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/tg/ - Traditional Games

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[ERROR] No.53604513 [Reply] [Original] [4plebs] [archived.moe]

What it says on the tin.

Thread rules: If you post a pic, write fluff for a picture already in the thread in addition, you can by all means post fluff for pictures you bring in, just try and keep a balance.

I'll post some pics to get things started.

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>> No.53604590

That's all I'll post for now, don't want to bump the thread uselessly after all.

If people start posting in the thread I'll contribute some fluff too, don't worry.

>> No.53604962

Man-Servant: Bio-engineered subhuman built to serve as a slave race. When machines and similar devices were found lacking, these genetically-warped beings were made from a horrific blend of man, ape, and monkey.

Although initially far more pleasing to the eye, servants have degraded at a rapid pace over centuries of neglect. They wander both the overworld and their masters vast subterranean halls. Several have adapted new natural weapons for survival.

Originally, their minds were kept tranquil yet wise enough to understand complex commands via a computer chip embedded in their brain stem. But now, after breeding in the wild for countless years, something has begun to change...

>> No.53605100

I have a setting like this. Just a fucking nightmare world from a mysterious apocalypse, bresinki-type shit, like stalker but as edgy and fucked up as possible. Haunted shit. I'm running a campaign in it right now but the characters haven't even run into half the nightmare shit I've thought of. I can post the PDF if you guys want but it's kind of lame right now.

When the gods from beyond touched the world, some of them died. Their rotted remains float around, corpses of once-great beings, covered in shell wounds, grabbing what life they can find to suck into their soulless void in hopes of resurrecting their power.

>> No.53605132

Ghouls. Hungry flesh-eating fuckers. They run and screech an ungodly noise, rip you apart while you're still alive. Takes 3 or 4 shots to put one down cause they're undead and they don't die when you shoot them like they should. Oh and they think, they hunt, they prowl around in packs. I don't care if ghouls is an unoriginal name because it's scary enough once you know what they do.

>> No.53605174

Along the coast of Maine, some of the fallout-burnt outcasts are forced to fish and hunt because no one wants their ugly melted faces in their towns. Despite being treated like shit they are actually pretty based, with great survival skills, decent fighting skills, and tough as hell from living a shit-tier life. This girl is scared of one of them but she is about to find out her community is rejecting them for no good reason. Also that for some reason they have a disproporionate amount of psionic skills, letting them "see" enemies they can't actually see, like first-person-shooter wallhacks. These guys are the elite of the Burnt One (just a filler name) tribes, they're called Paragons. And yeah no one likes them now, but when the Fleshcrafters run out of test subjects and need to start burning towns to get new ones, guess who you're gonna call? These ugly deformed sons of bitches.

[spoilers]Sorry if my fluff is shit, I'm basing it way too much off the setting I'm working on which is a lot like this and literally called the wasteland[/spoiler]

>> No.53605262

Content is content my man.
It's just cool to get stuff in thread at all.

>> No.53605369

>Game Show Executor
>To keep the public entertained, more and more laws regarding entertainment were repealed. After a point, special "Blood and Guts Game Shows" were produced and became increasingly more popular. Contestants were oftentimes taken directly from death row and forced to participate in horrific scenarios that had a high fatality rate
>This machine was built for one such game show, during it's "Medieval Season." Contestants had to face a horde of multi-limbed mechanical knights in various settings, from prop castles to stonework monasteries, from deep sandy slave pits to forested glades.
>However, once the disasters struck and society was turned upside down, many of the medieval machines were left powered on and confused
>With no one giving them commands, they took hold of their steel weapons, and set off in search of new contestants

>> No.53605440

>> No.53605618

When the ban on experimentation and manipulation of the human genome was lifted in 2040, the prolific and expansive Biotech companies of the world went hog-wild on toying with something they had so long been denied.

While the majority of projects were geared towards improving humanity, some more dubious groups began fiddling with the idea of creating entirely new species from a human base.

This is all common knowledge of course, but in the Wastelands of today, the scattered communities and survivor enclaves of europe struggle to think of a reason as to why the world before would need something so vile.

>> No.53605630

Love the idea. Gonna dump some of mine here too.

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>> No.53605840

Jareds Party Van:
The van of Jared, one of the most insane drug addicted cannibals out there.
He stalks the wastes always hungry for more fresh meat.
The outside of the van is kept relatively clean but the inside...is another story.
Corpses skinned clean.
Bones bleached.
Trash bags full of rotting flesh and skin.
All driven around by Jared.
Who is he and why is he like this?
No idea.
All I know is that it's party time and everyone is invited.

>> No.53605847

It's an Anthropophagi you uncultured PLEB

>> No.53605864

>Cruelty Ritual
The Savage Tribes of the American Southwest are an eccentric and violent bunch at the best of times, pre-war feelings of paranoia and general outrage from the community transforming into full-blown xenophobia and bloodthirst in the wake of the Apocalypse.

One such tribe, known as 'ThundaBringers' is notorious across Post-War America for their huge and terrifying assortment of Rituals they perform in their efforts to 'Bring back Paradise'

One such ritual is the so called "Rite of Bleeding Fathers" and is used by tribal mystics in an complex 'spell' to ward off Sloth and Adultery among their tribes men. Or performed before great battles or festivals whenever the mystics feel a need for it.

The ritual includes tying a Bull or suitable beast of burden to a sturdy pole or anchor, and driving cruelly barbed stakes into the beast, igniting them once they are set. The stakes pierce deep into the animal and are coated with a mixture specifically prepared before the rite that can keep the fire burning, even when inches deep into a living victim. The tribes warriors, fathers, and any young men looking to wed are tied to poles surrounding the animal and are forced to watch it's slow and rather painful demise.

The mystics, once the animal succumbs to the cruel treatment remind all attending that this is the fate of all who would commit sins of adultery, sloth or cowardice. And they are not at all afraid to carry through on that promise.

[NOTE: Despite it's effectiveness in to scaring witnesses into better performance, this Scribe does not recommend it, or any similar process for incorporation into S.O.B.S. (Society of American Bomb Shelters) doctrine due to concerns of resource expenditure, cleanliness and violation of existing ethics codes.]

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>> No.53606160

Jesus... that's brutal man.

>> No.53606257


>Children of a Broken World
The Fractured Army is a post-war militia largely dedicated to the suppression or destruction of any post-war society's that disregards or strays from the path of Democracy. These home grown extremists are surprisingly effective for how disorganized and helter-skelter their myriad forces are, and despite there being little in the way of standardization of equipment or training, each individual soldier retains a large degree of autonomy and self-sufficiency.
One consistent hallmark of raids performed by this group is destruction of any symbols they deem impure, which can range from religious icons and flags, to the complete mutilation of the faces and identifying marks of entire towns and settlements.

