[color=ed1c24][u][b]James Gregor Castner[/b][/u][/color]- [color=00aeef]Mariner's Shack[/color]

"Bird? Flying machines? Just what the hell kind of group is this?" Longfellow replied with a skeptical eye, "You know what? Nevermind. Not sure I want to know more. You'll have to talk with the rest of the townsfolk if you want help with that equipment though. Frankly, I don't think you're going to get many takers. Nobody is too keen on going out into the Fog right now. Especially after what happened this morning..."

James sighed inwardly. He supposed it might be better for him right now if the people understood little of the Brotherhood, but soon they were going to be getting closer and close to this town and the people needed to be ready.

Longfellow gave a chuckle and sighed, shaking his now empty flask before tucking it away, "Son we're going to need alot more whiskey for that kind of story. But the short of it is this: The Fog has been on the island as long as anyone can remember. Didn't used to be as bad though, but lately its gotten much, much worse. You saw those odd glowing contraptions outside of town right? Well those are called condensers. Fella by the name of DiMA gave them to us awhile back to help keep back the Fog. Well now DiMA and his whole group are long gone and the town's hanging by a thread without their help. And now all of a sudden we got this crazy cult to contend with that nobody has ever seen before and to top it all off the critters on this island are starting to grow three or four times their regular sizes. Getting bigger and bigger every day it seems. Folks are scared...real scared. Scared of the cultists and scared of the island. And I don't say I blame them. "

It had to be the worst threat to any settlement he’d heard. That scouting mission wouldn’t have been enough at all to help with this town’s problems, and they probably would have pulled out anyways. He had to do what he could to help out.

"You ask what's the story of Far Harbor friend?" Longfellow chuckled again, "Its one that doesn't have a happy ending. That's what."

Before he could respond, a man came up and urged Longfellow to go down to the docks at the doctor’s request.
"Alright, alright I'm goin'," Longfellow said, standing up, "Listen stranger, I still don't know if I understand this Brotherhood you're with, but if you're not looking to harm us, then I've got no beef with you. If you want to stay in Far Harbor awhile, tell Mitch over in the Last Plank to set you up with a room and a bed for a few days. Tell him Longfellow's good for it. He'll know what you mean. He owes me a few favors...think of it as my way of recompensing for the ill welcome."

“Thanks Longfellow. I’ll see what I can do to help out.”, and then Longfellow was off.

James wasn’t sure what to do now. There was some kind of commotion on the docks, but he doubted he’d be trusted enough by the civilians yet to get a real look at what was happening. Then the Enclave hat from before slipped back into his mind, a wave of anger passed over him. The Enclave were no better than the pre-war terrorists he’d read about. Nobody was safe from being slaughtered by them in the name of their twisted version of America. And they were so sure of themselves too, thinking their fancy power armor would always save them. He never saw the concept of defeat in the eyes of a single one of their soldiers until just before his super sledge went home. 

He looked around. Most of Far Harbor was concentrated by the disturbance at the docks. The possible Enclaver had moved off, but hadn’t gone far. James walked to him at an average pace, making no attempts at concealment. He stopped in front of the man, hand casually on his holster where Bear, his .44 hunting revolver, was resting.

“You know”, he started in a casual sarcastic tone “if the Brotherhood of Steel is a gang of raiders LARPing as medieval knights, then the Enclave was a gang of super mutants insane enough to think they were Americans.” He whistled and gestured towards the clean grey hat. “Where’d you get the hat?”, his fake casual tone slipping into something more threatening.