Enigmatik

Enigmatik's Enigmatic Search

Rapid fire this time.

Dead South: A Southern Gothic Post-Apocalypse

Caleb ‘CC’ Carr

Woke up this mornin’… Got myself a gun.

The sun was beginning to creep over the horizon, which meant that it was time for Caleb to get up. They tossed their unravelled sleeping bag aside and eased themselves out of their cot, stretching a little and working the sleep out of their eyes as they adjusted to the dawning light. Having been with the Jonesgroup for years, they had a routine worked out by now: a risk according to every survival manual they’d read, but you couldn’t live life by how pre-collapse survivalists thought it’d go down. Lord knew that Caleb had broken plenty of old rules and mantras in the past seven years… and they’d be breaking another one this morning, as they did almost every morning at this point.

But first, getting themselves organised. They rekindled their little wooden stove, threw on their clothes and went to fetch water, setting a kettle to boil as they went through the usual morning ablutions to try to keep the grime from getting too bad. Once that was done, they could burp their mason jars, before taking a little of their cured product and carefully breaking it up, sprinkling the green bud down into a multihued glass pipe. They had finished the process just as the kettle began whistling, pouring out boiling water into a metal camping mug and following it up with a spoonful of instant coffee.

Instant. Fucking. Coffee.

There was something almost distinctly dystopian in CC’s mind when it came to the massive tin of instant coffee siting near their stove, still stamped with a faded Walmart symbol. It never went bad, they’d learnt. Tea, kept in cardboard boxes and with its rather fragile, degrading nature, had lost most of its flavour or simply been wasted ages ago. But vacuum-sealed tins of freeze-dried coffee? Consistently terrible, year after year after year after year.

Still. It was caffeine. They couldn’t complain, even if they really wanted to. With the granules dissolving in their mug they set a mess tin of leftover stew from under their cot and set it to reheat, adding a little of the boiling water to get it going a little quicker. With breakfast on the way, they took a home-made match and pressed it against the hot ashes at the bottom of their stove, the pine tar quickly sparking to life. They transferred the flame to their pipe, tossed the match into the flames, then took their mug and stepped out of their small, cramped annex, pressing the glass to their lips to draw in a deep, smoke-filled breath.

Hold it in. One second. Two seconds. Exhale deeply. Around them, the day was rapidly coming to life. Birds chirped, something rustled through the foliage not too far away from where they stood, and a few other early risers in the community could be seen moving about. They took a sip of the scalding instant coffee and swallowed before the taste could become clear over the burn.

Another long inhale. Another brief pause before smoke began to trickle out from their nose. Another sip of coffee. It was a meditative time. Good for contemplation. Good for thinking at what needed to be done, what could be done, and what had to be prioritised. You had to make a list before you could tick it off, after all.

And an excellent time to ruminate on the biggest threat to their little community. The Mounted Skulls. CC couldn’t help but pull a face at the idea of that particular confrontation. On the one hand, there really hadn’t been another option at this point. Their eyes lingered a little on the empty chicken coop, disused since the bikers had taken all the hens as ‘tribute’ during the winter… But they were still… Well… A heavily armed raider group with a methhead for a leader. They wouldn’t be taking ‘Mama’ Jones’ defiance lying down.

Their musings came to an end as the green in their pipe turned brown and their coffee was nothing but dregs. They emptied both out onto the ground, put them back into their annex, scoffed down their breakfast stew and finally got the day’s work started, shutting their door firmly and grabbing their axe, walking away whistling a tune.

Check their traps. Reset their traps. Check for any signs of animals in the night. By the time they’d finished their little stroll the effects of their morning smoke had settled across their mind, a light yet pleasant fog that eased away the physical twinges and the mental niggles. It had been a quiet night – a single hare had found its neck trapped in a snare and another had been tripped but not caught its prey, but the bigger ones were untouched and the only tracks to be found was a slightly worrying rooting trail from a wild hog.

