Fallout: The Mont [IC/Closed]

[Sarejo]

Fallout: The Mont

OOC | IC

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Ormata

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December 4th, 2296

Messengers from 4th Company confirm our suspicions: A massive Dead Sky war-party is forming and is preparing to advance on the Black Earth tribe and Trapper settlements. I have faith in our men to be able to hold their own against a raiding party of tribals, but a whole war-party is a danger we have not experienced for over eight years, and I'm taking no chances. I ordered Captain Sanders to pull back, and to leave the Black Earth and Trappers to their own devices. It's a cruel move, yes, but if it will save our boys for the real fight ahead, it's a move I have to be willing to make.

As for the real fight, the Mounties move farther south by the week, sending refugees of their brutal subjugation tactics to our gates, and I'll be damned if I don't admit that we're quickly running low on supplies with the influx of refugees. I've already axed rations three times in the past two months, and any lower, our troops with starve to death. We need to do something about these bastards, and soon.

On another note, I have reason to believe Lieutenant Connors has been taking bribes from the Champlain Bay Company to allow chems to flow into The Uni under customs' noses. I'll look into it, and for now he's under my close eye.


-Commander Richard Grey, Commander of The Uni Military Forces

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December 2296, Vermont wasteland. Commonly known as The Mont Wasteland, or more simply, The Mont. The Mont was spared much nuclear bombardment, mostly because of a lack of major targets, save for Montreal and the Commonwealth. Ergo, mutatant animals and plantlife is still common, however many of the enclosed water sources contain far lower amounts of nuclear contamination, and the area is still heavily wooded and greenery is commonplace. However, because of the natural remoteness of what was the northeastern United States, civilization is still spread out in scattered remnants. Some city-states claim superiority, however in wider scale they hold little power. The Uni, Centennial Point, and Lone Rock are examples of these puffed up city-states, however their closest competition manifested itself as tribes and raider gangs for a long period of time, explaining such smaller "nations". However, a new force from up north has finally reared its head, expanding southward to project their true military might on the denizens of the frigid, wooded wastes of The Mont; these menacing newcomers call themselves The Montreal Commonwealth, however they are more commonly referred to as The Mounties. Various raider groups roam The Mont proper, including chiefly the NukeDukes and Red Roaches, while the lawless east is dominated by trappers and tribals, varying in hostility and brutality.

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December 16th, 2296
Grant Carter

Grant strode slowly through the door of the fort's tavern, already filled with patrons despite being early in the afternoon, taking cover from the snow storm beginning outside. He wore the same grim face he always did, but pulled more tight as he faced the truth of another mediocre trapping trip, which had been his last chance to get some meat and caps before the brunt of winter came.

Grant went over to the wooden board that functioned as the bar, put six caps on the wood, and the bartender knowingly put a Gwinnett Southie Stout on the bar, Grant's favorite. Grant popped the top on the edge of the bar, nodded to the bartender, and went to find a seat. He sat and watched the others packed into the bar, while the occasional person would shuffle in through the door, huddled under their cloaks, until people were forced to just stand because there were no seats. It amazed Grant that there were this many people in such a small and obscure fort in the east of The Mont, especially this close to The Uncharted. An involuntary shiver went through Grant as he thought of that place, the horrors from his first and last trip to that God-forsaken place still burned into his memory.

[Hastiaka]

Doctor Theo Lowe
16 December 2296 | Fort Morris

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The cold winter breeze blew past Doctor Theo Lowe's face. The elderly physician could barely keep up on the trail. Theo clung unto his winter coat as they neared the Fort. The Fort was like the wasteland it belonged to, full of rust and tetanus. Inside he knew there were merciless mercenaries and murderous raiders. Theo Lowe had been here before a few years prior. Not much has changed since then. Theo gazed at the fort. A bastion of life in the middle of nowhere. Theo walked slowly to the nearby tavern. Theo was slightly surprised as to how there were many people and he immediately began to find a seat.

Theo looked every nook and cranny of the place for an empty seat. As he stood he saw the many mercenaries and god knows what passing by. He remembered something- the death of his parents. Until this very day he has not yet ceased to find out who murdered his parents and almost killed him. All he knew that it maybe was a rival or so. But that mission of the past is no longer his priority and he was there to help people. Theo planned to set up a 2-day clinic in the Fort and head for Centennial Point the day after to wrap his 2 week long mission.

He approached a young man next to him wearing a winter jacket and fur hats and boots and had a Winchester rifle. Theo bent a little bit and asked him politely, ''Care to allow an old man sit next to you? My arthritis is getting worse by the day.'' he chuckled.

[Pasong Tirad]

Bartolomé. 16 December 2296, Fort Morris

Bartolomé burst through the fort's gates, mumbling to himself ("Goddamn son of a...") and clenching a bruised and bloody fist. To the nearest guard, he was a fearsome sight: a little short, but strong and formidable. The nearest guard asked him what happened, and he responded with a string of barely-comprehensible expletives. The guard just stood there shocked, and then Bartolomé, with some more comprehension, said: "Bloody caravan master won't give me my pay slip and let me go back to Champlain Bay. He said it might be weeks until we can get out and he doesn't trust that I'll be able to make it back on my own! Goddamn cowardly caravan masters and their fucking winters." He shoved his way past the guard and went straight for the tavern, mumbling expletives along the way.

Passing by the bar, he gave the barman 25 caps ("Whiskey and some Radstag.") and went off to sit next to the fire, both to cool down and to calm himself down (not that he really needed to warm up). He has a bit of a temper, that much he can admit - but it's nothing some meat, whiskey and a cigarette won't fix. While waiting for the meat and the alcohol, he took out a cigarette and lit it up right next to the fireplace. It's been a few hours since his last cigarette, and that could easily have explained his temper with the caravan master a few minutes ago. No matter, what's done is done and the caravan master won't change his mind.

He took out a small clean rag (clean enough) and wrapped it around his bloody hand. The large caravan master's nose was nothing to Tomé. All Bartolomé can do now is wait and do nothing, a job that he no doubt welcomes with open arms. He takes off his helmet, puts it on the small table next to him along with his shotgun, revolver, club and knife (an effective intimidation tactic, he finds), slouches back on his seat and lets the warmth roll over him. He can feel sleep coming. He takes another puff from his cigarette, keeps it in his mouth and he just stares at the fire until his eyes shut.

[Ormata]

Tracker
Fort Morris
December 16th, 2296

She disliked these tiny little places. Saints above, she disliked these Champlain people even more. There was something instinctive about stabbing a slaver, in Tracker’s opinion, something that made it feel good when you knew that you were doing the whole world a favor by snuffing-out the life of one of those bastards. There was something fulfilling about it, like you did what you were supposed to do and the universe was smiling-down on you. Tracker wouldn’t admit it, but killing one of these smug bastards was even better than the normal, run-of-the-mill bastard. Your normal bastard knew they were a bastard and revelled in it. These guys? These guys had the stupidity to lie and pretend about it.

Bastards. She didn’t like Fort Morris one bit. It was just full of bastards.

Of course the next question would be on why she was there in the first place, and the answer to that was really quite simple. Some Uni prick had decided to contract her for salvage, specifically a few bits and pieces of Pre-War technology and fetishes from a town south of Morris called Stowe. What the prick had neglected to mention was the sizeable amount of raiders in the region who were rather well-armed for a bunch of bastards this far north. They’d been armed with pipe rifles and the rest of it. Smart little guys, too; they’d tried to rig the place with spear-traps and the like. They didn’t really cover them well, but hey, it was the thought that counted.

Tracker had ditched her armor, stabbed most of them, and got the great joy of a large backpack of shit. Yeah, sure, Uni armories and smithes wouldn’t touch a pipe gun with a ten foot pole, especially with the kinds of metal and the rust that was on these, but that could be removed and the guns melted-down for metal for...some shitty piece, she expected. It wasn’t something of quality, that was for sure. So yeah, she dragged that damn pile of parts over her shoulder for a bit, about the town looking for all kinds of great stuff, when a blizzard started. Blizzards really, really did suck, and along with a vested interest in not freezing to death she also was concerned on the suit getting stuck in damn snow.

So yeah. Tracker humped that crap up to Fort Morris. Life was just splendid.

The wind howled out there, as it started to pick-up, the snow falling onto the ground and all that great jazz. She’d parted her suit outside, beside a shack, locking the bloody thing up with a chain, three combination locks around the feet of the unit, and removing a servo in one of the legs. Sure it sucked to put back on, but that’s only when you get in a hurry and if Tracker was in a hurry she would not deal with trying to have a damn Power Armor Frame in the middle of a firefight. It was useful, but it wasn’t useful enough to die for and it did shit for survival. The backpack? Well, she just put that down beside the suit; if someone had a sled to put the 400 Lbs, nearly, of metal and bullshit onto it, well, that’d make a helluva lotta noise and Tracker had the feeling that anyone trying to put that over their shoulders would break one. That’d serve ‘em right, the slaving pricks.

She went inside, rifle over the shoulder, and could see a sparsely-bearded man at the bar. Well, ‘bar’ was far too kind for such a place; it was a plank. It was a literal, flimsy bit of wooden plank. Briefly Tracker wondered exactly how many people had gotten splinters on the bloody thing. Probably a good few. Good on them. Walking-up to the bar, the Courser couldn’t help but notice that the place was packed. People didn’t want to deal with the cold, much less deal with the snow. The heat from the packed bodies was somewhat palpable, but it quickly disappeared into nothing the moment you left, as though there was a wall of heat that just left and flew-away.

