[Desolation] Chapter 1: Digging In

If there's one thing I've learned, it's that teamwork keeps you alive. No reason you two can't work together now and then.


Or you can take that big ol' shooter of yours out on the battlements couple times a week, your choice.
 
Don't know him too well honestly. I'll let you know what I think of him later on if that'll work out.


Just how many guns do we have to man the walls if the shit hits the fan?
 
I see them in the armories but I also see the ones people try to hide. In pipes, in walls. I don't like to use guns.


Does everyone have a gun?
 
In this present world, if you find a soul without a gun, you've usually found a soul looking for one.


Of course, this hardly means the guns work. They often don't, and few have the knowledge to fix them. Those that do are seen as somewhat... shamanic, in certain, less hardened places.
 
There's a tribe out east of here that worship a goddamn howitzer, you know. Dunno if it can fire, but...
 
Dunno. I have to say, if the shells are proportionate. The result would be pretty fuckin' awesome.
 
East has the holes. North is the Tall Grey and the Lake. West from here I don't know. South are the Pens and trading towns.
 
They worship a howitzer? I take it that is just a big gun. Stupid Shits.


I like the cells, you can feel the other people around you, find the ones who will keep watch in the night. Plus it has a bed so you don't need to sleep on the floor with the bugs. I have enough things crawling under my skin, don't need more crawling on it.


Now, the tall grey buildings is what would scare me. Lived in one of those for a couple months and you can't sleep right. Out here your dreams are soft, but in there the dreams come like razors in your head. Thin cuts at first, then deeper and deeper, working to cut you into smaller and smaller pieces. Those buildings don't want you there, they are dead, and all they want is to swallow you. Even the Prophets knew that, they scream at you in there.


In this dirty old part of the city.


Where the sun refused to shine.


People tell me there ain't no use in tryin.


Now my girl you're so young and pretty,


And one thing I know is true.


You'll be dead before your time is due..I know.


Watch my daddy in bed.. a-dyin'.


Watch his hair been turnin' grey yeah


He's been work-in' and slavin' his life away-oh yes I know.


And then there are the Rovers. Some of them, like the gypsies, you can deal with. Some you can buy off, like the gang bangers and the motor heads. But you gotta watch out for those on the outside who live only to find someplace new to live off. Reavers, and rapers, cannibal clans, and pilgrims. They will feed off of you, some literally, until they vanish leaving more desolation behind.
 
I've got no problem teaching people a trick or two, if they're willing to sit around long enough to observe. Most people aren't though, too caught up in their own world. Can't say I blame them, really.


And yeah maybe I've got an innate talent for this stuff, but that isn't so much of a head start. Not with these old clunkers.


If you know what's up, you carry a gun with you. Even if it's shot to hell and completely non-functional, just to ward the creepers off. Those fuckers Red Bean speaks of won't spare a soul.
 
Awesome. This is why I love this game. Players are such an untapped resource of creativity. This world is being fleshed out so amazingly.


Now, Hooper, I need your Hx on your sheet so we know who should highlight one of yours and you need to highlight a stat for Graves.


I've updated the highlights on the first post. My highlights, in red.


Okay, so, MORE questions. Sorry, but I want to cover the bases.


Ryoma


You're a Buddhist hottie. How do you make your scratch (what do you do to make a living)? Also, if someone wanted to come by and steal your weapons, where would they be located? Locked up? Under your arms as you sleep? What is significant about Saber That Abolishes Delusion? Where did it come from? Tell me about your oddments worth 2-barter.


Koch


You're out there being a badass. How do you make a living? You lock up you arsenal with the locks you found, right? If someone wanted to come in and beat the shit out of you, would they have to go through a door to do so? Tell me about your oddments worth 1-barter.


Graves


You've got yourself a nice secure holding. Very nice. Where do you sleep? How many people are here total (I think that's part of your holding rules)? How many in your gang? If people don't pay your tribute, what happens to them? Do you have a second-in-command? Do you have any regular scheduled town meetings or gatherings? What's the name of your holding, by the way?


Fauci


Nice garage. You build it? Where'd you get the van? What kind of workshop do you keep? Is it more about electronics, mechanics, or a lab of some kind? Does Graves ever tap you for work? Has anyone tried to steal your van? Are you working on anything else? Tell me about your oddments worth 3-barter.


