The world died, but you didn't. Now, how to keep it that way?
A Memory of Life
- Thread starter Dapperlad1
- Start date
- Horror
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- Tags
- horror post-apocalyptic weird
- Created
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- Ongoing
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Chapter 1
- Location
- Albania
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Cold air strikes your exposed skin, what little there is behind the thick layers of stitched together rags keep you warm in the lovely Kraków winter. Mixing with that sensation is the keening cry of hunger, it having been days since your last meal of any kind.
The dark mockery that has replaced what was once the sun glares down, keeping everything in an eerie half-light that fades to complete blackness once it falls below the horizon, as you continue to try and plan for the future.
The old rifle, a vintage piece from the Second World War that your grandfather once wielded in service to the Soviet Union, sits on a table desperately aching for a cleaning that you do not have the tools to give. A dozen rounds of its lethal munitions lay next to it, providing the basis of its effectiveness.
Out in the distance sounds the inhuman cries of things, reaching out and drilling at your psyche with terror as imagination alone conjures up horrors beyond reason-You force away the neural assault with a grit of your teeth, cursing under your breath as balance leaves you in a terrifying moment.
Shaking loose the cobwebs you refocus on the task. Keeping the idea of food in your mind immediately sparks motivation.
You grab the rifle and make sure you still have the knife that has seen you through dangers that you can't clearly remember anymore. Chipped and dull in sheen, its edge still glints with lethal sharpness.
It finds itself in a leather sheath, the only piece of clothing you have that is not formed from rags.
Finally, you set out into the stairway from the second story of an old apartment building you've made a temporary home of, avoiding the moldy, cracked floor, and into the snow covered street below.
Moving slowly and crunching the aforementioned snow with every step, you start making your way to the only place you can think of still having food- the city hospital cafeteria, or at least the one closest.
The cold seeps in, chilling your bones and slowing you down, but you push through, making the long walk whilst keeping an eye out at fogged over windows, long since iced shut manholes and shadow-drenched alley-mouths.
Movement is spotted constantly, the black shadow shapes of what once were humans, people, now reduced to ever-repeating memories that whisper of their last moments when you get too close. They line the insides of steel and gasoline burial mounds, stand at windows that were obviously shattered inwards and fill the streets in small groups of statue-stiff silhouettes.
Ignoring their stories, the hospital's tall glass and steel frame rises unyielding above it all, a testament to human endurance that such a grand building stands steadfast when many others have fallen, broken and shattered.
Nearing it, you choose a back entrance. Even the small difference in heat as you enter the building provides immediate relief to the ache that the air outside gently offers.
Inside the hospital is a different sort of oppressive atmosphere. The hanging lamps which should long since have died gleam with clinical, sterile light, illuminating a suspiciously clean tiled hall that nonetheless feels aged, rotten and malformed. Raising your rifle, the hall's length provides a measure of security, but the blind corner at the end of it raises your hackles fiercely.
And then comes the whispering.
Soft, hushed tones, barely audible and speaking nonsense from all sides, the creeping vines of unconsciousness filling your sight- something you barely force back nearly too late, regaining full lucidity down on one knee, staring up towards the blistering hospital lights, now much too bright.
Regaining yourself you lift the rifle, scanning incessantly whilst remaining on task, moving down the hall at an even slower pace, the whispers having died down to a vague vibration in the walls. The blind corner nears. You make the turn- all you spot are the emaciated corpses of the ill and crippled, still dressed in hospital gowns as their dry corpses drape poses of utter desperation on the ground, in wheelchairs and wherever else they could crawl to.
The corpse-eyes follow you as you leave them behind, going deeper into the building, following faded signs that promise a solution to the hunger that consumes you. Two more hallways of perfect sterility pass you by, before the lively cafeteria becomes your surroundings.
Shadows move, speaking of joys and life, work and business in that semi-intelligible garble they are so fond of, you push through them, seeking the rear-most portion of this place, where stainless steel doors hide months of non-perishable foods.
At the serving line stands a massive, humanoid shape, vastly obese and dressed in the vilest set of chefs clothing imaginable. Stains of grease, blood and viler fluids turn it from white to a disgusting off-yellow and brown.
The creature opens its mouth, revealing two layers of rotting flat, blunt teeth one behind the other, and speaks in a heavily accented voice, nearly indistinguishable from the smacking of its lips and dripping of green-stained saliva. "Hungry soul looking for a meal? Fresh meat is what I need."
It pulls out a cleaver the size of your torso, and plants it firmly in a chopping block speckled with viscera. Beside it lies the offal of what you hope was not a human, partially along the process of transforming into sausages. Behind the blubbery horror is the stainless steel door that hides real food.
You are left with a choice.
[X] Fresh meat? You can get some of that. Just have to drag back a corpse of something from outside. (INT+SUR)
[X] Send a round from your rifle into this thing, and then perhaps another if it doesn't work. You don't have the time or energy to hunt. (COO+RAW)
[X] Something else?