Leaning against it, she got a beer; The Institute never did like the Coursers getting drunk and saints above were tolerances put in-place that’d make a wino blush. She wouldn’t get drunk off of one bottle, that was for sure. Tracker probably could act it out, though, excepting the fact that she hadn’t pulled that crap in...fifteen years? Something like that. Towards the end of her Institute career they just stuck with ‘murder everything’, no questions asked. Tossing-down seven caps for it, Tracker took a swig, nodding to the man near her.

An older guy walked-in first, coming up to the bar with that tired, weary-looking walk of someone who has just walked longer than they really, really wanted to. It was a look that seemed to be popular in Fort Morris, a place swelled by the ‘refugees’ and people who really just wanted to leave as soon as possible.

”Care to allow an old man sit next to you? My arthritis is getting worse by the day.”

Polite, too; Tracker just watched that sort of thing unfold. It was something unexpected, she’d found, something different. Of course, then, something had to interrupt such meanderings. A short little bastard came-in like a whirlwind, ordering whiskey, lighting a cigarette, and then finding a small table with which to disgorge his small arsenal. Little man had that little man syndrome, then. Great. Like they needed for anyone to think about starting a fight. The fact that he had blood on his hand did not help.

---

Isaac Harvey
Fort Morris
December 16th, 2296

Isaac was outside. Of course Isaac was outside because nice things? Yeah they just didn’t exist. He was outside, trench boots up in snow, and his feet felt like little needles were being stabbed into them. He didn’t like this damnable snow; it was too...too white. Yeah sure leave it to a nation in Vermont, leave it to Uni, to give the militia green uniforms when snow existed. Yeah. He’d buy a white jacket, but dammit all he also wanted to send money back to Carleigh.

He missed her.

The young man’s attention was drawn to the gate, where a loud guy was, well...bring loud. Wasn’t really being much else, though; just loud, cursing, and having some blood on his hand. Seemed he wanted to leave early, couldn’t get his money, that sort of thing. Eager little guy, then. If he made any more noise then Isaac expected the man to be dead by tomorrow, everything stolen. People never did think in those terms.

He shivered again. Near a shack was a bit of Power Armor, or something, at least a stripped-down version of the stuff. Who the hell had that sort of money, or that sort of experience? Strange. He hadn’t seen that often this far east. In Uni they were rare enough, but out near Fort Morris? Nearly unheard of. Trekking over, Isaac could see that several locks were attached to the thing. At least the owner was wary. A bag full of junk guns was next to it. Strange.

Now, you might ask as to why someone from the warmer, comparatively, climes of Uni would be this far east. The answer was really simple; Uni Captains, especially the Militia ones, did not have that much money. As such, they were forced to rely on alternative means to fund themselves and, sometimes, even fund their entire units. It wasn’t unheard of for Captains to rent-out their militiamen for a bit of the profit and to ‘give the soldier experience’. Isaac had found himself in just that sort of predicament, and God damn it the thing sucked.

Sighing, Isaac decided that he’d best get inside, walking in and staying just on that border between warmth and less-warmth, leaning against a ramshackle wall.

[Pacific Brotherhood of Steel]

Samuel Hayden
Fort Morris
December 16, 2296

---

This is not what Samuel had expected, not at all. The Trapper must have either been lying or he was just repeating something he had heard that was made up. Hell, maybe those refugees already fled but he would have surely seen him on the way here. Well, unless they went south but most of the refugees from the east never went south. From what he had seen they always came west towards the big cities out on the bay. It really didn't matter now he supposed. He was here and it was already late in the day. There was no turning back now and trying to head back to West Burl to sign up. Maybe if it wasn't so late in the winter he would have turned back but he had waited too long this year to head out of the mountains.

Samuel was anxious now. He had risked quite a lot out here especially with the Mountie activity that had picked up in the area. The shaky palisades and militiamen that guarded these palisades were essentially nothing in the face of the Mounties. Every part of his brain was telling him it was time to go. That old trapper intuition was kicking in. But he couldn't. Not only because of the winter but because of his body. Samuel was getting on in years and he couldn't do as much anymore. If he was younger maybe he would make the trip back but he was stuck here for now. He watched a few people drift in and out of a shack he assumed was the local bar. Better than nothing.

Samuel walked in to the ramshackle little establishment. There were a few people already sitting down. An older man and a a woman, maybe a father and daughter? A man up front obviously looking for a fight, smoking a cigarette. Some things never change. The sky could alright with fire as brimstone rained down upon the world and there would still be some people who were looking to assert their dominance. Looming doom didn't change anything. Every other patron was nondescript and not worth mentioning or remembering. Samuel approached the bar where a squirrely looking barkeep was wiping down some spilled alcohol. He looked up at Samuel expectantly as he approached. There was a makeshift menu on the bar and on it he saw the usual. Water and soup caught his eye though. Thirty caps altogether but well worth it.

Water please. And, uh, soup, if you got it, radstag if you don't.

The bartender nodded his head and pulled a bottle of water up from below and put it on the counter and Samuel produced thirty caps for him. He wasn't a talkative man but maybe it was for the best. A runny mouth could get you hurt in a place like this. The bartender walked into the back room and came back with a bowl of soup. Samuel grabbed his stuff and walked over to one of the few tables that didn't have anyone sitting at it. It was in the corner of the building and gave him a nice view of the entrance and most of the room. It was also fairly close to the exit if he needed to get out quickly. That's how you survived up in the mountains. You had to be paranoid as hell and ready for anything. He pulled his backpack off and set it down next to the chair while he leaned his rifle on the nearby wall. He kept his revolver strapped to his side, just in case. Samuel sat down and tore into his soup.

[The Palmetto]

Audubon (John Walker)
December 16th, 2296

Audubon had recently arrived to the fort by paying a caravan for transport, which, for the right amount of caps, they'd do. It had taken several days, but he had arrived none the less. He had come here to trade pelts and meat for caps, and he was now several caps richer. Despite being fully capable of living on his own without any money, Audubon had always had a small obsession with collecting caps. Perhaps he wanted them just in case, maybe it was because he could get something nice and shiny one day, but either way, he would hoard as many as he could. Maybe some day he could buy some fancy armor from one of those foreigners.

But looking at all of the snow, he wondered if he'd ever leave this fort. The snow was only getting thicker and higher, and the landscape beyond the walls was a wasteland of white. Even in his thick fur clothing he felt a cold shiver, and it would only get colder. He didn't even bother to try and set any snares, for he knew they likely wouldn't bite any time soon. There wasn't some magical force preventing him from dying, and death by cold or starvation was always a serious possibility. But there were worse deaths, after all. He could die in slavery or be torn a sort by a Deathclaw, but thankfully, the walls provided protection enough. He let out a long sigh, before realizing he needed a stiff drink to get his mind off of it. If he was going to die, he might as well enjoy life while he can.

He walked towards what seemed to be a bar, and thought to himself for a few moments what he'd want. He had been foolish enough to only bring only 30 caps when he had many more, and even more foolish to act stingy about it, and looked to the bartender with a small sigh. He had been sighing a lot recently, probably because his life, and everyone else's in the Mont, was shit.

"Give me whatever I can get for this," he said, tossing 5 caps onto the board and looking the bartender in the eye. The man replied quietly by grabbing the caps, and giving the man a low quality cup with some a low tier alcoholic beverage. Audubon just shrugged, and took several small sips of his drink.

"Days like this make you wish for a nuclear hellfire, huh?" He joked aloud, before taking yet another sip of his drink. From the bottom of his heart he was almost serious, and Audubon wondered if he'd prefer burning to freezing.

[The Traansval]

Fort Morris
The Mont

December 16th, 2296

"Jeremy, my good friend. How are you?"

The man in question, Jeremy, diverted his attention from the hide he was tanning to see two men approaching his tannery. One was dressed in a Vault suit and carrying a baseball bat, and seemed quite interested in the various hides and pelts hanging from the ceiling of the roof. Jeremy didn't know this man, but he did know the Native man in a pre-war uniform, carrying a rifle slung over his shoulder.

"F! How good to see you my old aquintance! How are you, i haven't seen you since we crossed paths in Ronto."

F smirked, memories of Ronto crossing his mind. He took off the rucksack that was on his other shoulder, dropping it quite unceremoniously on the ground. He reached inside, and pulled out a fresh Radstag pelt. Jeremy's eyes widened, the pelt was in quite good condition; he could make some good products from it.

"Got this one just this morning. I know how you like Fresh pelts... Got six more like it, although granted not as Fresh."

Jeremy ran his hand over the pelt, feeling the fine fur of it. It was definatly a good pelt. A quick inspection of the rucksack produced several others, six as the Canadian Hunter had stated, of equal or close to equal quality. This was quite the bounty; the Tanner knew he could make quite a few articles of clothing that would fetch him quite the pretty Cap. Of course, he wouldn't let this on.

"Ehh. This ones got a rather distinct bullet wound here F, you know that just decreases the quality of the pelt..."

The Canadian pinched his nose, he'd really been hoping he wouldn't have to haggle today. His associate just continued examining the pelts hanging from the roof.

"Jeremy, come on mate. You know these pelts are good, i know these pelts are good. Lets not beat around the bush. I want thirty caps a pelt."

The tanners face stayed neutral for nought a second before exploding into laughter. Haunched over, he giggled and chortled while F looked on in frustration. His Associate, Jimmy, just looked in confusion.

"T-t-t-THIRTY! Listen F, we're old friends, old chums! We've done buisness enough to know that we're both fair people. I'll give you 10 a pelt."

