Wastelanders - Post-Apocalyptic RP - Recruiting
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Wastelanders - Post-Apocalyptic RP - Recruiting
by Guest Wed Aug 19, 2009 8:25 pm
Wastelanders OOC
Midafternoon in ‘Zona was hot.
It was just another stretch of desert highway with little to show, but it was a battlefield all the same; it didn’t matter what part of the world you were fighting on, what kind of weather, there were the birds circling overhead, waiting for the meat. In the desert, it just seemed more savage. In the desert, the sun was crueler, causing the heat to shimmer on the ancient pavement, which the history buffs had some number recalled from ancient days by their grandparents. These days, the name was painted on things by ‘wayfayer symbols,’ which any rider grew to know quite well. Things like “US Route X” were curia for those that dreamed of a world long since destroyed.
This was the lightning road. The names came from whoever first decided to name such things for simplicity in a society that had no literacy to speak of, some poetic wandering soul that initially moved along the road painting the symbol of a lightning bolt, perhaps going by the heat lightning that was common in this part of the world.
The rest of the gang were going over the spoils of the battlefield, such as they were. Most of it was in the form of a couple shell casings or some broken weapons, and a couple of bodies of riders, plus their motorcycles. The other gangers were dead, despite his best efforts, but Headbanger told the rest of the gang to keep the bikes off to the side. They weren’t in need of new mounts and inevitably the defeated gang would send a representative to parley, that was the word they used for it though Doc had no idea what the word meant beside this context, to parley before or after a battle. It was a ‘fancy’ word, some of the others once told him, but it just meant to talk. To haggle. But it gave the process that went on between warriors a different context, as opposed to some trader chiseling off villagers for their last treasures in return for parts from the Cities.
They attacked head on, like a real gang, in the afternoon, when the heat was highest, and fought like warriors, the Headbanger said, so they were to be accorded respect. That meant that when they came upon a dying enemy left behind when the others broke off the fight, Doc was supposed to keep this man alive. But the blade that pierced this girl’s gut made it impossible for her to actually live, not without things that he just didn’t have. So he listened to her shudder and the death-rattle, by the very moments. The only way to tell how long she took to die was by the sun overhead, in its slow arc. All he could do was offer her the mercy of a little bit of desert plants he’d scrounged up, a concoction that numbed pain, perhaps, but gave visions.
“Headbanger, man, this ain’t no favor to her. No way nohow she live. She die, she die slow and screaming when the desert flower wear off. Her gang not gonna be able to do shit fo’ her.”
He tapped the cord-wrapped hilt of his knife; he had one of the best knives in the gang, made by some village blacksmith in the Ozarks, a good fellow that once rode with the Wastelanders until he’d been maimed. The gang set him up with the resources to buy a wife and start a trade. It was how they could move around with shelter from allies; unlike other gangs, and like the oldest, they encouraged a network of fellows who owed allegiance, who shared what they had when they rode through. The knife was one of those gifts from a gray-haired brother, forged-sharp.
Headbanger, older, tanned, blonde-bearded and scarred, a veteran and gang leader for years, only nodded his leonine head, with the yellow bandanna wrapped around it to help keep it from flying into his face.
“Alright Doc, do it.”
Doc nodded his head, “Alrigh’. Help hold her up. She gon’ cough blood all over, man.”
He didn’t even look at the girl’s emaciated features, or the dialated pupils. Headbanger said they did her and her gang the honor, so they did. In some vague way, he felt helpless, but then he shook it off. Helpless was watching Mama waste away. This girl chose her death by riding.
Once Headbanger got her sitting up, Doc tilted her head forward and angled his blade to where it needed to go; he didn’t know the term “Medulla Oblongata” but he knew where it was and what would happen when he severed the nerves in there; these days, anyone that did medicine knew how to do this sort of mercy kill. Even an apprentice learned to do it as a favor to friends and family. His mother taught him how to do it, and he did it when her time came.
It was over mercifully fast, and when Doc nodded, Headbanger lowered her down carefully. Doc reached with a pair of callused fingers and closed those staring wide blue eyes.
Headbanger crossed her bloody, broken-nailed hands over her thin chest, atop the bloody makeshift spear she wielded in life.
“No warrior deserves to die like with guts hanging out and waiting for the vultures to pick at her. No looting of this one. She was a warrior, and I’m glad we helped her go without agony.”
She was barely child-bearing age.
***
The white flag was spotted over the haze of the desert and the road, though the dust trail was what identified them long before. The Wastelanders were ready, in good positions for a fight if they had to do that. Betrayals happened, even under the white flag. They never would sully their honor in such a way, but others were desperate, or not as strong. But in the minds of Wastelanders, the code was part of their strength, a reason why they continued to exist when others fell by the wayside. But the code wasn’t enough, you had to be cautious.
The riders, a trio, were demonstrably unarmed, though sharp eyes could spot their comrades within eye-sight, upon a mesa outcropping over the road, watching the proceedings for signs of betrayal.
They were careful to circle around and come to a stop, to acquire sight of the yellow rattlesnake banner that Snares carried. It was part of the ritual, though the enemy was as cautious as the Wastelanders were. Everyone knew that stupidity got stung.
“We’re here to ransom for our own. We are the Sun Tribe.”
The man was a dark-chocolate color, tall and muscled looking, in a lean way. He wore sewn-together leather bits in a jerkin and the embroidered sort of boots they favored down here.
“Very well, the Wastelanders will parley with the Sun Tribe.” Headbanger had the rest of the gang around, keeping watch on him as well, and the bodies of the enemy dead arrayed in a stately fashion, covered from the elements.
“You treated our people with dignity.”
“You fought well. One was still breathing, but we had to finish her, or she would have died for a long time, and died very painfully. Doc,” he gestured to the skinny, mocha-latte colored young man in the outsized leathers, “gave her the desert flower you call peyote and spiked her. There was no pain and no looting. We return your two and all they had, except the bikes, as a sign of respect.”
“The Wastelanders are an honorable people. For the two mounts, we offer…” Despite the talk of honor, this was important; many local gangs kept their loot hidden, or the loot was with the leader, so a good negotiator could bring a higher price from the other gang’s stores for their bikes. The Wastelanders didn’t have a spare member at the moment or they’d have kept the bikes. Instead, they were bargaining chips.
It took a while for the negotiations, as sharp as they were, along with the back and forth, but finally, the Sun Tribe had to accept the price, and the goods were exchanged, including a copy of the map the Sun Tribe used and a revolver with ammunition.
“You are Doc?” the Sun Tribe leader pointed at him. Doc nodded, not sure what to say.
“I thank you for the mercy blow to Mouse. She was a strong warrior and she never complained.” He went over to Mouse’s body, flipped back the sheet over her, and pulled something from around her neck. He came back with his hand clenched.
“I want you to have this. For giving an enemy mercy. For showing her honor. For not leaving her like a dead coyote. You Wastelanders will not be harmed by the Sun Tribe again. You have passage through our territory and we keep our word.”
Others were already getting ready to retrieve the Sun Tribe bikes, as Doc opened his hand and the large black man opened his to let a pendant of a rattlesnake’s head, dipped in Navajo silver, hanging off rawhide, fall into his palm.
“Stay strong, rider.”
The sun was already going down when the Sun Tribe finally were out of sight, and it only took a few miles of riding before Headbanger signaled the stop for the night, “Alright, we set up here for the night. Keep watch, the Sun Tribe aren’t the only riders in these parts.”
Doc fingered the medallion around his neck, feeling awkward to be wearing it. It wasn’t really loot, but a token of thanks, but he almost felt like he could feel the warrior-girl’s presence in it. His mother once told him there were no such thing as spirits – “tribal superstition, the sort of backward shit that’s getting traction now that the world’s gone to hell,” – but he wasn’t so sure. At least, given how nasty life was in general, he hoped there was some sort of a reward. A ‘Vall-hall,’ or whatever that crazy old coot called it, back in the Ozarks, for warriors.
But he shoved aside such thoughts. The reality was that they were alive, the sun was going down and much had to be done to get camp going, while staying vigilant for the sort of scavengers that’d decide to make a fight of it by night. Exhausted and strung out from the fighting earlier in the day, they knew that more than one kind of vulture dwelled in this desert, looking for prey.
Midafternoon in ‘Zona was hot.
It was just another stretch of desert highway with little to show, but it was a battlefield all the same; it didn’t matter what part of the world you were fighting on, what kind of weather, there were the birds circling overhead, waiting for the meat. In the desert, it just seemed more savage. In the desert, the sun was crueler, causing the heat to shimmer on the ancient pavement, which the history buffs had some number recalled from ancient days by their grandparents. These days, the name was painted on things by ‘wayfayer symbols,’ which any rider grew to know quite well. Things like “US Route X” were curia for those that dreamed of a world long since destroyed.
