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Wasteland || Open - Printable Version

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Wasteland || Open - Kat - 11-16-2014

<img style="" src="http://i.imgur.com/D1GW1no.png" style="max-width:100%;]
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They said when the dollar went to shit, the oil would dry up soon after. Sure enough, barely ten years time, there were land wars waged for that sacred fuel source, causing countless casualties and endless property damage. Bombs and tanks and guns, and in a pinch, bottles were all used to destroy the foundation of modern society, setting the once all knowing, all seeing government scurrying back to it's rat hole. That's when the gangs took charge, wrangled the law into their grubby meat hunks, and set in motion a sort of bartering system to ensure you got what you paid for.

The world is a series of wastelands; continents adrift with populations crushed beneath the weight of inhospitable conditions. Diseases unknown to humanity for generations suddenly take out entire countries, followed by famine and the shortage of food and supplies. There didn't need to be a game of nuclear tag, but that happened too, and it decimated whole cities into nothing more than a sea of ash, glass, and twisted metal. Survival relied heavily on ingenuity and strength, and those who were quick thinkers made themselves scarce when territories were fought over by survivors. It took years to reach any semblance of recovery, and even that was laughable - just a few shacks built in the same general area as the cities, their small farms good for barely enough to constitute the water wasted. Imagine an entire world of shacks and dirt farms, settled from the coast to coast along major highways.

That's the Wasteland.

It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the marauders. Humanity's sickness was never cured. There was no writing out violence, and if there was one thing everyone expects to be met with regularly, it's pressure from the bike gangs. They're the sort of people to rob you blind and steal your wife, because if you thought you could stand up to them, they'd take a 25lb sledge to the back of your head. The gangs only really respect the caravans because they keep them fed and entertained. Caravans, in essence, are well off nomads working together in moving town units. They provided the goods no one else can, and in exchange for protection, they gave much of their findings to the marauders. Townsfolk just accept the shakedowns and try and continue with their lives as best they can.

Wanderers and nomads are a dime a dozen, because it's easy to get into, and hard to fuck up. Avoid major encampments unless you have things to sell, and sell them quick when you do. Caravans aren't afraid to pick off roaming travelers on the off chance there's competition, but the surviving nomads are smart, quick, and rarely seen.

Dregs are the lowest of the low, with all sorts of ailments and injuries no one is really equipped to deal with. Lepers of the scorched sands, they have small encampments across the Mojave and elsewhere, but they are better described as hovels ram-shackled together to house the dying. Some warn they've turned to cannibalism on the dead and dying, as they are otherwise too weak to stop bikers from robbing other food sources. Some Dregs simply steal from the less fortunate they meet along the highways. Generally speaking, no one really wants to encounter dregs because they're disgusting and violent, and if you're lucky, you never will.

There is no future tech, no zombies, no ghosts, ghouls, or goblins. It's an all human setting. Mutants are just people with cancerous growths and missing teeth. Guns and most weapons of that nature are in very short supply, and the bullets are even scarcer. It's been roughly 50 years since the fallout, and what wasn't obliterated in the blasts has probably been looted by someone else. This is a harsh and unforgiving setting meant only for those who really enjoy earning their survival. Though, if you're in serious need of R&R, there are several bordellos across the American south west used as safe havens. One of which is the Desert Rose Bordello. Here you can exchange your goods for services, and vice versa.

Much of this thread is intended to take place in the American southwest within the Mojave desert, which spans from California to Nevada, and includes Lake Tahoe. Water sources like the Hoover dam will have the largest populations settled near them. The Desert Rose is about 75 miles south of Las Vegas.

-----

Rules;
o1; No godmodding.
o2; Be mature and keep ooc stuff out of the interactions ic (and vice versa). No grudges should affect plot, and plot should not cause grudges ooc.
o3; While an adult role play to some extent, this does have plot. It's just sandbox, meaning you create plot as you go. There is no storyteller, just other players looking to make plot as well. Weave it together into a full story.
o4; Violence, Sex, and Language are allowed, but if you're looking to just walk up and fuck someone, go to the bordello.
o5; This is a walk in sort of role play, and you can play as many characters as you like within reason, but you should give fair notice if you plan to vanish. Otherwise, it's assumed your character(s) ventured off into the wastes.
o6; Follow Kitty's other rules and you should be set.
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Wasteland || Open - Kat - 11-16-2014

<img style="avatar" src="http://i.imgur.com/q2vnc8R.png" style="max-width:25%;float:left;margin:0 18px;]Half the scars she had were from picking scabs. Probably would have healed fine if it weren't for dirty nails finding their way to every slice, prick, and cut, breaking them back open just so they could seep and scab again. Kade guessed it was a nervous habit; some sort of coping mechanism brought upon by the setting. The stress of it. She noted dried blood under her nails as she pinched tobacco from the pouch, and when rolling the moist pinch into a cigarette, she wondered just which scab had fallen victim to absent picking. The tobacco was from the last caravan to cross her path, still green and still earthy, and she had traded an old set of history books for it. Probably wasn't worth it in the long run, but she was finished with them anyway, and the caravan head had been chatty and persuasive. The sort of person she tended to avoid, Kade didn't take time to try and strike up a better deal.

Rather than pout about it, she enjoyed the taste of smoke. One rarely forgot that burn when it crawled down the windpipe in a caustic, painful caress. The papers had been soaked in mint and honey, and dried over the course of a day, so the flavor helped her adjust to the unprocessed tobacco. Kade still smoked old packs of cigarettes when she had the luck to find them. Certainly wasn't often, and the things were probably a greater health hazard now than they were in their time period, but she didn't care. They gave her a head rush like standing up too fast, and they felt better between her lips. They even looked cooler, regardless there being no one else around to see her when she smoked them.