The dark mockery that has replaced what was once the sun glares down, keeping everything in an eerie half-light that fades to complete blackness once it falls below the horizon, as you continue to try and plan for the future.
The old rifle, a vintage piece from the Second World War that your grandfather once wielded in service to the Soviet Union, sits on a table desperately aching for a cleaning that you do not have the tools to give. A dozen rounds of its lethal munitions lay next to it, providing the basis of its effectiveness.
Out in the distance sounds the inhuman cries of things, reaching out and drilling at your psyche with terror as imagination alone conjures up horrors beyond reason-You force away the neural assault with a grit of your teeth, cursing under your breath as balance leaves you in a terrifying moment.
Shaking loose the cobwebs you refocus on the task. Keeping the idea of food in your mind immediately sparks motivation.
You grab the rifle and make sure you still have the knife that has seen you through dangers that you can't clearly remember anymore. Chipped and dull in sheen, its edge still glints with lethal sharpness.
It finds itself in a leather sheath, the only piece of clothing you have that is not formed from rags.
Finally, you set out into the stairway from the second story of an old apartment building you've made a temporary home of, avoiding the moldy, cracked floor, and into the snow covered street below.
Moving slowly and crunching the aforementioned snow with every step, you start making your way to the only place you can think of still having food- the city hospital cafeteria, or at least the one closest.
The cold seeps in, chilling your bones and slowing you down, but you push through, making the long walk whilst keeping an eye out at fogged over windows, long since iced shut manholes and shadow-drenched alley-mouths.
Movement is spotted constantly, the black shadow shapes of what once were humans, people, now reduced to ever-repeating memories that whisper of their last moments when you get too close. They line the insides of steel and gasoline burial mounds, stand at windows that were obviously shattered inwards and fill the streets in small groups of statue-stiff silhouettes.
Ignoring their stories, the hospital's tall glass and steel frame rises unyielding above it all, a testament to human endurance that such a grand building stands steadfast when many others have fallen, broken and shattered.
Nearing it, you choose a back entrance. Even the small difference in heat as you enter the building provides immediate relief to the ache that the air outside gently offers.
Inside the hospital is a different sort of oppressive atmosphere. The hanging lamps which should long since have died gleam with clinical, sterile light, illuminating a suspiciously clean tiled hall that nonetheless feels aged, rotten and malformed. Raising your rifle, the hall's length provides a measure of security, but the blind corner at the end of it raises your hackles fiercely.
And then comes the whispering.
Soft, hushed tones, barely audible and speaking nonsense from all sides, the creeping vines of unconsciousness filling your sight- something you barely force back nearly too late, regaining full lucidity down on one knee, staring up towards the blistering hospital lights, now much too bright.
Regaining yourself you lift the rifle, scanning incessantly whilst remaining on task, moving down the hall at an even slower pace, the whispers having died down to a vague vibration in the walls. The blind corner nears. You make the turn- all you spot are the emaciated corpses of the ill and crippled, still dressed in hospital gowns as their dry corpses drape poses of utter desperation on the ground, in wheelchairs and wherever else they could crawl to.
The corpse-eyes follow you as you leave them behind, going deeper into the building, following faded signs that promise a solution to the hunger that consumes you. Two more hallways of perfect sterility pass you by, before the lively cafeteria becomes your surroundings.
Shadows move, speaking of joys and life, work and business in that semi-intelligible garble they are so fond of, you push through them, seeking the rear-most portion of this place, where stainless steel doors hide months of non-perishable foods.
At the serving line stands a massive, humanoid shape, vastly obese and dressed in the vilest set of chefs clothing imaginable. Stains of grease, blood and viler fluids turn it from white to a disgusting off-yellow and brown.
The creature opens its mouth, revealing two layers of rotting flat, blunt teeth one behind the other, and speaks in a heavily accented voice, nearly indistinguishable from the smacking of its lips and dripping of green-stained saliva. "Hungry soul looking for a meal? Fresh meat is what I need."
It pulls out a cleaver the size of your torso, and plants it firmly in a chopping block speckled with viscera. Beside it lies the offal of what you hope was not a human, partially along the process of transforming into sausages. Behind the blubbery horror is the stainless steel door that hides real food.
You are left with a choice.
[X] Fresh meat? You can get some of that. Just have to drag back a corpse of something from outside. (INT+SUR)
[X] Send a round from your rifle into this thing, and then perhaps another if it doesn't work. You don't have the time or energy to hunt. (COO+RAW)
[X] Something else?
Character
- Location
- Albania
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Unknown Survivor
Wounds 16/16
Statistics
STR 5/10
COO 5/10
INT 3/10
Skills
Survival-4
Ranged Weapons-5
Close Combat-4
Medical-1
Technology-1
Current Equipment
Mosin Nagant-1d10+8
12 rounds of 7.62×54mmR
Combat Knife-1d6+STR
Rag Clothing- Keeps the cold out. Sometimes.
