O-Dog - Siege of Cleveland
The mutants had been at it all night again. O-Dog and the rest of his raider garrison had been subjected to their bestial war cries, drum beats, and even a particularly annoying mutant with a loudspeaker who’d been threatening to eat them all for the past three nights straight. The days were full of assaults: mindless waves of ghoul fodder interspersed with the occasional attack from the dumb brutes. The fighting was hard, but at least the mutant bastards were right there and able to get their heads bashed in by a few strong swings. The nightly taunting was far worse, as it meant being subjected to that noise without being able to do anything about it.
Despite the situation, the raiders’ morale was still high and each day of successfully repelling assault waves emboldened the defenders further. O-Dog, however, was less hopeful. There had been yet no word from The Pitt on reinforcements, and the cynical O-Dog wasn’t sure if that meant they weren’t coming - or there was no one to receive the message. They’d heard nothing since the siege began about the on-going invasion down south and whether or not the line was holding along The Ohio. For all they knew, The Pitt herself was under direct siege right now.
Adding to the bleakness in O-Dog’s mind was the fact that Vikia’s scouts had been explicitly tasked with ensuring that Cleveland would have adequate warning in the face of a sudden assault from the north. No warning had been given however, and O-Dog could only think of one reason why The Pitt’s most experienced and loyal scout would fail in her duties. It wasn’t one he wished to dwell on for very long.
The grizzled veteran raider looked out over the high barricades towards the mutant army. He could easily see the hundreds of campfires they were burning in the distance, encircling the city completely on land. Worse than the sight and sound of them though was the smell - the sickly sweet scent of roasting human flesh being cooked carried far indeed.
“There must be thousands of the fuckers out there,” he muttered with a grimace as he thought about the next day’s battle to come.
“We’ll kick their asses, same as yesterday, same as every day until The Pitt comes…” one of his officers replied as she spat over the wall.
“Yeah how many days can we do that for, five, ten, a hundred?” O-Dog snarled, “We can’t hold out forever. And if The Pitt isn’t coming…we need to figure out a plan.”
The blonde raider officer, Carla, looked to O-Dog with a quizzical expression,
“You mean run for it?”
O-Dog growled, “Fuck no bitch. I mean taking the fight to those mutant assholes instead of sitting here and waiting for them to come to us. We’re raiders of The Pitt, not some pissant wasteland crew. ”
“What are you thinkin’ then?”
Before O-Dog could reply, they heard a shout from farther down the line, one of the tower lookouts was frantically signaling towards the dockyards, When O-Dog strained his eyes to see through the darkness, he could make out the shape of a silent vessel slipping in. His initial reaction was one of alarm, thinking that it could only be some sort of mutant surprise attack coming from the lake - but the stylistic crest visible on the vessel soon dispelled that fear.
O-Dog practically jumped down off the ramparts and made his way through the blasted ruins of downtown Cleveland until he arrived at the shipyard.
As expected, the vessel was already being welcomed in and its metal gang plank had been extended onto the docks. A long line of soldiers in armored miner suits and full facemasks were swiftly coming down from the ship armed with heavily modified industrial tools for weapons along with Type 93 assault rifles. The promised Luthine reinforcements had finally arrived.
The Luthine commander stepped up to O-Dog, who couldn’t help but crack a smile at the sight of the much needed extra manpower. Even before the commander removed his mask, O-Dog could immediately recognize who it was by stature alone. The 7ft tall wall of muscle was unmistakable by anyone with even a remote familiarly with the northern maritime kingdom.
“Jon De Blay,” O-Dog said warmly, extending his hand in greeting to the infamous heir to the throne of Luth.
The bald, scarred face of Jon De Blay broke into a smile of his own and extended a hand to meet O-Dog’s greeting. The Pitt commander reflexively winced in pain to feel the crushing strength of the Luthine prince’s grip.
“Compliments of my father,” Jon announced in a low guttural voice, “I bring our finest warriors to battle. The Sons of Iron are here.”
“Glad to have you,” O-Dog replied with a nod, “There’s a shit ton of work here that needs doing. I’ve asked The Pitt for aid, but so far have heard nothing. The mutants are jamming our radio communications and none of the runners I’ve sent out has managed to return. I’ve no idea when or if help is coming.”
“We make our own way then,” Jon grunted, as he hefted up his large spiked war pick, “I want to see if these mutants bleed like men.”