Sitting back on her heels, she perched with a clear view of the area. All cracked sand, ditches and dips in the foundation. Sometimes it was tiring to find herself in the middle of the desert where everything tended to look exactly the same, but the rest of the world wasn't much better off. Whispers said there were places far north where it still snowed, but Kade didn't believe a thing she didn't see with her own eyes. This was likely why she offloaded those history books when she did. At this point, everything prior to the fallout was fairy tales. Cute stories to spoon feed the little ones.

All those nice things, all those nice places, she saw them now. Saw the skyscrapers buckled and warped. Saw their streets bent and collapsed. Cars eroded and statues melted and payphones distorted. Kade saw the world the way it was, no more or less.

Her sister, however, saw things like they were in old magazines. Cosmetic ads and clothing stores and perfect white teeth. Maybe that was why she had ventured off to work in the bordello - men would pay for perfect white teeth. Curves like her sister's, Kade doubted Kismet missed a meal, or worried about where she was safe to sleep for the night. All it took was a name change and a new disposition, and presto! Perfect life.

Still, Kade didn't want to be tied down. Was always easier dragging just her bag around, and another person in the mix never struck her as helpful. What if they spoke too loudly when it was most dangerous? What if they didn't like sharing? What if they got lonely one night, and slipped into her bedroll? These were all very real and very avoidable possibilities. Having a desert to battle was enough on a good day, but another person as well? Fucking forget it.

Flicking the ash with a spring of her thumb, Kade took another long drag and held it in. It would dark soon and she still didn't have any clue what she was going to do for a camp. Likely close, but not in the open. She'd find a burrow and dig into it, make a foxhole setup, get cozy in the earth. Those were her favorite ways to make camp, dug in so she could feel the vibrations of the earth in the dirt. Always made keeping tabs on caravans easier, and it gave her plenty of leeway to kick out and get moving when bikers were coming.

A grin crossed her lips, cracking them so the smoke was free to slip through. This fucking place was wearing her out, but sunrise still left an impression. Open sky canvas, the color of lilacs and sunflowers and grapes, slowly creeping towards the east. The horizon was devouring the last of the light, but she didn't fret. There were plenty of tumbleweeds to burn this far from the highway. Kade never was able to hurry without reason, and as far as the endless wastes seemed to attest, there wasn't anything worth rushing for.

Wasteland || Open - bear - 11-16-2014

<img style="" src="http://i1105.photobucket.com/albums/h341/ratoly/fada4433-6d65-4b2a-8c4e-b7c643e89c8f.jpg" style="max-width:100%;float:left;]Perhaps the thing that irritated Cauldo most about his situation was how absolutely unforgiving everything about it was. He had to go fully dressed all the time, which, while not a terrible inconvenience, made it real hard to have a real conversation with someone, and once he was known by name, it was usually just a matter of time before they figured out just who he was and started firing on-sight. It wasn't like he was some kind of bad guy, after all. Just the bad enough type to get shot at over a minor quibble with the lowest brand of people still living here and there across the wastes.

The dregs were lowlife scum, and while he'd been proud to call himself one once, nowadays, it just seemed crass to even think about them. Like one was considering the prospect of raping a corpse. Still, every now and then he still mockingly referred to himself as a dregling. Some kind of cruel joke over the leprosy that addled his body and tore at his self-esteem. It was obvious enough to anyone who saw too much of his skin that he was infected with the stuff, and no matter how contagious he wasn't, it still wasn't not contagious enough to get him permanent residence anywhere in particular. The only place that had even come close to letting him stay more than a few hours in their rooms was the Desert Rose, and even then, he'd been something of an infection scare among the more panicky patrons and residents.

It was a hard life of masturbation and isolation for Cauldo. But it wasn't one he had much power over. So he bit the bullet, swallowed gunpowder, and soldiered on.

And it had made him stronger than he would've expected, living out in the wastes as he did. He'd grown resourceful and clever. He'd learned to dig himself a hidey hole underground when the sun started to rise, and to take advantage of his surroundings when he felt the sand and earth shift, indicating an approaching and lethal caravan or group of bikers. He'd learned that if he was buried completely in sand, the weight distribution wouldn't crush him even if they crossed directly over him, and that, if he moved his hands just right, he could surface again with a little effort and some time.

He'd learned to hoard books on medicine and trauma care. On first aid. That no matter how scarce actual bandages and other first aid supplies were, similar things worked just about as well, and were often left to rot. He hoarded scaps of paper and clothing. Looted dead bodies for change or shoelaces. Sometimes, he was lucky enough to find food or electronics. Most were barely functional, but the occasional device worked just well enough for him to scrape by. Nothing too fancy. Almost never something like night-vision goggles, rare things that made him a target worth hunting. Most of the time, it was watches or broken phones.

Hell, since he'd picked them up, the goggles didn't even work anymore, but the red lenses were something he'd gotten used to, and they hid his face rather well with a cloth over his nose and mouth, so he kept 'em. Besides, they'd be an added 'fuck you' if he ever did get tracked down and gutted. The bastard who'd killed him over such a trinket would be given the rude awakening of finding out that they didn't even work.

That they were less useful than sunglasses.

So Cauldo kept moving his tightly wrapped feet across the sand and dirt of the Mojave wasteland. He hummed when he got bored, and if things were real bad, he might take a break and stare at the stars. But mostly, he walked. His next goal or destination never quite clear until he got closer, until he spotted a tower in the distance of a telephone pole untouched by the things that had happened, or the glow of neon behind a dune.