This was the lightning road. The names came from whoever first decided to name such things for simplicity in a society that had no literacy to speak of, some poetic wandering soul that initially moved along the road painting the symbol of a lightning bolt, perhaps going by the heat lightning that was common in this part of the world.
The rest of the gang were going over the spoils of the battlefield, such as they were. Most of it was in the form of a couple shell casings or some broken weapons, and a couple of bodies of riders, plus their motorcycles. The other gangers were dead, despite his best efforts, but Headbanger told the rest of the gang to keep the bikes off to the side. They weren’t in need of new mounts and inevitably the defeated gang would send a representative to parley, that was the word they used for it though Doc had no idea what the word meant beside this context, to parley before or after a battle. It was a ‘fancy’ word, some of the others once told him, but it just meant to talk. To haggle. But it gave the process that went on between warriors a different context, as opposed to some trader chiseling off villagers for their last treasures in return for parts from the Cities.
They attacked head on, like a real gang, in the afternoon, when the heat was highest, and fought like warriors, the Headbanger said, so they were to be accorded respect. That meant that when they came upon a dying enemy left behind when the others broke off the fight, Doc was supposed to keep this man alive. But the blade that pierced this girl’s gut made it impossible for her to actually live, not without things that he just didn’t have. So he listened to her shudder and the death-rattle, by the very moments. The only way to tell how long she took to die was by the sun overhead, in its slow arc. All he could do was offer her the mercy of a little bit of desert plants he’d scrounged up, a concoction that numbed pain, perhaps, but gave visions.
“Headbanger, man, this ain’t no favor to her. No way nohow she live. She die, she die slow and screaming when the desert flower wear off. Her gang not gonna be able to do shit fo’ her.”
He tapped the cord-wrapped hilt of his knife; he had one of the best knives in the gang, made by some village blacksmith in the Ozarks, a good fellow that once rode with the Wastelanders until he’d been maimed. The gang set him up with the resources to buy a wife and start a trade. It was how they could move around with shelter from allies; unlike other gangs, and like the oldest, they encouraged a network of fellows who owed allegiance, who shared what they had when they rode through. The knife was one of those gifts from a gray-haired brother, forged-sharp.
Headbanger, older, tanned, blonde-bearded and scarred, a veteran and gang leader for years, only nodded his leonine head, with the yellow bandanna wrapped around it to help keep it from flying into his face.
“Alright Doc, do it.”
Doc nodded his head, “Alrigh’. Help hold her up. She gon’ cough blood all over, man.”
He didn’t even look at the girl’s emaciated features, or the dialated pupils. Headbanger said they did her and her gang the honor, so they did. In some vague way, he felt helpless, but then he shook it off. Helpless was watching Mama waste away. This girl chose her death by riding.
Once Headbanger got her sitting up, Doc tilted her head forward and angled his blade to where it needed to go; he didn’t know the term “Medulla Oblongata” but he knew where it was and what would happen when he severed the nerves in there; these days, anyone that did medicine knew how to do this sort of mercy kill. Even an apprentice learned to do it as a favor to friends and family. His mother taught him how to do it, and he did it when her time came.
It was over mercifully fast, and when Doc nodded, Headbanger lowered her down carefully. Doc reached with a pair of callused fingers and closed those staring wide blue eyes.
Headbanger crossed her bloody, broken-nailed hands over her thin chest, atop the bloody makeshift spear she wielded in life.
“No warrior deserves to die like with guts hanging out and waiting for the vultures to pick at her. No looting of this one. She was a warrior, and I’m glad we helped her go without agony.”
She was barely child-bearing age.
***
The white flag was spotted over the haze of the desert and the road, though the dust trail was what identified them long before. The Wastelanders were ready, in good positions for a fight if they had to do that. Betrayals happened, even under the white flag. They never would sully their honor in such a way, but others were desperate, or not as strong. But in the minds of Wastelanders, the code was part of their strength, a reason why they continued to exist when others fell by the wayside. But the code wasn’t enough, you had to be cautious.
The riders, a trio, were demonstrably unarmed, though sharp eyes could spot their comrades within eye-sight, upon a mesa outcropping over the road, watching the proceedings for signs of betrayal.
They were careful to circle around and come to a stop, to acquire sight of the yellow rattlesnake banner that Snares carried. It was part of the ritual, though the enemy was as cautious as the Wastelanders were. Everyone knew that stupidity got stung.
“We’re here to ransom for our own. We are the Sun Tribe.”
The man was a dark-chocolate color, tall and muscled looking, in a lean way. He wore sewn-together leather bits in a jerkin and the embroidered sort of boots they favored down here.
“Very well, the Wastelanders will parley with the Sun Tribe.” Headbanger had the rest of the gang around, keeping watch on him as well, and the bodies of the enemy dead arrayed in a stately fashion, covered from the elements.
“You treated our people with dignity.”
“You fought well. One was still breathing, but we had to finish her, or she would have died for a long time, and died very painfully. Doc,” he gestured to the skinny, mocha-latte colored young man in the outsized leathers, “gave her the desert flower you call peyote and spiked her. There was no pain and no looting. We return your two and all they had, except the bikes, as a sign of respect.”
“The Wastelanders are an honorable people. For the two mounts, we offer…” Despite the talk of honor, this was important; many local gangs kept their loot hidden, or the loot was with the leader, so a good negotiator could bring a higher price from the other gang’s stores for their bikes. The Wastelanders didn’t have a spare member at the moment or they’d have kept the bikes. Instead, they were bargaining chips.
It took a while for the negotiations, as sharp as they were, along with the back and forth, but finally, the Sun Tribe had to accept the price, and the goods were exchanged, including a copy of the map the Sun Tribe used and a revolver with ammunition.
“You are Doc?” the Sun Tribe leader pointed at him. Doc nodded, not sure what to say.
“I thank you for the mercy blow to Mouse. She was a strong warrior and she never complained.” He went over to Mouse’s body, flipped back the sheet over her, and pulled something from around her neck. He came back with his hand clenched.
“I want you to have this. For giving an enemy mercy. For showing her honor. For not leaving her like a dead coyote. You Wastelanders will not be harmed by the Sun Tribe again. You have passage through our territory and we keep our word.”
Others were already getting ready to retrieve the Sun Tribe bikes, as Doc opened his hand and the large black man opened his to let a pendant of a rattlesnake’s head, dipped in Navajo silver, hanging off rawhide, fall into his palm.
“Stay strong, rider.”
The sun was already going down when the Sun Tribe finally were out of sight, and it only took a few miles of riding before Headbanger signaled the stop for the night, “Alright, we set up here for the night. Keep watch, the Sun Tribe aren’t the only riders in these parts.”
Doc fingered the medallion around his neck, feeling awkward to be wearing it. It wasn’t really loot, but a token of thanks, but he almost felt like he could feel the warrior-girl’s presence in it. His mother once told him there were no such thing as spirits – “tribal superstition, the sort of backward shit that’s getting traction now that the world’s gone to hell,” – but he wasn’t so sure. At least, given how nasty life was in general, he hoped there was some sort of a reward. A ‘Vall-hall,’ or whatever that crazy old coot called it, back in the Ozarks, for warriors.
But he shoved aside such thoughts. The reality was that they were alive, the sun was going down and much had to be done to get camp going, while staying vigilant for the sort of scavengers that’d decide to make a fight of it by night. Exhausted and strung out from the fighting earlier in the day, they knew that more than one kind of vulture dwelled in this desert, looking for prey.
Guest- Guest
Re: Wastelanders - Post-Apocalyptic RP - Recruiting
by Kaito Thu Aug 20, 2009 6:36 am
Pointy closed her eyes felt the sun burn on her eyelids, even through the sunglasses. She always felt a bit depressed after a fight. She didn't want to kill anyone, but she'd always do it to defend herself or the gang. She grabbed part of her rifle and felt it's hot metal burn her fingers and sighed. She got to live another day.
She walked over to the rest of the gang, going through the corpses of both the enemy and the Wastelanders. How unneccessary. She saw doc cowering over a girl's corpse, realising that it actually wasn't a corpse, yet. She still shuddered. Pointy crouched next to her and looked into her face. It was pale white and sweating cold. And she was actually beautiful. The kind of beauty you can only get in the wastelands. The beauty of surviving in this desert, of not letting yourself get pulled down, of always moving on. The beauty of a warrior.