The mutants had been at it all night again. O-Dog and the rest of his raider garrison had been subjected to their bestial war cries, drum beats, and even a particularly annoying mutant with a loudspeaker who’d been threatening to eat them all for the past three nights straight. The days were full of assaults: mindless waves of ghoul fodder interspersed with the occasional attack from the dumb brutes. The fighting was hard, but at least the mutant bastards were right there and able to get their heads bashed in by a few strong swings. The nightly taunting was far worse, as it meant being subjected to that noise without being able to do anything about it.
Despite the situation, the raiders’ morale was still high and each day of successfully repelling assault waves emboldened the defenders further. O-Dog, however, was less hopeful. There had been yet no word from The Pitt on reinforcements, and the cynical O-Dog wasn’t sure if that meant they weren’t coming - or there was no one to receive the message. They’d heard nothing since the siege began about the on-going invasion down south and whether or not the line was holding along The Ohio. For all they knew, The Pitt herself was under direct siege right now.
Adding to the bleakness in O-Dog’s mind was the fact that Vikia’s scouts had been explicitly tasked with ensuring that Cleveland would have adequate warning in the face of a sudden assault from the north. No warning had been given however, and O-Dog could only think of one reason why The Pitt’s most experienced and loyal scout would fail in her duties. It wasn’t one he wished to dwell on for very long.
The grizzled veteran raider looked out over the high barricades towards the mutant army. He could easily see the hundreds of campfires they were burning in the distance, encircling the city completely on land. Worse than the sight and sound of them though was the smell - the sickly sweet scent of roasting human flesh being cooked carried far indeed.
“There must be thousands of the fuckers out there,” he muttered with a grimace as he thought about the next day’s battle to come.
“We’ll kick their asses, same as yesterday, same as every day until The Pitt comes…” one of his officers replied as she spat over the wall.
“Yeah how many days can we do that for, five, ten, a hundred?” O-Dog snarled, “We can’t hold out forever. And if The Pitt isn’t coming…we need to figure out a plan.”
The blonde raider officer, Carla, looked to O-Dog with a quizzical expression,
“You mean run for it?”
O-Dog growled, “Fuck no bitch. I mean taking the fight to those mutant assholes instead of sitting here and waiting for them to come to us. We’re raiders of The Pitt, not some pissant wasteland crew. ”
“What are you thinkin’ then?”
Before O-Dog could reply, they heard a shout from farther down the line, one of the tower lookouts was frantically signaling towards the dockyards, When O-Dog strained his eyes to see through the darkness, he could make out the shape of a silent vessel slipping in. His initial reaction was one of alarm, thinking that it could only be some sort of mutant surprise attack coming from the lake - but the stylistic crest visible on the vessel soon dispelled that fear.
O-Dog practically jumped down off the ramparts and made his way through the blasted ruins of downtown Cleveland until he arrived at the shipyard.
As expected, the vessel was already being welcomed in and its metal gang plank had been extended onto the docks. A long line of soldiers in armored miner suits and full facemasks were swiftly coming down from the ship armed with heavily modified industrial tools for weapons along with Type 93 assault rifles. The promised Luthine reinforcements had finally arrived.
The Luthine commander stepped up to O-Dog, who couldn’t help but crack a smile at the sight of the much needed extra manpower. Even before the commander removed his mask, O-Dog could immediately recognize who it was by stature alone. The 7ft tall wall of muscle was unmistakable by anyone with even a remote familiarly with the northern maritime kingdom.
“Jon De Blay,” O-Dog said warmly, extending his hand in greeting to the infamous heir to the throne of Luth.
The bald, scarred face of Jon De Blay broke into a smile of his own and extended a hand to meet O-Dog’s greeting. The Pitt commander reflexively winced in pain to feel the crushing strength of the Luthine prince’s grip.
“Compliments of my father,” Jon announced in a low guttural voice, “I bring our finest warriors to battle. The Sons of Iron are here.”
“Glad to have you,” O-Dog replied with a nod, “There’s a shit ton of work here that needs doing. I’ve asked The Pitt for aid, but so far have heard nothing. The mutants are jamming our radio communications and none of the runners I’ve sent out has managed to return. I’ve no idea when or if help is coming.”
“We make our own way then,” Jon grunted, as he hefted up his large spiked war pick, “I want to see if these mutants bleed like men.”