For now, he was just walking, glad the sun was on its way down so he could stop and rest a bit. Maybe catch a few winks. Never forty. That he could count some stars, redress his sores, and carry on. He coughed roughly, yanking down the cloth over his face to expel some mucous and grit. His saliva followed, landing on the sand beside him with a thuck before he tugged the cloth back into place. Fucking nose. Still, it was better than some of the others he'd left. Bastards could barely breathe sometimes. Some of them were deformed to the point that they couldn't walk.

He'd been lucky enough to find books on the subject of leprosy. That he'd been able to treat himself well and at least postpone the inevitable. It was inevitable, after all. Without real medical treatment, he was as fucked as the rest of the lepers. But at least he'd be able to die separately. Somewhere in this shithole. With all his stuff. A chuckle escaped his lips softly, and dryly. He'd carry forward until he found something new, he supposed. He could take it.

Wasteland || Open - thedarkwyrm - 11-16-2014

[/img]"https://bookwyrmnick.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/dudeman_avatar.png" style="max-width:30%;float:left;margin:0 18px;" style="avatar] The best way to stay alive in the wasteland was to win fights before they even started.  If you looked like enough of a badass, you could intimidate most people into surrendering without having to kill anyone.  You could take what you wanted off them, and your reputation would spread.  It conserved resources, and you had less chance of losing a fight and getting killed.

That was why Hannes spent more than was strictly necessary to make sure he always had cigars on hand.  Anyone who could light up a fat stogie in this wasteland had to be someone you didn't want to mess with, right?  Besides, he never did like the flavor of cigarettes.

It was also why he carried a sniper rifle across his back.  Guns weren't exactly rare, but they were uncommon enough, especially big guns like his.  The fact that he only had four bullets for it was something no one needed to know.  .408 ammo was very hard to come by, but since it was the only ammo he needed, he could usually trade the excess he took off raiders and marauders for the single clip of .408 a trader might have.

At the moment, though, he was a bit hard up for 'cash'.  That was why he was currently lurking just outside of Vegas, perched in a convenient rocky hilltop, back against a flat rock, rifle perched on another rock, aimed at the city.  He watched through the scope at the comings and goings through the gates below, looking for someone who looked like a good target.  People won big and lost big in Vegas all the time.  Sometimes he got to the lucky winners first to relieve them of their winnings.  Sometimes marauders got to them first, but Hannes could rob the robbers just as easily as he robbed the civilians.  

He leaned back and rolled his shoulders, taking a swig from his hip flask.  He'd been here for the better part of a day, and his shoulders were getting stiff.  It wasn't that much trouble, though.  He'd camped out looking for a target for three days at a time, before.  He wasn't in any kind of rush.

Wasteland || Open - Kat - 11-20-2014

<img style="max-width:25%;float:right;margin:0 0 18px 18px;" src="http://i.imgur.com/D01nHYr.png" style="avatar]Bajazet pounded the ground hard and fast with the butt of her walking stick.

The caravan had been traveling for twelve nights, and of all the things she had seen, sand was involved. Sandy meals as high winds blew across the desert, eaten by sandy, restless people. The collective was pulled along by their sandy, irritated cattle who brayed their disappointment through every long mile. There was sand everywhere, in and on everything, and none of what she had done as precaution seemed to help. Blinking more of the obnoxious substance from her dark hues, the sun was coming to set. The walkers were those who patrolled the caravan on foot, scouting a few hundred meters ahead in case there may have been sightings of unknown travelers. Only took one asshole with a gun to freak out the normal folks in their midst. The merchants and scroungers who sold their wares from the wagons they rode in were kind people, quiet sorts, and Bajazet knew they deserved to be left in peace.

Most people disagreed.

Again, the stick jerked against the ground in a repeated motion, spelling out a short message to those in her scanning party. Bare footed toes and heels would catch the shifts of the sands and return the message with one of their own. This system had existed since before the wars, and would outlive any family in their group.

/Something in the distance-/ Bajazet pounded with her stick.

//Many-?//

/No- Few- One-/

///Tell caravan///

/Stay- watch-/

Making a barefoot about face, Bajazet trekked back to where the sounds were greater, wagons all pulling towards the direction she had just come from. Waving the hand with the stick in the air, she motioned for them to stop. Of course the person to drop down from their driving bench was the leader, though his weathered face seemed more sour than anticipated. "What is the meaning of this?" His tone seemed accusatory, but the woman ignored it. He was always blunt, rough around the edges, and increasingly hateful towards her kind. Woman-kind.

<font color="e6cd19]"There is someone in the distance."[/font] Her voice was deep and rich like a clay of the earth. <font color="e6cd19]"I was told to tell you."[/font]

"So we're stopping for one person? Just one?"

<font color="e6cd19]"Yes."[/font]

The old man guffawed and removed his hat, his other hand mopping the sweat from his stringy hairline. "You are some paranoid sorts- Just get back to watching the front! I haven't got time to waste on you lot being spooked by anything that moved. Probably a Dreg or something." Bajazet didn't reply to being brushed off, but if asked honestly, she would have said this reaction was the norm. In time, when a bandit cut his throat and stole his tobacco and hemp supplies, he would wish he had listened.

This time, she ran with her layers of cotton wrap and linen flowing behind her. Actively trying to get closer to the stranger, the woman was cautious as she put this much distance between herself and her comrads. All it took was a bullet to end her life - though using a bullet on a mostly unarmed woman seemed wasteful.

