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Author Topic: Something to do...in the wasteland. In-Character Post-Apocalyptic Roleplay. Open  (Read 7119 times)

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Offline shojin

TK made a metal thunk as Al patted him on the head. That was a first. The robot sat silently through their commotion, before rolling over to the rest of the folks and looking at the wounded woman. TK's lens shifted to a second one, which instantly shot a beam toward Julia, running up and down her body. The thing was scanning her - and it looked rather privacy-invasive.

"Female is incapacitated, with a bullet lodged in her abdomen. If she doesn't receive medical treatment within the next two to four hours, her chances of survival are 0.0000001 percent. Within the time frame, it's a much better 34.8 percent." The robot was captain obvious for the moment, but it was clerical. Data was facts, and he absolutely needed to provide them. The robot skidded forward, letting the boxes fall from the cart that was crudely attached to him, and turned sideways.

"I have a greater carrying capacity, and would provide our party with greater maneuverability through this wasteland."

Offline Les Man

The dirty, bearded man rode along on his skinny mule, dozing off lazily on the animal's back, wobbling unsteadily in the seat.  He wore a faded black fireman's uniform that was maybe two sizes too big for him, the reflective yellow bands around the arms, torso and legs cracked and peeling, revealing a mottled gray fabric beneath.  On his head he wore a matching, just-as-sun-faded black fireman's helmet, with the protective fabric lining pulled down, leaving just his face exposed through a too-large hole, but it still offered protection from the wasteland sun.  The cracked visor on the helmet was pulled down, but was so damaged and dust-covered it was doubtful that he could actually see through it, and protruding beneath his dark, dirty beard hung down to his collar-bone and looked as if he had quickly lopped the end off with a knife when it got too long.

The mule was unhealthy-looking and appeared barely strong enough to actually hold a single person, but it was loaded up with mismatched bundles, bags and packages, all strapped or tied to the makeshift saddle he had made from old blankets, and it trudged along through the sand steadily and dutifully.  Looking closely, one may be able to see a fire-fighter's gas-mask and oxygen-tank harness, though the mask apparently had a piece of duct tape covering what appeared to be a bullet-hole in it.  The man himself appeared not to have any weapons visible, but his fire-fighter's uniform was so large it was possible he could have anything under there.

And so it was that the so-far unnamed man was riding through the wasteland on a mule with no name (yet), daydreaming about how good it would feel to get some rain, when sudden gunshots in the distance and an odd, squealing, blasting sound jerked him out of his blissful ignorance with a start.  "NIXON?!"  The man yelled as he came to, looking around frantically for the source of the gunfire.  He saw nothing, but the sounds of fighting continued as he realized his mule had been just as startled as he was, but had not broken out into a run, instead continuing along at an almost unphased pace.  The man sighed and patted the mule's neck, mumbling in a hoarse voice, "lazy bastard."  The man's mule, Nixon, truly was a stubborn beast, refusing to run and exert more energy unless it was completely clear and evident there was an immediate threat to it's life, and even then it was not guaranteed.  The man sighed again and felt it might be for the best anyway, the animal seemed to dump him and leave him behind just as often as it seemed to actually get him to safety.

Pinpointing the location the gunshots had come from, as they died down, the man and his mule slowly crept up to a rather tall dune, Nixon thankful for the change of pace.  At the bottom of the dune the man dismounted the mule, who let out a cranky "hee" and received a prompt, but light, slap in the face for it.  The man pointed his finger in the animal's face and glared.  "I said, you shut your mouth, Nixon," he whispered fiercely.  The man spent a moment longer to stare the indifferent animal down, then climbed the dune to peer over the top, producing a pair of binoculars from somewhere within his clothes.  The man proudly looked the binoculars over before putting the one good lens up to his eye and slowly peeking his head over the dune's peak.

Apparently, thankfully, he was late for the party, as he saw a pile of dead bodies nearby, and a little further off a small group of, presumably, the survivors, two men, one of whom was carrying what looked like a woman, another woman, and a weird metal... thing... attached to what looked like a small trailer.  The man looked back at his mule, then at the metal thing the people out there had.  He had never seen a vehicle like (and never even heard of a robot before), so he naturally wondered where they got the gas to power their trailer-puller, and for a moment felt the pangs of jealousy that the poor have for the rich.  His brow furrowed as he dwelt on that for a moment, then he noticed that the woman being carried seemed to be hurt--was that blood?

"Hmmm," he said.  "Well, Nixon," he said, despite knowing the animal couldn't hear him.  "What do you think...?"