It reminded her of how she was found by the Gang. It must've looked a lot like this; only the corpses had been rotting for a while, then. Doc stood up and talked to Hammerhead. She didn't need to listen, she saw how he tapped his knife, knew what he was going to do. Her throat felt like she was being choked. She wanted to say something. Something to comfort her. Something to express her sorrow. Was it fair that she survived, but this girl would die? She would die under the desert sun, by the knife, around the corpses of her friends, around her enemies.
"You know," she started to talk, "I don't know if fate exists, or anything. But if it does, it is an asshole."
The shuddering girl looked into her eyes. The pain she felt was obvious. But she was still a warrior, despite the face of death, she was being straight. Pointy leaned down and whispered. "May you rest well. I will remember you, you have fought well. Maybe we will see each other on the other side."
She saw Doc and Headbanger coming.
"Goodbye."
The girl, still shuddering, closed her eyes for a brief period, and Pointy stood up and did some steps backwards. They moved her to a sitting position, with a ripped open stomach, it was a wonder that she didn't scream from the pain, and she opened the eyes, again, looking distant, ready. Her head was pushed forward, and Doc aligned the Knife at the back of her head, just where the neck started, and rammed it in quickly. The girl's eyes went wide for a second, and she coughed twice, and then fell silent, except for some shuddering that remained. Pointy had seen some people die, but this girl, she reminded her of herself. She left with a sick stomach.
She didn't talk the rest of the day. There were negotions later, but she didn't listen to much what they said. She was only there to watch if they did anything stupid, which they luckily didn't.
After some more riding, they set up camp. Again, she worked in silence. She didn't feel like talking.
When she was finished setting up her makeshift tent, which was just a piece of linen over some sticks, held together by rope, she took her weapon cleansing kit and sat down with the others, disassembling the rifle. She realised she'd need new bullets, soon enough.
She walked over to the rest of the gang, going through the corpses of both the enemy and the Wastelanders. How unneccessary. She saw doc cowering over a girl's corpse, realising that it actually wasn't a corpse, yet. She still shuddered. Pointy crouched next to her and looked into her face. It was pale white and sweating cold. And she was actually beautiful. The kind of beauty you can only get in the wastelands. The beauty of surviving in this desert, of not letting yourself get pulled down, of always moving on. The beauty of a warrior.
It reminded her of how she was found by the Gang. It must've looked a lot like this; only the corpses had been rotting for a while, then. Doc stood up and talked to Hammerhead. She didn't need to listen, she saw how he tapped his knife, knew what he was going to do. Her throat felt like she was being choked. She wanted to say something. Something to comfort her. Something to express her sorrow. Was it fair that she survived, but this girl would die? She would die under the desert sun, by the knife, around the corpses of her friends, around her enemies.
"You know," she started to talk, "I don't know if fate exists, or anything. But if it does, it is an asshole."
The shuddering girl looked into her eyes. The pain she felt was obvious. But she was still a warrior, despite the face of death, she was being straight. Pointy leaned down and whispered. "May you rest well. I will remember you, you have fought well. Maybe we will see each other on the other side."
She saw Doc and Headbanger coming.
"Goodbye."
The girl, still shuddering, closed her eyes for a brief period, and Pointy stood up and did some steps backwards. They moved her to a sitting position, with a ripped open stomach, it was a wonder that she didn't scream from the pain, and she opened the eyes, again, looking distant, ready. Her head was pushed forward, and Doc aligned the Knife at the back of her head, just where the neck started, and rammed it in quickly. The girl's eyes went wide for a second, and she coughed twice, and then fell silent, except for some shuddering that remained. Pointy had seen some people die, but this girl, she reminded her of herself. She left with a sick stomach.
She didn't talk the rest of the day. There were negotions later, but she didn't listen to much what they said. She was only there to watch if they did anything stupid, which they luckily didn't.
After some more riding, they set up camp. Again, she worked in silence. She didn't feel like talking.
When she was finished setting up her makeshift tent, which was just a piece of linen over some sticks, held together by rope, she took her weapon cleansing kit and sat down with the others, disassembling the rifle. She realised she'd need new bullets, soon enough.
Kaito- Spectral Light
- Join date : 2009-06-08
Posts : 373
Location : Germany
Re: Wastelanders - Post-Apocalyptic RP - Recruiting
by Ferrous Miles Fri Aug 21, 2009 9:47 am
Seated on his saddlebags next to a low, canvas pup-tent, Snares used needle and thread to mend a hole punched in the Rider's Rattle by a stray bullet. All his attention was focused on the yellow fiber he slowly, lovingly applied the make the banner whole again. Luckily, the wound was nowhere near the Rattler's coil, or things would have been much harder; as it was, all Snares had to do to appease the wind spirit was sew, which he did with obvious care, if not alacrity. In reality, he was taking his time, no rush with night falling. All the traps he had named himself for had been set and baited in the surrounding area, with the range of his expected prey going from wilddogs to lizards and snakes.
When, eventually, the mending was done and the Rattler was satisfied by Snares' efforts, the young man carefully replaced the large cloth on it's pole and planted it in a high place where it would be seen by approaching foes. That finished, Snares walked around the perimeter of the camp, checking the closest of the nigh-invisible threads where he had positioned them in strategic positions. Finding two small, non-poisonous reptile, he stuck them in a large pouch on his belt, situated there for just such a purpose. They would make a tasty snack later, he thought as he moved back toward the low gathering of tents.
Spotting Pointy working with her rifle, he watched her at it for a minute or two, then approached from behind her shelter. Not quite trying to be stealthy, but moving quietly all the same in a subconscious action taught him by many years on the ride, he stepped up beside her. Crouching down, he fingered an ammo belt slung across his chest, partially filled with rifle bullets of varying sizes. "'Ey, chica. Picked up a few Naitos from some youngblood usin' a shooty like your's, but one'a their's got the rifle from me." Pulling his bandolier away from him slightly to examine the uppermost rounds, he counted. "Yeah. One ten and a half. You want?" Casting a glance around at whatever equipment or loot she had laying about, he did a quick eyeball appraisal of some stuff before looking back at the girl herself. From his expression, it was clear that the rounds wouldn't be free, much less cheap.
When, eventually, the mending was done and the Rattler was satisfied by Snares' efforts, the young man carefully replaced the large cloth on it's pole and planted it in a high place where it would be seen by approaching foes. That finished, Snares walked around the perimeter of the camp, checking the closest of the nigh-invisible threads where he had positioned them in strategic positions. Finding two small, non-poisonous reptile, he stuck them in a large pouch on his belt, situated there for just such a purpose. They would make a tasty snack later, he thought as he moved back toward the low gathering of tents.
Spotting Pointy working with her rifle, he watched her at it for a minute or two, then approached from behind her shelter. Not quite trying to be stealthy, but moving quietly all the same in a subconscious action taught him by many years on the ride, he stepped up beside her. Crouching down, he fingered an ammo belt slung across his chest, partially filled with rifle bullets of varying sizes. "'Ey, chica. Picked up a few Naitos from some youngblood usin' a shooty like your's, but one'a their's got the rifle from me." Pulling his bandolier away from him slightly to examine the uppermost rounds, he counted. "Yeah. One ten and a half. You want?" Casting a glance around at whatever equipment or loot she had laying about, he did a quick eyeball appraisal of some stuff before looking back at the girl herself. From his expression, it was clear that the rounds wouldn't be free, much less cheap.
Ferrous Miles- Mist
- Join date : 2009-08-13
Posts : 48
Age : 31
Location : Texas.
Re: Wastelanders - Post-Apocalyptic RP - Recruiting
by Inerio Fri Aug 21, 2009 2:44 pm
Ziggy grumbled something that probably wasn't even English, or any other language for that matter, under her breath. Her favorite lighter, an elongated green see through lighter most likely made of cheap plastic, was no longer working. The spoke was stuck, and Ziggy had managed to callus her thumb by repeatedly running it over the spoke. The skin was a bit pink now, somewhat ripped. It didn't matter, since years of constant spoke switching had severely hardened the area. What did matter, much to Ziggy's dismay, was that she wouldn't be able to use the damn thing any longer.
This concern over objects in such a dour time may have made Ziggy seem selfish. Perhaps she was. Ziggy didn't allow herself to become too concerned with other people outside her gang. They were no business of hers. Not to mention she certainly wasn't about to feel sorry for some girl she'd never even talked to before. In her opinion this was a good lesson for the Sun Tribe. If they hadn't tried to pick a fight with the Wastelanders than that girl wouldn't have died. If it did happen to be a member of her gang, well, that would be a different story.
With a frustrated grunt Ziggy walked away from the rest of the group for a moment. She held the lighter firmly in her hand, weighing it a bit. She held it up to the sky, little bits of light causing rays of green to stream down at her face. There was still some lighter fluid in the container. Ziggy tossed the object up and caught it, then repeated the action again. Her eyes scanned the ground looking for the very best place for the lighter to land. After a moment of searching Ziggy decieded upon the perfect place.