Now close enough to shout to the wanderer, the distant silhouettes of the other walkers were barely seen in the dim of dusk. As the sun went down, the landscape became more than just heat and sand. This was when bandits and Dregs were most active, and most likely to catch a person with their guard down. Bajazet didn't want to become an example of this, but it was best to know what this person was doing so far out, and if they were truly alone, it was the right thing to offer them assistance. Even if it was just a point in the right direction.

<font color="e6cd19]"Are you alright?"[/font] She asked loudly, the wind hopefully carrying the questions. <font color="e6cd19]"Injured?"[/font]


<Bajazet - e6cd19>

Wasteland || Open - bear - 11-21-2014

<img style="" src="http://i1105.photobucket.com/albums/h341/ratoly/fada4433-6d65-4b2a-8c4e-b7c643e89c8f.jpg" style="max-width:100%;float:left;]Cauldo was normally observant, but apparently he'd been lost in his thoughts. He didn't even notice the figure approaching him, perhaps because they were behind him, perhaps because he was simply not as observant as he once thought. He turned, glancing over his shoulder at the one who had spoken, red lenses glinting in the rapidly descending sun. Behind the frame, Cauldo narrowed his eyes. Judging by the attire, this one wasn't exactly in need. Not a scavenger then. Then things were worse. At best, they were simply a wanderer like him, but at worst... they could be a raider. A scout for a caravan. Even a dreg. He gritted his teeth and turned fully to face her.

"No."

With that, he stepped forward, meaning to meet up with this one and figure out what their deal was. Wrapped up feet carried him faster than his disease would imply, and despite their distance, it wouldn't be long before he was within arm's reach if she didn't react to him. If she pulled a weapon or similar, he'd merely stop, raising both hands. After all, his only goal had been to get closer. Get a better look at her.

Her clothes didn't tell him much, but his experience was limited. She was clean though, relatively, and that meant she wasn't a dreg. Cauldo didn't know what she was, and despite this, he knew he needed to figure out a way to disengage. The risk of her deciding he was a threat, or worse, reporting his existence to the caravan she may have been scouting for, was just too great. But then, if she was part of a caravan, he may just have had a chance at getting in on that. If he was willing to bloody his hands, he could be set for a long while. If not, perhaps they were more friendly than the usual caravaneers. Cauldo bit his lip gently, folding his arms across his chest as he thought.

Any caravan large enough to have a scout must have been worth taking, if he was able to. However, that meant more defenses. If he slipped up, he could end up dead. Perhaps diplomacy was worth a shot. Cauldo was running dangerously low on options, near as he was, and even them knowing he was around was virtually a death-sentence in his mind. If he showed his back, he had no guarantee he wouldn't be breathing through a bullet or an arrow in his lung. Hell, even if he'd run when addressed, he had little chance of evading a dedicated search.

No, this was his option, and he had to make due, much as he hated it. His gloved hands relaxed and slipped from his elbows and fell to rest at his sides, idling there, fingers just able to touch the bottoms of the sheathes on his weapons. If things turned ugly, she'd be in the ground, and then he'd be gone by the time the rest of her crew found her.

Wasteland || Open - Kat - 11-22-2014

<img style="avatar" src="http://i.imgur.com/D01nHYr.png" style="max-width:25%;float:right;margin:0 0 18px 18px;]The stick stood tall next to the woman, who didn't move in closer than was needed to examine the individual. He closed the gap between them, taking long strides to find himself in her presence, which let her observant stare trace his person in a quick ascending vertical. By the time the stranger was in her company, Bajazet was already thumping a barefoot against the sand with heeled kicks. Messages for the other scouts, though this action likely appeared as an idle mannerism to those not familiar with their tribal communication device. The woman certainly didn't seem flighty or spooked by him wanting to be closer. His answer seemed to be lacking in validity, making her unsure of his motives, but that could simply be self preservation. If he claimed he was fit and able, he was less likely to be preyed on by larger, more aggressive types.

Something in her slender, draped body seemed to speak volumes on what sort of character she was. Not a fighter, that seemed a sure bet.

"<font color="e6cd19]You smell sick.[/font]" Bajazet didn't bother hiding the discomfort his closeness brought when he stopped, but it wasn't fear behind her almond eyes. No, it was something closer to pity. Dregs were not uncommon sights, and the ones she saw were never those in fitter form; instead they looked like Cauldo. Wrapped, dirty, unhealthy. Not war giants or behemoths or skittering maws. Just men in masks, men with visible bandaging, and men who did not know when to keep their distance.

"<font color="e6cd19]Do you expect you will die here[/font]?" Absently, the bottom of the stick scratched at the earth. "<font color="e6cd19]Would you like to be left alone to die?[/font]"

Bajazet couldn't make out what sort of health Cauldo was in, but it wasn't a state she would deem healthy. His body was ripe with that sort of marinading illness which may have been worse is her sense of smell wasn't already damaged to begin with. It prodded her present being to take heed and leave him where he was, but she didn't feel entirely comfortable with just abandoning someone. He had yet to strike at her, and that was a point in his favor. Even her ebony features showed signs she had been struck before, maybe often, the scars a mix of older and newer injuries. One could get use to being a target of adoration as well as envy, though neither were feelings a woman hoped for from strangers. No good could come from it.