Red Bean


How divine. Give me a feel for your followers. Is there one follower that you work with a lot or is your guard/assistant? If you could sum up your message, what would it be? Do your followers help around the prison or just worship mostly? If someone want to swing by and cut your throat, who would they have to go through? Tell me about your oddments worth 2-barter.


Buzz


Mr. Angel. Where do you live? Will you heal anyone for trade or do you have "standards"? Where do you work out of? Tell me about your oddments worth 1-barter.


Hooper


Scary. Are you normally able to contain yourself or do you have to "let loose" often? Is there a door to your "white-walled" room? If so, is it locked? Tell me about your oddments worth 1-barter.
 
Hx 3 with Buzz. He wasn't afraid of a young hooper at one time!


And graves is a sharp man. Smart. Too smart. If not just smart, also hard.


Sometimes when my face is mad and I'm crying, I don't think. Graves wants me to lock the door when that happens. I try but sometimes I leave my room and leave the place so graves doesn't get angrier.


Lots of colors happen when a machete hits the neck of a rover or someone in the tall buildings. I always come back though.


All I have is my face. My armor -2 and my machete.
 
Ryoma makes her way by balancing the scales of cause and effect. Work as a bodyguard, a mercenary, an assassin, all find her, to help her wade the turbulent waters of Samsara. Once she masters the rapids of the world she need not fear its waves, and so she gives and takes death in enlightenment, not darkness. To kill a sinner is to spare him the karma of further sins. To kill a virtuous man is to reward him with the karma of his nobility. Their souls are eternal: nothing is created, nothing is destroyed. This, you might say, is the doctrine of the Buddhist killer. She might make her was a poor nun, as the Sutra describes, but alms are rare in this age; a good follower of the path must make her own.


If you've ever seen an old samurai film, you've seen Ryoma sleeping, sitting up with her sheathed sword's hilt leaning on her shoulder and the point resting on the ground. Her shotgun is in a hand-made holster in her robe; she sawed off the stock and barrel so it would fit, and could be easily flip-cocked. If you want to steal them... good luck.


The saber... the saber was the product of blood and tears. It's based on an illustration from her Sutra, a sword said to cut through the delusions of the ignorant and benighted... in other words, nearly ignorant. She paid the price if its construction in slashed fingers, in the scars still running across her palms... but she built it, grew it as surely as her own flesh and bones.


The shotgun is a handy counterpoint. Namely, that all the sutras in the world will not stop buckshot.


Her oddments comprise only the baubles given to her by her old job and one of the odd plates that Graves makes in his hardhold and a banana mag full of AR rounds. If guns are divine, then bullets be prayers -- lead is the lifeblood of the wasteland.
 
Population is pushing 300 these days. Damned hard to keep 'em all fed and clean, and sometimes we have a little trouble with illness spreading through the ranks. I try to keep order, but my boys and girls only number 30 - they're disciplined, though. We may be a gang, but we're gonna act like professionals. I will not let this become another raiding camp, you hear?


People don't pay tribute, they don't get protection. That simple. If they really cause trouble and she's been getting on my nerves, I send Hooper after 'em. Clears her out for a few days and she doesn't ask for pay.


Times ain't too tough, here in Penitence.
 
My followers are hard working folk. It is what I teach. Hard work and pride in your job is what will still the soul. Many tend the gardens in Penitence, a few do work outside the compound. 3-4 are in Graves gang, one of which is a lieutenant. I like the way it affects the group he leads.


I have two assistants. One is Lumpenhaller, who the kids call Lumpy. He is old. Not old enough to remember the Golden Age, but old enough to have seen the cities when they were still shining and had lights at night. He helps with teaching sometimes, when he feels well, other times he helps organize the books, since he learned to read and write when he was young. To be honest, I have started calling him Lumpy as well. He will be missed when he passes.


My second assistant is Ollie. She would be my acolyte if she were more focused. She is too young and gets interested in anything new that walks by. She loves to hear of the world outside, and I think one day she may go out and join it. Maybe, just maybe, she will take some of what I teach with her. Her real name is Ophelia, and has a good rapport with people, and is one of the best for collecting tributes from the rest of the outpost.