The hare could be dropped off at the main house’s kitchens, to be used as the cooks saw fit, and then it was to the fields. May was a busy time when it came to planting. The maize in the greenhouse needed to be transferred outside, they had to set fresh support for beans, and… Well, that was just the start. Tomatoes, lettuce, carrots and spinach was all in, and they weren’t one to waste time when this much work had to be done.

Their first bout of labour lasted from their walk until what their watch told them was some time around eleven. They were entering the hottest part of the day, and they needed something more than a bit of soup to keep themselves going. With hands covered in mud and endorphins replacing the THC in their system, they’d head for the plantation house, pausing to say their good mornings to ‘Mama’ Jones on their stoop before going inside and seeing who was about and what might be around to eat.

Enigmatik's Enigmatic Search

Been a little while, why not another bump?

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [CLOSED AND CONCLUDED]

@SgtEasy The ESMG are actually back in this generation, but now they're a megacorp formed by a mixture of KDD and GRA soldiers/mercenaries.

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [CLOSED AND CONCLUDED]

@Crusader Lord

So, funnily enough, in G1 Easy created a group of monkeys who joined in the pro-democracy side of a civil war, and they introduced the original song to the revolution.

Dead South: A Southern Gothic Post-Apocalypse

Factions of the Dead South

---\/--/\--\/---

Us

Jonesgroup

"My name's Mama Jones, and this is my land. Has been since before the End. You're welcome to stay, but only if you're willin' to work."

Us! The Jonesgroup is a ragtag team of survivors, mostly drifters who needed to settle down. The Dixies and most other settlements don't just accept random strangers walking up and asking for a place to stay. That's where the Jonesgroup differs: so long as you can contribute something, you're welcome here. Somehow, together, we'll make it.

Mama Jones' land is an old Southern plantation house, a large manor-esque building with a sizable footprint of land around it, right on the edge of a town named Bluffton that sits itself right on the edge between Alabama and Georgia. She was quite wealthy before the End. Other than Mama Jones' own room, the house boasts eight other bedrooms that about three people can live in comfortably, meaning most of the Jonesgroup sleep in the house at night. A few sleep in a converted poolhouse out back, which has two more bedrooms itself, and overlooks a backyard pond that the Jonesgroup has been getting its water from.

Most of the property's 30 acres are thickly wooded. There's a machete-cut path through the woods that leads out to a street with an old Waffle House on it, and this has also been claimed as Jonesgroup territory, working as both a lookout for oncoming raiders and a second kitchen. In true Waffle House tradition, people still settle disputes by fighting in the parking lot.

Population: About 30
Resources: Low
Leader: Mama Jones
Survival Strategy: Farming, Scavenging, Hunting, Gathering, Trading...

---\/--/\--\/---

Friendly and Neutral

Dixie Brotherhood

"Get on up outta here, now. From today on out, this here's Dixie soil. Also, never speak to me or my turkey ever again."

If you've lived in the Southeast, you know these types of people. The Dixie Brotherhood began as a loose affiliation of Alabamans and Georgians who held on to their lands through the End, converting their yards into small farms and their barns or trailer homes into workshops. Being largely blue-collar, Southern sorts- the Neighbors call them "hillbillies" when they aren't listening- it's none too shocking that they've recently been united under the speeches of one Sammie Hunter, a man who sees the End as, while surely a tragedy, also an opportunity to rebuild the South into a nostalgic vision of what it once was.

With their focus on preserving "Southern Culture" and staunchly traditionalist values, they take none too kindly to suspicious drifters and people from other parts. Nonetheless, most of the food grown in this area comes from them.

Population: Many hundreds, scattered about across two states
Resources: Mid
Leader: The charismatic Sammie Hunter
Survival Strategy: Small-hold substance farming with heavy cooperation

Appropriate Theme Song:

Maple Community Neighbors

"Welcome to Maple Ridge, neighbor. Get what you need and get on back home."