"Ten caps aren't even worth the Lead i shot to get these. Thirty."

"Twelve"

"Thirty"

"Fifteen"

"Thirty"

"Twenty"

"Twenty Two"

"Deal"

The two men extended their hands and shook, signifying the conclusion of the bargaining. Jeremy reached below the small counter he had and entered the code to the small personal safe he kept on him. Once open, he withdrew a cloth pouch, which jingled and jangled from the currency held inside. He counted out the caps, one at a time, before he had the right amount.

"One Hundred and fifty two, One hundred and fifty three, One Hundred and fifty four Caps! Here you go my old friend, One Hundred and ten caps, don't waste it now!" He placed the handful of caps into F's outstretched hand.

A smirk found its way onto F's face. "Not likely Jeremy, not likely..." He slung the rucksack to the tanner, who deftly caught it. F turned on his heel, motioning with his hand for Jimmy to follow him while the Tanner inspected his new fortune.

The duo left the Tannery, which was set a bit away (And Upwind) from the rest of small trading post. A dirt path that had been carved by the hundreds of feet that trod these grounds led them back to the main market square, the beating heart of the Fort. Here, arranged in the almost cookie cutter standard Market set up, stalls and shops dotted themselves, hawking wares and services of all kinds imaginable. Bullets, Booze and Bitches could all be aquired here.

"So, what'd we need to get here?"

Standard stuff Jimmy; Food, Water, Bullets, and i need to get my sights checked out."

"F, just cause you missed that dear doesn't mean your sights are broken."

"Jimmy, its the only explaination. I had that thing right in my sights. i'm telling you. They're off!"

Or... Maybe you just missed because not everyone hits every shot all the time..."

"Shut up Jimmy"

Whatever, i just want to get out of here. I get the willies being around this place.

"This place" was Fort Morris, and it was run by the Champlain Bay Company; a group which F was rather indifferent to. They traded in slaves, which his associate Jimmy was quite loath about, hence the "Willies". F didn't care either way; of course he'd rather they'd not, but its not like he was going to try to stop them. Besides, who cared as long as he had places to make and spend caps at. Champlain Bay was quite good when aquiring all sorts of things. If you wanted something, anything, there was a good chance that the Champlain's had it.

The market grounds were home to a brown tent, which had been erected to cover a practical Armorery. Hanging from the entrance was a wooden sign, painted with the words "Daniels Guns and Ammo". Weapons shops were one of the most common shops in the market, second only to food and water. F however, only trusted Daniel. The man had once fixed the locking lugs on the bolt head of his rifle, a feat that very few in the Wasteland had the talent for.

The sound of hammering came from the tent as the duo approached. The two ducked as the entered the rather dimmly lit tent, and saw the Daniel in question hammering at a bend barrel on a Hunting Rifle. The gunsmith didn't notice the two customers, and kept on hammering until he brought it up to his eyes for inspection. Apparently finding it satisfactory, he put the hammer down and placed the gun in a wooden crate filled with straw. He put a lid on it, and hammered it shut with a couple of nails.

F lightly coughed, trying to make his prescense known. The gun man swiveled his head to the side, and finally noticed the two men. He set the hammer down on the crate, and dusted off his hands as he turned to deal with his customer.

"F! How are you, back again for some repairs?"

The gunsmith took off his thick brown gloves and set them on the wood counter he used for buisness. F rested his weight on the counter, and was about to answer the man before Jimmy beat him to it.

"F needs the sights on his rifle checked, cause he missed a shot"

Daniel laughed as F practically hissed in anger, he had this irrational urge to keep up a persona of an Expert Marksmen who never missed a shot. A persona Jimmy just seemed to always mess up.

"Yes..... I need the sights checked, and while your at it give me a full check over on the rifle. I'd also like some ammo; Same stuff as always, .303, .45 and 12 guage.
Boxes of ammunition were placed on the counter as Daniel took F's rifle back to his forge. He took it in his hands and proceeded to remove the bolt, taking its pieces apart and inspecting them all. He took the now deconstructed rifle in his hand and began to clean it out. A small jar of Solvent bought from the Tannery helped clean out the lead and powder in the rifling, and a bore brush made damn sure there wasn't anything in there.

While Daniel cleaned and inspected his rifle, F inspected the ammunition. Much of it was just standard ammo, traded and bought along the east coast. The .303 was special though, F had a good supply of it from when he left his home, but eventually he'd started running low. Luckily, he'd run into Daniel, and he'd started contracts to create the ammo, working off a example cartridge that F had given him. It wasn't as good as the original, but it'd do.

"I've tweaked the sights a little and made sure the front post was reinforced. Besides that, your gun is in as good as condition as earthly possible. The ammo and the quick once over will set you back 200 caps."

F nodded, placing the amount on the table in a cloth pouch that was snapped up by Daniel, who counted the amount quickly before placing it on his belt. The Canadian Hunter took the ammunition and placed it in his backpack, tossing the 12 gauge rounds to Jimmy.

"Thanks Daniel, see ya around."

"Yeah, see ya F."

The two waved goodbye to the man as they exited the small tent, leaving the relative quiet of the gunsmithy and re-entering the noisy hustle and bustle of the Fort. The two made their way down the twisting dirt paths that marked the "roads" of the town. One of the very few solid buildings came into sight soon, a sign outside advertising bed and breakfast.

Jimmy, here take these four caps, see if you can scroung up some carrots or some shit. I'll book us a room there. Meet me there when your done.

Jimmy took the meager amount of caps and nodded to F, and turned on his heel to see if he could haggle some meager eats out of the market stalls. They had some provions, mainly dried radstag meat and such, but it helped to get more supplies. As Jimmy made his way off, F continued forward towards the Inn. The doors opened with a simple push and in F stepped. The room was like you'd expect; Dimly lit and full of drunk patrons and whores. Although F noticed a few shifty look characters, one with their back to the wall and eyes scanning the room. The bartender was behind the bar, as you'd expect, cleaning a mug with a rag that looked dirtier than the glass. F strode up, his heels hitting the floor with dull thuds before he reached the bar, getting the mans attention.

"What can i do for you."

F simply placed the remainder of his caps on the table. All ten of them...

"I'd like to rent a room for a day"

The man took one look at the meager amount of caps and laughed. Sliding them off the table into his hand, depositing them into his pocket. He turned around to a row of hooks holding keys, and selected one from the very bottom.

"You can get the attic room. Ain't much space and it gets drafty at night, but its the only thing you'se can afford"

"I'll take it..." He said as he took the key from his outstretched hand.

With nothing better to do, he took to the steps and climbed his way up, until he reached a small hatch which unfolded with the pull of its string. A step ladder came down, and F climbed his way up into the place where he'd be sleeping tonight. It wasn't too bad, he reckoned. A nice window view of the Fort, room enough for him and Jimmy and the draft was far better than staying outside. A old worn cot served as the rooms bed, and F grimaced as he realized that the mattress was falling apart and riddeled with bugs of every species. Seemed they'd be using their sleeping backs tonight, a thought that F groaned internally about. He was really looking forward to a nice bed...

The sound of footsteps alerted F; someone was coming up the ladder. Walking over, he was relieved to see it was just Jimmy, with a small bag in his hand. He helped his comrade up before closing the hatch behind him. Jimmy stood up, and looked around the room, a smile on his face.

"Well this sure is a fine and dandy room F, if i do say so myself. Got a real pretty view of the town."

"Yeah yeah, its a fucking Palace. What'd you get?"

Jimmy tossed F the bag, which when opened prooved to contain a loaf of bread.

"God damn Jimmy, where'd you get this. Its some nice bread..."

"Managed to trade it for a bottle of Nuka Cola i had on me, along with the caps of course."

The bread was still warm to the touch. F brought over a couple of old chairs which we're obviously up in storage, along with a table which he cleaned off with a piece of cloth he had on him. He took his knife and cut up two slices of the loaf, and placed a few pieces of dried Radstag meat on it. Handing one to Jimmy and taking the other for himself, the two dug into their impromptu luncheon.

"So F, where we off to next?" Jimmy said, finishing his second bite of the little sandwich. If there is one thing Jimmy never forgot, it was his table manners. Something F appreciated.

"Probably back to the Trappers cabin. Check in and see if they have any quota's to fill. I don't want to think about that right now though, lets just eat. You still got those Caravan Cards? I could go for a game.

Jimmy smiled, he was a expert at Caravan, something about its patterns just spoke to him. He set his half eaten sandwich aside, and pulled out his cards. Shuffling a bit, he delt out their hands, and thus the game began.

[Anowa]

Hanlon
Marilyn Porter
Fort Morris, December 16th, 2296

Hanlon didn't know why they went east when they pissed off half of Winnipeg, California would've been so much nicer than a foot and a half of snow. It wouldn't have lead to the current situation now in any event. The bar had food, and it was shelter... to some degree. The girl they'd found not even ten minutes ago was shivering something fierce in Marilyn's grasp, the literal rags the child wore doing damn near nothing against the cold. So her death via hypothermia was something they very much wished to avoid.

As the trio entered, the bar went silent, not from the obviously armed woman holding a shivering child, but from the big green bastard who had to duck to enter the building. Hanlon noticed that more than a few guns had been drawn and were very much at the ready. Hanlon leaned down to Marilyn, "Find a table, I'll get the girl a blanket."

Marilyn nodded and made off towards a corner of the room, as Hanlon himself made his way towards the bar, he spoke the unkempt bartender, in a deceptively soft tone for a mutie, "I need a blanket."

