In reply to Winnie Franklin (msg # 32):

Jane pulled out whatever she had and added it to the group and then with her weapon in hand went to be on guard duty.


Keeper's Note: 2 Milrats = 6 days food.
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:47, Sat 14 Dec 2013.

"I'll see what I can rustle up."

Smoker went back to his fire and settled down to domestic matters.

Peter shrugged. "I have a couple days'  worth of milrats."


Keeper's Note: 2 Milrats = 6 days food.
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:56, Sat 14 Dec 2013.

Fred kicked in a few Milrats, plastic pouches in foil-wrapped packages.

"With what we have here, we should last at least a few days."

After Rowan contributed several meal packs, it seemed they did have enough food for a few days. They waited out the day, then moved on after dark.

Along the way, Rowan and Jane foraged as they travelled along I89, heading for the emergency rendez-vous point. Occasionally, a Raptor passed by overhead, searching, but they were always lucky enough to be by cover.

After a couple days furtive travel, Simon improved a little. More to the point, he became more comfortable. On the morning of the third night of travel, as they were settling down to wait out the day, Simon looked into the fire as he sipped some powdered cocoa from a Milrat pack.

"This reminds me of the last time I took a journey as long as this one. Things went pear-shaped then too, maybe worse. It's enough to make a man swear off travelling! Fred, you've heard this story even if you weren't there, so my apologies.

"It was about ten years ago when we left Boise that first time. It was just a few years after the war, times were even tougher than they are now. No one had food, too much radiation around.

"Someone or something people called the "Soul Taker" had been ravaging survivor colonies (communities). Four others and myself set out to hunt it. We assumed it was some kind of Syker, as it could possess people's minds and force them to do its bidding, with no memory after. The only clue someone was possessed was that their eyes glowed green.

"After weeks of travel, we found a wise woman by the name of "Granny Butterworth". She said the Soul Taker was really a demon, a servant of Satan unleashed on Earth named "Baphomet". She said that we could defeat it, but if I made the wrong decision one of us would die. And that if I lost my compassion, then my good deeds would turn to ashes.

Well, we found the demon hiding in a state park from before the war named, of all things, Hell's Canyon. It was a tough fight through some of the best-armed Walkin' Dead I've ever seen. And it wasn't over by the time we got to the north end of the canyon... Baphomet's power had grown, and instead of just one person it had taken over a dozen townsfolk from a nearby colony, men, women and children, and they attacked us. We tried not to kill them, but in the end it was self-defence and it was them or us.

"I can't forget one boy's face when he died under my sword... he almost looked thankful at being released from the demon's infesting his soul and mind. In the end we did lose one companion, as Granny Butterworth said. We were beating back the demon, but my companion was badly wounded. When I stopped to heal her she begged me to let her go, she was dead already, to strike the killing blow against the demon. I did, and Baphomet flew apart with just one hit from my sword, whereas I hadn't been able to touch him before. I guess her sacrifice gave me the power... but I cried, yeah, I did .

"At any rate, that was the end of the demon. Not a lot of people know that story... and now you do as well."

Smoker listened wide-eyed to the story.

In reply to Smoker Nix (msg # 39):

Fred listened as well.
This message was lightly edited by the player at 09:50, Sun 29 Dec 2013.

In reply to Simon (msg # 38):

"Heck of a story there, Simon. If I didn't hear it from you, I wouldn't believe it."

"Ain't it. Say, I heard you were there? Must have been a rough fight."

She scowled. "Of course I was there. Some things you want to forget."

Rowan strokes Tricksters fir and gazes into space as she listens to the tale committing it memory.
"Can any thing truly be forgotten" she asks softly.

"The canticle of fortune speaks thus on the matter."

The circle of fortune turns, and all things pass.
Night becomes dawn, day becomes dusk.
Winter becomes spring, summer becomes fall.
Wealth and poverty come and go.
Joy and despair come and go.
Strength and weakness come and go.
Love and loneliness come and go.
Health and sickness come and go.
Peace and battle come and go.
Birth and life and death come and go.
What is built, may be destroyed, and what is destroyed, may be rebuilt.
What is learned, may be forgotten, and what is unknown, may be discovered.