Aside from the Jonesgroup, the only other group operating out of Bluffton specifically, the Neighbors are a clan of traders. Originally from a nearby town, they migrated to Bluffton a few years back and took refuge in the local gated community, a pretentious upper-middle class affair named Maple Ridge. By some stroke of misfortune or cosmic destiny, not a single person who lived in Maple Ridge before the End survived the Olive Plague, and the people now known as the Neighbors were able to simply walk into the abandoned homes and streets and make it their own. They have made Maple Ridge into an impromptu trading post for every nearby group of survivors, protected from raiders by the community's tall steel gate. Scavengers, farmers, hunters and Dixies all meet together to buy and sell here. As a result, the Neighbors are generally better-off than the Jonesgroup, having more food to spare, better clothes, better supplies and functioning electronics.

While we are welcome to trade at their marketplace, they do not allow members of the Jonesgroup- or any one else- to join them. The Maple Ridge community is already full, thank you very much, they say.

Population: About 40-50
Resources: High
Leader: A very polite but rather touchy middle-aged white man who goes by Trader Joe
Survival Strategy: Trading, protecting their community

Appropriate Theme Song:

Liberty's Rangers (created by Enigmatik)

"All it takes for evil to triumph... Yadda yadda yadda you know this one already."

One for all and all for one! Liberty's Rangers are a rag-tag group of well meaning folks with a lot of heart and a lot of disorganisation. Eschewing a settled life, they instead spend their time migrating from area to area to assist those who have fallen under the boot of raiders or ne'er-do-wells. Living mostly off the land or by the kindness of those they assist, freely accepting anyone who accepts their tenents of equality and justice and organising themselves through community consensus. They might not always be the most efficient or effective at what they do, but they carry with them a message of hope and a not-insignificant amount of firepower, and really, that's all you need.

Despite their otherwise disunited appearance and operating style, anyone who takes up the mantle of a Ranger is given a blue armband with a five-pointed star to mark their alliegence to the cause, and they liberally use 'Old Glory Blue' whenever they need to leave a mark.

Population: Unstable, but usually within a score of 150.
Resources: Low
Leader: No singular leader, as the Rangers pride themselves on their direct democracy
Survival Strategy: Scavenging, recovering goods from raiders, donations from those they've helped.

Appropriate Theme Song:

---\/--/\--\/---

Hostile

Mounted Skulls

"You see us coming and you altogether run for cover! We're takin' over this town."

A local raider gang that ranges as far as Columbus, GA on the one side and Auburn, AL on the other. They extort food and motorcycle parts from the Dixies, goods and clean water from the Neighbors and, until recently, fresh-grown food from the Jonesgroup. They dress in your classic biker aesthetic, with the thick leather jackets and the skull bandanas.

They've also got a thing for vehicles (which, added to the skull bandanas, gives them their name): more than half of the Mounted Skulls ride on motorcycles, which are used in the post-apocalypse much like the cavalry of the dark ages, for lightening-fast raids and maneuverability. It is not at all uncommon to see a Skull wielding an actual sword in one hand while he rides, prepared to slice at a victim who can't get away. But they aren't strangers to trucks and cars either- an old pick-up or a hatchback can hold far more stolen goods than a man on a bike can. Because of the frightening speed with which they can rush another faction, take their belongings and be gone with the wind, nobody is very sure where their base of operations is.

Population: About 80
Resources: Mid
Leader: A heavyset young biker named Everett, rumored to have a meth addiction. He's apparently been trying and failing for years to set up a working meth lab.
Survival Strategy: Extortion of others

Appropriate Theme Song (and trust me, they blast it out their bikes when they ride up on you):

Gadsen Bannermen (created by Enigmatik)

"Men in this country used to know how to be men. We intend to remind y'all of how."

Originally a pre-collapse right-wing civilian militia based out of northern Alabama, most of the Gadsens perished along with the rest of society when the Olive Plague swept across the world. Most, but unfortunately, not all. Those few members of the Gadsens who survived found that their wildest dreams had come true, and the federal government was no longer around to interfere with their designs. The most visionary of their reduced numbers saw this new world as a tabula rasa to build their dream society: A return to the halcyon days of early America where the men were frontier vanguards, the women were good wives and those that opposed them were destroyed. With this dream in their mind, they began aggressively recruiting, migrating to central Huntsville to construct their new order.