5 Person-days of canned food.
Wounds 16/16
Statistics
STR 5/10
COO 5/10
INT 3/10
Skills
Survival-4
Ranged Weapons-5
Close Combat-4
Medical-1
Technology-1
Current Equipment
Mosin Nagant-1d10+8
12 rounds of 7.62×54mmR
Combat Knife-1d6+STR
Rag Clothing- Keeps the cold out. Sometimes.
5 Person-days of canned food.
Last edited:
Mechanics
- Location
- Albania
- Pronouns
- He/Him
MECHANICAL CORE
It's relatively simple, you roll a number of d100+5 for every point in an attribute and skill you have. For example, a character with a 3 in Coordination and 3 in Close Combat would roll a d100+30 to punch someone.
Every roll is at a set difficulty, more or less what you have to exceed. In hand to hand, this is usually a flat number equal to what their bonus from Coordination+Close Combat would be. Other things can modify that, ranging from Talents, to equipment all the way to situations! It's much harder to strike someone if you cannot see them clearly, and something like focused training in defensive fighting would make you a much harder target than an otherwise equally skilled fighter
On a roll of 1, it is a critical failure. On a roll of 100, it is a critical success. This has a myriad of effects that are hard to judge.
DAMAGE
This is a dangerous quest, you are going to eat beatings plenty often, how damage works is a wounds system. You are relatively fine until you run out of wounds, afterwards, you begin rolling on a critical chart depending on your weapon and intent. The damage of a weapon is generally based on the weapon itself. Bare fists deal a 1d4+STR whilst a long-sword deals 1d10+STR.
Whilst thrown weapons benefit from STR, guns themselves are not modified by attributes generally but have high damage as a baseline. A pistol deals 1d6+5, for example.
Damage that brings a subject below 0 does not kill, instead, the total damage beyond 0 is plugged into a "Critical hit chart". Wherein a roll is made to determine the severe internal damage.
STATISTICS
There are three statistics.
Strength, Strength determines anything form of physical exertion, from pushing your body for days to throwing a man through a window.
Coordination, Coordination covers everything from cleanly landing a strike on someone to managing to keep two streams of conversation moving.
Intelligence, Intelligence covers the cleaner processes of logic. It varies from figuring out how to trace someone's footsteps in shallow mud to figuring out how to break someone's resistance via interrogation
It's relatively simple, you roll a number of d100+5 for every point in an attribute and skill you have. For example, a character with a 3 in Coordination and 3 in Close Combat would roll a d100+30 to punch someone.
Every roll is at a set difficulty, more or less what you have to exceed. In hand to hand, this is usually a flat number equal to what their bonus from Coordination+Close Combat would be. Other things can modify that, ranging from Talents, to equipment all the way to situations! It's much harder to strike someone if you cannot see them clearly, and something like focused training in defensive fighting would make you a much harder target than an otherwise equally skilled fighter
On a roll of 1, it is a critical failure. On a roll of 100, it is a critical success. This has a myriad of effects that are hard to judge.
DAMAGE
This is a dangerous quest, you are going to eat beatings plenty often, how damage works is a wounds system. You are relatively fine until you run out of wounds, afterwards, you begin rolling on a critical chart depending on your weapon and intent. The damage of a weapon is generally based on the weapon itself. Bare fists deal a 1d4+STR whilst a long-sword deals 1d10+STR.
Whilst thrown weapons benefit from STR, guns themselves are not modified by attributes generally but have high damage as a baseline. A pistol deals 1d6+5, for example.
Damage that brings a subject below 0 does not kill, instead, the total damage beyond 0 is plugged into a "Critical hit chart". Wherein a roll is made to determine the severe internal damage.
STATISTICS
There are three statistics.
Strength, Strength determines anything form of physical exertion, from pushing your body for days to throwing a man through a window.
Coordination, Coordination covers everything from cleanly landing a strike on someone to managing to keep two streams of conversation moving.
Intelligence, Intelligence covers the cleaner processes of logic. It varies from figuring out how to trace someone's footsteps in shallow mud to figuring out how to break someone's resistance via interrogation
- Location
- Albania
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Posting is open
Absolutely disgusting, why are you doing this to us?
[X] Case the place out safely before you do anything hasty.
meatballman might have friends, so putting a bullet in it might bring down the gang on our asses. And who knows, might be better things to eat than a corpse too if we look around.
[X] Case the place out safely before you do anything hasty.
meatballman might have friends, so putting a bullet in it might bring down the gang on our asses. And who knows, might be better things to eat than a corpse too if we look around.
[X] Fresh meat? You can get some of that. Just have to drag back a corpse of something from outside. (INT+SUR)
Yummy meat from meatman.
Yummy meat from meatman.
