[IC] Wal-World: Dead Stock – [Walmart Apocalypse Adventuring RP] [ENDED]

[ClocktowerEchos]

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They say you can judge a man’s character by the company he surrounds himself with. If that was the case then Lewis was practically a ghost, invisible to the rest of the tavern. For all his efforts, Lewis never really got much from it. He was no famous, wealthy Bargain Hunter who had a legion of brave veterans in the finest armor with a herd of maidens and bards who chased after them, wanting to get closer and turn their ever whisper into tales of legend. As one of such famous groups party on the other side of the tavern, Lewis just grunted into his drink, jealously undeniable in his eyes that darted from side to side looking for danger.

A gang of rather unpleasant fellows had been hunting Lewis down in these part for the past few days for some stupid reason, foolish really. Quite an overreaction to Lewis, all he did was sleep with a Wallord’s daughter. Damn warlords need to learn how to take things in stride, wasn’t like he forced himself on her but idiots will be idiots. Could have been worse. At least it was him, a well-dressed and mannered man of House Nike and not some Nevergro or something. Fixing his hood and cloak, Lewis’s eyes affixed themselves to the door of the tavern, tracking every slight ding and swooshing open of the handmade doors. This place used to be a Feasting Court for the obese Ambulcatorii before the likes of Prince Oliver the Twisted and his retinue of Suburban Knights slaughtered them to a man and attempted to set up their own kingdom, only to leave in a frustrated rage when they failed to build anything to their liking. Since then, its become a haven for outcasts, bandits, adventurers and of course, Bargain Hunters.

But a few hours ago Lewis had put up a bold poster calling for “brave, courageous adventurers” who were “seeking fame and glory” in his most “famed and fortunate company”. Even though he knew his name carried little prestige behind it, the veteran Bargain Hunter hoped that it would at least attract some people. A company of greenhorn jackasses make good meat shields if nothing else provided they fell for Lewis’s bullshit. Waving a hand for another round of Bratenbarry’s Brew of Berry, the man’s wait continued. He wasn’t a lightweight and had time to kill before (hopefully) netting some results. Besides, the berry brew actually tasted okay and Lewis was sure it wasn’t made with piss.

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OOC NOTES:
Welcome to the Wal-World IC!
This first part is the obligatory “everyone gather together” segment for everyone to meet up and stuff.
Actual progression won’t be happening just yet but when it does, I assure you it’ll be fast.
Feel free to puppet Lewis a little bit if you want him to respond to your character’s greeting or something like that.

Clocku the GM and Supreme Leader of Best Korea

[Todd Howard]

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The world was such a strange place. Despite the twenty years she spent growing up in it, Heather was taken by surprise when she saw with her own eyes what was beyond the Toy Department. Beyond the vents. She had thought her home was big, but compared to lands she managed to traverse to reach this tavern, her home felt so small. So many places, so little time. This must've been why Age'B'Gone had been so obsessed over; It'd take multiple lifetimes to explore this place, if you managed to survive that long. Yet, some preferred to just stay at the Fortress, doing the same thing, day in day out... Was living truly that necessary for them? Maybe they were just scared of what came next?

What they thought didn't really matter at this point. She was out here, wherever the hell that truly was. She unadmittedly wasn't the best navigator; But nothing here tried killing her, which was a good enough sign that this tavern was a safe enough haven to take a break. She wasn't exactly sure how long she had been out here: A few days? A week? Didn't matter, it was pretty fucking terrifying. so many startling things, so much space. Was she repeating her thoughts?

Feet pressed against the makeshift stool she was on top of, Heather was in a crouched position at the bar, head resting in one palm, as her elbow rested on her knee. Occasionally twitching, the girl was constantly looking back at the other patrons; A disturbed expression on her face. It wasn't until the sound of plastic hitting the bar's surface caught her attention did she momentarily stop to focus on what was ahead of her.

"Grape, jus' as you requested, little one." The man behind the bar said, voice deep and tone plain.

"Uh-huh." Heather responded, grabbing the plastic bottle before her; A purple liquid rested inside, but it had an odd tint to it. Disregarding it, the girl chugged it down without much thought, not ceasing until the bottle was empty, to which she put the bottle down and wiped her face, noting, "Kind of tangy. What's up with that?"

"Bit o' piss does that." The man behind the bar replied, taking the bottle. Despite his words, Heather didn't seem exactly concerned with the whole piss comment. Honestly it tasted pretty good! Maybe that was the grape flavor proving it's might against all other flavors? That, or she just had no taste at all. That was probably more accurate considering a majority of her life was spent chewing on random crap laying around. Her personal favorite was construction paper.

Disregarding that, Heather slapped herself in the face. The Baseball Batman-dressed girl hopped off her seat, taking a moment to stretch and work up her nerves. While she was terrified that one of these patrons would reach out and shank her, she had to figure out something to do: So far this trip was looking fruitless, despite it just beginning. Thankfully that poster had caught her attention; And now that she was quite possibly actually filled with piss and vinegar, it was time to take action.

The multi-colored melted block sword at her side swayed a little in it's sheath; A modified cowboy gun holster that held it fairly well. She had began walking towards a man; Not one of those young boy or teenage hotties she was used to; Instead, this was one of those 'Adults'. Similar to the elders. She wasn't sure how old he was, but given his clothing it was difficult to make him out well. The poster made him sound pretty badass, though. What better place to start than here? Some old man in a hood and cloak sounded like one of the legendary "Campaigns" From the texts. Maybe this was fate? Was this man a blessing from the teachings that'd send her on an epic quest?

God, she hoped so.

climbing into a nearby seat in a similar fashion as to how she had before, she rested her elbows on the table, and her head on two clenched fists. A young curious gaze was what the man was presented with; And she was presented with a glance that made her feel like she was the opposite of what the man was really looking for... Being a young, inexperienced gal probably didn't make much of an appearance for an adventurer. She wondered if the Dorfs before her felt this troubled.

"You're that old fart from the poster, right?" She questioned, pitch fairly high and voice surprisingly lacking sarcasm. She seemed to think that 'Old Fart' was a proper greeting for an adult; She called her parents that all the time, after all.

The man seemed to look at her as if she had just kicked his dog off of one of the shelves straight into the maul of an 8 foot tall lizard or something. Old people didn't like being called old? That was new. He seemed momentarily taken aback by the comment, so she simply continued, figuring he'd catch up when his old brain allowed him to do so.