Seeing themselves as a new paramilitary government, they violently oppose raider groups like the Mounted Skulls, while also extracting 'taxes' from the communities who fall under their 'protection' in a remarkably raider-like fashion.

Population: Some 40 odd Bannermen and another 50 or so 'auxiliary staff.'
Resources: High
Leader: "Corporal" Dean Gunn, an ex-National Guardsman now entering his mid fifties.
Survival Strategy: Small-scale farming and scavenging, extortion.

Appropriate Theme Song:

---\/--/\--\/---

Dead South: A Southern Gothic Post-Apocalypse

For your persual Tort, the Gadsen Bannermen that Caleb tangled with, and a counterpart because sometimes you need a little optimism.

Gadsen Bannermen

"Men in this country used to know how to be men. We intend to remind y'all of how."

Formed by the remnants of a pre-war civilian milita based in northern Alabama, those few members of the Gadsens who survived the plague found that their wildest dreams had come true, and the federal government had fallen. The most visionary of those that survived saw the new world as a tabula rasa to build their dream society: A return to the halcyon days of early America, where the men were frontier vanguards, the women were good wives and those that opposed them were destroyed. To make the dream come true, they began to recruit, siezing control of areas of Huntsville and enforcing their new order.

With a paramilitary aesthetic and attitude, they're simultaneously opposed to raiders while arguably being little better than a more formal one themselves.

Population: Some 40 odd Bannermen and another 50 or so 'auxiliary staff.'
Resources: High
Leader: "Corporal" Dean Gunn, an ex-National Guardsman now entering his mid fifties.
Survival Strategy: Small-scale farming and scavenging, "voluntary protection money."

Appropriate Theme Song:
Coming Soon

Liberty's Rangers

"All it takes for evil to triumph... Yadda yadda yadda you know this one already."

All for one and one for all! The Liberty Rangers are a transient band of do-gooders, held together a hatred of bandits and their ilk, significant quantities of duct tape and a lot of democratic bickering. They live off the land and on other people's kindness, moving from region to region, picking up new members, losing old ones and throwing themselves at any group that seeks to take advantage of other people... A lifestyle that unfortunately doesn't lead to the average ranger having a terribly long lifespan. Nonetheless, they have a stirring message and offer hope to innocent folk, and at the end of the day you can't really ask for more than that.

Population: Unstable, but usually within a score of 150.
Resources: Low
Leader: No singular leader, as the Rangers pride themselves on their direct democracy
Survival Strategy: Scavenging, recovering goods from raiders, donations from those they've helped.

Appropriate Theme Song:

Dead South: A Southern Gothic Post-Apocalypse

Hehe, first.

Caleb Carr, Horticulturalist and Outdoorsman

Caleb "CC" Carr

Nobody calls them a space cowboy.

The Basics
Non-Binary (AMAB), 27, Bisexual
6'4", 172lbs (190cm, 78kg.)

How They Look
Tall enough to be average in the Netherlands, but with a hunch to avoid slamming into doorframes and a figure that sits somewhere between 'rake' and 'slightly bulkier rake,' Caleb was never one to get lost in a crowd, back when those were still a regular feature of life. They cut scraggly and slightly unkempt figure with shaggy, tumbling locks of dark brown hair and an ever-present beard, trimmed down with scissors and the occasional luckily-found razorblade. Perhaps their most important posession is a pair of glasses that have become uncomfortably scratched ever since optician's visits became a thing of the past, which sit over a set of stormcloud grey eyes, graced with near-perpetual dark bags.

The apocalypse put an end to their cheery battle jackets and slimline jeans: now, Caleb wears clothes that are both rugged and practical, and always with a set of braces for their ankles and knees. This is combined with pads for their the latter for when they're out in the field, and they always keep a pair of hard-knuckled gloves in their pocket, just in case. They're almost never seen without a worn, battered, but still very much tough and functional leaather jacket, covered in patches to repair and reinforce the damage its taken, and they usually pair it with old faded band shirts and a never-ending parade of looted and mended cargo trousers, ranging from stolid khaki to urban camo grey. With a solid pair of rugged hiking boots to back it all up, CC looks for all the world like the outdoorsman that they've become in the years since the Olive Plague.