Homage is only held twice a day, once at dawn where we have Tai Chi in the courtyards of the camp. Second is a prayer session we hold in the evening, just after sunset. People will often write their problem and concerns they had for the day, and we burn those strips of paper as a symbol of letting go of the worldly concerns. She doesn't preach of gods, though she does talk that their might be some out there on the other side, but their is too much unquiet in the world for them to hear or act. For each sould she tries to quiet in this world, the more likely that the interference will fade away and the Golden Age can be reborn.


She believes in rebirth, that each soul passes across the divide and returns to be be reborn. Unquiet souls must fight their way through that divide, and they often fail many, many times before they make it. A quieted soul can pass through untouched and returns to the world more peacefully than the unquiet. Each quieted soul reborn still the maelstrom that is the divide. But the benefit of a quiet soul also has benefits when alive. The maelstrom reaches into the world, both awake and asleep, but it is harder to damage a quiet soul than the unquiet ones.


If someone really wanted to cut my throat it wouldn't be impossible, though it would be unlikely I wouldn't know they were coming. Many of my followers sleep in the cells and balconies that lead to my cell. The sheets and cloth that hang as dividers, the ropes drying washed clothing, the crates that serve as tables, the brass lamps, not to mention the people and their sleeping blankets are all obstacles. And in these times, no one sleeps soundly, so someone would probably hear them, and I would likely be alerted. It wouldn't be that hard for someone dedicated to it.


I run a school in the middle of the day for the children of her followers. There are only 4 right now, but others have offered to pay to send their children, and she is considering it. She serves them lunch and teaches them letters and numbers. Children grow tired of labor all day, so the school gives them time to rest and works their heads instead, before they return to their parents. It takes only 3 hours, but they appreciate it for the change in their day.


Of all the crap she possesses, her books are the more treasured. She keeps them locked, but students and followers make copies for her to trade and barter. She also has a collection of picture squares just over 12 inches leng and wide. Sometimes they have images and artwork from the Golden Age, other times it is just patterns. The part she likes is that the inner sleeves have poems written before the fall. Many of them talk of the bad times to come. She speaks as if they were prophets, talking of the world and how dark it had already become. They warned that things could get much worse. They worked in poetic clans, so not all poems were prophetic, but as a whole, they embody the Golden Age and the fact that people could see it coming.


Of the rest of her crap, much of it is simply oddments. A few chairs, one upholstered. A table. Candelabras, a chest, a cupboard, and several articles of clothing. On person gave her a personal servant once, but now he is a follower who cooks and cleans for them. She will rent him out to people for small bits of barter or for a quarter stamp. His name his Martin.
 
I mostly deal with metalwork. Shapin' and makin' and whatnot. Dabble with electricity, making it all fit together and getting it to actually work, but that's a hit and a miss.


Graves let me turn that old shed into something more usable. Tore off the front and replaced it with a garage door. Got my machines in there. Graves lets me melt my metal in the furnace whenever I need it, too. Works out well for him, I give him a good discount on my services when that coin machine breaks down, which is a little too often. He can't really argue much with my prices either. Pretty sure this place would fall apart without that system.


He doesn't really ask much more than that, I get the feeling he doesn't wanna rely too heavily on me.


That car... well that's an old thing. It was my parents', and their parents' before them, before all of this... Still works alright, little rusty, but functional. No one's ever tried to steal it, to my knowledge anyhow. I'm pretty selective on who I give the keys out to, and there's only 2 ways in: through the windshield or through one of my 'extra security' doors, so good luck.


Been working on a little something for Sister Red's kids... A little added safety for 'em. They're good kids, they don't deserve to have been born into this world.


I got myself a chain I welded together, one of my father's old handguns, and paid off one of those healers on-call for Red Bean's kids for a month. Had this sickness going around that's disappearing only now.
 
When people get the courage to visit, they always ask about me and my face.


Always. Most times I don't say anything but I'll say it this time.


I found my face in the Pens. The slaving camps and markets. They had me there. I didn't have my face and I wasn't me. Just a warm body.


Inbetween owners they kept us in large pens. Ordered and seperated by heights and weights and skin colors and hair.


It was a big place for slaving. Mostly because the large market and the forges. If you had bodies, you can get what ever you want at the Pens.


In my pen though. I dug. I dug until my hands bled. I couldn't live anymore. Like a dog I crawled out and hid in there. A Scrounger living off the waste of the Pen.