- Location
- Albania
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The current tally is as such. Feel free to hop in and break the stalemate!
- Location
- his hidden lair
On the flip side, this thing has seen us. It's unlikely to let us slink off and canvas the entire building without raising a stink.
if we had a rabbit, we wouldn't need to look for food 
Don't know how starving/pressing getting food now is though, might be possible to look for that too... if they exist in this new deadlands world.
Don't know how starving/pressing getting food now is though, might be possible to look for that too... if they exist in this new deadlands world.
- Location
- Albania
- Pronouns
- He/Him
It's been a few days since you've had food. You could push further, but you are already receiving penalties.
Chapter 2
- Location
- Albania
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Meat? You can get that.
Opening your mouth to speak, only cracked whispers come out, flensing your throat with pain. The coughing fit that follows makes you readily aware of the time spent in complete silence.
Nodding towards the creature instead, you prepare to head off. It continues to smile, an expression it seems stuck on, laughing with its throat alone in a gurgling sound, full of flem and other fluids.
Ignoring its beady eyes made of pitch, far too small on its distended face, you journey out towards the freezing cold. Finding a nearby exit, pushing open the metallic door with force dislodges hinges from the thick layer of ice sealing it shut.
Outside, the snow is somehow thicker, deeper. It swallows you with every step, trying to drag your life away into the space underneath.
The mockery high above, glistening in black and red rings provides enough light to see, but never enough to be comfortable. Dead streetlights and shifting shapes provide you company as you search for something living, or close enough to it for your purposes.
Hunting
Roll=51+25(INT+SUR)=76
Target-60
A scratching sound catches your attention. Now nearly a kilometer away from the hospital, you are truly alone out here. It continues to sound, slowly nearing you as quickened scanning turns no evidence out.
At the very last second, you spot it. A feline monster, nearly invisible in the dim light crawls out of a divot on the earth, moving with pantherine grace across the ground, hypnotic in motion. Your sight is dragged into it, refusing to leave as limbs grow numb and heavy. Its presence invades your mind with sweet cooing.
Steadied Resolve
Roll=30+30(INT+STR)-20(Starved)=40
Target-40/80
The noise reminds you of foreign days, comfort and sleep. Something that aches deep in you, nostalgia and need and deep sadness mixing together in a heady feeling.
You want it to continue, to never return from the sweet, formless waking dream. But a dream remains a dream, reality beckons you with the pounding of adrenaline, the pain and ice of cold and the gnawing feeling of starvation.
You snap out of it with only bare seconds to spare. Its slow graceful stalk turns into a sudden dozen meter leap. Slightly larger than a lynx and covered in black fur concealing wriggling growths, you have no chance to fire, and instead drop the old gun to draw a knife.
The monster gives an ululating cry that sounds strangely, only barely reaching audible in pitch, yet louder than imaginable. As it's arc reaches you, the knife flashes out on instinct alone.
Poor Man's Charge Breaker
Roll=71+25(COO+CC)=99
Target-40
Hit Location-Left Rear Leg
Damage=1d6(3)+3(STR)+4(Enemy Weight)=10
-2 Critical Roll=18
Knee ligament cut.
The pantherine scratches at you with blunt, mutated claws more fit for digging than killing after it tackles you to the ground and embeds the both of you in the snow, getting caught in rags as your knife embeds itself in the rear legs that try to claw your chest open in a disturbing, almost playful fashion, taking the image of a housecat and twisting it until it is no longer recognizable.
The blade rips open its flesh, spilling red blood out and making it yowl with pain as it tries to pull away from you. Its face, black fur and yellow slit eyes of a hunting cat, peels away with the noise, revealing a monstrous thing of raw flesh and exposed bone, its true shape beneath the false flesh mask.
As the creature pulls away, you gather yourself, or more accurately, ferociously thrust upwards with quiet noises of exertion, flashing steel in hand.
Finishing The Fight
Roll=87+25(COO+CC)=112
Target-40-10(Down A Leg)
Hit Location-Right Front Leg
Damage=1d6(2)+3(STR)=5
-5 Critical Roll=96
Pierced Artery.
You sink the blade to the hilt into this monstrous mockeries upper leg, in the meat of its side. Blood spurts in a pulsing rhythm. The thing wriggles, all grace and speed leaving it with its lifeblood, painting the snow crimson.
Its peeled away head opens in an attempted screech, but it dies too quickly. Body lulling to rest. Breathing heavily and feeling quite warm now, you rise to your feet, considering the situation.
Sweat, melted snow and blood stain your clothes, making the deep chill of the outside a greater danger by far. You have a corpse that you can likely carry back without too much trouble.
Moving with a quickness, one hand grabs your rifle whilst you lift the thing onto the opposite shoulder and head back towards the hospital. The journey back is much easier, warmth from the creature seeping in to drive you forward. The shades moan of life lost all around the street, creeping through to your ears even with the distance you keep.
