Dead. That was how you would describe the nights out here. Dead.

Kintyre looked out towards the bundle of trees off in the distance, watching. Waiting. Waiting for anything, really. Waiting for a sign that life still existed beyond the towns. She remembered when she used to come out here, out on this dirt road next to the plains all the time, to camp with her family since she was a little girl. But she was twenty one years old now. Far too young to experience the devastating affects of the apocalypse. All she wanted was to hear the sounds of the owls hooting in the trees, and the crickets chirping in the brush. Instead, all she got was the crackle of her fire and the breathing of her faithful two year old German Shepherd dog, Honey.

Her hazel eyes would shift sadly over to the fire, and Kintyre let out a sigh. It was safer to sleep out here, believe it or not, because the ruined towns were littered with feral dogs looking for food. So, she'd reach her hand to pat Honey on the head before laying down in her beat up sleeping bag to catch some Z's.

Hoping that she would wake up the next morning, unharmed.
And she also hoped she'd wake up in her bed, and realize this was all a big, crazy, vivid dream.

Back to the good days.
The days before the fall..

There was one sick advantage to all of the chaos; everything had flipped on its head. Even as far as an advantage went, this wasn't a great one. It only benefited some of the survivors, but Rhonwen was one like that. This was truly a survival of the fittest kind of world- the fittest, and the luckiest. The fittest didn't mean just the kid who could run the fastest, though, or look the best, or make the most people laugh; the most fit was the person who could take what they needed without remorse. The person who could kill because it served them best- as a distraction to the feral dogs that had overrun the town, as a way to gain resources- that was who survived. The ruthless. And Rhonwen thrived here.

At least, she thrived more than she felt she had before the fall. Before, Rhonwen wasn't well liked. She was too mean, she was petty, she had an endless anger. The Irish girl could be sociable enough, sure, but she wasn't any Barbie. But after? Afterwords, Rhonwen had been the one to survive. She wasn't sure if anyone else in her class had made it, but she could name several who hadn't. They might have been popular and well liked, but they were weak, and Rhonwen would have laughed in their faces.

But they were all gone, and the once-fair skinned woman was making her way out of the town as things got dark. The dogs were more awake at night, for whatever reason- probably less energy used when the sun was down, and more nocturnal prey to chase. At the very least, Rhonwen's green eyes worked better in the day and she had come out of every scuffle so far alive, so she'd assumed that the dogs were more wild at night.

Rhonwen sighed. Her jeans were torn, her grey shirt and sweater were dirty and stained, and her backpack was definitively not full of food. Or ammo. Rhonwen's grandfather had taught her to shoot guns, as he'd been in the Irish army, and she was grateful for that skill now. While some had managed to get by without the skill in this brutal new world, those who knew how to use a bun as anything more than a glorified club had a marked advantage... When they had ammunition for their guns. Rhonwen's pistols, however, had never experienced a full cartridge while in her possession, and she wondered if it was worth hanging on to the two. Currently, they rested in her black backpack with a small, but heavy, hammer, and the woman wondered if there was really anything to miss while she'd been foraging. But in the ruined town was just ruble and bones- not so much as a corpse to tempt her.

While she walked, Rhonwen shook her greasy hair out of its previous braid, and redid it. What she wouldn't give for a shower! Anything to clean this persistant grime off of her skin, or to brush the knots out of her hair- vanity, and hope of refuge, had prevented Rhonwen from cutting it all off when things first went to hell. Now, she reasoned, she no longer had a knife to cut it with, but when she was frustrated with it she swore that as soon as she had so much as a sharp piece of glass again she'd cut it all off. When Rhonwen finished the braid, she rubbed the back of her hand over her forehead, and streaked the dirt around her face. She may have been thriving socially in this landscape, but she would kill for a bath right now.

Up ahead, there was a spark of light. Something had to have made it, which meant another person, which meant resources. A potential ally. Or shop. She paused to pull the hammer out of her bag- an effective threat- and approached the fire, seeing a dog and a sleeping bag as she got closer. A sleeping bag would have been smart to grab. Maybe I can take theirs. Or not- Rhonwen was lonely and wanted to hear someone else, at least for a little while. This person had more potential to be an ally than many.

The soothing winds which often whisked across the valley where the mighty duo held residence ruffled through Kintyre's cocoa locks as she rested, curled up in thought and boredom. Still listening in on the sounds around her, the crackle of fire still going and the soft shuffles of Honey rolling around on her makeshift bed made of grass and various plants.

Though her mind had slowly began to slip, she swore she could see her father, hear Mother barking orders, or even see the distant figure of her childhood days with her brother as they saved puppies from a bush's grasp. Her hazel stare flickered to and fro nervously as she fought with the illusions of her mind. The once calming wind, though it had not changed, now felt harsh and cold against Kintyre's skin.

And then she felt a presence.

The young woman's mind retreated from the sudden onset of slumber and alerted Kintyre, causing her to become more aware of what was going on around her. She dare not open her eyes... feeling like a lost child again, in the dark, scared of the monster in her closet. But if there really was something--someone--here, it would not go unnotic-

A shuffle of the rocks on the dirt road, and Honey began to growl and bark furiously. Kintyre shot up immediately and opened her eyes, rubbed them quickly as her heart pounded. The first thing that came to her mind was that one of the feral mutts had found her..but if that was so, why wasn't Honey attacking? Although her sight was still rather fuzzy, Kintyre quickly shifted her gaze and looked in the direction of the source to Honey's vicious, unsure commotion. Yes, there was someone there. She caught the outline of a dark figure, the 'silhouette' of another human. Part of her was relieved, but then again... you never know.

Kintyre hushed her faithful companion and breathed heavily, shaken. Not saying a word as the two had their western standoff. Kintyre wasn't afraid of seeing another one of her species for once, she was just fearful of being attacked.. and she had to admit, she DID play a lot of Fallout before the actual fall of the planet.

She knew there would be others looking to attack others for their supplies... and more specifically, her dog.

As Rhonwen walked closer to the encampment, a dog started barking. Rhonwen tightened her grip around the hammer and tensed her arm, ready to fight, but then the figure in the sleeping bag rose and hushed the dog. Either they had managed to keep a pet, or they had trained a feral dog; either way, Rhonwen was impressed, and she relaxed her arm. This other person clearly had some skill of survival, to have a tamed dog. Keeper, then.

But, it was strange: they, shrouded in dark and light all the wrong ways, were just... Standing there. Doing nothing. It was like they had some sort of silent contest going on- and initially, Rhonwen wanted to win. But she didn't know what the rules were, or what determined the winner. So it was awful. It was a horrible excuse of a game, that people felt the need to play in this world that was strange enough without people making it even more weird. It wasn't like people were enemies; there was no need to prove themselves to each other.

"Y've uh dag," the blonde stated. It was unnecessary, but the woman's tongue was thick and heavy and foreign in her mouth. She hadn't spoken beyond grunts and cries of rage for at least days, possibly longer, and working words out was more difficult than Rhonwen would have cared to admit. Between the impediment of her unused mouth and her thick Irish accent, it would have been a wonder if the dark person ahead of her could understand her. She glared at the figure in front of her, worked up some saliva to roll around in her mouth and stretch her tongue, then leaned forward and spat it out. Alright. Try again. "Y've a daog." Dog still sounded weird, but at least she was more understandable. "An' y've m'naged t' keep it alave wi'ou' ea'in' i'. Y've food, 'en."

Well. Her intent wasn't exactly a meal, but food was just as good a starting point of something together as was anything. And anyways- Rhonwen was hungry. She hadn't exactly been successful in her scavenging today, and could use a meal or two with this stranger.