"That look pretty much says it all." She added, considering it a confirmation that he was the guy she was looking for. A small smile crossed her face, the young woman seemingly amused. "I'm in the market for some fame and glory. You're still looking, right?"

Lewis just glared at this young child who waddled her ass over here and called him an "old fart". He knew he wasn't the youngest man in the Wal but dammit he was still in his primes! Maybe it was the beard or something but he just let a low growl escape his throat. Once he swallowed some of his pride however, the fact that said child was a dorf dawned on him. No one would actually let their child come into this place unless they were truly terrible parents and then there was the issue of the toy-built "sword" that hung at her waist and the cobbled together shield.

"Yes missy, I'm still looking for companions." Lewis rolled his eyes under his hood, hiding some lingering annoyance, "I suggest you take a seat; you're the first one here and I ain't going out with only one person."

Deflating, Heather remained crouched on her seat, seeming to be disappointed she was the only one there. You mean nobody else had come over here yet?! She had spent like, an hour contemplating whether to do it or not... Maybe this guy was some sort of obvious bad luck she wasn't aware of. Oh well, she'd find out soon enough. Couldn't be worse than wandering by herself, right?

_{"Back to the waiting game..."} She complained to herself, rocking a little out of the boredom that had already begun building up.

[MonsieurShade]

It's funny how much power can be found in a name. "Wal-world", "The World", "Salvation", "Hell", the monolithic building that the scattered remains of a once civilized world had come to know many titles after the great strife had gone into full swing. Every single one of them was appropriate for one reason or another. To the man that had just awoken and begun to wipe crusted and dried blood from his nostrils after a having fallen into a fitful slumber under a pile of only god knew what kind of detritus in a damp and musty corner near the Feasting Court, this land had another name: Home. This land was all he knew, all he would know, and all he would ever care to understand. There was no escape. More still, there was no reason to escape. If he failed to make a living here then that was because he was weak and deserved to be culled and discarded with the rest of the trash.

The man slowly arose from his resting place and glanced around to ensure he wasn't about to meet his end in one way or another. No beasts, no Stockers, no mad cultists looking to literally skull-fuck and eat him. "Coast looks clear." He muttered in a hoarse voice before rising to gather the few belongings he had to his name. A soft rustling in he pile altered this man to the presence of the small reptile moments before it clambered up his clothing and into his hood with a soft chittering sound that the man returned in kind. The odd pair continued trading these sounds until a sharp pain in the man's abdomen reminded him of more pressing needs. Time to grab a bite to eat. Scavenging was good and all, but sometimes it was nice to just sit down and not have to stab a guy in the chest for getting to close to your breakfast. After shouldering his spear and brushing over his close shaven scalp to ensure nothing had stuck to it the man trundled wordlessly towards the tavern in search of his next meal.

There was yet one more pause outside of the doors as a poster caught the traveler's eye. Fame and Glory? Bah, what a crock of shit. But a job was a job he supposed. It could wait until after he'd gotten a bit of food in him. Entering the tavern was a lot like playing Russian roulette. While the guy wasn't exactly some infamous bandit king he'd definitely made an enemy or two in the past, so it was wise to be prepared for a brawl. With a scowl on his face and firm grip on his spear the man walked calmly towards an open seat and waited for the bartender to address him, "Alpo. Leave the juice n' grubs in it." he stated plainly before slapping the last of the payment from his previous job onto he dirty table.

Dog food might not have been seen as particularly appetizing to what passed for the upper crust of the dystopian society of today, but to someone that didn't know if they'd even eat for the next few days it hardly mattered. A plastic plate covered in a greasy off-brown pile of meat that teamed with maggots was set before the man. He didn't even think to hesitate as he dove into his meal. Every now and again the man sat up to pick out and chuck a few of the maggots into his hood, his eyes darting about as if he was daring someone to question his actions. No one did, at least verbally. The meal came to an end with the man titling the plate up to his mouth and slurping up the gruel that remained as if it were chicken gravy before setting the plate down and wiping his mouth on his stained sleeves. That was problem one taken care of, now for problem two. He began to scan the tavern's patrons, searching anyone that seemed to be his soon to be employer. Failing that he simply turned to the bartender and asked which of the chuckle fucks sitting about was the guy that set up the poster outside. His gaze followed the dismissive flick of he bartender to an older looking man sitting next to a younger red headed woman.

"Great, a sugar daddy. 'Least that means the pay should be good." He mused before he arose to make his way towards the pair. Lewis was momentarily concerned when the scowling man wielding the spear walked purposefully towards him. Half expecting trouble, his hand had just brushed against the handle of his las-revolver when the younger man came to a halt and jerked his head towards the door. "You the guy who put up the job poster?", Lewis relaxed slightly, "That'd be me. I-" "Save it.". Lewis's brows shot up in surprise as the man plopped down in an empty seat, "You don't gotta string me along with promises of riches n' shit, I'm just here for a job.". "I see. Well, I don't see any reason to turn you away. Welcome aboard." Lewis grunted, somewhat annoyed by the dismissive nature of the man that had come before him, "I'd like to wait for a few more companions before we set out. Make yourself comfortable, mister...?" he said, trailing off with an expectant look, "Jackson. Just call me Jak-jak.".

[ML]

More pain in his arm. Crow hissed under his breath as he trudged along. Birdshit, it stung. Not terribly, of course, and it never lasted very long, but the infernal burning in his arm never got any easier to bear. It was a constant reminder of his blunder, of his fall. A reminder of how he couldn't return home. More ice on the wings, so to speak. Not only was he stuck on the ground, he was to be consistently reminded of his blunder.

The ground had been agony, at first. Topdwellers were not meant to walk the aisles as long as Crow had. The first week on the ground, Crow had become progressively more sickly. The second week, he had tossed and turned, writhed and scream. He'd wet himself constantly, and food hardly stayed down for more than a minute before it came right back up. No Topdweller could explain the groundsickness, as they called it, but no one enjoyed it, least of all Crowley.

It had taken him several more weeks afterwards to recover from the sickness, and longer still to heal his arm enough to move it. By the time he had become strong enough to climb, months had passed, as near as anyone could tell. Crowley hadn't bothered speaking to any of the Shelffolk, and after a time, the Shelffolk had given up speaking to him. They tended his arm, fed him, and gave him a new set of clothes.