Trudging through the last of the snow, breathing heavily, you enter the employees only door which you came out of, ending up in the same suspiciously clean cafeteria. The shadows are still present here. Their whispers are growing familiar, familiar enough to ignore at least.
The morbidly obese once-human stares at your catch hungrily, grin somehow growing wider, splitting across where it's cheeks should be. "Fresh meat! First in forever and a night." It gleefully speaks, drooling thick ropes of the green-tinted saliva onto the ground, a pool presumably forming from the noises of liquid contact past the barrier of the serving line.
You gesture towards the steel door, noting how its blunt teeth seem to sharpen as they go rearwards into its unnatural jaws. "The Butcher keeps his words, yes he does." It mumbles to itself, finally giving you a name to call it. The Butcher moves surprisingly quickly, distance eating strides counteracting the waddling nature of his walking, making it to the steel door and unbolting it.
Opening it, he disappears for a few minutes, leaving only the noise of rustling cans and cloth, mixed with groans and grunts from the massive being. It comes out with a bundled up cloth, bulging with things.
It effortlessly tosses the package towards you, sailing halfway across the cafeteria and landing at your feet with a clank of metal. The creature then greedily stares at the corpse prompting you to drop it nearby, grab the wrapping, still intact from a knot at the top, and start dragging it away, eager to exit The Butcher's company.
Greeting the cold eagerly, you follow the path of trodden snow all the way back to the apartment you've made a temporary home of. Taking alleys and side streets to have some measure of peace, though the deep shadows of such places render it a moot point even without noise.
The distance turns to the familiar blur of travel until finally, the slightly warmer interior of the building, free of windchill welcomes you. Settling into a dusty, stained couch, you open the bag, seeing the dozen cans of beans, rice and potatoes, all perfectly intact. Opening the first one you can grab with your knife, you practically shovel it down, feeling hunger dying away with every bite.
Having finished the can, you forcibly stop yourself from eating more, intending to stretch the food as far as possible. Leaning back onto the couch, you start the process of taking off wet clothing, stripping down and hanging the rags outside a window to freeze.
Laying down with a ratty blanket on the couch, you let sleep claim you. The dreams are memories, confusing and twisting into itself, revealing precious little.
What are they?
[X] You dream of violence, the staccato sound of automatic gunfire and the desert heat of a familiar battlefield washing over you. Memories return to you in a vague form, a life lost, but its knowledge present. (+6 Wounds, +2 Strength, +2 Coordination, +3 Ranged Weapons, +2 Survival, +2 Close Combat.)
[X] Dreams of freedom. The world was closed off to your people for so long, a curtain of iron slamming the outside with no hope in sight. The power of words and something else, heat and shockwaves, gave you light. (+3 Wounds, +2 Intelligence, +2 Coordination, +3 Social Skills, +2 Technology, +2 Medical.)
A scream wakes you up. A strange one, not like the normal ones that try to mimic humanity. A terror filled screech that echoes into your ears, something about it sparks instincts in you.
Bolting straight up, a stiff, sudden motion, you rush over to your rifle, then clothes, pulling them up into the building from the windowsill and smashing them into a wall. The collected moisture turned to ice shatters onto the ground, leaving the clothing dry, if a bit stiff.
Slipping it on, you hear another scream, this one closer. Going to the window again, you see a human shape, human. They are sprinting as best they can in the snow, extreme effort only giving a modicum of speed, and a broad backed creature, muscular and rough skinned chasing them down. Talons bore jagged gouges into the ice from the ends of huge arms upon which it moves, a large upper body giving way to a malformed lower body. Its legs are completely useless, fetal stumps of what once were limbs.
That fact seems to be the only reason the person is still alive. However, it is catching up ever so slowly, and seems intent to rip them apart.
What do you do?
[X] Take your time, line up a shot and put this creature down. Afterwards, wave the man's attention towards you so he gets off the street. (COO+RAW)
[X] Grab a few rocks and chuck them towards the creature, perhaps that will be enough to distract it so the man can survive. Munitions are valuable. (STR+RAW)
[X] Something Else?
Supplies gained-6 Person-days of canned food.
Opening your mouth to speak, only cracked whispers come out, flensing your throat with pain. The coughing fit that follows makes you readily aware of the time spent in complete silence.
Nodding towards the creature instead, you prepare to head off. It continues to smile, an expression it seems stuck on, laughing with its throat alone in a gurgling sound, full of flem and other fluids.
Ignoring its beady eyes made of pitch, far too small on its distended face, you journey out towards the freezing cold. Finding a nearby exit, pushing open the metallic door with force dislodges hinges from the thick layer of ice sealing it shut.
Outside, the snow is somehow thicker, deeper. It swallows you with every step, trying to drag your life away into the space underneath.
The mockery high above, glistening in black and red rings provides enough light to see, but never enough to be comfortable. Dead streetlights and shifting shapes provide you company as you search for something living, or close enough to it for your purposes.
