could say anything, directed towards Rafael who was visibly caught off guard. “Huh?” “Jorge Luis Hernandez, not Jorge Luis, boss.” “Shit, sorry kid. Jorge Luis Hernandez.” “Are you fucking done?” Staltman barked at the riders, grumbling under his breath. Rafael and the others cackled, trailing off with their leader. “We are, we certainly are, my man. Pretty clear y’all are just a rabble of raiders, and I don’t like raiders, do I boys?” “No sir, you do not.” Carlos had a deep voice that didn’t match his round features, and for the first time he looked up, staring over to his boss. The tension between the groups, and within the caravan party itself, was becoming a little bit too much to handle. “Raiders hand over all their shit, and fuck off, y’see. So how ‘bout-” “We’re not raiders.” Staltman stood his ground, stern and proud, as if he wasn’t telling a white lie. Technically speaking, he and Tye weren’t raiders, but the rest of the party… he couldn’t vouch for. “Mhm. Well we’re the ones with swords, guns, uglies, upper ground and all that. How ‘bout you just do the smart thing, unpack that brahmiluff, and we’ll be on our way.” Staltman ran his tongue under his lips, grumbling and speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. “No.” Staltman and Tye were clearly on a closer bond than Orton and the others had been able to read, because as the old ghoul spoke, his bodyguard leapt into action, unloading two shells into the ugly in front of him, sending the horse and its rider tumbling to the earth. Sam Barr was thrown, and only thanks to his quick reflexes was able to regain composure, as Scunt Fuzz fired wildly to keep Clayton Hardin from charging into the group. Only chaos came after that. Orton reacted in time with the sound of the shotgun, faster than all but Tye, leaping at Carlos who had to rush away to avoid being gutted by the jagged baseball bat. Jorge Luis Hernandez was the only rider to make a successful charge, forcing Slit-Not to spin and engulf both Vincent and Staltman, his quick action the only thing that stopped them from being trampled. With Jorge and Rafael riding together, the battle lines were drawn. Sam “Long Gun” Barr and Clayton Hardin were very different types of people; Sam looked ready and willing even on foot, while Clayton, the muscular figure dressed in little more than straps, looked nervous to even do anything from the safety of his mount. Clayton was clearly a pack rider for the group, with a large trio of sacks and numerous swords strapped to himself and his horse. He swung an outstretched arm at Scunt, the long rusted blade at the end slicing through the air and forcing Scunt to dodge wildly whenever he could to avoid it. Mere feet away, Tye and Sam sparred, clashing their knives together; a rusted combat blade against an old pre-War dagger. A strange object hung from the end of the dagger, its strange colour distracting Tye enough to keep the two of them on equal footing. The second-in-command Carlos Alvarez rode around Orton, constantly swiping out as far as he could to try and avoid the ferocious arcs of his enemies own weapon. The two of them were barely able to do anything, both dodging every attack as they struggled with anxiety and fury. To anyone watching, it was probably a dull fight to witness. Not far away, a far more intense battle took place as the heavily armoured Slit-Not found himself taking on two men, both sat high upon hideous steeds, charging him down with reckless abandon. Rafael, the more experienced of the two, held his sword high and hung back, hoping that Jorge Luis Hernandez would be able to do some damage with the revolver in his outstretched hand]. In a sudden change of pace, Jorge forced his ugly forward, breaking from his leaders side to lead the charge. He fired six shots in a row, four of them bouncing off of the steel and titanium of the armour frame, with two shots tearing through the sheet metal. He couldn’t see how Slit-Not responded, but he was sure it was enough to ruin the composure of the hammer-wielding goliath. It wasn’t. As soon as Jorge was in range, the raider swung his sledgehammer with every ounce of strength in his body, slamming it directly into the young riders chest, launching him through the air and down to earth with a bone-shattering thud. The sound of Jorge’s sharp, sudden scream caught everyone's attention - only more so when it came to such an abrupt, solid ending. Tye capitalised on the moment he was given, slashing at Sam Barr before Clayton charged between them, giving the dismounted rider a reprieve. “Patches,” he roared towards Clayton, “cover me!” The