Offline kingmaster1

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Marcus ignored Al for the moment as much as he hated admitting it she was right, he shouldn't try and hold the wound closed on his own. "thanks Al" she wouldn't let him live that one down. Marcus saw the robot turn and what he assumed was offer a ride, "okay Tk if you can get us there faster than you should, head west I know of a town not far off" he climbed into the trailer and set Julia on the floor, using her pack as a pillow. He saw her hawk perch on the top too, "quick she doesn't have much time".

Marcus could see some figure in the distance, some old man riding a donkey. He appeared to be arguing with it too, Marcus couldn't be bothered with someone else they all had to make sure Julia made it.

Offline sexomancy

The best investment Vincent ever made was the two grand in coins he spent on the binoculars that swung at his chest. They were originally made for wildlife photographers and bird watchers, but on a clear day they had more clarity and a greater field of vision than most military grade scopes. Through the magnified lenses he managed to spot every possible danger that threatened him and his business. As long as he stayed on flat open terrain, he could either avoid the chaos that surrounded him or simply shoot at it before it got too close. This had so far been a sound strategy, as his career as a traveling merchant had been going on five years strong.

Another strategy he liked to deploy on slow days was to climb on top of the tallest hill he could find and sit very, very still. There he would stay, hours on end, peering through his binoculars and waiting for a large enough gang of bandits to wander by. He could always identify them by the prevalence of spikes and skulls that adorned their armor. When they passed he would follow behind them, very slowly, until they came across a group of adventurers or another gang of bandits that would spark a confrontation. If there were no survivors, he would loot the bodies to restock his inventory. If there was but a few remaining, he would position himself ahead of their path and set up his make shift shop and sell his products to the moderately wealthy survivors. It came at no surprise that Vincent picked up the nickname 'Buzzard' in his travels.

The confrontation he witnessed this day was particularly bloody, though not nearly the worst he had seen. A large man with a sword from the remaining party seemed to intimidate him even at half a mile away, so he kept his distance. He scanned the horizon and spotted a lone figure trudging across the landscape atop a sorry looking mule. Vincent had long lost his sympathy for most of humanity, and the sad sight before him tickled his senses and brought him to laughter. He got up off his feet, stretched, straightened his trademark pith helmet, slung his massive ruck sack over his shoulder and sauntered off to meet what had to be the most depressing man he had ever seen in his life.

"I say good day to you, sir! How have you traveled well?"

Offline sexomancy


Offline Les Man

  As he spoke, the as-of-yet-unnamed man in an overlarge fire-fighter's uniform heard his mule, Nixon, start to fuss and shuffle in the sand.  His head snapped around at the familiar warning signs and he quickly spotted yet another strange figure, this one approaching him.  He had rolled over and slid back down the dune's side, once more out of sight of the group of travelers who had just survived an attack.  He watched the red-coated man in a funny helmet approach, with his fancy binoculars around his neck, an air of casual confidence about him.  He stiffened within his uniform, his eyes narrowing, beads of sweat starting to form on his spine.  Casual confidence--the weapon of raiders and gangs and murderers.  He eyed the other man as he stopped before him, thinking to himself, well, it's just you and him right now... and Nixon's kicks... maybe....  If he does anything stupid I could maybe take him out, but I'd risk attracting attention from those loons behind me.  Just 'cause they survived doesn't mean they aren't the bad guys.  Suddenly his eyes lit up as if he understood.

  He listened to the man's introduction and responded, though he ignored the man's pleasantries, his own social skills having deteriorated quite a bit his many years traveling alone on his pack-mule.  "What are you here for?  I saw 'em first," he rasped in a coarse, rarely-used voice.  "I got here first, the left-overs are mine!  You can have what I don't want; I only need--waitaminute... are you one of them?"  He indicated over his shoulder to the people beyond the dune's crest, but it was unclear if he was referring to the dead ones or the living ones.  As harsh as the bearded man sounded, it seemed neither of them had pulled a weapon on the other yet--the unnamed man either didn't seem to notice, or didn't think he needed one to back his words up, however it was more likely he came off as "raving," rather than intimidating.  Dangerous, of course--unstable is always dangerous--but intimidating... maybe to some.  Nixon, the mule, sniffed at the air, suddenly gaining a growing interest in the other man's green duffel bag.

Offline sexomancy

Vincent chuckled. While the fireman's helmet was a wise choice of desert wear, the thick insulated coat had to be one of the stupidest things he ever saw a person wear out in the wasteland. He stood his ground and fished a sample bottle of whiskey out from his coat pocket and tossed it to the ground. He pointed to it. "That's yours. Free of charge."