But they were blinded by the metal beneath their feet. Crow had heard the stories of the Grounded. He'd seen the petty squabbles of the 'TronBoyz and the Mercuries, the bloodshed of the Cinema armies who clashed over the most foolish of idols. False gods. No, Crowley had been trained by Feathered Serpent in the techniques of his ancestors, from leaping and running to fighting the dire beasts which lurked above. Anything below the rafters was pitiful and meek by comparison to the fierce Bluebird hordes, or the devastating giant owls which struck from the shadows without a sound.

The Shelffolk had not required his thanks, for they did what any Topdweller would have done silently, and without prompting. He owed them a life debt, of course, but owing a life debt didn't mean he had to speak to them.

He'd wandered thus for some time, using his knife and stealth to survive. Lifting supplies from the Departments around him was suicidal, he knew. Then again, only two things would save him from eternal disgrace, and one of them was death. The other...the other required more manpower than he alone could offer. That was how Crowley had ended up at the Bargain Bin department. Adventurers and treasure hunters were what he needed, preferably ones which would work for free. He could offer little for anyone's services.

Luckily for him, he found almost immediately what he was looking for. A poster at one of the Bargain Bin taverns. Risky to go in there, but Crow was no stranger to risk. "Where is the owner of this poster?" He asked the man behind the counter inside. He was quickly ushered to the corner, where a trio of strangers sat together. Nothing impressed him, but free was free. "Hello. I am Crowley," he said on approaching, knowing that they would look at his ever-so-slightly twisted arm across his chest. "I will be joining you Grounded on yoour adventures. I have made your acquaintance."

He sat then, and closed his eyes. This was necessary. Working with these birdbrains was necessary.

[Syben]

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Ash stirred, awoken from a quiet, dreamless slumber. Her blue eyes flickered open slightly, studying her surroundings before she dared move—A habit Con had gotten her into. One never knew where danger lurked in The Wal, or what subtle movements would draw the attention of predators. Fortunately, Ash was still confined safely high up on the shelves behind a white screen set a few inches back from the shelf’s edge. It was a sort of illusionary trick, from a distance most people wouldn't make out her position to be anything more than an empty space. Except those with sharp eyes, or knowledge of Loper tactics. She rolled over, careful to keep quiet as she peeked around the edge of her cover.

She was probably a little less than thirty feet up, which was still far from the top. She recalled where she was as she scanned the ground below in either direction. She wasn’t sure actually, she’d been spending her time wandering aimlessly so far. However, wherever she was, so far she’d only run afoul of the ever dutiful stocker bots, a few large, beastly shadows that she’d taken great care to avoid, and some rather crass bargain hunters. Unfortunately, she wasn’t confident in her ability to fight them, especially since there was very little distance between herself and them. She tried to recall how they’d gotten the drop on her, she hadn’t noticed them until they were already too close. She sighed regretfully, she still had a lot to learn. If she had been a better knife fighter, well, maybe.

With her wariness sated, Ash finally allowed herself a brief moment to relax and stretch out her stiff joints. This particular shelf hadn’t been very wide, but she was used to roughing it by now. Ash checked the string on Silbador, her bow, to ensure it hadn’t frayed from being strung through the night. Satisfied that her bowstring would last another day, she rinsed her mouth with her dwindling supply of baking soda mixed with lime gelatin powder (It made the baking soda taste better). She brought herself into a crouch, taking down her make-shift camouflage and tying her long, raven black hair back into an “all business” ponytail.

Ash forwent the use of her rappelling gear, and instead made her descent downwards by hand. The shelves had seemed sturdy enough when she went up, so she was fairly confident going back down—Only a single shelf groaned and squealed beneath her grip, but she responded quickly and swung herself to another section before it could giveway. Ash froze as the shelves overhead rumble and trembled beneath the weight of something running across the very top of the structure. It didn’t sound very heavy, perhaps the size of a person. The noise continued on, unhindered by her presence and Ash breathed a soft sigh of relief. Being caught out on the edge of the shelves was not a very fortunate position. She could drop if she had too, but she risked breaking a leg or twisting an ankle. Both of which could easily mean death.

Once more on the dirty linoleum of the ground, Ash worked out the last stubborn kink in her shoulder. She took her bow from its position over her shoulder, and checked the straps of her backpack, it was a little worn from use but otherwise secure. A homemade quiver was slanted securely to one side of her pack, at an angle so that her arrows wouldn’t catch on the hood of her jacket when it was flipped down. The quiver bristled with arrows mostly fletched with actual feathers (as opposed to construction paper, or nothing at all). Leveling her mask on her face, Ash strode vigilantly down the aisle, picking her direction at random, with an arrow-knocked.

It was some time later when she saw the first indicator of civilization, or something akin to that hopefully. It was worth a look at any rate, so far she’d found little in the way of interesting opportunities. Sure, there had been a few odd jobs here and there and some occasional trading, but she wanted something exciting. She wanted adventure, legend, and especially treasure. That’s why she had left in the first place. Ash broke away from her fanciful daydreams as she noticed a trio of shadows coming toward her.

As quick as a light flickers, she rolled herself onto the lowest shelf of the isle near her. She cursed softly as her foot caught inconspicuous looking box with imagery she didn’t recognize. The resounding thud made her wince, and the dim shapes further down froze. She froze with them. They approached her position, and from their stance they had their weapons drawn. As they drew nearer Ash could make out their spotless, and boxy looking armor—”Cereai, hmph” she thought. Their blades gleamed in the pale luminescence as they studied the area around them. Ash resisted the urge to wiggle herself further into the darkened confines of the shelf, in fact she barely breathed. Satisfied it was nothing of importance, they continued on, sparking up a lively conversation about feats they claimed to have accomplished.

Eventually Ash found herself pausing as she pushed across the threshold of what was likely a bar, her eye drawn by a rather intriguing poster. She stepped through, dropping her mask down to hang closely around her neck, it helped lessen the suspicion of others. The bartender stared pointedly at her as she made her way over.

”You got Elektralyte?” she asked, a drink she favored from back home in Sport with its wide range of flavors and colors. The bartender didn’t respond at first. Ash rolled her eyes and emptied the few useful items she had left from her pocket; A handful of copper rounds, a small length of ragged gold colored wire, and a plain looking stick that tapered off sharply at one end. The bartender held the wire up to his gleaming eyes, obviously its shine sated some sort of desire within him. He swiped the rounds too, easily recognizing them, but gave her a questioning look as he held up the stick.