Rowan sighs.
"Time turns and turns again the seasons rolling by and still we can not live in peace, still we fight to survive"

Peter listened to the story. He mostly remained impassive but at the end he gave a small shudder and turned to look away. "Thanks. Like I need more fuel for my nightmares." But he chuckled softly as the story was....mostly...with a happy ending.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:29, Sun 29 Dec 2013.

In reply to Peter Firecrow (msg # 45):

Jane kept up on Patrol and sentry duty because it helped her not think about leaving baby.  It was quite on duty which was nice.  It helped amplify sounds if anybody approached and it was also nice after all the shooting earlier.

Simon seemed to improve after telling his story, falling into a deep sleep.

The Posse struggled on for a few days, moving at night and holing up during the day. They had enough rations to last, which was good because not much else seemed to be available to eat along the I89 corridor. Smoker kept an eye out for transport of any kind, both along the interstate and in the abandoned farms and towns they passed by but there was nothing. Over the years, independent scavengers and salvage teams from Junkyard had stripped anything of value within a day's walk of the roadway.

Finally, they reached a bombed-out truck stop just outside of Junkyard territory. This was the backup RV point, where they were supposed to wait for a pickup and transport to Junkyard.

In reply to The Marshall (msg # 47):

As day broke, they seemed to be in a relatively good position. Fred looked around at the burned-out garage and diner.

Consulting a map of the premises, Fred walked out to the edge of the lot. The landscape was dry brown dirt, scraggly underbrush, and then a ways back was the dark forested hills. Between the truck stop and the treeline at the foot of the bluff was a dry streambed in a deep ravine.

Climbing down into the ravine, Fred dug in the dust at the far side of the streambed, pulling up a trap door.

"Ah! Just like we arranged. Inside this cache will be a radio, food and water."

The cache might have been a bomb shelter at one time, or perhaps part of a mine shaft. A metal ladder led down into a narrow horizontal passage, five feet wide.

"Someone want to go down and have a look?"

"Shall I go?" offered Smoker. "Made holes are more to my liking than wilderness..."

"Be my guest! Anyone else want to accompany him? No time like the present."

Smoker went over to the hole and looked down, getting his flashlight out.

In reply to Smoker Nix (msg # 51):

The ladder went down 6 feet, to a 5 foot wide corridor that led off into the darkness, towards the hills.

Smoker climbs down and moves off cautiously along the corridor. He then comes back and calls up to Fred "Is there anything I should know about this? Passcodes or anything?"

Jane motioned that she'd let Smoker have the honors.  "I'll let you go down.  I'm not overly fond of underground holes.  I can help cover you from up here.  Be careful."

Peter let out a small sigh. "I will go with you if you want." He grabbed his gear and headed after Smoker.

Peter and Smoker descend the metal ladder down into the narrow shaft.

It led to a narrow concrete corridor, 5 feet wide and 6 feet high, well-shored up. Dead lights led in a line down the middle of the arched ceiling. The passage continued for 50 feet, about to the foot of the red rock cliffs, then up another ladder through another trap door into a largish walled chamber, 30 feet across.

Near the trap door was a pump, sink, kitchenette with cupboards and a stove. Vent work led into the ceiling. There were 2 small doors, one seemed to lead into a bunkroom and the other to a combined storeroom and bathroom. There was a third, larger, door, presumably leading outside. Cool air brushed against their faces from some kind of ventilation, but it still smelled terrible.

The floor was covered in trash. Old newspapers, food wrappers, broken equipment, air and water filter cartridges, batteries, clothing. In the middle of the room was a large metal table piled high with empty alcohol bottles, a few dusty gas masks, a Geiger counter, and a new-looking backpack radio with a notebook.

As well, sitting at one of the metal chairs around the table was a corpse, mainly bones and a few scraps of flesh inside the scraps of clothing. It looked like the person had died or was placed slumped over onto the table.

"Hmmm..." said Smoker, looking around with a scavenger's eye.

"Place is a mess, but should clean up OK. Question is: what did he die from? And will it kill us any time soon?"