clockwork
russian gun thug
It's been two-hundred and sixty-four years after a nuclear war occurred. Nobody even remembers anything about why it's started or if it was really worth the destruction. The only thing they know for sure is that it's been two-hundred and sixty-four years since it's happened, it's as simple as that.
There were plagues, too. Three of them. The people of this land watched their loved ones die left and right for three episodes.
There were mutants, to add to that. Thin, scary, fast, things, decomposing as they stagger into your direction, who, if you were to look into their eyes, you would see the shivering look of fear that they have, of their unknown fate. They might never leave that damned body.
Not all mutants were created equal. Some of the poor bastards lose an arm, others have it bloated and inflated to the point where they have to compensate for the weight. Some have no legs, some don't even have heads. Some scream, some wail, some cry and sob, and some just stay silent. None are human enough to utilize weapons, swim, or operate any machinery. They just tear you apart alive and hope for the best.
Skeletons litter the streets. There's one every few meters, in some places. Others, maybe one every hundred. There are cesspits of bones, every now and then. Mass graves. You know that someone alive lives or lived there, at one point, cleaning it up to maintain their sanity. Sometimes they bury them, but there'll always be something sticking out or showing that the ground's been tampered with. Others just leave the open holes there, for any passerby to see, or to add to the pile whenever a new body turns up.
There are some towns every here and there, maybe a trader's market, maybe a camp. Most are just the old shells of buildings people used to live in happily, surrounded by salvaged scrap and rusted car parts. They don't usually take very kindly to strangers, and live in constant fear of being raided by one of the higher-up gangs on the food chain. Some bother organizing small units of militia, others just hope for the best.
You and about thirty others live in one of the small, secluded villages. It doesn't have a name, it doesn't need one. It's the salvaged hull of a small intersection, fenced in from the unfortunate souls who became biologically immortal hellspawn from the radiation that died down oh-so-long-ago. There's a medical area in the church, a building that has lost meaning, at this point, a mess hall in what used to be a hotel lobby, and people live up on the two higher floors of the hotel or in the post office. There's a car mechanic's shop, where the town does all of its crafting and metalwork, and a few other unidentified brick shells of buildings used for storage. There's one that doesn't have a roof, which has been emptied out and has a folding table in it. It's where the town meetings and discussions take place.
Just some notes-
I'm not a BBCode wizard. If you are, I'd happily accept help from you. I come from a distant land where BBCode is pretty much nonexistent and prefer more simple ways of writing and posting.
If enough people are interested in this, it will be marked as casual, for those that care. Post length should be one or two short paragraphs, though it's still fine if you do less, as long as it isn't on a consistent basis.
Weapons, specifically firearms, will be somewhat less scarce than realistic, but nevertheless still scarce. I'll let you start with some civilian grade stuff, though nothing too fancy. I'll trust you to pick your starting weapon yourself, but from then on I'll probably decide what you find in loot runs and whatnot.
On the topic of loot runs, the roleplay will most likely start off with the player characters going onto a yearly scavenge in the wastes.
There will be foul language, violence, and a bit of gore in this roleplay, just as a warning, though it should go without saying.
There were plagues, too. Three of them. The people of this land watched their loved ones die left and right for three episodes.
There were mutants, to add to that. Thin, scary, fast, things, decomposing as they stagger into your direction, who, if you were to look into their eyes, you would see the shivering look of fear that they have, of their unknown fate. They might never leave that damned body.
Not all mutants were created equal. Some of the poor bastards lose an arm, others have it bloated and inflated to the point where they have to compensate for the weight. Some have no legs, some don't even have heads. Some scream, some wail, some cry and sob, and some just stay silent. None are human enough to utilize weapons, swim, or operate any machinery. They just tear you apart alive and hope for the best.
Skeletons litter the streets. There's one every few meters, in some places. Others, maybe one every hundred. There are cesspits of bones, every now and then. Mass graves. You know that someone alive lives or lived there, at one point, cleaning it up to maintain their sanity. Sometimes they bury them, but there'll always be something sticking out or showing that the ground's been tampered with. Others just leave the open holes there, for any passerby to see, or to add to the pile whenever a new body turns up.
There are some towns every here and there, maybe a trader's market, maybe a camp. Most are just the old shells of buildings people used to live in happily, surrounded by salvaged scrap and rusted car parts. They don't usually take very kindly to strangers, and live in constant fear of being raided by one of the higher-up gangs on the food chain. Some bother organizing small units of militia, others just hope for the best.
You and about thirty others live in one of the small, secluded villages. It doesn't have a name, it doesn't need one. It's the salvaged hull of a small intersection, fenced in from the unfortunate souls who became biologically immortal hellspawn from the radiation that died down oh-so-long-ago. There's a medical area in the church, a building that has lost meaning, at this point, a mess hall in what used to be a hotel lobby, and people live up on the two higher floors of the hotel or in the post office. There's a car mechanic's shop, where the town does all of its crafting and metalwork, and a few other unidentified brick shells of buildings used for storage. There's one that doesn't have a roof, which has been emptied out and has a folding table in it. It's where the town meetings and discussions take place.
Just some notes-
I'm not a BBCode wizard. If you are, I'd happily accept help from you. I come from a distant land where BBCode is pretty much nonexistent and prefer more simple ways of writing and posting.
If enough people are interested in this, it will be marked as casual, for those that care. Post length should be one or two short paragraphs, though it's still fine if you do less, as long as it isn't on a consistent basis.
Weapons, specifically firearms, will be somewhat less scarce than realistic, but nevertheless still scarce. I'll let you start with some civilian grade stuff, though nothing too fancy. I'll trust you to pick your starting weapon yourself, but from then on I'll probably decide what you find in loot runs and whatnot.
On the topic of loot runs, the roleplay will most likely start off with the player characters going onto a yearly scavenge in the wastes.
There will be foul language, violence, and a bit of gore in this roleplay, just as a warning, though it should go without saying.