riders were almost immediately in retreat. Jorge lay on the ground, mangled, with his pack and whatever was in it strewn out across the land. His ugly ran towards an opening which Sam thrust himself into, latching on to the old rotten saddle and climbing on. Carlos and Clayton followed suite, leaving Rafael alone to stare down the party. The entire ordeal had taken a matter of moments, but those moments had been enough. Rafael shook his head, sighing and trotting in circles for a second. “We better not see you around here to Bucket Town, boys!” He seemed to think he’d won, and as Orton looked around he couldn’t quite tell why. “If we do, we’ll cut you up like steaks! Hear me!? Now git!” With that, Rafael joined the rest of his team, vanishing into the plains. Staltman collapsed against Lou, rubbing his pack animal and shuddering, looking around at the torn up landscape. “That could’ve been better…” Staltman rubbed beads of sweat from his head, looking over to the panting Tye. “Guess we’re headed for Hillsboro now.” Slit-Not and Vince bickered not far from the rest of the party, with the small technocentric stranger trying to convince the larger man to get out of the armour and get some medication for what Vince was sure were bad wounds. Slit-Not’s denial wasn’t enough to cover the low wheezing cough that drifted over the area, the somber sound of Jorge Luis Hernandez. Tye was the most drawn to the gasping sounds of the dying man, while the others tended to themselves, barely listening in, if they were even interested. The mercenary knelt down by Jorge’s side, intending to overlook him but wincing immediately at the mere sight. Jorge was barely over the age of seventeen, and he lay on his back in a growing pool of his own blood, frothing with spittle and vomit at the mouth as he coughed up another lungfull of gore. The sheet that he’d wrapped around himself was torn apart and stained, showing a bare chest, caved inwards and torn in many places, exposing bone and entrails. The gurgling and spluttering that Jorge emitted while trying to speak made Tye look away, a cold shudder ripping through his spine. He’d seen horrid things in his days, and he’d watched people suffer - even put people through some of the most horrid things he could imagine. Yet to see what was nearly a child, with wide, hopeful eyes, laying there in agony, seemed enough to deter the weathered veteran. He took the .44 revolver from Jorge’s hand carefully, holding it against the young riders temple, shaking and looking at the tearful youth, the spittle and blood drying around his lips and down his cheeks. Only raspy coughs and sharp breaths would come, before Tye did the only thing he could think of, putting the man to his final rest. Staltman had wandered over at this point, looking at the riders pack which had been thrown a few feet off. Some of the goods were scattered to the earth now, and as Staltman gathered them up and emptied out the large backpack, it was clear that the youngest rider had been given little more than a random but heavy mishmash. A large collection of books tumbled from the bag, and as Orton wandered over he could see two in particular stood out far more than the rest. Next from the bag, which itself was starting to look rather unique, came a thick worn quilt that looked about as appealing as sleeping on the tarmac at midday. Orton couldn’t see it being much help even on a cold night, but much like everything else, Staltman seemed overjoyed. “This shits great,” the flaking ghoul barked happily, ignoring the shattered corpse not five feet away, “this’ll all sell in some rinky-dink shithole, pass me that collars!” Orton looked down at his feet at the ringing of bells, picking up the bizarre contraption and lazily chucking it to Staltman, who caught it and began stowing it, and everything else, onto Lou. Most of what was left seemed to be fairly mundane; a small bag filled with old stars, a mostly shattered jug and golden box, and a ludicrously sized hunk of folding wood that Orton saw absolutely no use for whatsoever. Once it was all packed away, and Tye had pilfered the goods of a deadman, it seemed as if things would be moving again. Slit-Not and Vincent continued to bicker, while Scunt Fuzz clung close to Lou, scratching his neck every so often. The ghoul looked over the party and cleared his throat, demanding to have everyone's attention. “Alright,” he croaked, “looks about time to move, fellas! Can’t go to Copperton so-” “Oh!” The frail voice of Scunt Fuzz interrupted Staltman and broke his train of thought. The junkie hurried over, handing over a bizarre red box