--

What Came Before
CC was born as an only child in London (the British one, not the one in Arkansas, Kentucky or Ohio, ta very much,) to an upper-middle class family with bright prospects in life. They grew up a well-rounded figure, although perhaps a little bit more insular than most with two busy working parents. Despite the concrete jungle that was their home, weekend getaways and time spent in the city's massive parks imprinted an appreciation of the natural world on them from an early age, and by the time university options were on the table their grades were good enough for them to pack their bags and head to Nottingham University, where they started work on an undergraduate's course in Botany and Horticultural Studies, with an option for a year abroad.

During that year abroad, they made the fateful decision to head across the pond to North Carolina State University... The very same year that the Olive Plague swept across the world and ended life as they knew it. The UK closed its borders before Caleb could get on a plane to head home, and so as the disease tore its way through the crowded campus, they were stuck an ocean away from home, with things looking increasingly grim for the young Brit.

But there was, at least, some hope. Even as their classmates and lecturers fell to the plague, Caleb seemed entirely unaffected. A lucky quirk of genetics had rendered them either immune or asymptomatic, and once the dust finally settled and quiet reigned across the continent, they emerged, tenatively, into an utterly changed world.

--

What Came After
During the initial chaos and collapse, CC weathered the storm by staying indoors, stealing the food out of their flatmate's fridges and making the blandest pasta to ever grace a set of cheap walmart plates. Two weeks in their newly-minted lifestyle as a hermit was entirely disrupted by the collapse of the water and electricity, finally forcing them out of the dorms and into the now significantly more depopulated world.

With nobody and nothing tying them to the NC State University, CC did something that most would probably think to be lunacy: they picked a direction and started walking, with little more than a rucksack and a guitar for company. For a while they followed the interstate system, camping at truckstops and petrol stations, heading into cities when they were in desperate need of supplies and using cars whenever they could find a pair of keys, on a trip to nowhere in particular.

Those first few years were the oddest. The world seemed quiet and still: nature had done little to reclaim the urban sprawl, and the wildlife was still accustomed to the peculiar new state of things. They travelled westwards: crossing the border to Tennessee on foot, driving through Nashville and on towards Arkansas. They encountered few people in their travels; mostly small groups that had cautiously began to spring up in the ruins of society, their voices a startling sound admist the quiet of a world reclaimed.

For three years they'd wander, purposeless, eventually turning back east in the Oklahoma panhandle. They saw oil rigs already succumbing to the Texas sands, coyotes battling with domestic dogs in Dallas' streets, and even encountered a group of truckers, still riding the roads using freshly pumped oil. As their journey continued through towards the wetlands of Mississipi, they began to encounter more and more settled groups; those who had survived and joined together to form new communities in this harsh world.

Some of them were friendly. Many were accepting enough to an unaffiliated wanderer such as Caleb, but for every two communities that would let them go along their merry way, there was one who tried to to take advantage of Caleb's lonely journey for their own means. Although they'd never used a gun prior to the apocalypse, they quickly had to learn the basics of operating the M4 they'd scavenged, although fortunately they found that the threat it posed was more than enough to dissuade most casual banditry.

It was in Alabama that they ran into their biggest hurdle. An organised group naming themselves the Gadsen Bannermen had established a stronghold in the ruins of Huntsville, and were not friendly to outsiders. After an intial scattered encounter that left one of the Bannermen dead, Caleb was forced to go to ground, creeping through abandoned buildings and travelling mostly at night, escaping the area by the skin of their teeth. Soon afterwards, they'd have their first encounter with the Mounted Skulls, and it was here that they realised that it was no longer viable for a lone wanderer to make their way across this new world. Uncomfortable at joining the Dixie Brotherhood and with the Neighbours not accepting new members, that just left the Jonesgroup for Caleb to join with, where they quickly fell into their role of horticulturalist, rennovating the property's large greenhouse and setting to work with their newfound community. They've stuck with it ever since.