With a small huff the girl chucked the lighter with a good amount of force at the ground. It let out a small "poof" of an explosion. Nothing remarkable and none too loud, but enough to amuse Ziggy. Not to mention such a thing didn't always work, so the fact that the lighter actually exploded that time around filled Ziggy with child like glee. It was the simpler things that made Ziggy happy. Things like the smell of burning matches and cigarettes.
The thought of cigarettes reminded Ziggy that she wanted one quite a lot. The goggle sporting biker shrugged her canvas bag off of one shoulder and brought the item around to her front. She didn't bother to look inside, and instead shoved a gloved hand into the bag and felt around for her tin full of nicotine stuffed happiness. This was relatively easy and upon opening the canister Ziggy chose a not even half smoked stick to place between her lips. With a bitter smirk she remembered someone reprimanding her on her habit once.
"Those things'll kill ya." The person had said to her.
Ziggy couldn't help but laugh a little under her breath. There were worse things in the world. In fact, out of all the things she could possibly die from Ziggy was sure cigarettes were the least of her worries. She was more likely to get shot, stabbed, blown up, pushed off a cliff, bitten by a snake, or stung by a scorpion. In fact, some medical reason like a heart attack or lung failure almost seemed more appealing to Ziggy. Dieing in her sleep would have been nice. Ziggy had come to appreciate more peaceful deaths. Other thought a warriors death was more honorable. Really, it was the same piss and shit yourself deal just with blood and maybe some screaming.
Granted, Ziggy already had mapped out how she was going to go. She'd blown up quite a few people in her life. Thus, she thought it would be wonderfully poetic to blow herself up. Crazy? Perhaps. Irrational. Most definitely. However, Ziggy was much to prideful to allow herself to be killed by some other person. Suicide bombing was her last ditch plan should all others go awry.
Somewhere between the wisps of smoke she'd caught sight of Pointy and Snares. She bit her lip before exhaling. She could only guess the conversation going on there. Ziggy didn't claim to know Snares well, but she knew him enough to know he was fond of bargaining. The man was probably trying to con Pointy into something. Now, Ziggy wasn't some goody goody. However, she did enjoy meddling in others affairs. Why? Well, Ziggy didn't have a legitimate reason. If one asked they'd be given the standard answer: "Because."
"Is Snares bothering you Pointy?" Ziggy asked with an almost Cheshire Cat-esque grin. She took another drag of her cancer stick. "He has a tendency to do that." Ziggy's statement wasn't confrontational, as it was playful teasing. Things were too dour, she couldn't stand it.
This concern over objects in such a dour time may have made Ziggy seem selfish. Perhaps she was. Ziggy didn't allow herself to become too concerned with other people outside her gang. They were no business of hers. Not to mention she certainly wasn't about to feel sorry for some girl she'd never even talked to before. In her opinion this was a good lesson for the Sun Tribe. If they hadn't tried to pick a fight with the Wastelanders than that girl wouldn't have died. If it did happen to be a member of her gang, well, that would be a different story.
With a frustrated grunt Ziggy walked away from the rest of the group for a moment. She held the lighter firmly in her hand, weighing it a bit. She held it up to the sky, little bits of light causing rays of green to stream down at her face. There was still some lighter fluid in the container. Ziggy tossed the object up and caught it, then repeated the action again. Her eyes scanned the ground looking for the very best place for the lighter to land. After a moment of searching Ziggy decieded upon the perfect place.
With a small huff the girl chucked the lighter with a good amount of force at the ground. It let out a small "poof" of an explosion. Nothing remarkable and none too loud, but enough to amuse Ziggy. Not to mention such a thing didn't always work, so the fact that the lighter actually exploded that time around filled Ziggy with child like glee. It was the simpler things that made Ziggy happy. Things like the smell of burning matches and cigarettes.
The thought of cigarettes reminded Ziggy that she wanted one quite a lot. The goggle sporting biker shrugged her canvas bag off of one shoulder and brought the item around to her front. She didn't bother to look inside, and instead shoved a gloved hand into the bag and felt around for her tin full of nicotine stuffed happiness. This was relatively easy and upon opening the canister Ziggy chose a not even half smoked stick to place between her lips. With a bitter smirk she remembered someone reprimanding her on her habit once.
"Those things'll kill ya." The person had said to her.
Ziggy couldn't help but laugh a little under her breath. There were worse things in the world. In fact, out of all the things she could possibly die from Ziggy was sure cigarettes were the least of her worries. She was more likely to get shot, stabbed, blown up, pushed off a cliff, bitten by a snake, or stung by a scorpion. In fact, some medical reason like a heart attack or lung failure almost seemed more appealing to Ziggy. Dieing in her sleep would have been nice. Ziggy had come to appreciate more peaceful deaths. Other thought a warriors death was more honorable. Really, it was the same piss and shit yourself deal just with blood and maybe some screaming.
Granted, Ziggy already had mapped out how she was going to go. She'd blown up quite a few people in her life. Thus, she thought it would be wonderfully poetic to blow herself up. Crazy? Perhaps. Irrational. Most definitely. However, Ziggy was much to prideful to allow herself to be killed by some other person. Suicide bombing was her last ditch plan should all others go awry.
Somewhere between the wisps of smoke she'd caught sight of Pointy and Snares. She bit her lip before exhaling. She could only guess the conversation going on there. Ziggy didn't claim to know Snares well, but she knew him enough to know he was fond of bargaining. The man was probably trying to con Pointy into something. Now, Ziggy wasn't some goody goody. However, she did enjoy meddling in others affairs. Why? Well, Ziggy didn't have a legitimate reason. If one asked they'd be given the standard answer: "Because."
"Is Snares bothering you Pointy?" Ziggy asked with an almost Cheshire Cat-esque grin. She took another drag of her cancer stick. "He has a tendency to do that." Ziggy's statement wasn't confrontational, as it was playful teasing. Things were too dour, she couldn't stand it.
Inerio- Ghost
- Join date : 2009-06-24
Posts : 1443
Age : 32
Location : Asleep in a bathtub somewhere.
Re: Wastelanders - Post-Apocalyptic RP - Recruiting
by Kaito Fri Aug 21, 2009 8:04 pm
Pointy sat and assembled her rifle in a systematic, automatic manner. She had done it a thousand times, it was more natural than brushing teeth.
She didn't hear it when Snares came looking over her shoulder, and only realised it when he had already started talking.
He was going for the trade again. Pointy sighed and continued assembling the rifle until she was finished, letting Snares wait in awkward silence, then pulled at the rifle to tense the spring, and pointed it at him.
"You'll want to give them to me next time I save your life."
She pulled the trigger, and the spring snapped.
Even if you know a weapon isn't loaded, that sound is very discomfortable when the weapon's end is pointed at you. Admittedly, it was a bit harsh a response, but she felt like it.
Ziggy came up to the two of them, grinning sheepishly. "Is Snares bothering you?" she asked, "he has the tendency to do that."
"Just the usual.", she replied. "Don't realise how you can like the smell of those 'cigarettes'. Burned something, again, huh?" Pointy grinned and sighed. "I'm jealous, you know. I don't have anything fun to do, like you have."
She didn't hear it when Snares came looking over her shoulder, and only realised it when he had already started talking.
He was going for the trade again. Pointy sighed and continued assembling the rifle until she was finished, letting Snares wait in awkward silence, then pulled at the rifle to tense the spring, and pointed it at him.
"You'll want to give them to me next time I save your life."
She pulled the trigger, and the spring snapped.
Even if you know a weapon isn't loaded, that sound is very discomfortable when the weapon's end is pointed at you. Admittedly, it was a bit harsh a response, but she felt like it.
Ziggy came up to the two of them, grinning sheepishly. "Is Snares bothering you?" she asked, "he has the tendency to do that."
"Just the usual.", she replied. "Don't realise how you can like the smell of those 'cigarettes'. Burned something, again, huh?" Pointy grinned and sighed. "I'm jealous, you know. I don't have anything fun to do, like you have."
Kaito- Spectral Light
- Join date : 2009-06-08
Posts : 373
Location : Germany
Re: Wastelanders - Post-Apocalyptic RP - Recruiting
by Ferrous Miles Fri Aug 21, 2009 10:59 pm
Snares flinched as the weapons lock slid shut, even though he could see it was unloaded, and that Pointy would not harm a member of the gang. Dropping his ammo belt to hang from his shoulder once more, he stood, dusting his heavy denim pants off. "You won't be savin' anyone without no bullets, now will ya?" It was an empty statement, Snares was just playing the long game. No one would get the fifteen NATO rounds from him in the meantime, and she would be more likely to pay up later, when she ran lower on ammunition.