"<font color="e6cd19]I did not seek to harm you.[/font]" Bajazet offered quietly, doing her best to seem stoic to the circumstances. "<font color="e6cd19]Do you have goods to trade?[/font]"

Wasteland || Open - bear - 12-02-2014

<img style="max-width:100%;float:left;" src="http://i1105.photobucket.com/albums/h341/ratoly/fada4433-6d65-4b2a-8c4e-b7c643e89c8f.jpg" style="]Her words bit Cauldo the same way the wind often did. Superficially. Beneath the red lenses, an eyebrow raised at the remarks about his health, and he leaned inward a bit, tilting his head to peer at her face a tad closer. There was certainly more to her visage than he'd initially suspected. Remnants of something violent in her history. He hadn't noticed it from a distance, but with a foot or two extra distance lost, those details gained focus. She was no stranger to fighting. He guessed at a scout for a caravan then, his theory immediately confirmed by her next words.

"Not much."

At least he had that. Dreg though he might be, he wasn't violent when it wasn't necessary for his safety and survival, and an offer to trade struck him as strangely pleasant. So with the question answered vaguely at best, he nodded, straightening out to watch her again. Cauldo was certainly not the type to let a chance go untaken, but if he was dealing with a caravan, and they were willing to trade with him, he'd take the chance without hesitation or regret. Few enough were willing to even talk to dregs, much less trade with them, and the fact that they were willing to do both made him trusting.

As trusting as the leper could get, at least. The heel-kicking was noticed, but not terribly important to Cauldo. It simply seemed to him to be a mannerism, and if it was more sinister, well, he'd handle it when he came to it. For now, he would engage this woman in trade. Her whole caravan, if that was the truth of it, and he would see just how much he could squeeze out of them for the meager belongings he did have. He had some things he could package up as a rough first-aid kit, but being scarce meant even an impromptu one was rather valuable. Or, if he was lucky, they had an injured or two, and he could offer his skill at medicine.

If they didn't believe him, he could show them how well preserved he was.

Wasteland || Open - Kat - 12-06-2014


<img style="avatar" src="http://i.imgur.com/D01nHYr.png" style="max-width:25%;float:right;margin:0 0 18px 18px;]Bajazet's features didn't seem capable of changing, simply painted on her face in stoic display. There was scar tissue and damage to the veneer, but in the jumble of youthful flesh, one could see she had little issue keeping her opinions to herself. A blank stare often did enough to entice violence, but far less often than one containing malice might. <font color="e6cd19]"Do you wish I leave you then?"[/font] While waiting for his answer, bare feet continued to keep tabs on the messages being scattered throughout the area, all of which pertaining to who he may have been, and what it was he was doing this far out. They asked if he was alone, if he was looking to trade, and inevitably, if he looked contagious. Bajazet didn't known the answer to the latter, but her walking stick struck the sands with an indecisive quip about doubting as much.

Slowly she backed from his immediate reach and motioned with her head towards the distance, where maybe through the twilight bath of midnight blue, he could see the outlines of her caravan. <font color="e6cd19]"You may come, but walk slow. No aggression."[/font] Explaining nothing more, Bajazet led them towards the other scouts who kept their distance while studying his cloaked figure. One clicked angrily, and in turn, she clicked back with something of a hiss. It left the male scout scowling, but he didn't keep them from closing in on the now parked collection of merchants. Their arrival was met by the old man who drove the caravan, and he seemed flustered at what Bajazet offered him concerning what had happened.

"Why'd ya bring him here then?! If he ain't got nothing to trade, what am I suppose ta do with him?" The old man was far more animated than Bajazet, his hands flailing when he spoke, fast and wild in their motions. "An' what if he infects us? What abou' that much?"
<font color="e6cd19]
"He is not contagious."[/font] Bajazet found herself reassuring the old man just a few yards from where Cauldo had been told to wait, digging her stick in the dirt while she spoke. <font color="e6cd19]"I will keep him at a distance for now. You will see." [/font]Glancing back to the fully covered stranger, she added. <font color="e6cd19]"Not contagious."[/font]

Unconvinced, the elder huffed and pointed to the back of the camp where the animals slept. "Then ya stay that way until we know for sure. Gotta be outta yer goddamn mind if you think I'm gonna let him near the wares!"

<font color="e6cd19]"Fine, fine."[/font] Bajazet dismissed his words. <font color="e6cd19]"At a distance."[/font]

"Now go take him outta my sight! Goddamn bleeding hearts always pickin' up strays! No better than dogs-"

She ignored the rest of the rant in favor of trailing to her new acquaintance, who received a solemn shrug. <font color="e6cd19]"You may come."[/font] With the words came more traveling, off to where they had been directed, which was among settled oxen and antsy horses. Bajazet brought two bundles with her so they had bedrolls to use, and she set one at his feet before scooping together supplies to start their own fire for the night. When the dark came, she would need it to keep a watch on their surroundings. Even when the rest of the camp was sleeping, the scouts took turns ensuring no one was able to run them down in the dead of night.

When the fire crackled and ate at driftwood and dried tumbleweed, Bajazet finally sat at it's edges and motioned he was free to do the same. Something skinned had been propped over the campfire to burn, and Bajazet fixated on it's condition for a time before speaking again, obviously used to silence in her camp.
<font color="e6cd19]
"Do you have a name?"[/font]

Wasteland || Open - tsunderebanchou - 12-16-2014

[size=small]<img style="Kenji" style="max-width:50%;float:left;" src="http://i741.photobucket.com/albums/xx53/VampyrHeart/Kenji_zps3cf30e58.jpg]Calling that day exceptionally hot wouldn’t make much sense in that wretched place, everyday was exceptionally hot, there was a generation who had never seen a cold day, they only knew hot and hotter, they had never seen snow nor walked under the rain, they were just stories from a past long gone, it might have never existed.