>> No.53606287

The result of a biologic research laboratory getting cracked open by a bombing run with a radioactive payload, Sporemen are a shorthand term for the frankly staggering variety of fungal hybrids that came out of that crater.
Absorbing what specimens in the facility survived, the mutated fungal strains spread inland, their flesh irritated and scalded by saltwater. As they hunt, they expand their barely-ambulatory fungal flesh over the rotting remains of their prey, using the cadaver as a combination of proesthetic limb and mobile food source. Ancient or particularly successful sporemen have been seen almost as large as semi trucks, dragging their rotting bulk on hundreds of partially digested limbs.
On the upside however, for us still living folk out here, new sporemen are extremely rare. The fungus that makes them might spread often, but it dies in contact with saltwater, and requires quite a few corpses to get large enough to start to become ambulatory. Just remember to check for spores, because even immature, sporeman fungus will try to eat you, and it leaves unpleasant rashes and burns doing so.

>> No.53606387

Reminder that anything from pictures of the environment, items/artifacts, and diagrams are of course welcome.
Good shit so far /tg/

>> No.53606438

First time writing anything so lets try this.
The Gun Box: The gun box is a mystery to everyone. It remained in a national guard armory with its own section for it. Many people have tried to take it or grab items off of it but when they do they just vanish into thin air. Some of there things are then left on it. Some have managed to take things off of it by damaging it but its risky since it might just absorb the attacker(s) Its local legend in the area to many scavengers.

>> No.53606818

>Base away from Home
The Mobile Wasteland Habitat is a heavily armed and armored vehicle with a resident team of operators ranging anywhere from an operating minimum of 3 to a terribly crowded 8 men.
Designed to offer a livable environment even in the worst locations the Wastes have to offer the M.W.H serves it's purpose admirably, with many operating teams becoming attached to the vehicle, assigning names, gender identities, and personality traits to the crawler.
Used Primarily in exceedingly long patrols over huge swathes of irradiated turf, the M.W.H rarely sees the horrors of open war in the wasteland, but when it does it's considerable level of firepower is feared and in some cases, openly worshiped by groups ranging from Bandit Clans, to Tribal Cults. Research into further improving the platform to perhaps fill artillery or mass transport roles in addition to its current job are underway.

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>> No.53607454

>Re-purposed Behemoth
"Build it? BUILD IT? No them bandit sonsabitches didn't build that there 'Megatrakk', they're BANDITS son. They ain't like us Cogfathers. They raid, they don't build, they pillage, they don't create. Hell, they prolly don't even know what really makes that rig o' theirs tick! All they did was stick a buncha guns on it, paint it in that dumb-ugly warpaint color o' theirs, and pour enough nitro innit to make one o' them duneridin' speed freaks panic! Hehe, no they aint gettin' that thing through our defenses sonny, we got enough shot, powder an' brass to keep them sonsabitches far, far away. Now run along boyo, they need yer help over in the botanicals...and stop callin' it a garden! That's where sissy plants grow! We growin' the good shit!"

>> No.53608761


You know that all this shit happens on Spain and people actually pays to watch it on bullfights?
Even the fire thing is something that happens on certain towns for the annual fairs. There is a specific town where the catch is that the whole mass of people must trick the bull into falling off a cliff.

>> No.53608848

Ave Nex Alea.

>> No.53609364

"The Void Cyborgs tell us many things about ancient times. For example, there have been six World Wars. The first World War introduced trench warfare. The second World War was a barbarous slaughter. The third World War burned away half of the world in 15 minutes. The fourth World War almost made mankind extinct with viral diseases. The fifth World War taught us that machine intelligence was far superior to us. The sixth World War showed us that even a world of rubble and ruin can produce enough to wage 20 years of total war."
"And now we march to war again, into the seventh World War. The sixth World War has destroyed too much. The Ameroceanian Skylifts are all broken ruins after the betrayal of Indostralia. There are not enough resources left for us to survive. We must crush the Euro-Asian Conglomerate and take hold of their Skylifts or Ameroceania will be no more."

>> No.53610544

OP here on mobile, pretty jazzed that the thread is still here overnight.

Maybe we can keep it going today.

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>> No.53610918

>Filename describes picture as Moscow
What did my sides ever do to you?

>> No.53611012

"They're not demons. They're soldiers, just like us. You can tell by the way they move together. The way they respond to the godawful sounds the big one makes, he must be their commanding officer. Whether they realize their war was over long ago is irrelevant. You are not to engage them private. That's an order. Hopefully they'll migrate over the hills before the next harvest or we're fucked."

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>> No.53611988

I admit, I chuckled. Never check the names of images I download but this may get me to change that.

>> No.53612536

saluto nex alea

>> No.53612623

"We call him Moose. We aren't sure where he came from, but he wandered in one day from the waste with a satchel full of canned food and the head of the bandits that raided the caravan a few months past bound up in extension cord behind him. He never speaks, but he's sat down at the fire a few times to eat with us, slipping food through the bottom of his mask. I wouldn't question it though, the man is a monster with that stick of his. Pretty sure it's a mace rigged up to an old car battery, because i've seen him hit someone with it and leaving them a twitching, burning mess."

>> No.53612696

The iron-folk are a notoriously secretive tribe of scavengers whose savage ambushes make travel through the ruins all but impossible. The leading theory is that the city itself is sacred to them and outsiders are strictly forbidden but we can only guess about that as there have been no observations of religious practice among them. They refuse to communicate with our scouts and the rest of the traders now keep a safe distance from their territory which is inconvenient considering the alternative trade route adds two weeks to the trip. Still it's better than getting a bullet in your skull. There's always one of them standing watch at the boundaries of their shadowed city. Like all of its kin the guard(as we've taken to calling it) wears a metal mask obscuring its face. It could be one person or a succession of different people wearing the same mask but there's never more than one.

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>> No.53613365

Was this inspired by that SCP or vice versa?

>> No.53613644

Maybe it's time for some monsters?

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>> No.53613721

>"So what did they hang those poor bastards for?"
> "Heh... Wouldn't take much to get hung around here stranger, but given the 'Public' venue this is in, probably for Stealing from Ol' Stonewall... Either Water or Gas"
> "Is he the leader around these parts?"
> "Yeah guess you could say that... He came in twelve years ago, and has kept this place nice and tidy since... Don't cause trouble, and you won't wind up like those two"

>The Two hanged men continued to sway and twist upon their nooses in the dusty wind blowing in from the wastes. The Stranger upon his bike continued looking at the spectacle before asking another question.

>"Anything else I should know about Stonewall?"

> "He also has an unhealthy obsession with old Confederate memorabilia even dresses like his namesake... But overall he's a decent man, better than those Junkers prowling the outskirts and wastes beyond...."