”Your woman, she pees on the small end, if it shows a smiley face the gods favor her and she’ll bear you a child.” Ash explained.

The bartender looked incredulously between her and the stick, before nodding with just a hint of wonder in his face. As he left to retrieve her drink, Ash scanned the bar. Making out who had set the poster seemed pretty obvious, she was leaning on the table containing the older fellow, the hooded guy, the young girl.. Or woman from Toy, and the fellow with the funny looking hand. She asked the bartender anyways, just to be certain. Though he never spoke a word to her, he simply nodded towards the table she’d pegged earlier. Ash rolled her eyes again, she should have just went with the obvious.

Her long legs carried her to the table, where the attention was momentarily turned towards the new arrival, ”Glory and Fame, that you?” She questioned, spinning a chair around and setting herself down on it.

“That’s right,” the older man answered gruffly.

Ash nodded, sipping the sweet, green drink in her plastic cup. She didn’t say anything more, choosing instead to wait and hear the details of this supposedly grand opportunity, a reaction that seemed satisfactory to the man who had answered her. Though she was outwardly calm, her stomach was turning flips at the prospect of finding her first real chance at growing her legend, and maybe finding some rad loot. She tried to maintain her optimism as she took a closer look at her would-be companions for this quest.

[ClocktowerEchos]

Lewis looked at that small gaggle of jackasses who heard his not-so-glorious clarion call. The fact he could count his party on one hand was a bit worrying but he still had plenty of time to wait and gather more. Hopefully the next guy to come in would have friends who came along.

“Alright people,” Lewis pulled down his hood, letting loose his hair and looked at those gathered in their eyes, “This is a start. We’ll wait a bit longer to see if anyone shows up and leave tomorrow at–“

“WHERE IS THIS “LOOSE BATTON SIGN-EASY”?” the of the tavern was kicked down as a group of tough looking warriors burst in, axes and spears in had. One of them even had a lasblaster but judging by how he was holding it backwards clearly didn’t know how to use it, “BY ORDER OF WARLORD SKTROK, WHERE IS HE?”

With a deft hand, Lewis’s hood went back over his head as he hunched over the table, his drink now very, very interesting to him all of a sudden. The man grumbled over the butchering of his name but new that those warriors would slaughter more than just his name if they found him.

They were tribal warriors of the Wallord whose daughter got what men in Clothing call a “price check” from Lewis. Clearly out for blood, they began to harass other tavern members and the bartender, staying away from the Meat Vikings who were decked out in their religious iconography; one of them boasting a skull with the words “man eater” on it.

“Alright, here’s the plan.” Lewis quickly whispered as one of the warriors came near, “When I say run, all of you follow me out and we make a break for it. If you don’t make it, then that’s on you. Then you’ll hope that someone else will be willing to pick you up, something I doubt is very likely with the warriors around and given that you will be seen with me, you’ll get to meet Sktrok. I hear he enjoys the sound of crushing people’s skulls with his barehands.”

Stepping up, Lewis surrendered himself and was immediately gruffly frog marched over the champion in charge of the search party.

“No need to chain me,” Lewis submitted, “I’ll come quietly.”

With a huffing smile, the champion ordered Lewis to give him his weapons. The Bargain Hunter scuffed but wasn’t in any position to offer a counter. He placed his gun on the hands of the much larger man then suddenly jammed his forearm into the champion’s mouth and punched the jaw to bite his forearm.

“AHHGGGGGRRRRR!!!” Lewis cried out as he yanked his arm out as the champion recoiled from the surprise punch, “HE’S A MAN EATER!”

In a whirlwind of confusion, an axe found itself lodged into the back of the man’s skull. Lewis had judged the Meat Vikings to be a particularly zealous bunch and it seemed like his gamble worked. A handful of men just as large if not larger than the tribal warriors got up and brandished their meat cleavers and charged in. Blades and fists flew and soon the entire tavern was engulfed in a bar fight as stray shots and flying fists hit others who joined the fray.

Picking up his gun, Lewis shouted at his party, “Come on! Move it you bastards!” Dodging and ducking, Lewis bobbed and weaved his way out, shooting Jewelry department “Gansta Boy” who dove at him with a golden dagger. Picking it up and examining, Lewis decided it was of good enough value to keep as he ran out of the tavern, again barking for his companions to follow.

Stumbling out, more than a bit roughed up, the man spotted an Automotive Mercuries pulling in to the lot outside, blissfully unaware of the chaos within the tavern. Running up to him, Lewis apologized, “Sorry, kid. Nothing personal.”

Before the young man climbing out of his car could reply, Lewis punched him square in the face before slamming his head into the dashboard of his custom golf cart and rolled him on to the ground. Spotting the key was still in the ignition, Lewis blared the horn which only produced a very strange fog horn sound at his companions to pile on, “Come on! Get in, we’re getting the fuck out of here!”

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OOC NOTES:
Welcome to the Wal-World IC!
I told you that this RP would hit the ground running didn’t I?
Your objective right now is to fight through the chaotic bar fight and get out to the golf cart Lewis highjacked. Feel free to write in any small fight your character might get into on the way out but do resolve them quickly as time is running out before Lewis drives off!

Clocku the GM and Magnificent Meme Master

[MonsieurShade]

Chaos. The tavern had descended into utter chaos after Lewis' stunt. In a way it was kind of like a miniature, more civil version of the dreaded Black Friday. Jackson clucked his tongue and bolted up from his seat with spear in hand, his intention to house it in the flesh of any that drew too close made clear as he brandished it and jabbed it at the patrons of the establishment. His boss had a pissed someone off something fierce it seemed. Unfortunate, but perhaps he could cash in on Lewis' hide if he tried to fuck everyone over. So wrapped up in his thoughts was Jackson that he'd failed to realize that one of the Vikings (or meat beaters as he liked to call them) had been tailing after him, under the assumption that he was a friend of Lewis. Or maybe it was because the big bastard just wanted to hit something, who really knew these days with meat beaters?

The sharp tug at he back of his hood elicited a soft choke from Jackson, though as he'd begun to turn and retaliate it quickly became apparent that no action was needed on his part. The Viking, while accustomed to pain, was probably unaccustomed to surprise attacks on his fingers by angry geckos. Thresher's head followed after the large man's hand as he drew back sans some small chunks of flesh from two knuckles. As the man stumbled back with a surprised help the reptile opened its mouth wide in a threat display, its inky black throat a stark contrast to the bright pink tongue and white needle teeth. It was pretty damned adorable if Jackson said so himself. He'd gush later though, now was the time to run.