The man snorted, a small grin forming on his face, "I ain't giving you shit, this isn't some charity house. You either pay or get the fuck out."

Hanlon's eye twitched, "I see you find the concerns of a child dying of hypothermia funny. You know what I find humorous? A man trying to pick his teeth off the floor with no arms."

The bartender paled, smirk fading into the aether as he notably gulped, before turning around and opening a cabinet, producing a rather rough spun blanket. It wasn't high quality by any means, but at least it was something. Hanlon nodded, "Thank you." before turning and making his way to the table that Marilyn and the child were sitting at. The girl still on Marilyn's lap, shivering, the table only had a single chair, even then Hanlon's weight would probably break the chairs in the bar, so he sat on the floor beside said table, offering he blanket to Marilyn.

Reaching over his shoulder he pulled the massive gun he carried and set it on the ground with a thud. The bar had started to begin speaking again, everyone obviously aware that the Frankenstein present wasn't going to butcher them all immediately.

[Prusslandia]

Fort Morris, The Mont

Walker adjusted his pack as he walked through the gates of the Fort, the cold gripping him like a vice. He looked around as he walked through the near-deserted fort, disgust on his face at what he saw, his thoughts running hot for a moment.

"Fuckin' slavers. Should just string 'em up and skin 'em. Deserve that and more." He whispered under his breath, shaking his head.

Most wouldn't call the Champlain Company slavers. At least, not within earshot of them. Walker held no such compulsions. To him, only thing worse than a slaver was a mutant, and the worst of them all were Mounties. Thinking of those bastards made his eyes flick across the area, his eyes catching a scrap of a Mountie flag. Images filled his mind as he stood still for a moment, his wife and children dead before him again, and his actions afterwards in startling clarity. Shaking his head as if to dispel them, he looked closer. A sigh of what was almost relief escaped his chest. The scrap of flag was exactly that; A scrap, piece of a patchwork blanket. Adjusting his pack yet again, Walker entered the local bar, tugging the cloth covering his mouth away from his face, stuffing it back in one of his pockets. His eyes scanned the room over, noting the dead-eyed girl in the corner, . Walking over towards the bar proper, he took his seat, his pack against his feet. Taking his gloves off, he grabbed one of the pouches on his belt. Opening it, weathered fingers grabbed a handful of caps, laying them flat on the table. Looking at the bartender, he pointed at a bottle and waited. Most would carefully count their caps and argue about the price of something. Walker didn't care too much, anything he really needed he could scavenge, work for, trade, or build himself. Looking next to him, he saw a familiar face. Taking a sip of his whiskey, he started to speak when he heard a noise. Footsteps, heavy, too heavy for a human. Same with the breathing. Only one thing like that in the Mont, at least one that walked on two legs. Mutie.

His head shifted towards the door, one hand reaching for his tomahawk, the other his pistol. He watched the monster with glaring eyes, disgust and outrage filling him as everyone seemed to ignore the thing. Shaking his head, he went back to his drink, uneasy and ready to bolt, right hand still lingering near his tomahawk. Looking at John, he flicked his head in disgust.

"Spirits be damned, someone didn't take care of that when it approached the gate. Fools." Shaking his head, he took another sip before speaking again. "What business you have here, John?"

[Vacif]

J. Constant, 'Maker'
Fort Morris ||December 16th, 2296

It was a bone chilling day, as always. "Fort Morris" was really just a set of ramshackle walls around the pre-war town of Morristown. Unfortunately for them it wasn't even the nice part of town. Sure they'd chosen function over fashion (they were based right at the crossroads) but they hadn't even walled in the near by ranch, or the walled house with a pool. Sure it was winter and those two things wouldn't be of any use but his point still stood. Why didn't they set up shop in nearby Morrisville? It was a lot nicer, and a lot more defensible.

He wondered every day why he stayed here. Sure he was being paid a nice salary by the Company, but he was in the literal ass end of the Mont, and contrary to common belief, he wasn't the stereotypical secluded tinkerer. He liked being in urban centres, he liked people. Well some people. He supposed it was very situational. To sum it up, good pay, lenient hours, shit living conditions.

Deciding to stop brooding, he turned his attention to where he actually was. He was standing in the shack. This shack was the Fort's general store. Or as close as they were getting to one. A piece of plywood stood proudly on the roof in spite of the elements. In bright red paint was the name of the store. 'Survive and Demand'. A play on the term 'supply and demand'. This shack was actually quite large. It took up a chunk of the old drive way leading up to the house he and his were staying in. It was your typical wasteland shack. Sheet metal, plywood, tarps, straw, the odd concrete block formation, and sand bags. Really anything they could find, but they'd done their best with what they had. For their effort, it was at least a noticeable amount less shitty and more sturdy, but most importantly more warm than any other shack in town. A modestly sized heater sat in the middle of the shack, keeping the occupants from freezing to death. Sheets and mattresses adorned the walls, covering any would-be holes in the corrugated metal. Lamps kept the shack lit as the generator was reserved for the house. Racks and shelves assembled to hold the store's many wares.

Right behind the shack was a small two story house. Pre-war, the white paint around the house was worn, and chipped away. Bits of tiles were missing from the roof, hastily repaired with whatever was on hand. The structure was situated to the east of the old Brickhouse studio. The inside wasn't anything special. The house was furnished, but nothing luxurious. Granted this was the middle of nowhere, so maybe this was a luxury. He didn't know. This was where he, Lucius, and Maxwell slept on the days where they weren't in the shack. Lucius and Maxwell were Company men. They were there to protect the goods that he sold, while making sure he himself didn't try anything funny like cook the books.

Funny how a guy who spent the first three-fourths of his life liberating people from slavery spent the last fourth working for people who actively sold people as their trade. Indeed how he'd changed. Of course Joshua believed that selling your fellow human for a few pieces of metal was absolutely atrocious, that was the world they lived in, and it likely wasn't going to change any time soon. He'd just have to roll with it. Leaning on the counter of the shack's service area, he pondered if he could leave next season. Get a new posting, or hell leave. Join the West Burl or something even. What would the consequences be if he'd done that? They dealt with each other all the time, he'd be fine.

Sighing, that was another shitty part of the job. There was nothing to do here. It was too cold to do anything fun with the snow, and inside was literally nothing but drink oneself into a coma, and even he couldn't do that because he had a shop to maintain. Pacing around the room, he decided to do some light drawing. Just sketch whatever was on his mind until something happened.

[Puertollano]

Greta Jameson
Fort Morris

Hauling her backpack of "goodies" as she entered the Fort Morris in which her note described, she was shocked by the number of people inside the complex. Passing through the metal entrance-way, Greta pulled out the note. On it, there was a pretty inaccurate map of the Mont, and a clear line pointing from her base of operations to this establishment. Below that was a scraggily portrait of a man and details of him and his order for Greta. 5 Buffout, 1 Psycho.. she remembered, that was the man's order. She was promised 50 caps. Her quest in finding this man did not lead to very good endings; no one seemed to fit her portrait. Either they were attacked by some mutated beast in the Mont Wasteland, or it was a possible diversion. Greta, however, did not read much into it. The only trouble was, she walked that entire distance for a dud deal, a dud deal that would make her no profit.

Glancing around in Fort Morris, she saw many tough-types. Wasteland-hardened travellers, a Super Mutant, Hunters, and the rest. It then came upon Greta that she should personally attempt to instigate a chem deal, with who, was the lingering question. Speaking about this with the wrong person could result disastrously, death wasn't off the tables. Chem Dealers weren't highly looked upon, although Greta firmly believes that she must do this to stay alive and it is not her fault some are addicted to chems. Chem addicts are a burden on civilisation, yet they're great money-makers, she'd always think. I'm a Saint, I alleviate the pain of addicts by giving them more chems, besides, it's not my job how to tell people how to live. Greta had to make these caps, otherwise she'd be left stuck away from home with 'brutes'. Deliberation, deliberation.

Greta decided to sit with the man in the corner, Samuel (Pacific Brotherhood of Steel). He looked innocent enough, he was eating soup, rather that than Vodka or Beer. Strolling over, she plonked herself opposite from him, giving a faint smile, looking over at what he was eating. "Greetinhgs fellow Mont resident," Greta awkwardly announced upon her arrival. Resting her backpack on the ground, she glanced around the Fort for a moment before quietly proposing to Samuel: "Are you in the business to buy Stimpacks?"

[Beiarusia]

- Nona -

---

Tavern - Fort Morris / December 16, 2296

Cold.

Nona was cold. Hollowed like an empty vase shattered against the floor. Lost without another's guidance to give paltry meaning to the pathetic life that was hers to endure. Carver was dead, killed by the unforgiving nature of the Mont where "survival of the fittest" was the only genuine law, and with him went the girl's sense of purpose, her usefulness, and having survived the ordeal with only a nasty bite to the arm Nona couldn't help but to question, why? Her master had been a cruel man, but knowing only a life of servitude Carver had also been her everything, and with him gone Nona had little reason to justify her continued existence. Fear had hurried her up that tree where the wolves could not reach; absentminded doubt had pulled her towards Fort Morris through the thick snow like a ghoul whose brain had rotted away to nothing. The girl had collapsed outside the gates of the small town and there she would have met a most fitting end.

Only she hadn't.