Very carefully, Vincent placed his ruck sack onto the ground and raised his his white gloved hand. While his eyes focused at the fireman through the lenses of his reflective shades, his lips parted to speak very deliberate words. "Sir, I know nothing of the surviving party, but from what I can gather, they are too dangerous for a man of my profession to affiliate himself with. As for yourself, I can surmise that you're too disheveled and weak to be a raider, otherwise I would have shot you." He removed his helmet and indicated to the bodies strewn about the cracked landscape. "The possessions of the dead are yours to take, if that is what you wish. I've enough trinkets in my bag to sustain myself for the time being. Please, take the whiskey as a peace offering. It is quite smooth."

He returned the helmet to his head and retrieved a pipe from his jacket, which he proceeded to pack with a moist pinch of tobacco. After three spent matches he had the bowl good and burning, and the sweet scent of cherries wafted through the air. The fireman's befuddlement began to irritate Vincent rather than amuse him. His patience had gone short, and he stamped his boot heel into the sand. "Go on, go take your spoils! I've had my entertainment for the day."

Offline Les Man

  The man dressed as a fire-fighter eyed the half-pint of sealed, aged whiskey hungrily, he even licked his lips.  Sealed bottles like that were the rarest of the rare, by this time aged at least a hundred years to perfection--anything over a year was considered "smooth" in this world.  He looked up and eyed the stranger in a red coat suspiciously, then slowly, cautiously, rose to his feet, and crept down the side of the dune.

  He watched the stranger curiously, until the other man spoke harshly.  Eying the man warily, he reach under his large, heat-resistant fireman's coat and produced what they used to call a magazine.  The fireman tossed it down on the ground next to the bottle and quickly snatched up the liquor, stuffing it away out of sight under his clothes somewhere.  After sizing the man up, he beleived the other man truly meant him no harm, so he felt he could get away with acting tough for a moment.  Eyeing the other man, he pointedly said, "you can have the ammo.  I don't need that."  He stared for a moment, then glanced at the mule, "watch him Nix," he said to the animal, ten scurried over the dune's peak and down the other side toward the little of dead bodies.

Offline MrModular

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In most of his years, Walter Milhouse had seen many like it, but never had the inclination to settle in a town like Girderhaven again. Too many people, too many strangers, too many egos. This particular afternoon, He wasn't so inclined to be walking the seven miles from his squat burrow to the town again for the commonplace but nerve wracking errand of selling the ermine fur hanging at his belt. Walter had delayed this particular task as long as possible yet when the food runs short and the beer goes bad, it's time to check the traps, man up, and head to town.

There was another man in town, who by right of being the type of man who would buy ermine fur, served the purpose of Walter being the trapper he had been for the last couple decades. Wherever the game was, there was Walter. Moving with the fluctuations of animal population, attuned to the land and like shifting dunes, set up camp where nature told him to, often, far enough away from civilization to maintain a particular disdain for the various drifters, drunks, ne'er do wells and settlers he was secretly longing to be a part of.

With a nearly ancient Mosin Nagant, a Colt double action 45. revolver, and enough old, dirt colored bedsheets wrapped around him to put Peter O Toole to shame, Walter was but three miles from town when a terrible row had started... gun shots, a common enough component to his world.

Walter had rounded a small outcrop of rocks about a mile from town to see what was apparently the doctor, wounded, with others in tow. Amongst them a robot carrying the Doctor in a trailer of sorts. Carefully making his  way behind the facades of the old clapboard tavern, he saw the man he was looking for.

Once in town, he took a moment to lean against the outside of the tavern and watch the buyer, a Vincent, take a flask of something from his person and customarily offer it in the manner of two strangers meeting, tossing it to the ground in front of him. "Here you go, I no give you poison food" Walter narrated under his breath, watching the interaction of the buyer and the stranger. The stranger with the mule, now taking the flask and retreating to a hillock out of sight, Walter watched Vincent, take the pipe from his Jacket at light up.

Taking this opportunity, Walter straightened himself, took the wrappings from his face to reveal his thirty years of slightly wind burnt but sharp features, grizzled brown beard, dark blue eyes and shapely expressive lips seemingly taken from someone else and pasted on this rugged man.

*cough*

"I suppose you have another few trinkets for to trade with sir?"

Walter mumbled, making his way to Vincent, checking the ermine fur at his waist and unsnapping the holster at his right hip in one fluid, hesitant motion.