If not for the old books and magazines stacked in the corner of his old defunct trailer he calls home he wouldn’t have believed it as well, memories of a past long gone, foreign lands that can no longer be reached and those things they used to get there, what did they call them?... yes, airplanes, like that one plunged not so far from where he lived. He had always fantasized about going on one of them to his grandparents’ land, that place once called Japan, he even dreams about it, which is why he overslept that morning, but it could have also been because he was a little too drunk. He had no clue what it looked like now, but he longed for a life in the neon lights, the ones he saw in his old magazines.

He slowly opened his eyes, his side still hurt from last night’s fight, but it was worth it, at least for him, he managed to nab a bottle of that moonshine like alcohol some people brew, what was in that bottle, no one could tell, but he loved the feeling he got out of it, it made him forget the dullness of the life he lived, at least for a moment.
Kenji was born into a biker gang, so it was no surprise he was a biker himself, just as his parents were before him. His father, being of Japanese heritage, has kept a Japanese biker style and a heavily customized old bike, both of which he himself has inherited after his father was killed in a gang feud, his mother fled to the Desert Rose afterwards never to be heard of, and he replaced his dad as the mechanic/ electrician of the gang at the age of 15, it seemed a long time has passed since then.

He got out into the scorching sun, still yawning, it looked like the other members had already left without waking him up, it happened a lot, and today he didn’t particularly regret it, he only found the members on guard duty, and one of his wounded comrades who probably couldn’t ride that day.
<font color="#d86161]“Have any caravans passed today?”[/font] he asked, stretching his arms over his head, he was only hoping for water or other consumables that day “Nothing really worth it, we didn’t even attack them.” the man sitting on an empty barrel replied <font color="#d86161]“Pathetic”[/font] Kenji muttered, kicking a pebble onto the empty barrel producing a hollow noise. <font color="#d86161]“Nothing worth it, what kind of caravan is ‘nothing worth it’ eh?”[/font] he went on into a ramble, as he headed back into his trailer.

A bit later he was dressed up to his distinct pompadour (which meant he had to always find some kind of grease to hold it up with) and ready to leave, he didn’t have a destination, but he didn’t really care, his tank was full, and he wasn’t known for saving up his fuel when he got it, which was source to a lot of scolding from the older members, but it always seemed to fall on deaf ears. He had heard of a bigger caravan coming around and he was curious about how big it was, he just headed there without telling any of the otherrs, he didn’t know what he was accomplishing by doing that, but he did anyways. The sun had already set by the time he got closer, his old bike roaring, revealing his presence into the silent night.[/font]

Wasteland || Open - bear - 12-20-2014

<img style="" style="max-width:100%;float:left;" src="http://i1105.photobucket.com/albums/h341/ratoly/fada4433-6d65-4b2a-8c4e-b7c643e89c8f.jpg]He wasn't so used to dealing with caravans that he really could get a fix on the elder's actions. He processed them slowly. The notion that he was sick being important enough to warrant mention, apparently. Of no surprise, he supposed. It was uncommon that people wandered around in his style of garb unless they were sick or worse. In his case, his illness wasn't contagious, but the idea of eating dinner with a leper was still repulsive.

His books had been clear enough in their discussion of what he suffered with: People didn't understand it then, and now, long after the books writers were gone, people still didn't seem to understand it. His expertise didn't sit well in his stomach alongside the knowledge that he was still stuck with the body he had. If he could have, he would have traded for something more approachable. Something less... dreg-like. But he was trapped in his skin, and had to tolerate that. So he did.

Following Bajazet was a slow process, as the night wore on, he felt his muscles starting to ache from the day's journey. The stress of his encounter with the caravan starting to wear on him as he settled in by the fire and let her words bounce off him like pebbles off a car tire. Then she addressed him again, asking his name, and for a moment, he considered taking off the lenses that afforded his eyes the privacy he felt like they deserved. But he left the lenses on for now.

"Cauldo."

He considered bringing up his nickname among the dreg, but thought better of it. His name was information enough. That he had occasionally been referred to as both the "Butcher" and "Healer" of his old group wasn't really anything he felt comfortable parting with. The books had given him knowledge, but time and experience had given him caution. Judging by the elder's reaction to his presence, these folk were just about ready to slit his throat as talk to him, and only Bajazet's willingness to vouch for him had spared him any violence. Not that he couldn't handle himself in a fight, but an entire caravan was simply out of the question.

No way he was coming out of that fight unscathed, and even less likely he'd have enough supplies to fix what was broken at the end of it all, considering he was currently running on fumes as far as supplies went. That was why he was taking this chance in the first place, after all. Still, as far as trading supplies went, he was lacking anything substantial. If he was honest with himself, most of what he could trade could be summed up by calling it his 'skill.'

He was, by no means, a trained doctor, but he was very knowledgeable. More knowledgeable than anyone really had a right to be in a world like this, but it was why he was still breathing. He could mend wounds, fix broken limbs, and treat most diseases, once he figured out what they were. It was just a question of supplies. If he was lucky, he'd be able to offer his services to this caravan for a short time. Maybe get something back in return. Something he could use.

"I'm a doctor."

That was all he felt like sharing about himself for now. She knew he was sick, after all. He didn't need to share what he was sick with.

Wasteland || Open - Kat - 01-08-2015

[/img]"http://i.imgur.com/D01nHYr.png" style="avatar" style="max-width:25%;float:right;margin:0 0 18px 18px;]"<font color="e6cd19]Cauldo the doctor.[/font]" It wasn't a question the way she said it, but instead something of an amused mimic. Scarred lips curled in a raw smile, parting so her neat incisors would show against the dark of her complexion. Walking stick in one hand still, she idled the meat over the flame slowly with the other, intent on it's progress above most things - his possible reaction included. Bajazet spent very little time speaking verbally with those in the camp, and even less time with outsiders, so his presence was a new and unexplored avenue of entertainment. Were this another time and another place, the woman may have simply left him where he lay in the sands, but this was a world in desperate need of camaraderie. No small deed would be left without consequences, but not all consequences were bad.