to the ghoul before rushing back to his spot, not aware of the confounded look Staltman was giving him. “The fuck is this?” “Uh,” Scunt stammered, “I think it was the riders.” Staltman opened the folding panels of the box up, his eyes lit up in a way that nothing else had done. He shut the box and quickly forced it into his own satchel, looking at Tye with a wild grin on his face. “Get set boys,” he cried out with an unnerving smile, “we’re goin’ to Waco!” --- ((OOC: LP gave me permission to use Vince to finish this off, and I made sure to do so sparingly - hopefully it didn't detract from much. Also, sorry for the links to very specific items, this whole little moment had been planned for a while and I felt it'd be easier than breaking down and describing every single item. Also didn't wanna struggle to find a reason to make it clear the riders had pilfered Bullock Museum. Also there was a weird busted knife Orton grabbed earlier in the RP. Khal/TonyTheFish dropped his Kaiser Blade while passing through the area, so I was attempting to pick it up. If that doesn't work, no worries. Anyway this shit's done, sorry it's shit.)) Edited by FallenSanity, Apr 3 2018, 09:14 PM.
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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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| FallenSanity | Apr 2 2018, 07:58 AM Post #23 |
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I didn't even know I had this
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FINISHED Edited by FallenSanity, Apr 2 2018, 07:59 AM.
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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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| Blue | May 19 2018, 11:14 AM Post #24 |
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Showdown Record: 1 - 1 - 1
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Sorry for the super late grade on this. I've done a few drafts of this I lost, and I've struggled to sit down and read through this in its entirety. The main thing I want you guys to know about this piece is both of you had some very strong writing that played to your characters quite well. Vincent felt a touch-scattered brained and out-place, and Orton felt like the experienced waster he is. I really enjoyed the way each of you made each post feel very strong and entrenched in your individual characters. The only piece of advise I would offer to you was to watch how the posts flow together. FS would have a sprawling post with lots of characters and exposition, while LP would give us Vince's perspective on the events in a much different setup. It made the story as a whole seem a bit jarring between post transitions. I think you guys are both super strong writers and Vince and Orton seem to be very well formed at this point. I'd have liked to see more direct interactions between the two of them, but that is just personal preference. I think slowing down the pace of the story a touch would have let more things sink in a bit better. The anti-Chinese theme was honestly a really cool moment and I wish we could have had some more casual exploration of a such a weird/unique area. Your character work is super good and I would have preferred to see some more of it before you unleashed the action set piece, which honestly felt a touch unnecessary. Finally, FS I really liked your overall writing here but I felt like the final fight scene was super duper out of place. Maybe it was important to the plot but the gang felt unique and I would have enjoyed seeing them for more than a much too easy feeling fight scene. I appreciate you putting some names and faces to your enemies, but at that point in the story it seemed like you had already wound down post-climax, and the extra scene very much felt like it was a "here's some combat" moment that didn't add much to the overall story.
Edited by Blue, May 19 2018, 11:14 AM.
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Gilbert Rose Level 5 S.P.E.C.I.A.L: 3 5 3 8 6 9 6 Weapons: Type 57 Machinepistol, Stun Grenades Short, thick brown hair and beard, lanky and surefooted. "Doctor" Jasper Cobb Level 1 -HC- S.P.E.C.I.A.L: 4 6 6 3 10 6 5 Weapons: Scalpel Short, with round features, looks unsettling to most. Sebastian Coates Level 1 -HC- S.P.E.C.I.A.L: 7 3 6 6 4 7 7 Weapons: Homemade Shotgun, Cultist Knife (Tier 1) Average height, bulky for a ghoul. Sun Apr 30, 1:17:19pm cewebwalz: your my spaghetti daddy blue Tue June 19, 9:52:57pm lonesomedrifter23: ^Blue the best mod in the business | |
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