The girl, sitting atop an unknown woman's lap, had been taken inside a tavern and given a blanket to combat the hypothermia that no doubt was setting in. The unknown woman wrapped her up tight, but Nona paid her little attention, preferring to keep her eyes trained to the beast of a man that sat beside them, a Super Mutant like those from the stories the raiders had told amongst themselves. As strong as twenty brahmin and with a brutal liking for human flesh, especially the tender meat of children, at least according to the stories. The Super Mutant, however, did not seem too interested in eating the girl, or anyone for that matter, else he would have done so by now, but despite this Nona continued to stare even as her body violently shivered.

It was a long time before Nona broke the gaze so as to glance elsewhere in the tavern. The girl was hardly in settlements that hadn't been butchered or else razed to nothing, and while the crowd was not unlike the raiders, loud and hectic, it was an unsettling change of venue regardless.

Nona returned to staring at the Super Mutant. The remnants of Carver's last beating could be seen on the girl's face, and although the swelling had gone down the shadow of a bruise still surrounded the left eye.

A closer examination would reveal many scars from past punishments.

"Why?" Nona asked suddenly, her voice small yet incredibly hoarse as if she'd been yelling nonstop. The girl hadn't asked to be saved; she hadn't asked to be shown compassion when she was undeserving of such sentiments. Nona was a slave, a tool to be used and discarded when her usefulness had ran its course, and with Carver dead her being alive was only a painful reminder that she was absolutely and utterly alone in the word. With no path to follow the girl would only circle the drain forever questioning her purpose. She spoke again, "Are you going to eat me?" The girl sounded almost hopeful.

[Tayner]

Rommel
Fort Morris
December 16, 2296

Fort Morris wasn't Rommel's first choice of places to trade his wears, other towns certainly being better choices because of location and management. Rommel was off trading away furs, extra food, and whatever else the Lost Souls could scrape together to trade. The tribe usually sent out people to barter for goods, to aquire caps that can be used to buy medical supplies or tools that the tribe couldn't provide themselves. Rommel was no exception, sent to aquire stimpacks and maybe antibiotics.

Rommel had fit in with the tribe, not wanting to raise his rifle towards another man after what he's done, and not fitting in in the Uni or any other town. He was a drifter, and the Lost Souls gave him a place to return to. They had sent him on missions like this before, people usually wanting to trade with someone clad in an old set of Uni fatigues rather than a tribal, and Rommel was no stranger to Fort Morris, but usually never this late into the snow season. Rommel guessed that they were trying to stok up extra for this winter, seeing as they had dealt wit exceedingly harsh winters before.

He shrugged his thoughts off as he entered through the what one could call the gate, presenting his hands above his head to show the guards he wasn't hostile. A blizzard was picking up and while his clothes would keep him warm in normal winter conditions, he didn't want to be stuck outside in a snow storm for too long. He ducked into the nearest building, coincidentally a bar. Rommel approached the bar, tossed his bag to his feet, and leaned his rifle against the plank that served as bar before dropping down a dozen caps.

"A double shot of whiskey, and a glass of water." He said, the bartender pouring a lot of the alcohol into a small glass, and giving him another small glass of water. He looked around the bar, taking note of everyone. The normal crowd, drifters, mercenaries, even a boy that looked to be from the Uni. Admittedly his fatigues were less worn out than Rommel's were, and he was as probably as green as his clothes. He was probably here on leave or on the orders of some underfunded officer to act as a mercenary, a practice Rommel hated with a passion when he was serving.

He downed the glass of whiskey without much thought, the liquid burning his throat as it went down, better than the previous chill that ran through him. He then took a sip of water, before looking around. He saw a lady leaning against the bar not to far from him, thin and pale with a scar on her right cheek, probably no stranger to places like this or a drifter like he was. He spoke up with an inquiry, "Would you happen to know where I could purchase some medical supplies?" Not the most interesting conversation between two people but he wasn't here to tell war stories at the local watering hole.

[The Palmetto]

Audubon (John Walker)
December 16th, 2296

He hadn't put much thought into it until now, but much everyone else here, he hated slavers. He saw them as disgusting filth who did not deserve to live. If it were up to him, he would kill each and every one of them. His father had always taught him that those who do not respect human rights do not deserve rights of their own, and those were words he lived by. Because of this, he avoided killing or harming others unless they wanted to do the same to him, and he especially hated Raiders for this. His father's murderers being raiders certainly didn't help that distaste, either. He generally viewed raiders and slavers as the same: violent subhuman degenerates who deserved painful deaths.

He'd continue to think to himself without much actual talking, until he saw his old companion, Walker. Well, their relationship was a tricky beast to define. They had known each other for several years, whether it be from small trade or doing jobs together. They had learned each other's skill sets and personalities rather well, and felt comfortable around each other. He had even let the tribal use his real name, something he rarely allowed. Considering that they hadn't tried to murder each other yet, it was safe to assume they were as friendly with each other as you can get in a wasteland.

"Well, look what the mutie dragged in," He remarked with a small chuckle, patting him on the back. He was somewhat happy to see him, as If he was going to die here, at least he'd have someone he knew to die with.

"My business? Well, I was thinking of freezing to death on my own, but now I'm thinking of having a competition. Last one to freeze to death gets the others caps, how does that sound?" He replied to his question. Normally he'd give a clear, factual answer, but that wouldn't be able to annoy this man.

"But jokes aside, I'm here to do the usual trading, and now the usual drinking. What brings you here? It seems such a bizarre twist of fate that we'd meet here, almost as if we're going to go on some sort of adventure with some other random folk. Whoever here stands out the most is probably a main character, like in one of those old novels," He asked him, adding his usual snarky comment. Of course this was a serious scenario, so after this, he resumed a more stern poker face to avoid looking too odd.

[Kentucky Fried Land]

Seven

A pleasant tune filled the air; it only gave remembrance to Seven. Remembrance of a gal in his arms, a face cracking his knuckles, or the seemingly endless pit of booze he had wallowed in not so long ago. But it was[/] long ago; it had seemed so long ago. Six months since he had left New Vegas. Half a year, a fifth of a decade, a five hundredth of a century, and a five thousandth of a millenia. It was nothing; it had been 438 half years since the bombs had fallen. Seven couldn’t care less about that; he just sifted through his drink with an utmost curiosity, watching the bubbles in the water dissolve as they rose to the top, sank to the bottom, or clung to the side.

He spun the glass. It had cost him a good seven caps just for pure water. [i]Seven caps. He couldn’t help but feel ripped off as he sipped on his drink, glancing around the room from the corner he sat in. There was the tall, Native looking guy. Looked to be about trapped in a conversation with that short guy with the beard. Well, one of the short guys with the beard. Seven felt himself tighten up at the next sight; he had seen him come in before, but hadn’t really given him a second look. It was wise not to. The patron who he now found his gaze set on was the Super Mutant who had come bounding in with a girl in his arms and another at his side. Seven was intrigued, perplexed even. The West Coast was no stranger to intelligent mutants, but the East? He assumed they were all savages down this way.

He kept wary, his pistol’s holster pressing up against his hip sharply. Seven swallowed, then ran his tongue along the bottom of his front teeth before tucking it onto the floor of his mouth. His gums felt sore. He wasn’t sure why; maybe it had been that tough Radstag he had chewed on with Colby last night. He didn’t enjoy eating irradiated foods, but there wasn’t much he could really do to get out of that one. At least the stag had been thoroughly cooked before being served on a wooden platter.

Seven noticed Colby wandering off in the distance; wandering towards something he shouldn’t be wandering towards. He sat down next to that girl with the scar and the scavenger. He almost stood up to go stop him, but refrained himself. He didn’t like the looks of either one of them. He just hoped the girl and the scavenger wouldn’t harass the dumb kid too much… but dumb was not a word he would use to describe Colby. Colby wasn’t dumb; he was bright, even. But he didn’t know who to not go near, and a these two just so happened to be some of those people who most wouldn’t think about sitting next to. Seven looked away from them, staring off at the jukebox.

Colby Lyndon

The song in the jukebox changed just as Colby ordered a glass of water. “Seven caps.” Was all the barman said, leaning up against the counter on both arms. He glared at Colby, who blinked. “Seven caps?” Colby repeated. The bartender only nodded. “Yeah, seven caps bud. You got that?” His eyes were gleaming, Colby noticed. “Uh, yeah, yeah I got seven caps.” He reached into his pocket, fiddling around for a moment before bringing out two caps. Then three in one hand. And three in another. He pushed seven of them towards the bartender, who greedily scooped them up and turned around, as Colby grabbed his excess currency and dropped it back inside his pocket.

Colby watched the bartender fiddling with a faucet, then coughed into his fist. Colby sniffled a bit, but not from the cold. Just nervous ticks from, perhaps thinking a little too much as some people had described it. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, taking notice of the woman and the man beside him. They looked like typical scavengers. Pretty much like everyone else who came through. Something about the woman screamed familiarity to him; he wasn’t quite sure why.

The bartender continued fiddling with the faucet; Colby’s blood pressure rising. He started fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve as the bartender swore under his breath. It might be a few, but hopefully not too long. Colby glanced over, noticing the male scavenger spouting something off to the female. He couldn’t help but try and eavesdrop on their conversation.

[Pacific Brotherhood of Steel]

Samuel Hayden
Fort Morris
December 16, 2296

---

The girl was... strange. The way she spoke caught Samuel off guard and he was speechless, if only for a second. She seemed nervous as if she's was unsure in what she was doing. She obviously wasn't from here and it showed. She was alone and frightened but that would only make her shy, not nervous. Samuel was wary about these stimpaks she was selling now. She didn't look much like any doctor he had seen in the wasteland. They tried their best to keep sanitary conditions and have some semblance of order. She seemed a bit disheveled and dirty. And they sure as hell didn't sell their medicine in a ratty bar in the middle of nowhere. Samuel shifted forward in his chair, resting his arms on his legs sizing up this woman.