Hunting
Roll=51+25(INT+SUR)=76
Target-60
A scratching sound catches your attention. Now nearly a kilometer away from the hospital, you are truly alone out here. It continues to sound, slowly nearing you as quickened scanning turns no evidence out.
At the very last second, you spot it. A feline monster, nearly invisible in the dim light crawls out of a divot on the earth, moving with pantherine grace across the ground, hypnotic in motion. Your sight is dragged into it, refusing to leave as limbs grow numb and heavy. Its presence invades your mind with sweet cooing.
Steadied Resolve
Roll=30+30(INT+STR)-20(Starved)=40
Target-40/80
The noise reminds you of foreign days, comfort and sleep. Something that aches deep in you, nostalgia and need and deep sadness mixing together in a heady feeling.
You want it to continue, to never return from the sweet, formless waking dream. But a dream remains a dream, reality beckons you with the pounding of adrenaline, the pain and ice of cold and the gnawing feeling of starvation.
You snap out of it with only bare seconds to spare. Its slow graceful stalk turns into a sudden dozen meter leap. Slightly larger than a lynx and covered in black fur concealing wriggling growths, you have no chance to fire, and instead drop the old gun to draw a knife.
The monster gives an ululating cry that sounds strangely, only barely reaching audible in pitch, yet louder than imaginable. As it's arc reaches you, the knife flashes out on instinct alone.
Poor Man's Charge Breaker
Roll=71+25(COO+CC)=99
Target-40
Hit Location-Left Rear Leg
Damage=1d6(3)+3(STR)+4(Enemy Weight)=10
-2 Critical Roll=18
Knee ligament cut.
The pantherine scratches at you with blunt, mutated claws more fit for digging than killing after it tackles you to the ground and embeds the both of you in the snow, getting caught in rags as your knife embeds itself in the rear legs that try to claw your chest open in a disturbing, almost playful fashion, taking the image of a housecat and twisting it until it is no longer recognizable.
The blade rips open its flesh, spilling red blood out and making it yowl with pain as it tries to pull away from you. Its face, black fur and yellow slit eyes of a hunting cat, peels away with the noise, revealing a monstrous thing of raw flesh and exposed bone, its true shape beneath the false flesh mask.
As the creature pulls away, you gather yourself, or more accurately, ferociously thrust upwards with quiet noises of exertion, flashing steel in hand.
Finishing The Fight
Roll=87+25(COO+CC)=112
Target-40-10(Down A Leg)
Hit Location-Right Front Leg
Damage=1d6(2)+3(STR)=5
-5 Critical Roll=96
Pierced Artery.
You sink the blade to the hilt into this monstrous mockeries upper leg, in the meat of its side. Blood spurts in a pulsing rhythm. The thing wriggles, all grace and speed leaving it with its lifeblood, painting the snow crimson.
Its peeled away head opens in an attempted screech, but it dies too quickly. Body lulling to rest. Breathing heavily and feeling quite warm now, you rise to your feet, considering the situation.
Sweat, melted snow and blood stain your clothes, making the deep chill of the outside a greater danger by far. You have a corpse that you can likely carry back without too much trouble.
Moving with a quickness, one hand grabs your rifle whilst you lift the thing onto the opposite shoulder and head back towards the hospital. The journey back is much easier, warmth from the creature seeping in to drive you forward. The shades moan of life lost all around the street, creeping through to your ears even with the distance you keep.
Trudging through the last of the snow, breathing heavily, you enter the employees only door which you came out of, ending up in the same suspiciously clean cafeteria. The shadows are still present here. Their whispers are growing familiar, familiar enough to ignore at least.
The morbidly obese once-human stares at your catch hungrily, grin somehow growing wider, splitting across where it's cheeks should be. "Fresh meat! First in forever and a night." It gleefully speaks, drooling thick ropes of the green-tinted saliva onto the ground, a pool presumably forming from the noises of liquid contact past the barrier of the serving line.
You gesture towards the steel door, noting how its blunt teeth seem to sharpen as they go rearwards into its unnatural jaws. "The Butcher keeps his words, yes he does." It mumbles to itself, finally giving you a name to call it. The Butcher moves surprisingly quickly, distance eating strides counteracting the waddling nature of his walking, making it to the steel door and unbolting it.
Opening it, he disappears for a few minutes, leaving only the noise of rustling cans and cloth, mixed with groans and grunts from the massive being. It comes out with a bundled up cloth, bulging with things.
It effortlessly tosses the package towards you, sailing halfway across the cafeteria and landing at your feet with a clank of metal. The creature then greedily stares at the corpse prompting you to drop it nearby, grab the wrapping, still intact from a knot at the top, and start dragging it away, eager to exit The Butcher's company.
Greeting the cold eagerly, you follow the path of trodden snow all the way back to the apartment you've made a temporary home of. Taking alleys and side streets to have some measure of peace, though the deep shadows of such places render it a moot point even without noise.