--

What They're Like
Quiet, often. Almost surprisingly so. A couple of years without very much human contact will do that to you; years hearing nature slowly reclaim the human world gives one an almost medatative outlook on life. Even now that they're back in a society, the call of nature still cries out to them, keeping them in the Jonesgroup's fields and greenhouses and guaranteeing that they'll be the first to volunteer for rekkies or hunting trips.

Back at the base, they prefer smaller, more personal groups to big meetings and group meals. They're not unsociable, far from it: they're happy to get out their guitar and play music, or to help a newcomer to the farm figure out how to handle crops, but more than a few people have gotten a distant impression from Caleb and their quiet, contemplative attitudes.

One other thing assists all of this thinking though: a not insignificant amount of chemical assistance. Caleb's learnt mycology the hard way: by fucking up batch after batch of fungi until they finally got a mycelium network to settle and mushrooms to sprout. All of them are edible, but some of them are more fun than others are. Ditto for their plants: almost all their carefully tended to sprouts and shoots are of the edible variety: tomatoes, maize, beans, peas and the like... But in a little patch, segmented off and guarded as carefully as their own child would be, sits a small crop of broad-leaved cannabis plants, unfeminised plants carried all the way from a legal grow op.

--

Why They Keep Going
They might not give off the vibe, they wouldn't admit it if you asked them to their face, but the real reason that CC wakes up in the morning? Pure, unrestrained spite. For all they know, everyone they loved back in London is dead, their home is gone, and they could be the only Brit in a five-state radius left alive on this godforsaken continent. But here they are, and here they'll remain. If the Olive Plague didn't get them, they're sure as shit not letting this new world do them in.

Oh, and the weed. The weed definitely helps.

---

What They Can Do

Unsurprisngly, most of a degree in plant's science can be extremely useful in a world where the farms aren't churning out 96 million acres of corn every year. Caleb quickly found themselves a new second home in the property's greenhouse, and has slowly taken the mantle of chief horticulturalist, carefully tending to seedlings and shoots to hopefully keep the community in food and provide a little extra for themselves on the side. What isn't eaten or smoked can be traded away, and Caleb is always hard at work trying to push back the wilderness to enlarge their operations.

Weekends camping before the plague and years of rough living afterwards has also made Caleb an able bushcrafter. They can make rope from twine, extract tar from wood, identify most edible plants in an area and generally keep themselves sustained on the land. Finally, as a musician since the age of eight, CC's more than happy to pull out their guitar for a little evening entertainment, with an unusual repetoire of songs thanks to their strange cultural experiences.

---

What They've Got With Them

Colt M4: The real deal, at least for civilians. A grand and change's worth of black metal and blacker polymer, taken from the house of someone with fifteen guns but no deadbolt on the door. A bit battered and worn from the years by CC's side, but still a perfectly functional weapon for use against animals and humans alike.

Taylor V-Class Acoustic: A gift from their father back in the UK, this Taylor is one of the vanishingly few posessions they still have from back home. Carried throughout their rambling across the continent to the Jones' estate, still in surprisingly decent condition.

Council Tools Jersey Axe: A real piece of Americana, for what little that's worth these days. Mostly good for splitting logs to feed a fire, although can be used to knock down smaller trees, doors, rotting drywalls and, in a real pinch, people should the need arise.

Bushcraft Tools: A shotgun spread of useful survival gear slowly accumulated across their time since the plague. CC's EDC would stagger most, and they're never one to be caught off guard, be it mending a leather jacket or stringing up their latest crop to cure.

Optional Fun Extra Things

What They Most Want: "One thing? To get back to the UK. Or what's left of it. Unless someone feels like making another Mayflower though, I don't see how that'll happen."

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be: "Now that brings me back. Wonder if enough folks would be interested to get a campaign running here? As for myself... Neutral... Chaotic? Chaotic Neutral? I guess that works."

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: "What kind of horoscope-arsed question is that? But, if I had to answer... Heart. Gotta keep your noggin screwed on tight though; there's no hospitals to get you back on your feet any more."