With the Viking in hot pursuit once more Jackson shoved his pet back down and turned to run, ducking and weaving through the crowd before gracelessly stumbling through the door. He could see Lewis and hear in the car honking like a mad man. Jackson made a beeline for that as he heard he heavy foot steps draw nearer. A few more steps, damnit. He just needed to make it to the car. A little more and...NOW! Jackson spun on his heels and brought his spear to bear before he came to a violent halt against the passenger and used it to prop up his spear. The Viking, poor bastard that he was, failed to stop in time to prevent the weapon from penetrating his abdomen. Jackson found himself treated to a face full of spit flecks and a long and loud cry of pain as the larger man sunk deeper onto his shaft. Gross.

With a grunt of effort he threw the Viking to his side to let the man bleed out away from him. A damned waste of loot, but again, time was short. Maybe after he took a hit from the gas tank he'd get over it. With that bit of business sorted, the hunter took his seat and adjusted his hood for the sake of his companion before shooting a glare a Lewis "How did you manage to piss off a Wallord? Fuck one of his wives?" he asked dryly.

[ML]

No sooner had Crow sad down that madness erupted. For a brief moment, he was surprised, but when his new...employer stuck his own arm into the adversary's mouth and forced him to bite it, only cool righteousness filled his veins. Of course the Grounded would stoop to something so crass.

Not that it mattered now. Grounded or not, they could all be killed just the same. What mattered was how deft one could dodge the Sportsman's noose. Crow had no intention of meeting his end here, crippled and stuck on the floor of the Wal.

He leapt up onto the table. It was sturdy enough, being made of the tough plastic and metal common in feasting courts. As he kicked off from the ground, he pull his knife from the sheath and soared over the chaos. With any luck, he wouldn't have to soil his blade with Grounded blood.

One foot touched down on someone's shoulder. It was a light touch, barely more than a tap, but Crow used it to hop to another man's shoulders. His lightness came in handy here: most people would have knocked someone to the ground, if they tried what he was doing now. But these men were bulky, and he was slender. It worked, almost perfectly.

Then an arm swung up toward him. Clutched in the hand was what Crow recognized as a Lasblaster. Held backwards in the man's grip, it was little more than a club, seeking to knock him to the floor. Crow reacted almost instantly, but not quite fast enough. He dodged the weapon, but the arm holding it brushed his own, crippled one. A lance of pain shot up his arm.

Crowley howled and swung his knife into the man's arm, striking bone before it stopped. The fingers twitched, loosening around the lasblaster. Knowing he had only seconds, Crow wrapped his legs around the screaming man's throat, cursing with ever-increasing frenzy at the pain in his lame arm. He put his knife's handle in his teeth and wrenched the lasblaster from the man's hand. Then he hammered down hard on the man's skull, dropping them both to the ground.

Only one of them landed feet first. Crow spared no thought of remorse toward the unconscious, or dead, man he left behind as he limped toward the cart. He tossed the lasblaster into the hooded man's lap before climbing into the back of the vehicle. He spit his knife back into his hand and put it away. "Let us depart, Grounded companions." The words tasted like ash in his mouth: how low he'd fallen.

[Syben]

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Ash had been sitting in quiet contemplation, awaiting the game plan from the rougher looking individual who looked very much like a veteran of the Wal. From the glances he was getting from the others, it was apparent that nothing much had been said, the air held a tension of anticipation and excitement. She was currently wrestling with her own ideals on the situation, would she partake even if this opportunity didn't live up to her own expectations? She was pulled from her thoughtfulness as the defacto leader spoke, only to be quite loudly interrupted.

"WHERE IS THIS 'LOOSE BATTON SIGN-EASY'?"

Ash shot a glance to, who was apparently, Loose Batton. She noted the quick look of acknowledgement, before a sort of stillness overcame him. He met the challenge head-on, which was foolish. When he forced the other man to bite down on his arm and labeled him as a maneater however, well, she had to respect those kind of tactics—It was positively genius. The large burly fellers from Meat where apparently as thick as the product they handled. An axe whirled through the air, declaring their intention to act first and probably not bother with asking questions later. Ash stood quickly, careful not to knock over her chair and draw attention. Every patron in the bar became whipped into a bloodthirsty, free-for-all frenzy. Ash took a step back and assessed the situation.

Ash found the familiar, comfortable feeling of an arrow sliding between her fingers and drawing back softly against the string. The barman had procured a heavily barbed spear, and was promptly ramming it into anybody who felt they may pilfer some of his stock. The meatheads were in a frenzy, the trio that had busted through the door were taking the brunt of the action. In one smooth motion Ash raised her bow and drew back the string, smiling inwardly as the feather brushed her cheek. A split second later she loosed the arrow. A hollow twang played across her ears as the arrow streaked across the bar, embedding itself into the chest of the unfortunate individual who had sneered at her.

Another arrow found its place resting against the bowstring, the act was second nature by now. Off to one side cripple-hand was bounding across physical bodies as if they were merely stepping stones for him to propel himself from; She wondered idly if he was a top dweller, with the way he moved, as she let another arrow fly loose. A man from clothing hurtled sideways violently, clutching desperately at the arrow threaded through his neck.

Ash's arrows found two more targets, covering her would-be companions, before she realized they'd already made their way out the front door. Unwilling to be left behind, especially now, Ash skirted around the very edge of the tumult. Nobody seemed to be paying her much mind, caught up in the fervor of battle as they were, until she was nearly at the exit. A snake of a man slithered in front of her, his dirty, dark clothing stained with blood—As was the sword held tightly between his two hands. He lunged at her and Ash threw herself to the side, rolling over a table. She careened into another body as she tried to draw her bow.

Her foe flipped the table at her, causing her to dodge once more. She was closer to the door now, and chose to dive out of the bedlam rather than attempt to finish that particular fight. She returned her arrow to its home and ran towards the others. She didn't ask questions about the unconscious motor-head on the ground, she would have done the same thing. You had to look out for yourself out here, and this way Loose Batton now had easy transportation for his recruits.

"Let us depart, Grounded companions."

Ash turned an eye to the, now confirmed, top dweller as she climbed into the final seat, "I'll second that sentiment."