At least not in her experience.

Bare feet dragged through the dirt so her long legs could stretch, the appendages peeking out from beneath weather worn linen robes. Another display of scars crossed in stitches over her shins and ankles, but their existence was as much a mystery as her presence with the predominantly WASP-y caravan. Only a handful of the other scouts looked anything like her in terms of ethnicity and garb, but each of them was male and far more imposing than the waifish creature tending to their fire. "<font color="e6cd19]If you are a doctor, why can I smell your sick?[/font]" Peering up with a curiosity akin to a large cat following a laser of light, her eyes rested on his mask. "<font color="e6cd19]And why are you alone in the desert? You should be at the oasis.[/font]" The spit sizzled audibly when it was rotated, the meat nearly done as her words ticked out like the steady hands of a clock. "<font color="e6cd19]A doctor lives well in the oasis. A doctor is important.[/font]"

Straightening to sit properly, Bajazet pulled up the stick from the pit and divided the meal into steaming heaps on two slabs of bare metal. Handing over one towards the stranger, she didn't wait for his reaction to start eating, both hands shifting the meal around before taking up pieces for consumption. What easily could have been a messy act was done with artful accuracy, and by the time she was finishing the last bite, she had cleaned her fingers of the juices. Only her eyes showed she still had interest in Cauldo's actions as they continued to find his mask for further inspection. "<font color="e6cd19]Do you have a face?[/font]"

Not the first things most people may consider to ask after a meal, but she wanted to know, and asking may provide answers. Of course, it was the revving of an engine nearby that earned something of a morose sigh from the woman, her bare heels in the earth picking up the chatter of other scouts.

//one-//
///what sort?-///
//biker-//
///ours?-///
//no-//

Bajazet snatched her stick and thumped a response to the others, though she wasn't sure just what they were planning to do about it.

/coming from north- alone- wait for more?-/

Wasteland || Open - tsunderebanchou - 01-11-2015

[size=small]<img style="Kenji" src="http://i741.photobucket.com/albums/xx53/VampyrHeart/Kenji_zps3cf30e58.jpg" style="max-width:50%;float:left;]The noise from the engine got louder and louder, until the thing finally appeared in the scout’s line of sight, it looked as loud as the noise it made, with lots of added custom parts, extended exhaust pipes and graffiti paint that has probably looked much better and brighter a few years ago, when that bike belonged to Kenji’s dad.
The rider looked as flamboyant as his bike, with a leather mask and some kind of goggles, but no helmet. his mostly black hair was styled into a fairly big pompadour do, with the front part tainted with red dye, that had probably seen better days.
He stepped off his bike, and walked towards the source of what seemed like a little camp, the chains on his worn out leather pants clanking around with every step of his heavy worker's boots. his tank top seemed to have lost its color over time and the only thing that seemed to have kept its shape were the intricate oriental tattoos covering his arms and probably most of his chest, they looked pretty contrasting with the rest of his worn out appearance, and they begged the question of where he could have gotten them. He looked unarmed and didn’t seem to want to conceal himself. he just walked straight into them.
For the first few seconds, he just stood there, near enough for them to identify him, but too far to initiate any conversation, he lifted his goggles, and stared right into the scout's face, before he noticed the other member close to her “What is he?” he wondered “His mask doesn't seem to be functioning properly, I wonder what’s behind it”. He stared at both of them for a few more seconds, without moving much, he was still a little confused. “A dreg? what is it doing here? I never heard of caravans with dregs tagging along. Interesting”.
He looked at the scout again, before moving towards them, with his arms open as if he was saying “I am not armed, don’t be hostile.” even though his narrow eyes with the injured eyebrow suggested hostility on his part. The closer he got, the more Bajazet could tell he was pretty harmless, he looked pretty tired himself. He moved a little closer, then took the mask off and with a hoarse voice, without any greeting he asked <font color="#d86161]“What would your caravan need in exchange for some water and food?”[/font] he sounded pretty desperate, he didn't even look at where the rest of the caravan was. He wasn't really sure what he could offer them, most other caravans would ask him to repair some things for them, or ask his gang to protect them for a portion of road, since it was a fairly strong and known gang.[/font]

Wasteland || Open - Kat - 01-16-2015

[/img]"http://i.imgur.com/q2vnc8R.png" style="max-width:25%;float:left;margin:0 18px;" style="avatar]A woman could live on fat back and cheap, poorly fermented bourbon. Not comfortably, but well enough to keep going through their travels. Kade knew it to be true - had done it enough times to preach the importance of making connections with the caravans - but it got tiresome after a handful of firesides. Even with bread to soak and water to sip sparingly, the blonde grimaced at the smell as her supplies were laid out for assessing. Broken baubles, chipped trinkets, and dusty paper clippings. Some might be worth selling, but she wasn't going to bank on the possibility of finding a buyer. Tomorrow she'd have to get back out there and earn her living the old fashioned way, tearing apart dilapidated structures for the possibilities of gleaning a treasure from mounds of ancient trash. Rubbing her finger tips against the face of a coin, the woman stared into the darkness beyond her lighted pit and wondered if she was anywhere near Oasis.

Oasis wasn't a story. No, it was as real as the blisters on her heels.