Interrupted mid-thought by Ziggy's appearance, the youth backed up a couple of steps, avoiding the pervasive cloud of smoke. One hand automatically covering nose and mouth, he spoke again. "You know where to find me, Points. Not gonna wait forever, ya know." And with that, he sidled past Ziggy, breath held against what he saw as violently poisoned air. Once he was past that, he went around, checking more of his traps and finding a few more tasty creatures, all of which were dead by the time he found them. That pleased him, since it meant the animal spirits of this place would not be angered by the needless suffering caused by an unskilled trapper.
His pouch filled with what gains there were for the moment, Snares went to where his mount stood at rest. Sitting before it, he ran his hands over the battered metal and chipped plastic that were the signs of a long life upon the road. This was a good ride, and it had never failed him yet, which Snares attributed entirely to the skill of their mechanics and the attention he himself lavished on it, both in body and spirit. He had been taught by those who enslaved him that everything had an inner being, and that rides were the least tamable of anything from before the Plague or after. His own experience told him this was true, and so he spent all his free time with the beast, feeding and caring for it, tending to it's hurts and woes, generally doing everything in his power to appease the machine in the hopes that his career in the Rider's would be long and fruitful.
Interrupted mid-thought by Ziggy's appearance, the youth backed up a couple of steps, avoiding the pervasive cloud of smoke. One hand automatically covering nose and mouth, he spoke again. "You know where to find me, Points. Not gonna wait forever, ya know." And with that, he sidled past Ziggy, breath held against what he saw as violently poisoned air. Once he was past that, he went around, checking more of his traps and finding a few more tasty creatures, all of which were dead by the time he found them. That pleased him, since it meant the animal spirits of this place would not be angered by the needless suffering caused by an unskilled trapper.
His pouch filled with what gains there were for the moment, Snares went to where his mount stood at rest. Sitting before it, he ran his hands over the battered metal and chipped plastic that were the signs of a long life upon the road. This was a good ride, and it had never failed him yet, which Snares attributed entirely to the skill of their mechanics and the attention he himself lavished on it, both in body and spirit. He had been taught by those who enslaved him that everything had an inner being, and that rides were the least tamable of anything from before the Plague or after. His own experience told him this was true, and so he spent all his free time with the beast, feeding and caring for it, tending to it's hurts and woes, generally doing everything in his power to appease the machine in the hopes that his career in the Rider's would be long and fruitful.
Ferrous Miles- Mist
- Join date : 2009-08-13
Posts : 48
Age : 31
Location : Texas.
Re: Wastelanders - Post-Apocalyptic RP - Recruiting
by Regicidal Sun Aug 23, 2009 1:04 am
Sox sat sideways on the seat of his bike towards the rear of the Wastelander's camp. One of the scrapped bikes from the recent battle sat on it's homemade kickstand in front of him, shadowed by the seven-foot canvas lean-to he constructed whenever they set up camp for any length of time. The lean-to was used primarily to fix the gang's bikes, and the shoddy excuse for a tent he had scrounged from a half-rotten box in one of the lesser damaged remnant cities was where he slept. For the moment, though, his mind was wrapped around how he was going to make something remarkable happen with the bullet-ridden heap of potential parts in front of him.
He pushed himself off of his own bike and set a hand on the shaded gas tank. It was ruined, of course, there was no telling how many bullets had actually pierced the thing. The battle between the two gangs had massacred the Sun Tribe, and had hardly cost Sox more than a wheel's worth of shells. Though his knife had admittedly seen more action than his pistol once they had closed the distance between them. The longer he stared at the ruined bike, the more he was certain that it was useless to himself and the rest of the gang. He had enough spare parts loaded in his numerous saddle-bags to last until the next town. A few minor parts like belts and nuts and bolts. Sox usually tried to keep up with the state of most of the gang's bikes, keeping the parts they would need soon in order and taking care of mechanical issues that would be trouble before they ever presented themselves.
That was something that made him indispensable. He had an eye for parts about to break or wear out. It was eerie to some of the other gang members that he could tell what was wrong with a bike simply by hearing the way it ran as they moved between campsites on the old highways. Sox let out a long sigh and knelt down next to the old machine. The model was closer to his own than anyone's. So he reached back and lifted the proper wrench from one of the saddlebags and starting stripping easy-to-carry parts he knew were due for replacement on his own bike and maybe some of the others that were similar. After he had a suitable stack of rotors, nuts, bolts, and a piston from the engine block, he replace the tool purely by memory.
Every time they stopped for camp, Sox set his campsite up exactly the same. The lean-to was large enough to cover two bikes, one being his own, from the harsh sun and the heat, which meant he could work during the daylight hours. His piece of shit tent made of what had once been colored plastic tarp material was about ten feet back from the 'shop' he based from his bike. All he really knew about his bike was that it was a Shadow. After all, that was what had been printed along the side of the original gas tank. Though he had long since modified his own gas tank to a stark yellow that happened to hold more fuel for the longer treks they made across the desert. With the exception of the front and rear fenders, the main portion of the body was a mix of rusted and scratched off black paint that was pocked here and there by a stray bullet or so.
Once he was done with the bike, he stood and brushed his knee off, the light dust swirling in the desert wind as he slapped at the denim cargo pants he wore. He tugged his jacket tighter on his shoulders as his gaze finally scoured the battlefield. Of course the opposition had been massacred, but they had been honorable nonetheless. So Sox didn't bother with making himself known in the Parley. He would just as well have them commit suicide for trying to stand against the Wastelanders than wasting their time with Little John toll charges... Sox let out a short sigh before sitting back on his bike.
He pushed himself off of his own bike and set a hand on the shaded gas tank. It was ruined, of course, there was no telling how many bullets had actually pierced the thing. The battle between the two gangs had massacred the Sun Tribe, and had hardly cost Sox more than a wheel's worth of shells. Though his knife had admittedly seen more action than his pistol once they had closed the distance between them. The longer he stared at the ruined bike, the more he was certain that it was useless to himself and the rest of the gang. He had enough spare parts loaded in his numerous saddle-bags to last until the next town. A few minor parts like belts and nuts and bolts. Sox usually tried to keep up with the state of most of the gang's bikes, keeping the parts they would need soon in order and taking care of mechanical issues that would be trouble before they ever presented themselves.
That was something that made him indispensable. He had an eye for parts about to break or wear out. It was eerie to some of the other gang members that he could tell what was wrong with a bike simply by hearing the way it ran as they moved between campsites on the old highways. Sox let out a long sigh and knelt down next to the old machine. The model was closer to his own than anyone's. So he reached back and lifted the proper wrench from one of the saddlebags and starting stripping easy-to-carry parts he knew were due for replacement on his own bike and maybe some of the others that were similar. After he had a suitable stack of rotors, nuts, bolts, and a piston from the engine block, he replace the tool purely by memory.
Every time they stopped for camp, Sox set his campsite up exactly the same. The lean-to was large enough to cover two bikes, one being his own, from the harsh sun and the heat, which meant he could work during the daylight hours. His piece of shit tent made of what had once been colored plastic tarp material was about ten feet back from the 'shop' he based from his bike. All he really knew about his bike was that it was a Shadow. After all, that was what had been printed along the side of the original gas tank. Though he had long since modified his own gas tank to a stark yellow that happened to hold more fuel for the longer treks they made across the desert. With the exception of the front and rear fenders, the main portion of the body was a mix of rusted and scratched off black paint that was pocked here and there by a stray bullet or so.
Once he was done with the bike, he stood and brushed his knee off, the light dust swirling in the desert wind as he slapped at the denim cargo pants he wore. He tugged his jacket tighter on his shoulders as his gaze finally scoured the battlefield. Of course the opposition had been massacred, but they had been honorable nonetheless. So Sox didn't bother with making himself known in the Parley. He would just as well have them commit suicide for trying to stand against the Wastelanders than wasting their time with Little John toll charges... Sox let out a short sigh before sitting back on his bike.
Regicidal- Shadow
- Join date : 2009-07-16
Posts : 205
Age : 35
Location : Florida Panhandle wo0t.
Re: Wastelanders - Post-Apocalyptic RP - Recruiting
by Hamster Mon Aug 24, 2009 10:25 pm
Sling was bored. The battle had been quick and exciting, with him managing to hit someone's elbow and making his accuracy very poor as highlight for him, but they were all too short and they all ended up with most of the gang sitting by themselves not doing much. He sat down in a corner of the camp checking his slingshot, which needed some adjusting. As the battle went on he noticed his projectiles were slightly swaying to the right, and it meant that the rubber string on the right side was slipping too low. Thus, with some effortless pulls he undid the tight knot he made himself, and when he repositioned the string he retightened it. After years of practise and trial and error he was able to do it with his eyes closed, but he still paid close attention just to be sure. He had all the time anyway; nothing interesting was going on at times like these.