Worst Fear: "Shit, at the moment? Getting my head blown off by those bikers. Other things tend to fall by the wayside in the face of the more immediate concerns."

Favorite Color: "A nice deep green. Like healthy, well-watered leaves."

What animal are they most like?: "Another one of these horoscope questions? Uh... Hmm... Badger. European, not the methhead ones over here in the states. Hardworking little buggers they are."

Favorite Song: "You ever heard Dopesmoker back in the day? Done by a band called Sleep? It's over an hour long of pure stoner metal greatness. Can't even get an electric guitar to work these days."

How They Dress: Caleb simply gestures down towards their clothes.

Thing they most miss about the world before the End: "Other than my family? Putting the kettle on, making a cuppa and plonking yourself down in a nice soft armchair. Oh, and warm showers."

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Madame Morvanne

Talking to Fumiko@Antediluvixen

Morvanne was utterly miserable. The woods had been one thing: an ancient yet living thing, where the Prist hung so heavy in the air that she swore she could have plucked essence as if it was a fruit... But one didn't need to be an Obliturge to know who held sway here. Its intensity, its power, it's heat was enough to make one consider just how thoroughly the Sunderer had done its job of splitting the Glory.

It was no wonder, really, that the people here were obsessed with the thing. "The Light-and-Flame," she had heard it called, and as on-the-nose as that was, it certaily didn't seem inappropriate. There was the Sun Divided, and there was the Flame's creations, just outside her wagon. Directly in the sunlight. She groaned and rolled over in her bed, about to continue her languishing when a knock came at the door, followed by a question. The broken common, the accent...

Oh dear.

"One moment," she called back, before scrambling to her feet. She filled a kettle with water, lit her small tea burner, tossed a few leaves in and set it down to boil, before immediately turning to her wardrobe and rummaging through. She was in her undergarments at the moment, and there wasn't a a chance among the devils that she'd be meeting this stranger in a few pieces of linen. But... What to put on that was quick enough to don without leaving her strange guest waiting, and thin enough that she didn't immediately wish to tear it back off again?

She flicked through her garments quickly, then picked one without thinking over it too quickly: this was not a ritual, it didn't require her to spend hours contemplating. Already she could feel her instincts telling her she'd left the guest waiting for too long- she should have been ready to accept visitors when it was acceptable for them to come over. Squashing them down and tossing on the pale red gown she'd plucked out, she could finally smooth the whole thing out and hurry to the door, unlocking it just as the kettle began to bubble.

Fumiko would find the inside of the wagon to be homely, if a little cramped. A small cot was pressed into a corner, braced up by a wardrobe that had had hooks attached to the sides just to hold more clothing. Bookcases and shelves were crammed in wherever there was room, the storage space filled with scrolls and trinkets alongside the expected books. Small bundles of aromatic herbs dangled down here and there, and the wall closest to the door had been adorned by a tapestry as broad as a man's wingspan.

Morvanne herself offered Fumiko a small curtsy, then, as she had done every time she interacted with the woman, made a quick gesture with her right hand: index and pinky finger extended out towards the alien, the rest tucked in. A ward against bad luck and evil.

Malleck 'Freepaw'

Talking to Thozna Scrapblast-of-Norplain@Smike and Athulwin@Tortoise

Malleck managed a quick yip before Athulwin emerged to try to smooth things over. Unfortunately for both Thozna and the monk though, a lifetime of ingrained learning did not vanish quickly - especially when the towering gnoll bared her teeth and commented that she could, indeed, kill the young storyteller. [color=khaki]"Wouldn't be the first of your kind to tear apart an innocent,"[color=khaki] the Ainok commented bitterly, only sparing her a sceptical look when she commented that she wouldn't turn on her 'pack.' How many of her 'packmates' had thought a similar thing before they were hacked apart or had a chunk ripped out of their chest by those jaws?

"Jus' don't feel comfortable around gnolls. Lost too many of my pack to 'em. Need a hand with those steps Athulwin?"

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [CLOSED AND CONCLUDED]

@SgtEasy

Looks good to me. Curious to see how they interact with the wider galaxy!