[Paradoxial]

Safety wasn't a word that Leroy used much, or really anyone else in Wal-world. Of course, when he gripped the handle to the tavern, he didn't expect a man with an axe through his head stumble out of it. When he had first observed the tavern, it had looked relatively "safe" but again, nothing ever really was. Before Leroy could even think about what to do with the body, several figures burst out of the bar after the dead man, and it was all he could to step backwards in order to avoid the barrage. An aging man burst out of the doorway, quickly followed by an archer and hold on, was that a topdweller?

While they sprinted to what looked like a rusted old golf cart, a Wallord warrior ripped through the doorway, hatchet in hand. Now, if all of this wasn't a hallucination and those people were actually real, they obviously had some sort of purpose behind them to chase and Leroy wanted in on it. Ignoring the urge to drag the body of the man away for tests, he pulled out his hunting knife and slashed out at the enraged warrior. The blade ripped through his weak armor and scored a shallow cut along his chest. The man of course didn't notice the blow until the toxin started flowing through his bloodstream. His mouth started frothing, and he fell into the floor screaming so loud Leroy could almost compare it to the voice in his head when it was mad at him. Speaking of which, the voice was yelling at him now. "Go with them, they will further your quest" the voice invading his thoughts and mind.

He quickly sidestepped the man and ran after the group, jumping on top of the golf cart and causing it to groan in protest. The graying man stopped whatever he was doing to stare at Leroy. He imagined himself to be quite a sight, a rough leather trench coat and dented crow mask obscuring most of his body. "Drive you imbecile! Before whatever force you've wrought upon yourself is released upon us all!"

(If you have any tips or advice to help my writing, please share!)

[ClocktowerEchos]

“Who the fuck are you?” Lewis shouted as a haggard jackass jumped on the cart and tried to command him, “Don’t give me orders! I’m the one calling the shots here!”

With everyone on board (and an extra guess), the cart surged forward as Lewis floored the gas, leaving a trail of dust and exhaust, choking the a warrior who managed to crawl out of the bar fight. Shouting into his Wind Talker (some black box that allowed people to talk through the wind spirits provided the other person had one), he reported, “B-Bastrd getting a-away…. Ch-chase!”

Behind him a storm of hooves and wheels arrived. Mounted atop mutated steeds with mercenary Autoboyz in support, the horde chased after Lewis’s stolen cart. They split and made way for the largest of them to come in: a turbo-engined Steam Roller lovingly called “Waffle Iron”. Its grinder teeth stained an eternal red from the gore it sought.

Flashing a look behind him, Lewis cursed as he picked up the pistol dropped in his lap and threw a brick on the gas, “Topdweller! You drive!”

Leaving the man who never touched a cart in his life before in control of a rapidly accelerating vehicle was probably a terrible idea. But this wasn’t the worse. Lewis hoped the man had fast reflexes and learned even faster. He himself was getting ready to defend the cart.

Lasblaster in hand, he swung around and dangerously held on to the side of the cart. A pattering of arrows flew down around the cart, missing everyone on board but signaling that there were mounted archers tailing them. It also meant that mounted gunmen were likely which didn’t bode well in Lewis’s mind. Ideally the mounted gunners would be just as clueless as how to operate a gun like their idiot cousin in the bar.

Raising his gun as the cart began to shake and sweeter, throwing off his aim, “Hey! Keep the thing steady! They’re closing in!”

Right on cue, a motorized tricycle burst its way out of a side aisle, its driver jabbing at the exposed Bargain Hunter’s side. With a blast of his weapon, Lewis shot the man off his mount, causing him to land and slide along the floor with a sickening crunch and squelch.

Another wave of riders came in as an echoing thunder revved up and a voice shouted, “YOU SHOPLIFTERS CAN’T ESCAPE ME, WALLORD SKTROK! I SHALL HAVE YOUR HEAD ON A SPIKE AND TURN YOUR RIB CAGE AS MY GROAN SHEILD.”

Mildly disgusted, Lewis turned to the occupants of his vehicle that swerved wildly, “I hope you lot have something to hit them with! They’re coming in fast!” Turning the the Top-Dweller now desperately trying to hold the cart straight, “And you! Keep doing what you’re doing and don’t crash and kill us all!”

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OOC NOTES:
So, shit is happening and we're on the run now gents!
@Mercenary Lord I used my GM powers and have more or less forced your character into driving the cart now because I personally thought it would be hilarious. If you would prefer not to be in that role, I can change it out for someone else.
In general, the cart is now being surrounded by various mounted warriors on a whole lotta different mounts for you to try and pick off. Good Luck!

Clocku the GM and Illustrious Illuminator

[MonsieurShade]

Clusterfuck (noun); A term of military origin used to describe a disastrously mishandled situation or undertaking.
If used in a sentence, it would go a little bit like this: Jak-jak's situation had rapidly turned into a huge and confusing clusterfuck. This Lewis guy had to be one of the craziest motherfuckers this side of that Dog-forsaken smile cult, his testament to this fact being the very obviously crippled man now driving the vehicle like a bat out of hell. Jak-jak was at a bit of a loss really; two seconds after peeling out he'd been fully prepared to simply lean out of the window and punch a few holes in the masked guy's side to get him off, now here he was holding on for dear life as the topdweller preformed what could only be described as a wonderful impersonation of Helen Keller as a race car driver. Wait, what was that Lewis said about-

An pair of arrows glancing off of the cart door tore Jackson from his thoughts as a warrior on a mutated beast pulled up beside the passenger side door. "Goddamnit!" He barked as he ducked low, clumsily pushing down Leroy's head a bit as well to ensure the driver didn't bite it in the middle of a high speed chase. Out of his periphery Jak-jak could see one of the warriors try to take aim again. Right, time to sort that out. With a heavy kick of his boot the cart's door flung open, followed quickly by a wooden spear as the hunter lunged out at the steed's leg. A curse tore itself free of the warrior's lips as he was forced to weave away to avoid meeting a similar fate that his comrade had met. The other however had managed to notch and loose another arrow at Jackson while he was unawares, a resounding clang of metal and a spark as it struck the chassis just a bit too close to Jackson's throat for comfort. A whiffed shot, but goddamn if it didn't make him nearly shit himself in fear.