The interactions that did occur between each other were the highlights for him, and he chuckled as Pointy pulled the trigger. The young lad understood the need for trade, but the Wastelanders had treated him well so far, and he’d gladly give away something he didn’t need himself, especially when it could be of benefit to him later. That’s why he liked Pointy’s attitude, she was clear and the ‘no nonsense’ type, definitely something he could appreciate
What he also liked though, was someone that broke the awkward silences and dull, serious moments. Sling grinned at Ziggy’s remarks, and Snare’s response to ignore it made it all the more hilarious to him. Smirking to himself he decided that if he wanted any amusement that was the place to be, and he slowly walked over there in a sluggish manner, dragging his shoes over the ground a bit as he did so. When he neared both of them he stood still, put his hands in his pockets, and let out a sigh.
”I’m bored.” Sling then said, a light frown and a half a smile on his face as he looked at both of them for a bit. Pointy had a determined look in her eyes as always, a trait making him feel calm around her and at ease, as if they told him that everything was going to be alright one way or another no matter the situation they were in. Ziggy seemed more like himself, a not so serious and fun-loving person, and, like him, she didn’t like to think about her past either. She liked cigs though, and he most certainly didn’t, which made it an excellent gift. As he saw there wasn’t much left of the cig in her mouth he wondered if she was running low on them, and it didn’t take him long to open the pack in his pocket to take one out and then present it to her, unknowing that she actually still had quite a lot.
”No cost.” He said, but almost instantly after the words left his mouth his arm retracted about an inch, and he had a glint in his eye. "Well.. maybe a hug?” Sling then added, and he had a broad grin on his features. Affection was sparse these days, and the Ginger-haired definitely wasn’t made of stone. It was mostly a joke he made on this occasion, but he was hopeful he’d get a meaningful hug, and not just one given so that she could grab the cig off him.
The interactions that did occur between each other were the highlights for him, and he chuckled as Pointy pulled the trigger. The young lad understood the need for trade, but the Wastelanders had treated him well so far, and he’d gladly give away something he didn’t need himself, especially when it could be of benefit to him later. That’s why he liked Pointy’s attitude, she was clear and the ‘no nonsense’ type, definitely something he could appreciate
What he also liked though, was someone that broke the awkward silences and dull, serious moments. Sling grinned at Ziggy’s remarks, and Snare’s response to ignore it made it all the more hilarious to him. Smirking to himself he decided that if he wanted any amusement that was the place to be, and he slowly walked over there in a sluggish manner, dragging his shoes over the ground a bit as he did so. When he neared both of them he stood still, put his hands in his pockets, and let out a sigh.
”I’m bored.” Sling then said, a light frown and a half a smile on his face as he looked at both of them for a bit. Pointy had a determined look in her eyes as always, a trait making him feel calm around her and at ease, as if they told him that everything was going to be alright one way or another no matter the situation they were in. Ziggy seemed more like himself, a not so serious and fun-loving person, and, like him, she didn’t like to think about her past either. She liked cigs though, and he most certainly didn’t, which made it an excellent gift. As he saw there wasn’t much left of the cig in her mouth he wondered if she was running low on them, and it didn’t take him long to open the pack in his pocket to take one out and then present it to her, unknowing that she actually still had quite a lot.
”No cost.” He said, but almost instantly after the words left his mouth his arm retracted about an inch, and he had a glint in his eye. "Well.. maybe a hug?” Sling then added, and he had a broad grin on his features. Affection was sparse these days, and the Ginger-haired definitely wasn’t made of stone. It was mostly a joke he made on this occasion, but he was hopeful he’d get a meaningful hug, and not just one given so that she could grab the cig off him.
Hamster- Mist
- Join date : 2009-08-14
Posts : 41
Age : 32
Location : the Netherlands
Re: Wastelanders - Post-Apocalyptic RP - Recruiting
by Inerio Wed Aug 26, 2009 5:31 pm
Ziggy placed her hand on her hips and pouted slightly as Snares slipped off. He covered his mouth in a very tactless manner and ducked away. How rude. She thought, pressing her tongue against the backs of her teeth and sucking in. She flicked the butt of her cigarette and shifted her weight over to her left leg. Letting up a sigh of gray smoke and feigned contempt she looked up at the sky.
"Well. . ." She began in a haughty manner, adjusting the goggles which sat atop her head. "That just makes me feel unloved." She shook her head slightly, smirking despite herself. Her attention, swung back to Pointy, who'd begun to speak again. Ziggy grinned at her remark about her cigarette's and let out a grunt of a laugh. "Well hun." She began, folding her arms. "You just learn to live with a vice or two. Or three, or seven." Ziggy hadn't taken into account just how many vices she had up until then.
There was smoking, of course. Then there was her almost compulsive need to set things on fire. There was drinking, which she did whenever she could acquire alcohol. Coffee was a substance she enjoyed, though it was hard to come by. Killing could fall into the category of setting things on fire, though it usually had more serious repercussions. Ziggy snorted and chewed on her lower lip, trying to dismiss anymore self reflections. Life was easier when she just went about doing what she wanted and what the gang needed. Being morally well off wasn't exactly going to bring home the bacon.
"I'm not sure many people consider lighting snakes and other critters on fire fun." Ziggy chortled, flicking her cigarette to the ground and stomping it out with her boot. "But, I guess--" She was cut off by a younger member, Sling, who approached her with another cigarette. This act managed to temporarily immobilize Ziggy who furrowed her brow and cocked her head to the side. At first she couldn't quite register that the boy had actually offered her a cigarette. Random acts of kindness weren't exactly common for her. When Ziggy's sun fried brain managed to add up the concept her mouth split into a large grin.
"Well thank you sugar!" She exclaimed, wrapping her arms around the ginger haired boy. Ziggy hadn't grown beyond the bounds of physical affection. She certainly wasn't that much of a hard ass. The problem was that not many other people were okay with a raving pyromaniac wanting to squeeze them until their eyes popped out. . . Figuratively of course. Ziggy happily took the cigarette from the boy and lit it up, it was a menthol. "Sun is settin." She remarked, trying to make conversation. "I reckon we oughta start a fire." She bent over the tapped Pointy on the head with her knuckle before standing erect again. "Want me to pitch next to you or would you prefer to be alone today?" She asked, turning to Sling as if to ask him the same question. Ziggy didn't mind the company of youngsters.
"Well. . ." She began in a haughty manner, adjusting the goggles which sat atop her head. "That just makes me feel unloved." She shook her head slightly, smirking despite herself. Her attention, swung back to Pointy, who'd begun to speak again. Ziggy grinned at her remark about her cigarette's and let out a grunt of a laugh. "Well hun." She began, folding her arms. "You just learn to live with a vice or two. Or three, or seven." Ziggy hadn't taken into account just how many vices she had up until then.
There was smoking, of course. Then there was her almost compulsive need to set things on fire. There was drinking, which she did whenever she could acquire alcohol. Coffee was a substance she enjoyed, though it was hard to come by. Killing could fall into the category of setting things on fire, though it usually had more serious repercussions. Ziggy snorted and chewed on her lower lip, trying to dismiss anymore self reflections. Life was easier when she just went about doing what she wanted and what the gang needed. Being morally well off wasn't exactly going to bring home the bacon.
"I'm not sure many people consider lighting snakes and other critters on fire fun." Ziggy chortled, flicking her cigarette to the ground and stomping it out with her boot. "But, I guess--" She was cut off by a younger member, Sling, who approached her with another cigarette. This act managed to temporarily immobilize Ziggy who furrowed her brow and cocked her head to the side. At first she couldn't quite register that the boy had actually offered her a cigarette. Random acts of kindness weren't exactly common for her. When Ziggy's sun fried brain managed to add up the concept her mouth split into a large grin.
"Well thank you sugar!" She exclaimed, wrapping her arms around the ginger haired boy. Ziggy hadn't grown beyond the bounds of physical affection. She certainly wasn't that much of a hard ass. The problem was that not many other people were okay with a raving pyromaniac wanting to squeeze them until their eyes popped out. . . Figuratively of course. Ziggy happily took the cigarette from the boy and lit it up, it was a menthol. "Sun is settin." She remarked, trying to make conversation. "I reckon we oughta start a fire." She bent over the tapped Pointy on the head with her knuckle before standing erect again. "Want me to pitch next to you or would you prefer to be alone today?" She asked, turning to Sling as if to ask him the same question. Ziggy didn't mind the company of youngsters.