"And what kind of stimpaks are these? You don't seem much like a doctor. Not like any I've seen around here. You're new and you're nervous. Now I'm not one to make accusations but that's strikes me as odd."

Samuel shifted back into his seat and went back to his soup before looking back up to the woman and gesturing for her to sit down. He was curious now and wanted to know more. He usually didn't care to get into other people's business but this ended up on his doorstep. Besides, this gave him plenty reason to stay out of everything else that had happened. What with the huge mutant that just strutted in with a huge cannon. If he could stay out of that ticking bomb then he would. This was nice distraction compared to that.

[Kyraina]

Dirk Bradford

Dirk walked through the gate of town through the deep snow, followed closely by the Caravan he had been hired to take this far. He reluctantly accepted his 10 Caps for payment, and shook hands with the Caravan Leader. He looked around the sad town and decided to walk to the poor excuse of a bar, but atleast it was a bar.

He made sure the M1918A2 was secure on his back, walked into the bar took his combat helmet off, tucked it under his arm, took a seat at the bar, sat the helmet on the floor, and looked at the bartender, who was having issues. So Dirk just shook his head. He looked to his right and saw a Super Mutant, a young woman, and a shivering child wrapped in a shoddy blanket, then saw the canon that was sitting close to the Mutant. He shook his head again and sighed.

He removed the armor on his Arms, Shoulders, and torso, sitting them on the Helmet. He then unbuckled the web belt, and unbotton the blouse top, revealing a sand colored t shirt underneath. He then Turned to Hanon and Marilyn and held the thick winter issue blouse out to them.

"Put this on the Girl, It'll help warm her up, well better then that blanket will any way." Dirk said as he started to turn pale as he felt Radiation Sickness starting to get to him again. He gritted his teeth as he fought the need to vomit.

[Puertollano]

Greta Jameson
Fort Morris

Greta's years of isolation didn't help when to came to dealing with other people, it didn't help either that she only used to communicate with Raiders, of all people. Her language skills weren't very structured, more so around how to act in the presence of others. Gosh Damnit, he's asking me questions, she thought. The most people she sells chems to don't even respond to her usually, that's how incapable they were. Great, a forward-thinking man, just accept it. Pulling her chair into the table closer, Greta responded to Samuel.

"What kind of Stimpaks? Obviously normal stimpaks, nothing wrong with them. You don't have to be a doctor to sell stimpaks, all you have to be is a trusted member of our society, as I am. My first and foremost priorities are for the health of my fellow wastelanders, I am just seeking to help the sick and the injured. Besides, if you did buy some off me, it'd help me quite a lot. Y'know, it could even stop me from searching the trash cans for spare Iguana Bits, or the remains of half-drunk Nuka-Cola bottles. I sell more than stimpaks too Sir, any special injury, I could give you Buffout.. and the rest."

To her surprise, the company of the man wasn't too bad. If she wasn't sitting next to him, trying to sell off her chem supply, she would be sitting on her lonesome in the corner, waiting for her strength to re-cooperate before heading back into the Mont Wasteland. Greta, had in fact, fallen on hard times. She wasn't lying when she said she scavenged bins for food often, but that was the general fate for most in the Wasteland. However, the statement about the Nuka-Cola wasn't so accurate.

[Ormata]

Tracker
Fort Morris
December 16th, 2296

She disliked these little places and a very, very precise reason as to why Tracker could dislike this little place specifically came to mind rather quickly. A damn Super Mutant, along with two in-tow, walked into the bar, and she suddenly had a great, happy urge to make the attempt of killing both of them and possibly everyone else in the bar. The things halting her in this endeavor, or rather making her second-guess the entire concept of murdering the three, were a simple sequence of observations.

One, no-one was shooting at them. Odd, considering that it was a Mutant and that greater joy, but hey, it was what it was. If they dealt with Super Mutants up in Fort Morris on a regular basis Tracker certainly didn’t know about it, and if that was the case than it was a very weird case indeed. In her experience they were shot at, and shot back, on a regular basis.

Two, the Super Mutant had a sizeable gun.

The Mutie started-up a great conversation with the bartender on getting the girl a blanket, little kid they had with them. That was odd, too; they normally didn’t say that sort of thing or care for that sort of thing. This bastard was quite different then. What the hell was different about him? Tracker looked the Mutant over and he didn’t seem to be any different from other Mutants, aside from the aforementioned statement that no gunshots had occurred.

But, of course, Tracker got mildly distracted by another speaker, though she did keep one ear on the three. He was a good few inches taller than her, yes, and had a black beard and rangy hair that said I am a wilderness bastard, though that did not really tell her much. Everyone was a wilderness bastard out near Fort Morris, after all, save for a few choice exceptions that could rapidly come to mind in the bar, and him? He didn’t look all that different from the crowd. What did set him apart was a rather modern, though beat-up, battle rifle that doubtless was from a National Guard Armory. Interesting.

"Would you happen to know where I could purchase some medical supplies?"

“No.” And that was that. Tracker turned her head back away, seeing very little point in continuing the conversation. This said, however, she did notice another man...well, boy in all honesty, judging from his age, taking some careful care in ‘selectively hearing’. Oh that was a great thing and something she just did not like at all, though the conversation was not really long enough to even be counted as such that she just dropped it in total.

Actually...for all sakes, she did know the eavesdropper. She could recall him from one of her later missions in life, one of the ones in about the end of her career with the Institute, back before she’d left the Commonwealth. She’d been ordered to observe one post, something like a Minuteman town, and did so for a while until it was decided that the town was not worth the expenditure and revelation of a Courser towards that bit of the world. She’d gotten herself transferred to another area; Tracker had even heard of the town’s greater destruction at the hands of the raiders.

She’d killed a good lot of those bastards. It was enjoyable.

Yet not a thing shown on Tracker’s face.

Her attention moved back towards the three, who had been offered a coat by one man coming-in. He was pale. Looked like he was about to throw-up. Odd that everyone was so comforting and eager to help out here in who-the-hell-cared. Odd. Tracker looked the new man over, sizing him up before leaning-over to him a bit and saying, “You should get that treated.”

---

Isaac Harvey
Fort Morris
December 16th, 2296

On one hand, there was a Mutant.

On the other hand, there wasn’t a fight yet.

Isaac breathed deeply, leaning against the wall as he was, watching everything unfold. Yeah, there weren’t too many skinny guys in Fort Morris at all; most of them looked to be the muscled type, or the hard, lean meanness that comes from too many brushes with death and too many brushes with the wilderness. There most certainly weren’t too many of the skinnier types of people, most being seemingly closer to the Super Mutant than to Isaac and that was just a little bit worrying.

Shaking his head at the place, and the music, he stayed off to the side, watching.

[Sarejo]

December 16th, 2296
Grant Carter

Whilst the patrons and travelers got settled into the ramshackle tavern, the winter night came closer and closer, and with the night came horror.

Under the cover of the encroaching darkness, a Grey Tree raiding party crept closer to the fort, as the fort's garrison squinted into the forest, trying to catch any sudden possible movements.

Night came faster than most were expecting, and with the death of the light, oddly enough, came the calm of the storm. The night lay silent, as the raiding party crept closer and closer, until they enveloped the walls in all places where lights and torches did not cover. Each member of the party knew their job, and waited for the signal. When he was sure they were ready, the War Chief let out a shrill whistle, and immediately the pandemonium struck. Molotovs and torches were lobbed over the side of the walls, starting fires in the shacks that passed for buildings in the fort, while the guards outside the walls were quickly dispatched. Grappling hooks were thrown over the sides of the wooden and junk walls, as warriors quickly scrambled over the side into the fort, engaging the surprised guards and residents in close combat.

Hearing the commotion, Grant's instincts immediately kicked in, and he grabbed his pack and rifle, gesturing the others to follow, and ran as fast as he could for the door, not even checking to see if the others were coming with him. His bum leg prevented him from running at anything more than a fast hobble, and for when he got outside and saw the chaos in the fort, he thought to himself that this might actually be his last fight. "But I'll be damned if I don't fight," he thought to himself, and he raised his rifle at a tribal across the square. He pulled the trigger and dropped him like a sack of rocks, flicked the lever on the rifle, and he made a beeline for the gate. He almost jumped his way across for most of the twenty feet, before he was swept off his feet by a tribal tackling him. He flipped himself over, and barely was able to move out of the way of the warrior's hatchet striking where his head had been a half second before. Grant shoved the tribal off of him, and stood up as quickly as possible. When the tribal tried to make his way to his feet, screaming a war cry and covered in what Grant could only assume was human blood. He cracked his skull with the butt of his rifle, which barely even seemed to faze the drug-crazed tribal, but succeeded in making him drop the hatchet. Grant shoulder-checked the man, sending him groundwards once again, and picked up the hatchet, and began chopping the man's head like it was a pile of logs for winter. When he finished, the tribal was covered in as much of his own blood as that of his former victims, and his head had performed a transformation magic trick into a bloody mess of skull, skin, blood, and brain pulp. Grant sat there for a second, before the gravity of the situation hit him again, as the Grey Tree tribals quickly began to overwhelm those inside the fort. He quickly got up and ran for the gate, until he saw some of the patrons from the tavern caught up in the fighting, and he knew if he did nothing, they would likely die. Now, he was as much of a lone wolf as any trapper was, but, despite popular belief, he did have a conscience, and whether it was stupidity, courage, or blind hatred of the Grey Tree tribe, he ran back to try and save who he could, brandishing the blood-soaked hatchet.