The distance turns to the familiar blur of travel until finally, the slightly warmer interior of the building, free of windchill welcomes you. Settling into a dusty, stained couch, you open the bag, seeing the dozen cans of beans, rice and potatoes, all perfectly intact. Opening the first one you can grab with your knife, you practically shovel it down, feeling hunger dying away with every bite.
Having finished the can, you forcibly stop yourself from eating more, intending to stretch the food as far as possible. Leaning back onto the couch, you start the process of taking off wet clothing, stripping down and hanging the rags outside a window to freeze.
Laying down with a ratty blanket on the couch, you let sleep claim you. The dreams are memories, confusing and twisting into itself, revealing precious little.
What are they?
[X] You dream of violence, the staccato sound of automatic gunfire and the desert heat of a familiar battlefield washing over you. Memories return to you in a vague form, a life lost, but its knowledge present. (+6 Wounds, +2 Strength, +2 Coordination, +3 Ranged Weapons, +2 Survival, +2 Close Combat.)
[X] Dreams of freedom. The world was closed off to your people for so long, a curtain of iron slamming the outside with no hope in sight. The power of words and something else, heat and shockwaves, gave you light. (+3 Wounds, +2 Intelligence, +2 Coordination, +3 Social Skills, +2 Technology, +2 Medical.)
A scream wakes you up. A strange one, not like the normal ones that try to mimic humanity. A terror filled screech that echoes into your ears, something about it sparks instincts in you.
Bolting straight up, a stiff, sudden motion, you rush over to your rifle, then clothes, pulling them up into the building from the windowsill and smashing them into a wall. The collected moisture turned to ice shatters onto the ground, leaving the clothing dry, if a bit stiff.
Slipping it on, you hear another scream, this one closer. Going to the window again, you see a human shape, human. They are sprinting as best they can in the snow, extreme effort only giving a modicum of speed, and a broad backed creature, muscular and rough skinned chasing them down. Talons bore jagged gouges into the ice from the ends of huge arms upon which it moves, a large upper body giving way to a malformed lower body. Its legs are completely useless, fetal stumps of what once were limbs.
That fact seems to be the only reason the person is still alive. However, it is catching up ever so slowly, and seems intent to rip them apart.
What do you do?
[X] Take your time, line up a shot and put this creature down. Afterwards, wave the man's attention towards you so he gets off the street. (COO+RAW)
[X] Grab a few rocks and chuck them towards the creature, perhaps that will be enough to distract it so the man can survive. Munitions are valuable. (STR+RAW)
[X] Something Else?
Supplies gained-6 Person-days of canned food.
Okay hear me out, if it's that slow we can save ammo and lead it away from our shelter to where we can trap it to kill and turn into The Butcher. Perhaps a tight alley inside a building we know? Maybe knock a crumbling building onto it or something- preferably something quieter tho.
I also think in a post-apocalypse scenario like this a skilled fighter just offering even small services is like someone doing a high level social check to get something. Far too invaluable having someone who will go so you're never in danger, and provide more assurance the things get done.
Doctors and such would want someone strong protecting them. We don't have to be the talker or the healer- we just have to ensure they live. IF we find any..
This guy will reduce our rations probably, but if he's useless we can turn him into The Butcher too. Tho, just having someone to talk to will save our sanity. He may be worth it. Having a gentle hand will help build a community as well, if we find others. Communities bring safety.
[X] You dream of violence, the staccato sound of automatic gunfire and the desert heat of a familiar battlefield washing over you. Memories return to you in a vague form, a life lost, but its knowledge present. (+6 Wounds, +2 Strength, +2 Coordination, +3 Ranged Weapons, +2 Survival, +2 Close Combat.)
[X] Draw its attention to you, get down there and lead it away to somewhere you know well enough to save ammo perhaps trapping it to execute it without noise.
Don't worry, if the guy steals our shit we'll find him AND his stache.
I also think in a post-apocalypse scenario like this a skilled fighter just offering even small services is like someone doing a high level social check to get something. Far too invaluable having someone who will go so you're never in danger, and provide more assurance the things get done.
Doctors and such would want someone strong protecting them. We don't have to be the talker or the healer- we just have to ensure they live. IF we find any..
This guy will reduce our rations probably, but if he's useless we can turn him into The Butcher too. Tho, just having someone to talk to will save our sanity. He may be worth it. Having a gentle hand will help build a community as well, if we find others. Communities bring safety.
[X] You dream of violence, the staccato sound of automatic gunfire and the desert heat of a familiar battlefield washing over you. Memories return to you in a vague form, a life lost, but its knowledge present. (+6 Wounds, +2 Strength, +2 Coordination, +3 Ranged Weapons, +2 Survival, +2 Close Combat.)
[X] Draw its attention to you, get down there and lead it away to somewhere you know well enough to save ammo perhaps trapping it to execute it without noise.