Inerio- Ghost
- Join date : 2009-06-24
Posts : 1443
Age : 32
Location : Asleep in a bathtub somewhere.
Re: Wastelanders - Post-Apocalyptic RP - Recruiting
by Guest Wed Aug 26, 2009 7:45 pm
Doc had a different sort of agenda when camp got set up; aches, sprains, scrapes, injuries. It was easy to see how, if left untreated, even the most minor of things could turn into a festering abscess that could become an amputation case; Doc's job was to prevent the stupid little things from becoming a huge burden. It was strange, unglamorous work, lancing people's boils, scrubbing out their cuts and mixing poultices.
Doc was not a weak man, he had a wiry, lean build and a runner's flat, hard muscle to him. But his role in the Wastelanders was almost invisible; sure, he knew how to fight, he'd once taken a guy's jaw off with that 'fighting shovel' of his, with its folding shovel blade and a pick head that could be deployed with a loud click of a spring-bolt falling into place. But he wasn't vital to the fighting line. Instead, his work in a fight inevitably came when everyone else was sprawled out, exhausted and done for, when he had to move around the fire and the others, asking the same question, "Anything hurt? Anything cut?"
And inevitably, because adrenaline, not that he knew the name of it as such, was involved, there were the small pulls and other complaints that he'd have to salve and poultice, or even bind up.
He had a huge stake, therefore, in building up his own smaller fire, away from the main fire a bit, setting up pots and pans, bandages and ingredients, boiling things and making an awful smell out of it as he intently stirred or took a sniff, and even tasted to see if he had it right, his brow furrowed as he worried over the stuff.
Simple process; that small trench shovel of his, good for killin' or diggin', got pulled out and used to excavate a little pit, that he then lined with rocks. Then he dropped in some sticks or something else flammable, and added a few charcoals, or whatever other fuel he had for the fire, and started them up. He liked charcoal best, and traded with villages to get it for the road.
The others might take their time getting a fire going, but Doc always felt the need to start one fast, or it’d be dark before all the work was done tending to aches and pains, and he never liked to ride half asleep the next day. It kept him away from the traffic, hustle and bustle of the main fire, so he didn’t have to elbow aside everyone trying to get at his stuff. Headbanger left him to it, so long as he let others have his little fire when he was done.
But just as suddenly, while the others talked and he was in the middle of building his own fire for the medicine, he lashed out with his shovel, throwing it so it sank into the ground, edge down like hatchet, and came up with something bloody and long. He’d done this sort of thing before, and it was well known that Doc could see like a cat in the night; it wasn’t his job to hunt snakes and vermin around the camp – younger ones usually got that job – but he was damn good at it.
"Look here what I got! Looks like steak to me!"
He was extremely good with a knife, it was evident, and his village-forged knife, probably the best thing he owned, came out of its beaded, homemade leather sheath and was quickly used to cut the snake's guts out and turn it into fillets, with quick, sure strokes of the blade.
The bits, including the head and, more importantly, the venom sacs and skin, went into a bowl he had for the purpose, while he took spices from the gang’s stores and seasoned up the meat; it was on a skewer and over a flame in under two minutes, and he was already cleaning both the shovel blade and the knife blade, with an air of being distinctly pleased with himself; perhaps it was being used to dealing with meat and blood, but the Doc was a good enough butcher and ingredients man.
In any case, with his little fire to work off of, he crouched on his haunches, after scrubbing off his hands, and stirred things, humming some sort of folk music from his village under his breath. “Hims” they said it was, back then. The Jesus kind liked to claim that everything would be good after life was done, but he sort of gave that up when his mama, a good woman, died and he joined the gang. But he still remembered the hims.
(Yes, I know it’s hymns, it’s not mistake. Salivating editors/critics, find food elsewhere))
He wasn’t a kid no more, but he wasn’t all that old, but perhaps it was the nature of the work that made him seem older, as he had to deal with the messes, the unpleasant sorts of things. Sox had the bikes to work on, but Doc was left fixing the bodies, where things didn’t always fit together so neatly. It was Mouse’s medallion that weighed heavily on his chest, beneath the leather suit he wore, that he stitched together pretty good, that had him dwelling on death and the such.
All in its time, don’t let what was or what might be darken the sun fo’ you, his mom always told him.
“So which of y’all think you hungry ‘nuff for some snake? Mighta accidentallike sprinkled some mary jane on it, cause it getting dark and hard to see, but oughta still be good.”
Doc was not a weak man, he had a wiry, lean build and a runner's flat, hard muscle to him. But his role in the Wastelanders was almost invisible; sure, he knew how to fight, he'd once taken a guy's jaw off with that 'fighting shovel' of his, with its folding shovel blade and a pick head that could be deployed with a loud click of a spring-bolt falling into place. But he wasn't vital to the fighting line. Instead, his work in a fight inevitably came when everyone else was sprawled out, exhausted and done for, when he had to move around the fire and the others, asking the same question, "Anything hurt? Anything cut?"
And inevitably, because adrenaline, not that he knew the name of it as such, was involved, there were the small pulls and other complaints that he'd have to salve and poultice, or even bind up.
He had a huge stake, therefore, in building up his own smaller fire, away from the main fire a bit, setting up pots and pans, bandages and ingredients, boiling things and making an awful smell out of it as he intently stirred or took a sniff, and even tasted to see if he had it right, his brow furrowed as he worried over the stuff.
Simple process; that small trench shovel of his, good for killin' or diggin', got pulled out and used to excavate a little pit, that he then lined with rocks. Then he dropped in some sticks or something else flammable, and added a few charcoals, or whatever other fuel he had for the fire, and started them up. He liked charcoal best, and traded with villages to get it for the road.
The others might take their time getting a fire going, but Doc always felt the need to start one fast, or it’d be dark before all the work was done tending to aches and pains, and he never liked to ride half asleep the next day. It kept him away from the traffic, hustle and bustle of the main fire, so he didn’t have to elbow aside everyone trying to get at his stuff. Headbanger left him to it, so long as he let others have his little fire when he was done.
But just as suddenly, while the others talked and he was in the middle of building his own fire for the medicine, he lashed out with his shovel, throwing it so it sank into the ground, edge down like hatchet, and came up with something bloody and long. He’d done this sort of thing before, and it was well known that Doc could see like a cat in the night; it wasn’t his job to hunt snakes and vermin around the camp – younger ones usually got that job – but he was damn good at it.
"Look here what I got! Looks like steak to me!"
He was extremely good with a knife, it was evident, and his village-forged knife, probably the best thing he owned, came out of its beaded, homemade leather sheath and was quickly used to cut the snake's guts out and turn it into fillets, with quick, sure strokes of the blade.
The bits, including the head and, more importantly, the venom sacs and skin, went into a bowl he had for the purpose, while he took spices from the gang’s stores and seasoned up the meat; it was on a skewer and over a flame in under two minutes, and he was already cleaning both the shovel blade and the knife blade, with an air of being distinctly pleased with himself; perhaps it was being used to dealing with meat and blood, but the Doc was a good enough butcher and ingredients man.
In any case, with his little fire to work off of, he crouched on his haunches, after scrubbing off his hands, and stirred things, humming some sort of folk music from his village under his breath. “Hims” they said it was, back then. The Jesus kind liked to claim that everything would be good after life was done, but he sort of gave that up when his mama, a good woman, died and he joined the gang. But he still remembered the hims.
(Yes, I know it’s hymns, it’s not mistake. Salivating editors/critics, find food elsewhere))
He wasn’t a kid no more, but he wasn’t all that old, but perhaps it was the nature of the work that made him seem older, as he had to deal with the messes, the unpleasant sorts of things. Sox had the bikes to work on, but Doc was left fixing the bodies, where things didn’t always fit together so neatly. It was Mouse’s medallion that weighed heavily on his chest, beneath the leather suit he wore, that he stitched together pretty good, that had him dwelling on death and the such.
All in its time, don’t let what was or what might be darken the sun fo’ you, his mom always told him.
“So which of y’all think you hungry ‘nuff for some snake? Mighta accidentallike sprinkled some mary jane on it, cause it getting dark and hard to see, but oughta still be good.”
Guest- Guest
Re: Wastelanders - Post-Apocalyptic RP - Recruiting
by Kaito Sat Aug 29, 2009 7:23 am
Pointy looked at the scene in half amusement. You don't see random acts of kindness in the wastelands, and she wondered whether Sling wanted to bone her or was simply feeling like it. Feeling like it? Naah. He wants to bone her.
She wondered whether Ziggy would simply go for it or have any moral objections when suddenly she was interrupted by being knocked on the head.