[Tayner]

Rommel
Fort Morris, The Mont
December 16. 2296

"No." She said to his question, straight to the point.

"Fair enough." Rommel said in response, before asking the bartender the same question. The man merely shrugged as he wiped the inside of a glass with a rag before heading off to serve another patron a drink. Rommel glanced back at the lady, and followed her gaze to the super mutant and the group gathering around him. "Never seen a friendly mutie before?" He asked, obviously knowing the answer. "I've seen a few in my time." He finished saying before finishing his drink. He dropped two caps on the counter as a tip for the bartender, who swiftly scooped them up, and gathered his belongings when he heard a commotion outside.

Gunshots. Screaming. Burning.

It wasn't long before he smelt smoke and gunpowder. A smell he tried hard to forget. He reached down and pulled the bayonet off of his blouse and spun in in his hand as he fixed it to the barrel of his weapon. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a clip and loaded his weapon, having it previously unloaded as in his experience it was never a good idea to walk into a bar with a loaded rifle. He noticed one of the other patrons jump up, wave to the crowd inside, and hobble out the door and into the fray.

Rommel wasn't far behind.

Once he exited the bar he took in the scene, half the town was burning, the other half was enveloped in close quarter combat. A surprise attack which had caught the townsfolk grossly unprepared. It wasn't long until Rommel located the exit, which he fully intended to utilize, and had no conflict with the idea of killing everything between him and his way out. Although it likely wouldn't be that easy, because as soon as Rommel started moving an arrow flew right across his path, too close to his face.

"Oh hell no, you did not just shoot that shit at me." He said as he pivoted on his toes and crouched down as another arrow soared over him. He loacated the offending archer, a tribal just across the street. Having been spotted, the archer tried to avoid getting shot by a much more devastating weapon than their bow and arrow, but to no avail as two .308 rounds ripped into his rib cages, one round penetrating each lung. The tribal would likely drown to death in their own blood as they fell to the ground and tried to crawl away.

Good. Rommel thought to himself at the notion of the tribal's death.

Another tribal saw what had happened, and threw a knife at Rommel. The jagged scrap blade was deflected by his shoulder's leather armor, and the tribal soon rushed Rommel with a larger knife. Rommel swung his rifle around, parrying the attack with his bayonet before thrusting his weapon foward, stabbing the tribal in the stomach. The enemy cried out in rage as Rommel pushed his barrel downwards, slicing open a large gash which blood and guts soon poured out of. "Jesus." He sad as the tribal still managed to stay standing.

They swung their knife at Rommel, managing to land a stab through his leather armor on his right bicep. Rommel cursed as he pulled his rifle back and thrust it foward again, the tribal jumping back to avoid it, although they didn't jump back far enough as the bayonet just found it's mark in the man's chest. As the tribal screamed Rommel pulled the trigger, firing his weapon into the man's chest cavity. The tribal fell backwards off of the bayonet as a spray of red mist clouded the air in front of him, and the snow beneath his corpse turned red.

Rommel stepped back, and looked around. The fighting was brutal, and most of the tribals were too close to their victims for Rommel to get an effective shot. He didn't want to stick around for long, so he made for the exit when he bumped into a man he recognized as the patron who waved for the people in the bar to follow.

"Got any bright ideas?" He asked the man who was wielding a hatchet dripping with blood.

[Pasong Tirad]

Bartolomé
Fort Morris, December, 2296

---

A whirlwind of screams and whistles, fire coming from everywhere. Heat. Tomé awoke to familiar screams - terrifying screams. "Shit!" He screamed, ducking his head just as an arrow nearly missed his head, landing on his chair. "Shit, shit, shit, shit!" He holstered his pistol, fixed the bayonet on his shotgun, loaded the shotgun and held onto his trench club with his left hand.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no!" His adrenaline was pumping - more out of fear than anything else. He remembers clearly what the Grey Tree did to him, to his party, to his lover. He ran for cover behind his chair as a few more arrows started to pepper it. Looking in front of him, to the corner of the tavern, a man who got shot by an arrow to the shoulder (a flesh wound, really) was sweating profusely despite the cold, bleeding out of his nostrils and coughing up blood. "Poison! Poison! Shit! Shit, shit, shit!" He fired off two quick rounds at the window nearest him before running towards the door (he highly doubts he hit anything). Just as a man with a Battle Rifle and a weak-legged man with a hatchet were blocking the door.

A hand came in through the window near Bartolomé. It grabbed a hold of him, forcing him to drop his shotgun. With one hand on the arm gripping him and another reaching for his revolver, he spun around and shot 6 bullets straight into the cranium of the tribal - one to kill, another for good measure and four out of fear. He reloaded his revolver, picked up his shotgun and just sat there, praying - until he realized he left his helmet at the other end of the room. "Oh fuck me!"

Crawling on all fours, he headed back to the chair he was sitting on earlier, the flames now close to engulfing it. He needed his hat. It was all he had left of the Abbey and of him. Reaching it, he grabbed a hold of it and clumsily put it on his head without fastening it - only to have an arrow knock it off. He peeked his head up from the couch to find two tribals coming in from two windows - the ones flanking the burning chimney. They don't seem to mind the flames or even that they're stepping on fire.

He stood up and fired his two rounds: one at the tribal to the left and another to the tribal to the right. The first shell hit the tribal to the left on the hip while the second shell missed its mark entirely. The tribal to the left couldn't walk, but he was still squirming his way towards Tomé. The tribal to the right charged at Tomé, who couldn't do anything but step back, only to trip. His bayonet, however, saved him, as the tribal rushing him was impaled, the bayonet. Tomé pushed him off, stood up and recovered himself before stabbing the tribal a few more times. "No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No!" He left his shotgun sticking upright on the tribal, bayonet piercing through both the man's flesh and the tavern's wooden floor.

The other tribal, the one shot in the hip, was screaming while he was worming his way towards Tomé. His fears of Grey Tree tribals heightened as he saw the drugged and bloody cannibal inching his way towards him. His fear got the best of him and instead of just getting his shotgun or his revolver and shooting him, he started swinging his trench club wildly. Small holes started popping up on the wooden floorboards. He swung once, twice, thrice and, finally, on the fourth, he hit his mark. His trench club busted the tribal's skull, with blood and brain matter spilling out. Rather than stop, he did what he did with the other tribals: swing, swing, swing and swing.

Tired out of his wits, fearing the worst from being surrounded by what seemed like an army of wild, drugged-up cannibals, he clipped his mace back on his side, got his shotgun and frantically reloaded. He ran over to the chair (now starting to catch on fire). He took the three nearest tables and the five nearest chairs to him and brought them together, forming a makeshift barricade around the chimney and the two windows flanking it. This was all his mind could come up with, as his fear was now overwhelming. After forming the barricade a few of the patrons gathered to him and had the sense of mind to continue what Tomé could not. They gathered a couple more chairs and tables to fend off the wave of tribals coming in through the windows and now starting to come in by hacking out pieces of the burning chimney. Knives and hatchets and arrowheads were starting to poke out and all Tomé could once again do was sit there behind a chair that's starting to burn and pray for his dear life while everybody else was fending off tribals - with rifle or shotgun or pistol or hatchet.

[Pacific Brotherhood of Steel]

Samuel Hayden
Fort Morris
December 16, 2296

---

"Buffout, you know that's-"

Gunshots. He could hear the bursting of bottles and the roar of fire coming from adjacent buildings. The old wood used to build these places were extremely dry and they went up fast. Samuel jumped up, as quick as he could, and shoved the water that he had purchased earlier into his pack which he yanked up onto his back. He grabbed his rifle and slung that over his shoulders. He needed to get out of this fort, now.

As he was about to run he watched as a Molotov cocktail was thrown against the opposite side of the bar and it was engulfed in flames. Through the window several tribals appeared, Grey Tree's. He could tell by their tattoos, the curving branch like shapes that crawled over their bodies in that unmistakable deep gray color. The tribals fired arrows in to the room striking a fee of the patrons. One of the men he had seen earlier that was dealing with some sort of wound in his hands. He fired out at the window seemingly catching a tribal in the neck as he yelled poison. And Samuel could see why. One of the men hit by the arrows was now convulsing on the floor as the poison ravaged his body. Now that could be a problem.

The window near him busted out as a tribals hatchet flew in and cut into the front shoulder. The tip of the blade cut into him and it was used like a meat hook as he was dragged out of the window where he was certainly cut to pieces by another waiting tribal. It was time to get the hell out of here. Samuel unslung his rifle and flipped the safety on it. He crept over to the window and waited for the tribal to appear back in the window, which, of course, he did. This time with a bow hoping to pick off someone across the bar. Samuel took care of that as a rifle round entered into the man's lower jaw and up into his skull. Samuel peeked out the window and saw nothing but the dead tribal and his victim. Apparently he was alone and most of the tribals weren't even in the fort yet. Only a few had scaled the walls yet and those who had were still locked into combat with the few guards left.

Samuel knocked the remaining glass out of the window taking a look outside once more to see that there were no more tribals waiting to take his head off. Samuel looked back at the few people behind him seeing most were still unsure of what to do.

"Come on! We need to get the hell out of here!"

With that Samuel climbed out the window. As he stepped outside he swept his rifle from left to right, looking for any signs of more tribals. All he saw was scrambling people as they tried to find a way out or were just caught in the hysteria and out of options, he did not know. Samuel just remembered that the tavern was situated directly adjacent to the wall and turned just in time to see a tribal jump down from the wall at him.