Lake Mead provided the water for many of the desert's surviving settlers, less radiated than Lake Tahoe, and closer to the dust. The city that hugged it's reservoir walls was dubbed Oasis because of all the things it could be considered, that seemed like the most obvious choice. Some still called it Charlestown though just to make it known they were locals. Having been born in Charlestown, that's what Kade had always addressed it as, though she didn't get too many inquiries on her origins, so the topic was a mostly dead one. Gnawing on a lard soaked husk of bread, distance lights were barely twinkles in her peripherals. Still, she made note. Could be a caravan to catch up with, or it could be someone less accommodating. Kade wasn't much of a betting woman, but the gamble she always took was a cautious one, and she was likely to fold and pack up if they ventured any closer to her camp.

No use fighting over territory when the desert wasn't hers to stake claim in.

The whole time she ate, she multitasked. Over the course of her meal a hole would be dug into the dirt, deep as she could manage with her bare hands, done so she could ensure she would catch where newcomers were headed from directionally. Sometimes she was lucky enough to see the lights, but by sound alone, it could get tricky. With this method, it was more accurate, and she could camoflague flat if the need arose. Kade knew it saved her life every so often to lay flat and play dead under a layer of dirt; most scavengers didn't bother to seek out more than what they could snatch and run with. Other than feeling filthy, it was safe - and safe was what mattered at the end of the day.

The lights hadn't gotten closer, so she felt safe to stay put. If they meant to catch her, they were taking too long and she wasn't going to wait up for an ambush. They'd be wasting time and resources to do so. Dusting off her hands with a few claps, the nomad scooped up her blanket and draped it over her figure with a muffled sigh, body flat in the earth with her head on her pack. If nothing else, Kade always had time to mull over her thoughts, even if they were little more than an array of memories and personal notes concerning the days events. This day had been mostly uneventful, so the secondary option was remember what warm water felt like. A bath in the traditional sense. There'd be tubs in Charlestown, All she had to do was stay on the current path and she'd be clean as a whistle in a few days time.

Rising slightly for a final glance to ensure the camp in the distance remained a non-issue, Kade closed her eyes and returned to her sleeping position, ready to nap. By her guess, she could manage four or five hours easy, and that was way longer than her usual two hour rush rest.

Wasteland || Open - bear - 03-19-2015

<img style="" src="http://i1105.photobucket.com/albums/h341/ratoly/fada4433-6d65-4b2a-8c4e-b7c643e89c8f.jpg" style="max-width:100%;float:left;]Weary eyes watched her actions from his seat by the fire. Her dedication to the food in front of her told him small details about the way she chose to carry herself. About the way she treated those close to her. And the way she seemed to be interested in dealing with him. Not much of course. Just little inklings that added up slowly to something more useful. A picture of this woman. It was fuzzy and poorly detailed, but it was a work in progress. Cauldo watched her hands as she worked the meat over the fire. Then she asked him about his sick again. It seemed her curiosity was not quenched with a simple affirmation of his illness. She wanted details. He ground his teeth for a moment, and before he knew it, she had burdened him with more questions. Why wasn't he at the Oasis. Did he have a face. What kind of questions were these? Clearly this one handled things in a more interesting way than he thought, but the nerve of the question still bit him rather harshly. With a slight hiss, he settled back in his seat and turned slightly away from her.

"My sick can't be fixed. The Oasis doesn't want me. I have a mask."

Three answers to three questions. But he didn't feel good about it. He didn't like talking about these things already, and her insistence on asking these questions was wearing thin on him rapidly. He turned back toward her, studying her face as he noticed she was offering him food. He took it, feeling the slight sting of embarassment over his curtness now that she was sharing her meat with him. He wasn't planning on starving, and she had offered him food. It meant he could last longer, so he couldn't afford to turn it down. Not in this lifetime. Still, eating meant the mask had to come off, and with some tenderness, he used his free hand to slide the hood off his head and take the mask off in one swift motion. He made no comment on his appearance. He knew it was rough enough to ruin a meal. He wouldn't bring it up.

His face was a sight to behold, surely, for those with an affection for the grotesque. While the leprosy hadn't done much damage to him, it had compromised his ability to feel pain correctly, and as a result, his face was riddled with deep scarring. Self-inflicted bite marks around his lips. A healing hole in his cheek. As well as the distinctive patches of darkened flesh that revealed his leprous status. His hair was mostly gone, and while he took care to keep his head shaved, there was light stubble where hair had once been, and was planning to grow again. His eyes were brown, and had heavy bags beneath them from many sleepless nights in the desert. He set the mask down next to him and began to eat, taking it slowly and carefully to avoid spillage through the hole in his cheek. Residue could cause an infection, after all. He paused after a long moment of chewing to swallow and ask a question.

His thoughts were cut off by the sudden movement by Bajazet. On reflex, he grabbed his mask and pulled it back on, forgetting his food for the moment as his ears picked up on the sound of the engine. It was getting closer, and Cauldo rushed to get his hood back on. Face concealed again, he settled into an easy sit as he waited to see what would happen. When the stranger arrived, he didn't seem to notice the ex-dreg immediately, more interested in the scout he was currently relying on. But it didn't take long for the newcomer to notice the medic, and Cauldo could almost hear the cogs turning in his head. His arms tensed, preparing to grab for his weapons if a fight were to break out. If necessary, he would take a blow if it meant establishing trust with the leader of the caravan. But it didn't seem that the newcomer was interested in a brawl. Only supplies. Cauldo relaxed some. Not all, but some, surely. After all, if this one was here to trade, he posed little threat to Cauldo presently. However, it did mean some bad news when it came time to disengage.