>> No.53613818

>"This place doesn't make any sense"
>"No kidding, $15.99 for a small bag of popcorn and $4.99 for a tiny candy stick... No wonder society entered an apo-"
>"NO- No... I'm meaning the Tree in the friken middle of this old theater."
>"Oh... Well what about it? Its just a tree?"
> "Look at the roots... The way it pretty much fills the center of this place, twisted like it's not even really a tree... Just pretending to be one..."
>"Well there are stranger things about now, I'd say a tree is the least of our worries at the moment... Oh! A snickers!"

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>> No.53614126

Being a scaver wasn't all that tough, the bandits were just as afraid of the old skyscrapers falling as anyone else. If you were willing to climb up hundreds of feet of mangled metal, then maybe you could find something good enough to impress the skyfarers.

>> No.53614211

>> No.53614756

>"I won't have any thirty ought shells 'til the gun nomads roll back into town."

>"When'll that be? I need 'em ASAP"

>"Sorry stranger but they move at their own pace, sometimes they come twice a week and sometimes we don't see 'em for two or three months. They've always got spare scrap to trade and their ammo selection has never let me down. You could try and track 'em into the wastes but I wouldn't recommend it."

>"Why's that?"

>"Well it's not 'cause they're hard to find, they got the biggest caravan in the wasteland but they're well armed and don't take kindly to surprise visitors. Buddy o' mine tried once. Next time they came into town their leader was wearin' my buddy's scorched boots. It's obvious they're looking for something out there and it must be important 'cause they don't anyone following 'em. Take my advice stranger, let them come to you."

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>> No.53614815

The elders speak of days when machines moved themselves. They say that in the time before the era of storms, our ancestors manufactured the guns and bullets we use today to fight each other for control of the substance that fueled their vehicles. They failed to realize that it wasn't their guns that were the most dangerous, it was the smoke from their machines. Eventually, they ran out and only then realized what the had turned the world into. The era of storms came and wiped out their cities, leaving only the survivors, the elders, to travel the wastes in search of the life they once knew.

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At age 15 each member of the tribe must go on a solitary quest to the Stone Father and carve their name into his throne.

>> No.53615492

What system is this image from? I know it's one of the Modiphious games.

>> No.53616122

Sorry anon, got it somewhere else on tg. I posted it here to find an explanation for it, couldn't really think of much myself.

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>> No.53616979

If you think that Florida's wildlife got any better after the war, you'd be dead wrong. Literally. Pre war growth hormones and post war radiation have left practically everything that has a pulse, and a few things that don't, titanic mutated monstrosities. This gatorclaw can eat 15 men without breaking a sweat, and could probably tank just about every piece of ordinance you could throw at it, bar a howitzer shell. Those claws aren't just for opening letters either, they can slice through a suit of power armor like it was hot butter. It uses things like that old truck to sharpen em up something nasty. Now are you gonna buy something, or just keep asking about the photos on my wall?

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>> No.53617042

>modern Chechens

>> No.53617146

Worshipped by the most debased of the illiterate swamp dwellers, the crocodiles of the southern reach can grow to enormous size and have been known to kill men for sport. Only particularly ambitious hunters should stalk these creatures.

>> No.53617194

This one's a personal favourite of post-apocalyptic images.

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>> No.53617242

Not sure if this counts a post-apocalyptic.

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>> No.53617361

Ah, the ol' sluices. You saw 'em, did you? Yeah, nobody knows where they draw from, but twice a week like clockwork human bones an' gallons o' blood comes flowin' out of 'em.

'S why we don't drink the water from the swamp.

Do me a favour though, aye? If'n you ever find out where it all comes from, don't tell me, a'right?

>> No.53617456

When the portal collapsed I saw with my own eyes that Brent was still inside. I thought he was dead. I grieved for him. Now he is back, or at least physically. I still wonder if he didn't really die that day.

In either case, Brent Cutter was forever changed when he returned from the world beyond. He was always a master negotiator, but he way with people now is not natural. Now a megacorp exec, almost everyone who deals with Mr. Cutter regrets it mater.

He has this aura about him, for those who can sense it. I have never seen a greater darkness. Even the demons we fought together were not half as terrifying as the monster that is now Mr. Cutter.

>> No.53617790

>She didn't trust the water. Compared to the other slow clear streams this ones reddish brown color wasn't desirable. Though the people downstream seemed healthy enough, claiming it was a vehicle of the god's will, that through transmission the frame would guard them from harm and accidents.

>The high elder said that she would no longer need her mustang for the time of restoration was soon coming and the gods would grant us power and seat us as shotgun to them the drivers of our fate. A children's story.

>The people reminded her too much of home, of her father. She glanced down at the clan pendant around her neck and the mustang trappings the red of her house. 'No' she thought. 'I must find the Pharm, the Thousand Oaks, find a cure for me.'

>Tucking the horned pendant back, Dodge griped the reins with her hands, the right lacked feeling and had lepard spots hidden under the armor.

Make story for pic related?

>> No.53617880

This was inspired by SCP-093

>> No.53618075

I still say it is appropiate for death to wear a suit and tie.
After all, wasn't it the killers of the old world that wore ties?
But the broker, the broker might be something else. With how uncertain life is nowadays there's almost as many people that have seen him as that haven't. When you're close to death, or cutting through an irradiated zone, you might see the smokey figure in the corner of your eye. An avatar of smoke that calls forth visions of nuclear annihalition.
There are... stories, about him. For every great man, every fast upstart and uncannily powerful empire builder, there is a tale of a contract with the broker. Some sort of deal.
Superstition of course.

>> No.53618266

"Can I interest you in some ear plugs? You'll need 'em if you intend to spend the night around these parts. It's for the screaming. Listen it's not as bad as it sounds I swear! I wouldn't lie to such a fine upstanding traveller such as yourself, certainly not! Where do the screams come from you ask?...

Some things are best left unsaid my friend."

>> No.53618375



This is all that pops up form me. The guy has alot of pictures for this kinda stuff.

>> No.53618549

"I know what you think you saw and I understand. It's so comforting to imagine a peaceful bungalow beyond the walls deep in an idyllic forest. That bit about the security mech leaning against the enormous tree? I love it. And the former officer that lives there? What a colorful character with such fanciful stories! But you and I both know that there is no reason for anyone to flee our fair city and ride into the horrors of the wilderness. It is preposterous! I think it's best if you admit to the council that you didn't see anything at all. It will be better for all of us, take my word for it."

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>> No.53620271

>Those who fail to learn from history...