"Want me to pitch next to you or you prefer to be alone, today?" Ziggy asked.
"Oh, uhm," thinking dirty and being asked for this does not go well together, so she took a moment to compose herself. Nothing spectacular about the question, she told herself. "Um, I don't mind, as long as you don't do the smoking thing right next to me." She stood up and went closer to Ziggy's ear and whispered, "but I actually planned to sleep, tonight..." and walked away with a sheepish grin.
She moved to the small bonfire that was a bit apart from the group, slinging her weapon over the shoulder and putting the cleaning kit into one of the giant leg pockets.
"Okay if I join you for a bit?" she asked, sitting down. She didn't think he would refuse.
"That girl today... You couldn't patch her up, could you?" she asked, even though she knew the answer. "Why didn't you give me the knife back then?" she wondered. She probably didn't look very promising when they had arrived.. hell, she was about to give herself the bullet, too. But she was glad to be found by the Wastelanders, they were a good bunch. They were everything she had, now, and that meant that she would give everything for them, too.
She wondered whether Ziggy would simply go for it or have any moral objections when suddenly she was interrupted by being knocked on the head.
"Want me to pitch next to you or you prefer to be alone, today?" Ziggy asked.
"Oh, uhm," thinking dirty and being asked for this does not go well together, so she took a moment to compose herself. Nothing spectacular about the question, she told herself. "Um, I don't mind, as long as you don't do the smoking thing right next to me." She stood up and went closer to Ziggy's ear and whispered, "but I actually planned to sleep, tonight..." and walked away with a sheepish grin.
She moved to the small bonfire that was a bit apart from the group, slinging her weapon over the shoulder and putting the cleaning kit into one of the giant leg pockets.
"Okay if I join you for a bit?" she asked, sitting down. She didn't think he would refuse.
"That girl today... You couldn't patch her up, could you?" she asked, even though she knew the answer. "Why didn't you give me the knife back then?" she wondered. She probably didn't look very promising when they had arrived.. hell, she was about to give herself the bullet, too. But she was glad to be found by the Wastelanders, they were a good bunch. They were everything she had, now, and that meant that she would give everything for them, too.
Kaito- Spectral Light
- Join date : 2009-06-08
Posts : 373
Location : Germany
Re: Wastelanders - Post-Apocalyptic RP - Recruiting
by Hamster Sat Aug 29, 2009 7:48 pm
Sling was satisfied with the hug, and he had a little smile playing on his lips as his eyes wandered down to his own feet for a moment. He was a rather shy boy after all, his life not being all that loving and affectionate towards him, and he learnt quickly that keeping quiet meant less abuse. This new kind of family seemed a bit of a turning point in that however, but he was still sceptical about it and didn’t get his hopes up too much. The scrawny boy had also learned that hope could be well the first step on the road to disappointment at times, and for survival he certainly wouldn’t have use for negative emotions. It is why he had always taken the lessons out of a bad experience, whilst keeping the memories locked away deeply; he lived in the here and now.
The ginger-haired woke from his thoughts and looked up again as Ziggy said something. Normally he would prefer being alone, but now he was around people he began to see as more than just acquaintances, and he decided he wouldn’t let the opportunity of making friends slip. His eyes on Ziggy, he nodded happily as he replied.
”Sure beats being bored and playing with my knife, or shooting at beasties with some pebbles.” He said, a corner of his mouth moving upwards as he had a contented expression on his face, and a slight chuckle left his mouth. The memory of him tripping a small lizard in full speed and watching it sprawl to the ground had popped up and was playing in his mind, and it greatly amused him even in the rerun.
”I’mma have a look at this steak first though, I bet Doc knows how to make that snake yummy, unlike me. You coming along?” Sling then asked, his thumb pointing behind him to the little fire at Doc's spot, and he slowly started walking backwards as he waited for a reply. When he was trying to survive on his own for a while he had tried killing and eating a snake, and while the first few bites were alright his body rejected it soon enough, leaving him with an empty stomach and a sick feeling. He was quite curious how much better Doc was at it, although he was sure it would be good with all those fancy spices he had to give more flavour for the tongue to enjoy.
The ginger-haired woke from his thoughts and looked up again as Ziggy said something. Normally he would prefer being alone, but now he was around people he began to see as more than just acquaintances, and he decided he wouldn’t let the opportunity of making friends slip. His eyes on Ziggy, he nodded happily as he replied.
”Sure beats being bored and playing with my knife, or shooting at beasties with some pebbles.” He said, a corner of his mouth moving upwards as he had a contented expression on his face, and a slight chuckle left his mouth. The memory of him tripping a small lizard in full speed and watching it sprawl to the ground had popped up and was playing in his mind, and it greatly amused him even in the rerun.
”I’mma have a look at this steak first though, I bet Doc knows how to make that snake yummy, unlike me. You coming along?” Sling then asked, his thumb pointing behind him to the little fire at Doc's spot, and he slowly started walking backwards as he waited for a reply. When he was trying to survive on his own for a while he had tried killing and eating a snake, and while the first few bites were alright his body rejected it soon enough, leaving him with an empty stomach and a sick feeling. He was quite curious how much better Doc was at it, although he was sure it would be good with all those fancy spices he had to give more flavour for the tongue to enjoy.
Hamster- Mist
- Join date : 2009-08-14
Posts : 41
Age : 32
Location : the Netherlands
Re: Wastelanders - Post-Apocalyptic RP - Recruiting
by Guest Mon Aug 31, 2009 9:29 pm
Doc didn't really want to discuss the mercy-kill right about now, but after a moment of silence, grudgingly answered the girl's question, albeit with a tone that seemed flat and unemotional, as if he were trying to distance himself from what happened.
"Big difference, she was all tore up, I mean, nothin' left to put together really. I mean, you get cut up in this bunch, and ain't no shame in pulling back and letting someone else step up fo' you. But some crews, they think diff'rent and go all out. Maybe cuz they don't know no better about treating wounds. She just had too much leakin' out of her, and even if she did survive the patchin' up, woulda died from the 'fection anyway."
He poked at the snake with a stick to get it to turn on the other side as it sizzled at high heat, searing the juices in the meat, not having much else to say on that. That pendant felt heavy around his neck, but he carefully tucked it away to one side of the half-unzipped leathers he was wearing, a patchwork and much-mended affair of a multitude of colors that actually fit decent; Doc knew how to sew flesh, it made him pretty good at stitching leather too.
"But you know who really gotta make the pick, who live and who die? Headbanger. I tell Headbanger if they can or can't, and he decide if we try or not. Ain' on my head, and I glad fo' that. But you weren't as bad as all that. You was bad, but if you were gonna die, you would have up and died by the time we find you. Guess some would leave someone behind, but Headbanger say, 'strong enough to stay alive, brave enough to try to keep buddies alive.'"
He concluded the sermon with this, "Prolly wouldn't look at you if you were just in a village, but you gotta remember, you were there with yo' guts hanging out after everyone done quit bothering to live a while ago. Guess that's why Headbanger said to patch you up."
He turned the snake some more, trying to get a brown color, a crisped coat, on the outside, "Dang, this one cookin' up right nice. Too bad we only find one of them rattlers tonight. They sure is good eatin'."
"Big difference, she was all tore up, I mean, nothin' left to put together really. I mean, you get cut up in this bunch, and ain't no shame in pulling back and letting someone else step up fo' you. But some crews, they think diff'rent and go all out. Maybe cuz they don't know no better about treating wounds. She just had too much leakin' out of her, and even if she did survive the patchin' up, woulda died from the 'fection anyway."
He poked at the snake with a stick to get it to turn on the other side as it sizzled at high heat, searing the juices in the meat, not having much else to say on that. That pendant felt heavy around his neck, but he carefully tucked it away to one side of the half-unzipped leathers he was wearing, a patchwork and much-mended affair of a multitude of colors that actually fit decent; Doc knew how to sew flesh, it made him pretty good at stitching leather too.
"But you know who really gotta make the pick, who live and who die? Headbanger. I tell Headbanger if they can or can't, and he decide if we try or not. Ain' on my head, and I glad fo' that. But you weren't as bad as all that. You was bad, but if you were gonna die, you would have up and died by the time we find you. Guess some would leave someone behind, but Headbanger say, 'strong enough to stay alive, brave enough to try to keep buddies alive.'"
He concluded the sermon with this, "Prolly wouldn't look at you if you were just in a village, but you gotta remember, you were there with yo' guts hanging out after everyone done quit bothering to live a while ago. Guess that's why Headbanger said to patch you up."
He turned the snake some more, trying to get a brown color, a crisped coat, on the outside, "Dang, this one cookin' up right nice. Too bad we only find one of them rattlers tonight. They sure is good eatin'."
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