One of the shanties in the Lower Decks had become known as a scene of constant sylvan butchery as its sole inhabitant had taken to the production and trade of wooden tools – bowls, cups and the like. Messy was the work, and shavings of wood had become a common sight about this makeshift workshop, as well as telltale signs of this sculptor’s presence elsewhere. The sculptor was called Hog and his fellow passengers kept their distance from the craftsman and his domain, for few wanted to draw the ire of a super mutant who stood about as tall and thick as a suit of power armor, and even fewer in such a place where one could end up as stew for the wrong deed with nobody even batting an eye about the indignity.

But despite the circumstances, the hovel housing the ogre had almost an air of serenity to it as he chiseled and carved and peeled and blew the shavings away with puffs of breath, like Hephaestus taking a day off. From around the gaps of the curtain that hid his quarters from the rest of the deck, Hog could occasionally see poorer folks quickly swooping up the residue of his handicraft for kindling, anxious as to not attract the attention of the giant that resided behind the curtain. He found it odd that these people who traded and even haggled with him during his hours in the marketplace would give his residence such a wide berth, but he did not mind. The commotion of the deck itself and the constant churning of the engines was distraction enough. Any semblance of quietude was acceptable.

At least, that’s how things had been. Right then, things had taken a different turn outside, and although Hog could be absorbed in things from time to time, more than a hundred years of enduring the Wastes had granted him with a keen affinity towards sensing hostile behavior in even the minutest of sounds. Voices, first disparaging, then full of ill intent. The clanking of chains. The sound of a blade leaving its scabbard. Nothing unknown, nothing not dealt with before. Nothing that, for some reason, he could tolerate then and there. For all his appreciation of wisdom, not all of Hog’s actions were wise. He placed the bowl to his side and reached for his gun.

Pivoting down the buttplate to lower the breechblock, Hog reached into his cartridge pouch and felt inside with his fingers until he found a shot shell. The gun had not originally been made for the use of these but handled them just as well as a purpose built round, and he knew of few living things that could dare to face the payload. Sliding the shell into the chamber, he pushed the buttplate back to lock the breech and rose from his wearied stool, pulled the curtain aside and took a step out, gun in hand.

Seven of them. Close quarters. Not a gun in sight, not yet. No reason to pull the trigger thus far. Perhaps a good talking-to will do the work.

“Fellows,” he barked out in a phlegmy baritone, “this here gun's pointing fifteen hundred grains of lead shot in your direction. That’s about equal to four rounds of twelve gauge, and I won’t to hesitate to pull the trigger if you don’t take it elsewhere. So take it elsewhere.”