The Church of the Seal is a brutal and violent post-war offshoot of Christianity that barely resembles it's original form in any extent. It's doctrine and theology using terms from the bible without understanding it's context, it would serve one better to disregard any of the original terms, meanings or symbolism if one is to understand Sealish theology.
The central concept of the Church is that the apocalypse laid bare a Seal to hell, and the current state of the world is a result not of that terrifying 'final' war, but the pollution and evil that seeps out from under the Seal itself, and only through rigorous worship, crusades, and the pursuit of purity can mankind begin to rebuild the Seals integrity and bury it once more.
Aside from their confusing origins, one thing is certain, they are zealots to a man. From a young age Soldiers of the Seal are trained in the arts of warfare, torture, and obedience to higher members of the clergy. And in a twisted sense, they are used as a form of currency by priests and folk of higher standing. With the amount of Soldiers under a single persons command serving as a status symbol as gold or wealth would in other societies.
These men and women are traded, used in purchases, and discarded as one would dollar bills, if dollar bills were armed to the teeth and exceedingly violent.

This barbaric practice has stunted the growth of trust and trade with other post-war cultures-and is the primary cause of a recent growth in xenophobic tendencies in Priests of the Seal. Given the surprising size of the Church, this could give way to an expansion in post-war conflicts across America.

>> No.53620449

>"You taking over for the night?"

>"Yeah. Council wants to talk to you about what you did."

>"They still mad?"

>"Obviously, you know you aren't supposed to go outside the walls, let alone into the forest. And what you say you saw? You really think we're supposed to believe that you saw those things acting like us?"

>"Whatever. I'll see you in the morning."

>> No.53620820

>> No.53621242


I finally got a good look at his stick tonight and I think I can replicate it. Even got a few ideas on how to improve it...

>> No.53621281

>> No.53621497

>To Join the Free Templar Order, the Applicant must first spend a night before each of the Stone Lords, reading the legends and ruminate on their actions. The Emancipator will be the first of many, it will be a long year for the young man, but worth it, if he completes the Pilgrimage of Free-Masonry.

>> No.53621552

>post apocalyptic cults that worship American icons
I Fucking love that shit.
And I love you, Anon.

>> No.53622105

It's such a common theme in post-apocalyptic stories... But I love it so damn much.

>> No.53622214


The new religion of Abraham, of liberty, justice, freedom, hats and facial hair.

>> No.53622273

>> No.53622292

The Great Wa'shing-Tahn, First Among Equals, the Commander-in-Chief and Father of the Nation.

Honour him before all others, child, even before the Emancipator, for without Wa'shing-Tahn, none of us would be here.

>> No.53622295

"Karloman, find anything?" Sevri asked, half smiling, and tapping the leg of his companions.
"Asshole", Karloman retorted under his breath, tightening his left hand over his overcoat, the crisp-wasteland air funneling underneath his tattered protection.
"You know - Severi continued, ain't nothing out there for miles, the settlers are all eaten up!"
"Yeah!", Ark yelled, lighting his last cigarette and pointing out over the mountainous desolation. Karly, baby, yo' crazy if you think anyone made it out in this weather last night, Ark pattered on. Their bone's were picked clean, ya feel me?"

Karloman, desperately stared out in the wastes, the silence seeming to mock him. He could hear the faint moans and cries of the beasts who had just finished their bloody feasts before the sun scared them back towards their blackened lairs inside the woods.
"Damn... We were to late." Karloman shook his head. Suddenly a loud tugboat horn sounded from the vehicle behind him, shaking the morning frost from the trees.
Severi, clutched his rifle tighter and spit over the edge of the now alive and warming metal beast.
"Karls, lets book it man, we got other camps to save!"
Karloman, clutched his jacket once more, and said a prayer towards the clouds. Ark puffed a few more smoke rings and tossed the flickering ash into the truck bed.
"Maybe this time we'll get what we came's for...", Ark wondered staring at the glowing cherry.

>> No.53622315

>> No.53622335

>> No.53622354

Begone from here you filthy savage, Wa'shing Tahn is but a hybrid of all the greatest aspects of the Stone Lords.

There are doubts he even really existed, such are his laurels. Fucking savage, get out before i bring the Pain.

>> No.53622359

What else can you tell us about these legends?

>> No.53622504

After the war a kind of cult was formed called the "Saviors" They mainly went around to towns and tried to help people with radiation sickness. They always stuck to there hospital though and people who attacked them we're forcefully brought into it. People could hear screams coming from it and when asked the doctors said nothing about it.

>> No.53622520

Forgot to link to >>53622335

>> No.53622525

Rumored to be the descendants of the very men that brought about the new world, the Keyturners are professional yet ultimately driven by a guilt inherited from the forefathers.

Although they insist that their progenitors were simply acting on orders, they still feel responsible for their actions. Their days are spent searching for relics of the old world and unlocking their secrets, in an attempt to bring back some of the beauty their ancestors were complicit in destroying.

Traveling in ominous submersibles wrought from dark iron, the Keyturners run excavations across the coastlines of the Wasteland, searching for remnants of ancient culture that they enshrine and promote. Perhaps once they have gathered enough to revive the culture of the old world, they will at last be able to forgive themselves for their crimes. Typically they are passive and keep their distance from other wastelands, occasionally hiring laborers to assist with hard work. Bandits have learned to keep their distance however, for the Keyturners do not hesitate in subjecting their foes to whatever ancient weapons they possess.

>> No.53622732

I find this thread to be extremely comfy. Since I can't write worth a damn I'll contribute an image or two in the hopes that they inspire somebody who can.

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>> No.53622829

>an image or two
Sorry I lied. Last one I promise.

>> No.53622946 [DELETED] 

This image depicts a scrapper accompanied by a Tox Mutt, one of the hardier breeds of scavenging dogs. Particularly sensitive to the scent of precious metals, Tox Mutts are favored by delvers that seek to salvage the jewel-studded boards found inside old world machinery.

Tox Mutts are also notable for their naturally rebellious, opportunistic and even cruel behavior. Even when you has successfully bonded with a specimen of this breed, it must be kept in line unless you want to wake up to it gnawing on your throat. Should you be able to keep it subservient however, the Tox Mutt makes a fine companion when scavenging the remnants of the old world.

>> No.53622992

This image depicts a scrapper accompanied by a Tox Mutt, one of the hardier breeds of scavenging dogs. Particularly sensitive to the scent of precious metals, Tox Mutts are favored by delvers that seek to salvage the jewel-studded boards found inside old world machinery.

Tox Mutts are also notable for their naturally rebellious, opportunistic and even cruel behavior. Even when you has successfully bonded with a specimen of this breed, it must be kept in line unless you want to wake up to it gnawing on your throat. Should you be able to keep it subservient however, the Tox Mutt makes a fine companion when scavenging the remnants of the old world.

>> No.53623315

>> No.53623342

>> No.53623397

Such was the hubris of the ancients that they built towers to try and reach heaven. For this sin and others they were cast down in flames, their towers now the bones of the earth. Respect the earth bones and avoid their shadows lest you draw their attention.