He fired his rifle once, blindly, in hopes to hit the tribal but it went wild and missed. The tribal lashed out with his hatchet and knocked his rifle out of his hands. It was all he could to keep the tribal from bringing that hatchet to his neck he wasn't much good in melee and it showed. The tribal pushed him back over the dead body of the other tribal which brought him to the ground as he tripped up over it. Samuel was barely keeping him back and to reach for his own weapon would allow for the tribal to overpower him.

"Shit! Help! For the love of God someone help!"

[The Traansval]

F and Jimmy
Fort Morris
The Month

December 16th, 2296

The night was silent as F and Jimmy slept in their sleeping bags, although they didn't really sleep. F was awake, going over each round of ammunition he'd gotten, counting them each as he inspected them, trying to find any little problem. Jimmy on the other hand was playing Solitare, and was currently stuck. He eventually just grunted and gave up, swiping the cards back into the deck holder, and instead sat down by the window sill. Thats when he noticed the movement, and then the fire, and then the gunshots.

"Oh no! F, someones attacking!"

The sound of bullets being swift stuffed into a tin was heard as F lunged to his feet, and threw open the window to see hordes of men in tribal dress crowding over the walls, brandishing weapons and guns. Fires had begun, as the largely wooden and cloth town was ravenged by the enemy men. Just feet below the Pair, a man was hit by a bullet and fell to his knees. F lurched back as a bullet hit the wooden siding of the window, and then he smelled it. A musty, wooden smell. A smell he recognized. Burning Wood.

"Oh shit. Come on Jimmy, we gotta get out here, the place is going up! Grab what you can and run!"

The two hastily grabbed the two rucksacks they already carried, and kicked open the attic door, jumping down onto the platform below. Jimmy went first, and when he landed he noticed a gang of two Tribals had broken through. He raised the Twelve Gauge he had and blasted the two, sending them flying as F jumped down to meet up with his partner. The two flew down the stairs, coming out to see the occupants of the bar room standing up, looking around in shock. Jimmy, as always, was ever the one to be blunt.

"We're under attack!"

F was already at the window, beating out the wooden slats that substituted Glass with the butt of his rifle. Taking aim he squeezed the trigger, and saw as a tribal fell. Jimmy was by his side, and made some snide remark about how "The sights are looking good..". By now, the occupants of the bar were moving out. F's eyebrow shot up as he finally noticed a large, hulking super mutant, carrying a rifle about as big as Jimmy. The rest of the bar had already taken up their arms, pulling out everything from automatic rifles to rusted pistols.

The tribals got closer, and F decided he didn't want to be here when they did. Unwrapping his arm from his rifles sling, he motioned for Jimmy, who'd since now been crouching next to him, to follow. The doors swung open, and F's senses were assault by a smog of smoke and fire, along with the rancid smells of Blood and burning flesh. The Fort was burning, and its people being slaughtered. F didn't want to be one of them, neither did Jimmy.

"Come on Jimmy, we gotta find higher ground, a good vantage point."

The two began to run the dirt paths of Fort Morris, off to higher ground to fight for their lives.

[Ormata]

Tracker
Fort Morris
December 16th, 2296

Night came faster than most were expecting, and with the death of the light, oddly enough, came the calm of the storm. The night lay silent, as the raiding party crept closer and closer, until they enveloped the walls in all places where lights and torches did not cover. Each member of the party knew their job, and waited for the signal. When he was sure they were ready, the War Chief let out a shrill whistle, and immediately the pandemonium struck. Molotovs and torches were lobbed over the side of the walls, starting fires in the shacks that passed for buildings in the fort, while the guards outside the walls were quickly dispatched. Grappling hooks were thrown over the sides of the wooden and junk walls, as warriors quickly scrambled over the side into the fort, engaging the surprised guards and residents in close combat.

Tracker reacted instantly towards the chaos outside, moving outside with the rest of the crowd. It was a trade, as it were; moving with the rest of them meant you were moving directly into the tribals’ plan, directly where they wanted you to be. They wanted individuals in a group and they wanted them shaken-up. Moving into that area, well...she could already see the lights flickering outside, the flames dancing, hear the glass breaking on stone and impact. They were, of course, using molotovs, a characteristically easy weapon to make that was cheap and effective. One molotov in the middle of a crowd and suddenly you have a very, very distracted, vulnerable crowd. Also likely a dead crowd.

So the other option was being trapped in a burning building. Yeah, Tracker really preferred the first option of being just another face in a crowd to burning alive.

Coming outside, she could see that a good deal of chaos was unfolding. Taking her rifle off of her shoulder, from her position she could see an amazingly damning sight; her suit of Power Armor, and that damnably heavy bag, all alight with gasoline. It seemed that some tribal had missed his throw and instead torched her, really, salvaging job in total. Some, or really rather most, would react with a great deal of anger; Power Armor Frames were not cheap, nor were they exceedingly common. Instead she reacted with a sigh, clicking the safety off of her FAL and crouching, bringing it up to her shoulder.

One tribal came up the wall, and she fired a shot into the boy’s head, jerking it back as the thing went limp and fell off, onto the other end. He looked to have been really rather young, face lit with war-paint, teeth gleaming in the black night as shadows were cast all about the brief look of the face. Some might compare them to haunted devils, spectres that came and left with the wind and did not quite stay. Tracker didn’t. Before she could aim at another target, however, a screaming tribal came from her right, wielding a blade that looked to have been made from scrap-metal, the edges sharp and jagged like bad teeth.

The tribal brought it down, a crazy glint in his eyes that looked nearly right past Tracker and at some other thing before fixing onto her with an intensity that could really only be borne from the unhinged or from the drugged. This was probably both, she briefly thought, moving forwards and up aside him in a single motion, sidestepping the downward blow. Her barrel right next to the man’s side, she pulled the trigger again, the round firing at point-blank and going straight through him. The reaction of the tribal towards this was one of inconvenience; he howled again and screamed again, spitting in Tracker’s face as he pushed her away with his free arm, bringing his blade upwards and in a slashing motion. She didn’t even think, just aimed right at the bastard’s head and pulled the trigger again. His head jerked back, mouth still in a yao guai’s grimace and eyes still gleaming in the black.

Sighing again, she raised her rifle before seeing, nearby, another man on the ground, yelling for aid as another tribal loomed over him, hatchet in hand, ready for the killing blow as the two struggled over it, the man looking to be trying to gain the upper hand as he cried-out.

"Shit! Help! For the love of God someone help!"

Tracker moved silently, taking her FAL in one hand and drawing her blade in her right. While she could easily take the shot, the two moving, the question of the round going through the tribal’s head and killing the other bastard was something that was just of a mild concern. What she was more annoyed about was wasting ammunition; it was likely they wouldn’t find more. Her blade, a foot-long piece of steel she’d fashioned herself, was not really a knife and not really a sword, though it did the job well enough.

She shoved it into the man’s right temple, feeling the skull give-way and the man’s body go limp before tearing the blade away with a wretched jerk of the hand, blood coating the thing. With the weight of the other man’s pushing, it came as little surprise that the body was rapidly pushed-away, the tribal’s eyes rolled and in the back of his head, as though trying to find the source of this discomfort and pain.

Sheathing her blade again, she took her rifle in both hands, rather ignoring the bastard she’d saved and coating her gun’s grip in red, the blood having gone onto her hand. Seeing no good shots, or rather individuals who were immediately threatening them, she briefly lowered it before looking-about for an exit. They really did seem to be everywhere, something that could really cause issues. The gunshots seemed to fill the air about them, the ululating screams like devils.

“Move!” She barked towards the other man, before setting-off at a job towards the main gate, careful to not get murdered by a bastard.

---

Isaac Harvey
Fort Morris
December 16th, 2296

Nevermind on that last damn thing because there was worse than a fight. Tribals. Now, the concept of a tribal is one that Isaac knew vaguely, something that could be applied to a whole plethora of things and could even really be applied, he’d heard, towards the NukeDukes, though no-one would ever say it to those assholes’ faces. The idea of a tribal brings-up a vivid picture of a painted warrior, crazed look in his eyes that states his uncaring nature towards things like pain, suffering, injury, mercy. The idea of a tribal is a beast in the form of a man who rapes and plunders at leisure, who sacrifices screaming captives. Sure there’re peaceful ones but jesus these were not those people.

What to do, what to do...Isaac latched-on to the biggest and, presumably, most likely to survive group that was in the bar; the damn super mutant with the big-ass gun, the lady and the girl, that group. He kept them in his view as they shuffled-out of the bar, staying with them dammit.

Isaac really did not want to die.

Unslinging his SMG from it’s crude position, the young man made the greater realization that the tribals were using molotovs. He had molotovs. What happens when a molotov hits another molotov? Well bad shit happens, that’s what. A raging inferno at whatever the position was. The clinking of bottles on Isaac’s person turned into what could be felt as a death-rattle, something that foreboded really, really shitty things in amazingly unpleasant ways that would end in a death that was neither quick nor painless. Isaac sincerely did not want to die by molotov, that was for sure.

Firing three shots into one tribal, rushing another’s back with a spear as he was, the young man’s eyes were wide and his breath rather quick. This was not a good thing, that was for sure.

---

Code: Select all

Tracker:
3x Rounds Expended
31x Rounds Remaining In Magazine
3x Tribals Dead
Total 3x Tribals Dead

Isaac Harvey:
3x Rounded Expended
27x Rounds Remaining In Magazine
1x Tribals Dead
Total 1x Tribals Dead