Don't worry, if the guy steals our shit we'll find him AND his stache.
Changed vote, this is an adequate scenario, I suppose. Though my experience in New Vegas shows me that being able to talk a man out of his bullshit can end a fight easier than guns. but the guns help.
I do suppose there are the wise words of Al Capone to go by, that you get further with a kind word and a gun than just with a kind word.
[X] You dream of violence, the staccato sound of automatic gunfire and the desert heat of a familiar battlefield washing over you. Memories return to you in a vague form, a life lost, but its knowledge present. (+6 Wounds, +2 Strength, +2 Coordination, +3 Ranged Weapons, +2 Survival, +2 Close Combat.)
[X] Draw its attention to you, get down there and lead it away to somewhere you know well enough to save ammo perhaps trapping it to execute it without noise.
I do suppose there are the wise words of Al Capone to go by, that you get further with a kind word and a gun than just with a kind word.
[X] You dream of violence, the staccato sound of automatic gunfire and the desert heat of a familiar battlefield washing over you. Memories return to you in a vague form, a life lost, but its knowledge present. (+6 Wounds, +2 Strength, +2 Coordination, +3 Ranged Weapons, +2 Survival, +2 Close Combat.)
[X] Draw its attention to you, get down there and lead it away to somewhere you know well enough to save ammo perhaps trapping it to execute it without noise.
[X] Dreams of freedom. The world was closed off to your people for so long, a curtain of iron slamming the outside with no hope in sight. The power of words and something else, heat and shockwaves, gave you light. (+3 Wounds, +2 Intelligence, +2 Coordination, +3 Social Skills, +2 Technology, +2 Medical.)
[X] Take your time, line up a shot and put this creature down. Afterwards, wave the man's attention towards you so he gets off the street. (COO+RAW)
I like the brainy boys and well I'm also soft-hearted, for now let's try and save a life and get some other things besides those combat skills! (We can almost certainly get survival from working for the butcher and in a situation like this.... Well at the moment an untreated wound seems like it could be one of biggest hazards.)
[X] Take your time, line up a shot and put this creature down. Afterwards, wave the man's attention towards you so he gets off the street. (COO+RAW)
I like the brainy boys and well I'm also soft-hearted, for now let's try and save a life and get some other things besides those combat skills! (We can almost certainly get survival from working for the butcher and in a situation like this.... Well at the moment an untreated wound seems like it could be one of biggest hazards.)
[X] You dream of violence, the staccato sound of automatic gunfire and the desert heat of a familiar battlefield washing over you. Memories return to you in a vague form, a life lost, but its knowledge present. (+6 Wounds, +2 Strength, +2 Coordination, +3 Ranged Weapons, +2 Survival, +2 Close Combat.)
[X] Draw its attention to you, get down there and lead it away to somewhere you know well enough to save ammo perhaps trapping it to execute it without noise.
For a goal a long time in the future. Let's go somewhere warmer.
[X] Draw its attention to you, get down there and lead it away to somewhere you know well enough to save ammo perhaps trapping it to execute it without noise.
For a goal a long time in the future. Let's go somewhere warmer.
[X] You dream of violence, the staccato sound of automatic gunfire and the desert heat of a familiar battlefield washing over you. Memories return to you in a vague form, a life lost, but its knowledge present. (+6 Wounds, +2 Strength, +2 Coordination, +3 Ranged Weapons, +2 Survival, +2 Close Combat.)
[X] Draw its attention to you, get down there and lead it away to somewhere you know well enough to save ammo perhaps trapping it to execute it without noise.
[X] Draw its attention to you, get down there and lead it away to somewhere you know well enough to save ammo perhaps trapping it to execute it without noise.
- Location
- USA
[X] Dreams of freedom. The world was closed off to your people for so long, a curtain of iron slamming the outside with no hope in sight. The power of words and something else, heat and shockwaves, gave you light. (+3 Wounds, +2 Intelligence, +2 Coordination, +3 Social Skills, +2 Technology, +2 Medical.)
[X] Take your time, line up a shot and put this creature down. Afterwards, wave the man's attention towards you so he gets off the street. (COO+RAW)
[X] Take your time, line up a shot and put this creature down. Afterwards, wave the man's attention towards you so he gets off the street. (COO+RAW)
[X] Dreams of freedom. The world was closed off to your people for so long, a curtain of iron slamming the outside with no hope in sight. The power of words and something else, heat and shockwaves, gave you light. (+3 Wounds, +2 Intelligence, +2 Coordination, +3 Social Skills, +2 Technology, +2 Medical.)
[X] Take your time, line up a shot and put this creature down. Afterwards, wave the man's attention towards you so he gets off the street. (COO+RAW)
[X] Take your time, line up a shot and put this creature down. Afterwards, wave the man's attention towards you so he gets off the street. (COO+RAW)