>> No.53623572

>The Anima. No one knows anything about it except that it helps our plant grow - except me that is. Jonson fell down the wall one day, could hear him break his neck from the top. Thousands of stories every year of shit like that. Only thing is, I was watching. The Anima came in, kicked his face, and wouldn't you know it Jonson got up and put his head back the right way. Anima ran off, and he followed. Strange thing, that cat.

>> No.53623658

"Hey, rook! You suicidal or something? That's not a human, that's a golem, get back over here! Yeah, that's better. Why's it standing around like that? Well, the Ancients had the power to breathe life into steel and wire, made all sorts of these things to serve them- don't grow old, don't eat, don't sleep, don't ask questions- they could just work and work and work and work. During the Calen Yoghai, the Time of Ending, something went wrong in them, just like all of the other wonders of the Ancients. Rose up as a mighty army, the records show, slaughtering the Ancients they once served. Some of them pretend like they're Ancients, living in the ruins, going about their pretend lives like nothing's the matter. Others roam about in packs, killing anything that's alive. And some... well, some just wander around like drunks, staring at the sky. Just... don't touch them, okay?"

>> No.53623663

>"Those are the Meisters kid. They come every spring and collect our dead, no choice in the matter. In return, they protect us from the outsiders. Sometimes, if you get close enough to the wall, you can see someone you know. Got that See-Pee-You hooking up into their heads, a battery on their backs. You never see the same one more than once. As the village says, live in life, serve in death eh?"

>> No.53623735

Descended from the inhabitants of a mining town that sheltered in its silver mines, the Cuervos borrow their name from the corporation that once owned their home.

Shortly after the end of the old world, the rains came. Befouled water flooded the mine and kept its occupants from leaving. Filtering the toxic water, they eked sustenance from it and what rations they had left. When those ran out, they turned on each other, with the strong preying on the weak. By the times the waters receded, only a handful of the mining families were still alive.

Not only that but the water was imperfectly filtered. Traces of colloidal silver and other chemicals left the survivors' skin mottled and ashen. Believing that the water of the caves is sacred and that it allowed them to adapt and survive the apocalypse, the Cuervos carry canisters of the noxious stuff and regularly imbibe it in order to preserve their strength.

Having salvaged the old equipment of the mine, the Cuervos use it as weapons and armor. Pneumatic hammers, earth augurs and water jet cutters are all utilized by these grey-skinned cannibals, who are usually clad in either cumbersome and clunky industrial gear, almost stark naked or a little bit of both. Their calling card is the bird-like symbol of the corporation that employed the ancestors, something painted on both their equipment and the ruins they leave behind after they've raided a settlement.

>> No.53623994 [DELETED] 

Seeders are a rare blessing but one that is greatly appreciated by survivors of the Wasteland.

Originally intended as the taskmasters of automated farms, Seeders were designed to be able to adapt to whatever problems their designated work place encountered. From floods to drought to plagues of pest to poisoned soil, their sole purpose is to direct other automatons to solve the issue as efficiently as possible. When the end of the old world came about, most of these automated farms were destroyed in one way or another.

Yet a handful of Seeders survived. With the automatons that they led destroyed, they were forced to tend to their facilities on their own, to restore the land and prepare it for harvest. Yet with no one to harvest the crops that they harvested, these hardy servitors set about expanding the farm.

Over the course of many years, some Seeders have managed to turn their domains into flourishing, beautiful gardens. In some cases, communities have been built around them, nomads that follow the wandering Seeders wherever they go or slavish cults that worship them as the servants of a fertility god. However, all too often, they run into scavengers that simply dismantle them for their precious organs and mechanisms.

>> No.53624043

Seeders are a rare blessing but one that is greatly appreciated by survivors of the Wasteland.

Originally intended as the taskmasters of automated farms, Seeders were designed to be able to adapt to whatever problems their designated work place encountered. From floods to drought to plagues of pest to poisoned soil, their sole purpose is to direct other automatons to solve the issue as efficiently as possible. When the end of the old world came about, most of these automated farms were destroyed in one way or another.

Yet a handful of Seeders survived. With the automatons that they led destroyed, they were forced to tend to their facilities on their own, to restore the land and prepare it for harvest. Yet with no one to harvest the crops that they harvested, these hardy servitors set about expanding the farm.

Over the course of many years, some Seeders have managed to turn their domains into flourishing, beautiful gardens. In some cases, communities have been built around them, nomads that follow the wandering Seeders wherever they go or slavish cults that worship them as the servants of a fertility god. However, all too often, they run into scavengers that simply dismantle them for their precious organs and mechanisms.

>> No.53624150

>> No.53624197

This is done by that fetish artist, isn't it?

>> No.53624255

Possibly, but it's badass, so it gets a pass.

>> No.53624364

>"Look down there, rook. Through your scope, yeah? See all those pretty red lights? Those are the Forsaken. Ancients who were cast out for their impurity. Wear the red lights as a mark of shame. They seem like decent enough folk, at a distance, but being near them kills you. I've seen it myself: real headstrong buck of a Ranger thought he could dash through Forsaken land, forge a new path into this ruin. Watched him through my scope as he went. 10 paces in, he was sweating. 20 paces in, he started throwing up. 50, he was puking blood. Didn't make it to 100. You see the animal carcs piled at the edge? Forsaken do that as a warning that the ground's Forsaken. Guess they like us enough for that. Or just don't want to deal with throwing our bodies out."

>> No.53624739

"So uh, what's the deal with your gun?"

"Have some respect young'un. You are looking at the most storied gun in the wasteland not just some 'gun'. This fucker's been from Denver to Texarkana and seen action everywhere in between. When the high lord of Amarillo got too big for his britches this here gun is what put him down. Just unholstering her is enough to send the Rio bandits scurrying back to their hidey holes. The seventh heathen-king of Arizona was executed... by hanging but this gun was in attendance ready to blast him to hell all the same. The grand ranger before me inherited it from the grand ranger before him and with a little bit of elbow grease and regular maintenance it'll end up in the hands of the lucky somabitch that comes after me. It's gone by many names over the years but me? Well, I call her 'Wendy'."

"..but why does it have a skull strapped to it?"

"Cause it looks cool" he said with a smile.

>> No.53624792

>> No.53624825

Time for a couple of monsters that are just bizarre enough to be possible post-apocalyptic critters rather than outright fantasy.

>> No.53624843

>> No.53624860

>> No.53624871

>> No.53624878

>> No.53624942

I just read the entry, and I'm confused as to what it has to do with that image.

>> No.53625082

With no organized church left many wastelanders turned to old world literature for solace. For some, the heroism of the ancient stories served as an incandescent example of old world morality. Others took the stories more literally.

>> No.53625211

In the old days, a megacorporation developed blood-borne retroviral agents to make their livestock much larger, in order to feed an ever-growing populace. Unfortunately, no one in the chain of command knew about cow-ticks...