The horsemen were starting to line up with the door again. Once more he lunged outwards to keep them at bay, his gaze shooting to the other occupants of the vehicle for a brief moment. "If one of you has something to shoot with, the help would be really freaking appreciated right about now!".

[Syben]

Ash couldn't help but smile as they peeled away from the bar. Loose Baton had certainly thrusted them all into some sort of situation, but Ash imagined this was a good way to start off the story of her legend. A high speed chase because some prospective old buggard pissed off an obviously powerful wallord. Ash laughed aloud as she finagled her bow to be relatively out of the way in the small space of the cart.

"I have no idea what you want Mr.Baton!" Ash shouted over the warlike cacophony of noise, "But you can count me on board!"

Ash laughed again as the cart pitched wildly to one side. In Sport, you did not fear death. Even Lopers are privy to the customs of Sport. If she were to die right here, right now, she'd only regret that she hadn't left the Wal as a legend. Sporthalla awaited, and she would gladly go with honor into the halls of Mad-Den. The cart swerved back into a semblance of control as their pursuers assaulted the cart.

Ash listened to the sounds of metal pinging off the cart, of arrows ricocheting into the distance, of lasguns firing; All of it served to fill the blood in her veins. She was no beserker, not like the great Linemen of Sport, but the thrill of battle still set her blood aflame. Another wild swerve, and Ash swayed with it with the biggest shit-eating grin on her face. In a battle like this there were no tactics, no strategy, no cunning, only skill and raw instinctual talent.

"If one of you has something to shoot with, the help would be really freaking appreciated right about now!".

Ash threw herself back across the rear seat as she worked her bow into a usable, if uncomfortable, position. An arrow whizzed passed the hooded man's head and plunged itself into the grotesquely warped neck of one of the horses. The animal screeched and pitched forward head first, followed by the audible crunch of the rider's bones breaking beneath the beasts weight. It was much easier to take out the mount than the rider, Ash figured.

Her pulsed pounded in her ears as she shrugged herself upright. There just wasn't enough room to maneuver in here. Ash leaned out of her side of the cart, before pulling back in quickly as a spear careened away from the space her face had been occupying just a second before. She looked back, noting the guy who had thrown it, before swinging herself out of the side of the vehicle. She nearly lost her grip as it pitched violently to one side again. A motorcyclist went tumbling past, flipping impressively end-over-end from wrecking at such a hide speed. Ash took hold of the cart's top and pulled herself up.

"Hello Crow-face!" She yelled into the wind, "I hope you know how to share!"

She knelt, bracing herself against the wind for balance and counted the arrows she had left with her fingertips. Eighteen, or so, she may have double counted a few with the way the cart was swerving, and with the occasional need to duck away from enemy fire. She took aim at the man who'd nearly taken her life before. He was seated between two massive tires of a three-wheeled vehicle. Ash loosed, and watched her arrow sail away into the distance. She cursed, drawing another arrow. She wasn't going to hit him, she wasn't exactly experience in firing from atop a moving, badly steered vehicle.

Ash aimed lower, for the large front tire and embedded her arrow into it. A massive pop resounded through the air as the tire blew, becoming a useless mass of flapping rubber before losing traction completely. The trike pulled to the side violently, crashing into another of the approaching steeds before all of them fell beneath a massive, spiked roller wheel.

[ML]

H O W T O D R I V E A C A R T

When Crow had thrown in his lot with the armor-wearing Grounded man, he had expected harsh times and plenty of struggles ahead in the future. What he hadn't expected was an eruption of chaos immediately after their accord was forged. He also hadn't expected to be thrown into the driver's seat for a vehicle he had only ever seen from far away and high up in the rafters. It was a Grounded device: useful when you couldn't run, swing, and jump everywhere your wanted to go.

The Topdwellers even had converted that fabrics from old Sport shelters into gliders. The price tag read "tent". The fabric was waterproof, and quite strong, and for Topdwellers, it was invaluable. The gliders made from the devices allowed for rapid travel across the Wal. Unfortunately, Crow's glider had been in his nest when he was forced to the ground below.

Instead, he had a cart. He had been placed in control of the vehicle, and had absolutely no idea how to make it work. The pedal obviously controlled the speed, but there was no way to slow down, that he could see. The wheel controlled steering. The pedal was weighted down by a brick, which meant that Crow had no control whatsoever over the speed. Despite the utter madness of what was happening around him, that relieved him. It meant he had a simpler task. Only steering, and surviving.

They were going at an unnatural speed down a huge aisle, being followed by legions of earth-laden hell. Crow was trying desperately to keep things steady. The Sport woman was on the roof, shouting and taunting, while their employer was shooting with his gun. The hooded man, idiot Grounded that he was, had completely ignored the pilfered Lasblaster Crow had thrown on his lap, instead electing to stab the enemy with a wooden spear. Of course the grounded would be so foolish. Give them a tool, and they wouldn't even recognize it.

Another vehicle drew level with Crow, on his side of the cart. A lasso flew from the enemy toward their cart. Crow's hand shot out and grabbed the rope. That was his only hand, so he had to revert to driving with his knees. Easy, he thought, as they swerved maniacally to one side and the next. He yanked with his good arm, pulling the thrower right out of the driver's seat, toward the cart.

Quickly Crow pulled his knife and stabbed the man through the eye. The man died almost instantly and flopped across his scrunched up knees, making driving all the harder. They swerved left, almost careening into the now-driverless tricycle which the dead man had occupied. Crowley cursed and wrenched his hips to the right, dumping the man into the cart. There wasn't really room for him, but they needed his weight for what he was about to try.

"Weight on the right side!" He roared as load as he could. This was going to end badly. Coming up was a narrower (much narrower) side aisle. The steam roller madness couldn't fit in that. He didn't think so, anyway: the massive shelves were too close together. But it would only work if everyone got the hint and weighed down one side of the cart. Otherwise they would just tip over.

"Going to turn! Weight on the right!" He shouted again, hoping they all heard him. No more time to prepare: He wrenched on the wheel as hard as he could, and prayed to the Highroof Gods for their mercy.

