pugbutter — Roleplayer Guild

@DepressedSoviet
"Hell of a story," Max said. "Not everyday someone gives his Excalibur a name anymore. What do you want?" He perked up when it was time to make some money, but doubly so when people were waving their weapons around. In the grand scheme of things he had to suppose a Bowie knife was not so bad; Roach certainly couldn't stick anyone up with it! Besides, there was a pretty good atmosphere in the place at the moment, with not too much tension or risk; the barkeep was more curious than anything. He could tell a lot about a man both from the condition of his weapon and from what weapon it was in the first place. He thought that sniper over in the village would be a cold and methodical man, but one with a bit of a reckless streak; and it was true, at least until the Scotch cunt had actually opened his mouth. Max thought snipers were supposed to be patient and ruthless folks, but not that guy, who seemed to start more fights than he finished. The people with AKs he liked to think were more carefree and lenient. Why not? They could bathe those guns in mud, come back after a week, and the things would still be firing. That was the strange beauty which hid behind the ugliness of old Soviet machinery.

So what the hell was Roach's story? He thought he was Rambo; that was for sure, but there was nothing wrong with that if he lived up to the hype. Skillfully Max twirled a pint glass on the tip of his middle finger, catching it in the same hand. He waited, but also he watched. The handheld radio said something again, but Crow's voice was slurry and bitter, so whatever it was didn't seem very important. Max left the radio on the counter.Meanwhile...
@Xandrya
As she spoke she saw his face gathering more confusion at her words, and more conflict. In truth he was wondering whether he ought to call her bluff. If he found something in the bag, then he was quite right, of course; but if not, then he only proved to her that he didn't trust her. And that sort of thing broke friendships easily, not to mention business arrangements. But she was offering of her own accord. She was afraid, or perhaps the precise opposite, knowing full well that he'd let her go, and she'd slip away with his goods.

Well, Marcel didn't like thinking too hard. It didn't strike him as the sort of thing a leader had to do. Wasn't that what lackeys were for? "All right. Throw it down," he ordered, and when she did, he waved one such lackey forward to search the pockets and pouches. All eyes were on him, so tempted though he was, this thug was not so eager to pilfer anything from her supplies.

He stood up. "She's clean."

"All right, Marty. We're square. Now come inside. We're gonna make another deal." Marcel gave the signal and the snipers up on the roof took more lax postures. They went back to their cigarettes and their tape players. Meanwhile the people on the ground were moving toward the wide sliding door of the factory loading dock.Meanwhile...
@SilverFallen
The isolation plagued people more than anything, for between the lightning-bouts of primordial terror which accompanied the glint of a scope on a hillside, or the flash of fangs in the night, there were only boredom and miles and walking. Miles and miles of walking. Nasea had come to what once was a farmhouse, its silo gaunt and crumpled inward like a hollow stomach. But the grasses had grown tall, and the edges of the woods had crept shyly outward when the scythes and lawn-mowers and plows, its predators, all had gone still. It crept up through their old iron bones. So though she may have smelled something faintly familiar to her, like bags of manure or frostbitten hay, the residue of humanity had long been washed away. Nature had conquered the place, assimilated it, redecorated it in the same wild aesthetic as the very trees and rivers themselves.

Maybe there was something left worth scrounging. Maybe the mice she could hear scurrying in the rotting walls had left her a crumb to eat, or the farmer's wife had left some jewelry in the hole in the mattress. But until she bothered to investigate, only silence affronted her, terrible, merciless silence, laughing in the faintest clacking of the budding twigs above.Meanwhile...
@TemplarKnight07
"Boss, someone's coming from the village." Crow didn't bother to raise his weapon, and really, he almost didn't mention the new presence to the boss at all. As Gideon came into view the lookout realized quickly that they recognized each other; the decrepit old Bavarian buildings off to the east had a few long-term residents, just like the mice birthing their babies in the sawdust of an old farm's wall. Crow waved.

"Oi! That wasn't you, was it?" he called out, regarding the gunshot, from the wooden watchtower which they had built leaning against the old brick wall. Crow swore it came from the west, and he'd said so into the radio, but it was hard to tell sometimes. Everyone's nerves were frayed, and besides, a noise that loud could bounce across any hillside it wished, and disorient the fools at its mischievous fancy. No one looked or sounded stupid for wanting to be sure.
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