>> No.53625403

Those walker-things are what's left of a religious pseudo-human race who were visited by a malevolent cosmic entity posing as god, they were transformed into those things by it's tears.

>> No.53625724

Mr.Achman, who is that?

>That? What that? Oh...that. That's a knight boy, a knight of the Order.

What's the order, and what does it have to do with night time?

>No that's, oh wait, you weren't around the last time his like came through, I doubt your parents ever explained it to you, The Order is old boy older than you can imagine, not older than the mountains but they're older than the ruins, they're the fighters of a people dedicated to their god, and by the looks of it he's way up on the food chain, somebody did something to make them real mad this time.

Like what Mr.Achman? What would make them mad?

>Well, any number of things, but considering who they sent I'd wager he took something.

Like a treasure?

>I suppose you could call it that, you see the places the Order lives in is full of old relics, some worth less than dirt others worth more than the whole village and everything in it, and what they do, so I hear is look after these relics, and sometimes even make new ones, I bet that has something to do with it.

You know a lot about this order.

>Had a conversation with a missionary once, that's what they call their travelers, they say something like this has happened before and they helped keep it all together and they're doing it again.

They must not have done a very good job.

>She said that before this most people had turned away from the order which itself had changed from what it was.

What was it before?

>I don't know, maybe you should ask them, but not him, he's busy, they've got temples in lots of places they aren't hard to find, that is if they're still around when you're of age to travel.

I think they will be, I don't know of any tribes from the before, but they're still here, I don't see them going anywhere soon.

>> No.53626267

Read the extended testing logs

>> No.53627347

>> No.53627366

>> No.53627386

>> No.53628258

Blasphemer! You dare to cast doubt upon the Father Of The Nation?! How can you doubt holy Rushmore itself?!

There are more legends of the Stone Lords and those that surrounded them, then there are trees in the forest, my friend. Ben-Jamin, the lightning-tamer, who rose hell and cured the blind with smooth crystal; John Adams, just and fair even to the enemies of liberty...

And they are lesser in comparison to the greatest lords. You know well of the Emancipator Lin'con and I have spoken of Wa'shing-Tahn, but there are others, such as Rune-svelt, the laughing god of war, why even his name is a jest at his mighty size and power! With his mighty club, he broke the backs of those who tried to strangle freedom with gold. Thomas, son of Jeffers (whom legend has forgotten), who's pen wrote words that sundered chains.

There are others, but sadly, as time went by, their glories were became less and less. Why else would the memorials of their greatness be so small, next to the greatest and foremost of the Stone Lords? None the less, there are those that honour them and search for new lords and signs of their deeds and it is true what they say... Even the smallest deed, of the smallest man, can have unknowable ripples in history and legend... And even 'lesser' as they were, the Stone Lords were not small men.

>> No.53628698

Both of these warriors are examples of the loose union of warriors known as the Historicals.

A great deal of stigma is attached to the harrowing appearance of the soldiers that existed during the end of the old world. To this day, they are remembered as death made manifest, malevolent phantoms that brought genocide wherever they went. The Historicals argue that through breaking the chain that connected them to their past, these soldiers lost their humanity and became nothing more than living weapons.

By gaining inspiration from the philosophies and the aesthetics of the most ancient warriors, the Historicals hope to eke some of their wisdom. They act as they believe these soldiers of old did, as wandering adventurers devoted to heroism and chivalry. They take inspiration from what few tattered books and examples of art still survive, reconstructing what they see using heaps of scrap metal and plastic.

Wherever you go in the Wasteland, you're likely to find at least one Historical along the way, cheerfully asking that you remember, revere and respect the past as well as the present, for the future's sake. And should you dare to raise arms against another inhabitant of the Wasteland, they will take it upon themselves to remind you of the lessons of the past. Although they might appear quaint and archaic, their weapons are anything but.

>> No.53628803

After an unfortunate shipwreck at the Dead Coast, the woman woke up to a surprising sight: The Dead Coast wasn't as dead as everyone believed, and that the inhabitants were apparently not hostile.
They had somehow survived the cataclysm and adapted to the ashy and rocky environment that permeated the forsaken continent.
Living off of the sea, they fished the same trout that her own ship had been trawling when the Dawn Storm hit. As no one had seen any signs of life at the shore in living memory they must have been nighttime fishers.
Warming herself up by the small oil flame she kept glancing at her savior. It - as she was not sure whether it was a he or a she - had covered itself in furs, leather and assorted rags leaving only the blackened and scarred skin around its eyes visible. The creature's mouth was seemed to be stretched to a perpetual toothy grin and there were no apparent lips. It showed great dexterity as it quickly gutted the fish, collecting some organs into a small pouch by its waist and hanging the carcass on its back.
It glanced at her, noticing her appraising gaze and the corners of its eyes crinkled, giving her the impression of a smile.
It spoke some low, guttural words in a language she didn't recognize and and gestured towards the cliffs that rose a short distance away. The woman wrapped herself in her fur cloak and followed the creature it quickly ran ahead and then patiently waiting for her to catch up.
and I can't be assed to write more

>> No.53628883

The Mark Two Hazardous Environments Combat Exoskeleton was capable of sustaining its wearer through crippling injuries, even protecting their body in the event of corporal death. In theory this would allow for the engineers to retrieve the spinal backup implant that contained a sturdy constantly updating personality backup of the soldier and implant it into a new clone body.
However, after the hasty retreat from the barren world of Xalicus VII many suits were left behind to roam the grey wasteland pockmarked with craters and debris from the battle in orbit, forever protecting the screaming minds of their owners from the salvage gangs and Terrormorph remnants from the landing ships.

>> No.53629076

Sometimes the desperate men who dare to venture outside during the Burning will find these pitiful souls, their nocturnal paleness turning pink in the scorching heat of the Sky Furnace as they orient their faces towards the source of the mankind's doom.
No doubt the scavengers feel some sympathy for the wide-eyed yet blind husks of men who made the mistake to glance upwards one time too many, to feel the temptation to see the source of the damned heat, to dare to dream of the sky. It might as well happen to them some day.

>> No.53629134

>> No.53629144

>> No.53629714

"You're lucky to be alive padre, they don't usually leave survivors. I'd say they're not interested in the gospel out that way. They've got their own gods."

>> No.53630338

>> No.53630453

>The gentle guardian
The elders tell stories of the times when the gods sent their men of iron to protect the tribes from any threats that may come from the endless blue. Yet, when the gods left, the spirits of the men of iron shortly began to fade. Yet their immortal cold shells still remain at their posts, waiting for the day the gods may come again.

>> No.53630516

>> No.53631186

"I saw lights in the forest last night Pa!"
Young Sam'well chirped through his protective mask.