Then my face found me and I found my face. I put it on and I wasn't a body anymore. I was me.


My face and I left. I grew tall and strong. I built my armor from straps and metal. Nothing hurts anymore. My machete is a razor. Slice hair or necks. I keep it sharp while my face keeps me company.


Lots of times the Red followers try to talk to me. They don't try to hurt me so I mostly ignore them. I don't follow anything but what I want and my face.


Lots of people talk about after being alive. They are all wrong. I won't die again. I was already dead.
 
All highlighted stats are up. Remember, what that means is when you roll that stat, you get XP, whether or not you're successful.


I'm going to start this off now for those that I have answers for. I'll add the others as answers trickle in. Reminder: This game is going to start off slow. I need time to setup, which is done through play. So bear with me. We're mostly going to start by following the characters around for a day.


It's morning. Another beautiful day in paradise. The sun bleeds in through the yellow sickly haze that continually covers the sky. It smells like shit, like always and either gravity is being a lazy-ass or something else you can't name is giving a damned headache. Congratulations, you alive. Whoopty-fucking-do.


Red Bean


You feel your shoulder get shaken. You wake to find old Lumpy standing over you.


What do you do?


Graves


"Boss" you hear. It's Roark's voice, your second. "Boss, you awake?" Graves, are you cool with your gang calling you Boss or do you want something else?


What do you do?


Ryoma


You wake up in your cell, shotgun and saber cuddled tightly. The morning's sickly yellow light creeps through the tiny window.


What do you do?


Fauci


You're woken up by a knock on your garage door.


What do you do?


Hooper


You wake up in your white padded room. Strangely, your door is open ... You swear you closed it last night.


What do you do?
 
Hooper


It had been one of those nights. A night where her face said it was safe to close her eyes. She didn't have things to take and her face said nothing was missing. The machete lodged in the wall, her armor still strapped to her limbs and her chest bare. They didn't even try to take her face. Nobody tried that anymore.


Yanking the machete free, Hooper decided to find Graves and ask him. She had a goal today. Her hulking stride and horrible wheezing could both be seen and heard as she stalked the halls of the prison.
 
Red Bean


I wake up." Did I oversleep?" I'll look at the small barred window in my cell to see how bright it is outside. "Time for the morning Tai Chi?"
 
Graves sits bolt upright, hand hovering over an old scattergun.


"Roark? Wha-" He frowns. "I best not have slept in. Trouble?"
 
As with every morning, Ryoma first meditates for half an hour to center herself, barring interruptions.


But it seems there's always an interruption in settled lands, isn't there? Almost enough to make a girl lose her equanimity.
 
Must've fallen asleep while working. Get it together, Fauci.


"Yeah yeah, I'm coming" I shout from the other end of the garage, wiping the slobber from my mouth with my hand.


"What d'ya want?" I ask sluggishly, as I open the garage door.
 
Hooper & Graves


Roark nods and you see the morning light reflect off his bald head. He grows his mustache to prove he still has hair. Despite his age, Roark is a master marksman and well-versed in survival. "Yep. Looks like some raiders a mile or so off attacking some people out there. Thought you'd want to see."


Hooper, it's then that you swing the door open to find Graves in his bed talking to Roark, his second-in-command.


What do both of you do?


Red Bean


Lumpy looks in your eyes. You can see the sadness all over his face. "There's a problem, Miss." He takes a deep breath. "It's Ollie. She's missing. She always comes by early to say hi on her way to gather things for your breakfast. I asked around and nobody's seen her since last night. She was out collecting, I think."


What do you do?


Ryoma


You're meditating, so your eyes are closed, but you can hear, and almost taste, the breath of someone standing at the threshold of you cell.


What do you do?


Fauci


The garage door slides up and, before you can think, there's a pistol in your face. The man holding the gun is Balls. You know he hadn't paid his tribute to Graves in too long and got kicked out. He's not even supposed to be inside the walls of the complex. His handlebar mustache and missing eye make for a hideous sight as he smiles. "Don't do anything stupid, Fauci."


What do you do?
 
"Good morning," says Ryoma, in that soft voice like the air before a storm. "Have you come to learn of the fourfold noble truths? Or are you here for more temporal affairs...?" Never does she open her eyes, break her focus.
 

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