[MonsieurShade]

Gods be praised, the others were actually useful. Even the gimp at the wheel was pulling his weight by continuing not to kill everyone with his driving much to Jak-jak's surprise. Momentarily he glanced up to Ashe who looked all the world as though she was having the time of her life cart surfing and feathering the oncoming enemy. She must have either been high as a kite or suicidally brave. Whatever the case she was being useful and would hear no complaints from him for the moment. It wasn't like he'd have the chance to fuss at her anyway- the violent lurching of the cart damned near flung him from the vehicle entirely, and it was all he could do not to get thrown out and crushed beneath the wheels of friend and foe alike. As he srabbled and scraped at the chassis of the vehicle with his legs now being dragged along the aisle floor Jak-jak felt a sharp pained fill one of his ears as Thresher dug his claws into the hood and used his jaws to clamp down onto one of the only things in reach to guard against being thrown free himself. He cursed loudly, understanding the reasoning behind the action, but getting annoyed by it all the same.

A shout resonated from within the cart. Pitch weight to the right? Why the hell would he want that? The aisles were already getting uncomfortablly close enough for the hunter's liking as is, and now he was expected to risk getting squashed entirely? With a strained grunt he pulled himself half back into the cart with his free arm and immediately crinkled his nose in further aggravation as he realized a dead guy was taking up half his seat. Poor bastard that he was, Jak-jak never got a chance to ask what the hell that was about before the cart pitched even more violently than it had before. Being that he was on the passenger side and therefore the right (praise be to the Wal and their Americanness), he didn't really have to do much to direct his weight to help. He did however have to sacrifice his spear to keep a grip on the cart. It was for the best though; losing his spear served to fuel the fire that was Jak-jak's salty little soul just enough for him to maintain a decent his grip despite the burning that filled his muscles as he silently prayed to whatever gods that could be bothered to listen that he survived this. Not out of any sense of self preservation, mind, but for the simple fact that he didn't want to die sober.

[Paradoxial]

In the heat of battle it is assumed that one does not think much, even more so when the person has a voice inside their head screaming louder than the pack of warriors behind him. It was all Leroy could do to cling onto the top of the Cart, and pray to the Potion that he would be able to continue his quest. It didn't help matters when another person on the cart decided that it would be a good idea to clamber up on top of the fragile and limited space that could only barely be qualified as a "roof". Hello Crow-face!" The interloper yelled into his ear, "I hope you know how to share!" The pleasant thought of ending this impudent fools life entered into his head, but when an arrow ripped through the small space between the two he quickly realized he had more important matters to attend to.

Interestingly enough, Leroy noticed that the other members of the ragtag group were managing to keep the Warriors at bay for the moment at least. "You will pay for your impudence!" He screamed at one of the warriors who had gotten close enough to the cart and was about to jump on. Quickly, Leroy whipped out one of his shivs and threw it at the mans unprotected neck. A lucky shot, the rusty knife buried deep into the mans neck, causing him to scream and swerve his dilapidated bike into a metal shelf nearby. Before he could even take a breath, someone from below yelled "weight to the right!" Peering over the side, utter dread filled Leroy as he stared at the TOPDWELLER, driving the cart! The shelfs on either side were getting uncomfortably close, and Leroy could see that if something was not done, utter destruction would happen very soon. Of course in this pivotal moment was when the voice finally decided to give him actual advice, that being it screaming to him "get to the right you imbecile! If you die the potion will never be completed and your destiny will die with you!" Leroy didn't even have time to think "we're all going to die aren't we" as he Wildly swung over to the right side of the cart, the metal groaning in protest as Leroy held onto the fragile poles for dear life.

[ClocktowerEchos]

Realizing his terrible mistake of having someone who had never touched a cart before take the wheel, Lewis quickly sought to rectify the error. Butting the previous driver out of the way, he handed him the gun that the Topdweller previously gave to him and kicked the brick off the pedal. Stabilizing the cart, the vehicle zoomed up a ramp onto one of the internal highways of the Wal, chased by a swarm of motorized bikes and home-made combat cars. Lewis couldn't see or hear the Wallord yelling anymore and presumed him to have gone back to his shitty little hovel and had his men finish the work. Typical lazy tyrant.

Darting his eyes between the road ahead and the rear view mirrors, the dodged and swerved to get out of the way of the many types of projectiles being flung at them. His own blaster sung songs of electrical death as Lewis wildly fired behind him but his inaccuracy was aggravating him.

"Hang on!" Lewis yelled as the wheel was forced towards one side, the rubber tire's unholy burning screeching filled the air. Jamming on the breaks before putting the stick-shift in reverse, Lewis turned the entire cart around, hoping its reverse speed was as good as its forward speed. With a clear view, his pistol now sung clearer, sharper tunes as Lewis could now see what he was aiming at. The man was no driver of other worldly skill, but he had picked this move up in his travels; one particular caravan of Autoboyz enjoyed using it to great effect.

"Yeah ha!" the Bargain Hunter roared as he shot a man off his bike into the axels of a nearby truck, "Come get some!"

Of course, tempting fate like that rarely works out for the person in question. No sooner had Lewis issued his challenge had fate replied with a large, flaming mass aimed right at the cart, launched from the catapult of the same truck whose undercarriage was now covered in viscera. Lewis barely had time to curse and try to move the cart out of the way before its explosion sent the cart flying over the edge, into the dark below that engulfed them as the group fell from the elevated highway.

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As the black faded from Lewis's eyes, it was replaced with white that not only filled his sight, but also his lungs. Hacking into the powdery ground, dyed a slight red from a dripping wound, his eyes open wide with fear as he scrambled onto his back. His lungs hacked up more powder as he tried to stand, but the pile of soft, white powder was up to his knees until he dug himself out.

The cart was a burning wreck, dented and destroyed with its former occupants and Lewis's team scattered about the place, all in various states of unconsciousness in the powder dune. The veteran bargain hunter's spine went cold and he could only barely control his fearful shivering. Digging his hands into his pack, he pulled out a handful of glowsticks and shock them on as he tried to rouse his team, only stopping once he realize the soft, erie music playing in the far, dark distance that only amplified the feeling someone was right behind him, staring into him from behind a joyful, smiling, twisted mask.

"Comeoncomeon! Wake dammit! We need to move!"

Lewis looked up in the hopes of seeing the highway they fell from above, shedding light onto this white powdery hell that all men feared. But he only saw a black abyss above him. And the feeling that it was looking right back at him.

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OOC NOTES:
Took a while, but here's another post! Welcome to Baby Goods gents!
If you find my constant puppetting to be annoying or unwanted, please do tell me in the OOC as well as any other comments or concerns you may have.
If not, wake up and try not to go insane. Good luck!

Clocku the GM and Procrastinator Exacerbator