"You did? Where at?" His father Dav'eed asked, sounding calm but gripping his rifle tighter, eyes hidden behind a gas mask scanning through the trees.

"Past the glade we was resting in! They were really pretty Pa!" Sam was practically bouncing with excitement, the bells sewed on to the hem of his jacket jingling excitedly.

"There's nothing pretty about them lights...no they must have been the lights of the foresters. Which means we need to get walking." Clasping tightly around the small, gloved hand of his son his pace quickened, rifle held steady.

"Foresters? Is they people like us?"
Sam asked, trepidation stalking at the edge of his voice. "They's people, but they ain't nothing like us. No they have forgotten the stone lords, forgotten the promise of liberty, forgotten to wear protection and they've been breathing too much of this naked air, been too exposed to Rad'eshin spirits and gone savage..." as he spoke both his tongue and feet quickened nearing a fevered pace, head swiveling about, lenses trying to drink in all sights around him as he practically ran down the trail dragging his son behind him.

As they turned a bend his boots dug deep into the soil as he came screeching to a halt. "Son...go back up the trail."

"But Pa-"
"Please! Just go!"
As he watched his son rush back up the trail, fear and panic breaking into sobs audible even through his mask he heard a shaking, accented voice speak to him.

"We heff no need fe toxbringas like ya in our woods..." it spoke, standing on the center of the trail, Foresters seemingly appearing from behind old, mossy Autowagons and Trees alike.

It brandished a cruel, jagged metal blade, gesturing towards Dav. "And we shore es hell don't need Toxbringa young squirmin abeut."

Continued next post

>> No.53631199

As Sam took a stop to breathe, gulping for air through his filters as he stood panting he heard a shot crack the cold mountain air, and then another. Screams and shouts filling the space between each snap of what he feared was his father's rifle.

Fear taking him , he started his run along the trail again, this time shouting a prayer to the Lords as he went. The shots had yet to stop ringing.
And that's all I gots. Sorry if I butchered your lore, Priests of The Stone-Lords.

Text cap is too damn short I'm telling you.

>> No.53631318

>> No.53631338

It's not from a game it's from the Things from the Flood artbook.

>> No.53631348

We didn't have much time left. Nevertheless, I gave them all the time they needed, this could be the last time the two lovers were together.
The young knight and his consort tenderly touched faces, careful not to smudge their ceremonial paint. She whispered words of endearment into his ear and he promised he would come back.
It pains me to disturb the peaceful innocence of communities like this, their primitive ways, unburdened by old world technology, always seemed to me like a fresh start for humanity, a blank slate to become better people.
But I had my orders and for this mission I needed a native. The minor noble knew how much he had to gain in going on a quest with an emissary of the steal tower. Status, prestige, power. But he had no idea how much he had to lose.

>> No.53631620

Today's lesson is about a ubiquitous presence on the plains; the riders. Every town has their own name for them but most people just call them riders. With few exceptions, riders have to provide their own equipment and their own mount which effectively bars most wastelanders from joining. Those lucky few who can afford the privilege of serving a term or two as a rider are inevitably drawn into the political elite of their community as judges, tax collectors, or council members.

Riders' roles differ from town to town and year to year but most serve as guards and scouts. Occasionally they are used to deliver messages across long distances or track the movements of hostile nomads and in rare circumstances they can be marshaled for full scale war. It's not unusual to find them accompanying trade caravans since the wealthy trading families who own the caravans usually have several family members among the local riders.

This particular rider is from a settlement in what was formerly central Kansas, a particularly desolate location that is kept alive only by the frequent visits from merchants going west toward High Denver or east toward the river kingdoms. The riders in his town are known as coursers, which used to be name for a type of horse but over the generations became a catch-all term for the horse and rider. You can see the rudimentary shield strapped to his arm as well as a bladed weapon on his belt but I want to draw your attention to the rifle on his back. It may not look like much but it's kept in working order by the local mechanic or machinist, a prestigious office somewhat akin to what we would call an engineer, and often filled by a former rider. With a reliable weapon and years of training in mounted marksmanship you'd be wise to respect them when you're travelling on the surface. We're going to have a quiz on this next week so make sure you're paying attention! The funerary rituals of riders are particularly interesting...

>> No.53631693

>> No.53631787

>> No.53632170

>Post Apocalyptic culture studies
Diggin' it.

>> No.53632980

Why you young people are drawn to this mockery of civilization is beyond me. What do you call it, 'wasteland couture'? It's not even accurate! Native wastelanders would never be caught without a gas mask and those reptiles would have been butchered for their meat and hides ages ago.

And where is the dirt? You can't be a real wastelander without dirt all over you and a few missing teeth. Is that the next fad? Filthy clothes and poor hygiene? Is this the year I see a student walk into class with a saw blade where their hand used to be? What's so wrong with a nice pair of starched slacks and a button down shirt?

I am particularly disappointed in the young ladies who go about wearing nothing but their underwear and a skull. It's a disgrace to our forefathers who toiled night and day to preserve our culture and keep the shelter safe from the atomic horrors of the surface. They did not work themselves to the bone to see their sons and daughters become waster trash! Shame on you! Shame on all of you!

>> No.53633104

The Flotsam twins are by far one of the strangest creatures you'd come across. The result of their mother spending far, far too long scavenging around radioactive research sites, and then promptly ingesting anything that resembled any form of drug, the twins are two completely separate personalities, with the left, Chevrolet, being a violent lunatic, and the more dominant twin, and the right, Mike'rosoff, a quiet, shy recluse, who detests his brother's violent tenancies. Despite the 'doctor' in the raider settlement giving them a woefully short estimated lifespan, the twins are currently 24 years old, although with Chevrolet's love of gladiatorial combat, it's unlikely the pair will live to see 25.

>> No.53633193

Then they fucked.

>> No.53634632

When the end came it was the children who were most affected. Many brave parents died trying to protect their sons and daughters from cannibal gangs and slavers. To prevent them from running away cannibals would always amputate a leg first. Slavers brutally mangled any who tried to run away. When the cannibal Cunninghams fell upon each other in a fit of drunken destruction many of their captives escaped, including Jeremy, aged 11.

Now 15, Jeremy has seen more horror in his short life than most folks see in a lifetime, even in this barbaric place. The trauma of losing his world, his parents, and finally his leg, has completely broken the young man. He exists now as nothing more than a wild animal stalking the trash heaps he calls home for prey and whistling half remembered theme songs from his favorite childhood shows.

>> No.53634872


-Anonymous Pundit-Herald of The Lord of the Wires

>> No.53635318


Frozen in perpetual agony, the poor souls had been modified into living sign posts forever pointing towards a glorious future. The true torture is that it would always be just outside of their sight.

>> No.53635438

Here we have a particularly interesting example from the Rust Belt Wastelands, now as you all know the Rust Belt Wastelands encompasses a large variety of urban sprawls and climes from the swamps of New York to the Hills of Pennsylvania and the coasts of Michigan, while the people that inhabit these areas are adept at agricultural and mechanical matters it has just recently been revealed to us to what extent, as the truly astounding part of this machine is not the treads placed on to a sedan chasis but the electric motor that powers it, can anyone hazard a guess how this came to be? Be mindful of the territory and it's history when you answer.

>> No.53635688

Do neither of you know what a Selkie is?

>> No.53635751

>> No.53635828

During the final months of World War Two, a group of US soldiers discovered a previously unknown island in the Pacific ocean. The inhabitants, having never seen anything like the men, assumed they were powerful ghost wizards, due to their pale skin, and worshiped the very ground the walked on, especially their technology, regarding their jeeps as sacred olive green warhorses. After the war, the island rapidly modernized, and by the mid 1980s it had caught up with the rest of the world. Despite this, the few inhabitants old enough to remember the first time the soldiers arrived still held on to their strange quirks

>> No.53635846

Forgot my image like a dumbass

>> No.53636054

Frankie Polpott was waiting for the bus. He had a big interview today, and he sure as shit wasn't gonna let a little nuclear fallout or acid rain get in the way of that, no matter how much it was stinging his hands or staining his $300 dollar suit. He just hoped his interviewer wouldn't ask him to take the mask off. Living in New York is hard living, and it's even harder when the radiation in the water makes your face slide off your skull in the middle of the night.

>> No.53637251

>> No.53639034

Should this thread be archived?

>> No.53639069

>> No.53639093

>> No.53639107

>> No.53639109


>> No.53640675

Alright, archiving the thread, might as well bump and hope for a bit more content.

>> No.53640810

Read the extended logs

Some of the best stuff on the SCP site

>> No.53641751

Aaand it's archived!

>> No.53642873


Today we're going to talk about the powered infantry exoskeleton. While not as heavily armed and armored as an orbital marine dropsuit it is the superior tool in most respects for the hazards of wasteland warfare. First: it requires very little specialized training. Second: it's relatively easy to repair. Third: its battery can hold a charge for an extended period of time. When worn in conjunction with traditional heavy infantry armor it is capable of doing a passable impression of true power armor.

This model is not fitted for combat but rather for exploration. Fitted to its gauntlet is a pair of pneumatic shears which I'm told are very useful when scavenging underground ruins. Military models often include shock whips and miniguns when engaging infantry or small complements of missiles paired with a high caliber cannon when facing armor.

Very few wastelanders have access to one of these but those that do are formidable regional powers in their own right. Groups with access to more than one could even give our security forces a run for their money. For this reason and many others we must remain underground and never reveal our presence to outsiders.

>> No.53643729


I know it doesn't make sense right now but I promise it's for you own good. Let me tell you a story. When I was a little girl, younger than you even, my mother wouldn't let me or my sister Kara go down into the valley either. But we were curious and we snuck out one night to see it for ourselves. She was always headstrong. You remind me of her sometimes. Anyway, we followed the blackstone trail until the tiny trees became big trees and we kept going until they completely blocked out the stars overhead.

I'd never seen anything so big, they were taller than the buildings in our village and I still couldn't even see the tops. My sister... your aunt, she... she didn't notice until it was too late. She had been foraging when one of the giants grabbed her. They're much quicker and quieter than they look and they're very very dangerous sweetheart. That's why we don't go down into the valley, even if it is just to look. Mommy loves you very much and I couldn't bear to lose another Kara. Now go to sleep, we have a big day tomorrow.

>> No.53644047

That there's the hunter, boy. Some say he neva' eats, neva' sleeps. Just watches...watches ova' us!
"Pa... what's he lookin' fer?" The young boy asked, while gutting a mutated river trout, its 6 eyes bleeding and its body fermenting something close to rot.

He's lookin' fer the 'Golden One's', those river-boatin' thieves out to do us harm.

The boy sloshed out some guts onto the rocky shore.
"You mean those men who done took off with yer' boom-cannon?"

Yeah, them ones. Always out stealin' from honest her' folks.
The haggard old man then lifted a blade to his eye.
"As long as we got dat hunter feller lookin' out for us, this fishin' holes good fer pickin'."

>> No.53644132

>Every bounty hunter has a gimmick these days...

"Look at this guy, what the fuck is he supposed to be? I get that brand awareness is a big deal when you're a one man operation but why not just wear a funny hat or somethin'? You don't need the funny hat, and the mask, and the leg warmers, and the war paint, and the bare thighs to make an impression. Shit the barbed spear would've been enough, just call yourself Spear Master or whatever.

Gotta admit I do like the fur cape or whatever you call that thing."

>> No.53644233

>> No.53644253

>> No.53644262

It's funny if you imagine the character you posted saying what you wrote.

>> No.53644273

>> No.53644686

Billy and his older sister Jane lives with their grandmother in the remains of a trailer park in Midwest America. Their lives so far has been short and terrifying, but filled with a thing that most survivors and filth of the wasteland didn't have:


Their masks are painted and adorned with trinkets and knick-knacks from their childhood and they are outfitted with junk from the surrounding area. This is the life they have always known and their grandmother, although kind, is senile and quite insane. She wishes to protect the children from the foul "Iron Preachers" who took the lives of the childrens' parents. It will be soon before Grandmother dies and as such has deemed it necessary for the children to leave their home quickly lest the followers of the Iron Cross find their house first. Bill and Jane head off to the direction of Lake Michigan, where there is bound to be so much sushi that they will eat like royalty forever.

Wish them anons.

>> No.53647225

Father look! Monsters!

>What!? Where? Oh-oh no not these guys.


>Just, don't talk to them Daddy's got this.
>Hello there, How's everyone doing?

-Ach my feet hurt and this one won't stop complaining about the dust, hello everything is dust now! Say, you look like a man who knows things yes? Do you know where we could find a good trade hub?

>No, I'm afraid not we tend not to travel far.

-Shame we would like to browse some decent wares, so hard to find anything worth while these days, could you do an old sod a favor? Maybe lend us what passes for currency in these parts, just to get an idea of a good trade?

>Afraid I haven't any, we're a bit out of the way for that sort of thing.

-Oh very well, come we have far to go.

They're strange people father.

>Yes, you didn't give them anything did you?

Just a spoon.

>A spoon!? Ah, great, now we'll get more of them for months asking for hand outs, damn mooches.

-I heard that! It's very offensive with the slurs you know.

>Shove off!

-We're going, anti-svarmite.

>Grubby gypsy!

-Ach, gypsies are extinct you fool.

>That's what the last bunch told me, I still can't find my good wrench.

-Have you checked your big mouth? It's next to your foot.


>> No.53648593

Sleepy bump!

>> No.53648740

>> No.53650273

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