Life is hard when you stand in the shadow of the old world. There is the ever present sense of deep-seated uncertainty that draws in the back of the mind in light of the harrowing events that preceded this ruined world. Through which the most paramount of a persons core essence and grounding in the world has been ripped and torn asunder, all that remains after fact are the memories. It is not something that can be fully conveyed to those who came to live and die in the years following. Only those to have emerged from the old world could remember in its entirety what had been. Life in living color, those endless fields of emerald green coupled with the sprawling forests from which life truly thrived. As the notion of panic and unrest slowly begins to subside, one is left to experience the sense of loss just before the yearnings and want begin to carry over from before. From delusions of grandeur stemming from such a wayward past, fervent desires begin to mount as memories of what had been begin to circulate at the back of ones mind. Those flashing lights, those stylishly modern constructs, those great and powerful machines that worked the world over, coupled with the feature comforts so readily available to everyone in residence of the era before. All gone now, in the empty shell of what little remains today.
Decadence and decay saw to that over the years, coupled with the carrion cries of war, having seen to the end such a climactic conclusion of such a worldly conflict. In its most physical sense, it is in the world over that there stand the hollowed remains of a most illustrious past, silent and stoic as they tower high atop the fractured grounds, a testament to the worldly accomplishments the era before. Throughout the massive “graveyard,” those burgeoning and vast structures loomed high, many lopsidedly crooked and ruined beyond repair, gloom-some and silent. Their rise overshadowed a clustered network of of streets, mired and overridden with fallen debris and ruined vehicles of the distant past. Rather than serve as the central hub as it had once been before, the place is little more than a desolate ruin, a monument showcasing the accomplished progression of a distant past. It is a place largely avoided by all but the most foolhardy of outcasts and wayfarers in such an uncertain and violent world. There was one wayward soul who dared venture through the winding streets on his own accord, shouldering a heavy weapon on high as jade-green eyes peered through the thin veil of an extended hood, graciously perched over his head. Clinging to his altogether thick and textured form were the aged and weathered fatigues of a bygone era, piece-worked together to form the figures choice in protective wear. Hardened plates of composite fibers overlaying reinforced ceramics formed the bulk of the armor that embellished his form, notably at the chest, shoulders, thighs, knees, shins, and groin. Bearing the color of the lightest olive green, what had once been a far deeper color had since faded to exposure of the elements and near constant wear.
Surmounted against the crest of his head lie an aged pair of goggles, having since cracked and fractured only slightly from years of use. Over the loosely wrought shawl clinging to his neck hung a respirator, just one modestly applied protective measure to be undertaken in light of the persistant miasma in the most affected reaches of the irradiated wasteland. Clasped about his waistline was a heavy leather work belt shown in the color of sienna, from which many of his worldly possessions and necessary accoutrements hung for relatively easy access, namely the munitions necessary for his guns working function. The gun itself was gripped steadfastly in hand, propped up against his shoulder to best displace its weight in a wayward step. Through the ensemble of attire and equipment adorning his form, he gave the look of yet another hired gun of the day. For a moment, he was given pause in passing glance; there was much to look upon amidst the rubble and debris filling the city streets. As dangerous as it was to wander exposed in the open, it was modestly preferable to what horrors usually lurked in the dark and gloomy corridors of those ruined buildings. There was no telling what manner of creature might reach out to grab an unsuspecting traveler in the gnashing of teeth of an open maw, seizing upon them in a lunge or a thrust of their form, then following through with the kill to drag the doomed away for an easy meal.. Past what mutated aberrations passed as the new worlds present wildlife, there were the ever present dangers of worse things that lurked here. Abominations, ghoulish fiends that lurked throughout the deepest darkest crevices of those subterranean chambers and sunken buildings, little better than the ilk of the living dead. Worse still were the truest horrors borne from the stuff of ones nightmares..but it was what one risked looking upon in a chance encounter, to live in this world. Nothing ventured, nothing gained; one could live a lifetime in poverty performing menial labor, only to grow up into a meaningless existence. Or...one could see to something better out here, and brave what dangers lay hidden beyond a passing glance.
What mutant wildlife and abominations that lurked here were only part and parcel of what one could expect to encounter in the aftermath of nuclear Armageddon, for there were always more distinguishable threats among the many to be attacked by that remained at the forefront of ones mind. Disenfranchised youths and outcasts banding together since the earliest of days when the fallout had begun to settle, preying upon any and all they happened to encounter, whether for sustenance or wordly goods, or for the depraved sense of sport in blood lust. They were the closest things one could refer to as “outlaws,” even in an altogether lawless society as the lands of New Genova had become. Thankfully, they had more in number and fury than they did collectively in common sense, and one could usually hear the onset of their approach before one laid eyes on them. They remained an ever present and unpredictable element one took into consideration throughout their travels, less they fall prey to an ambush or venture into unstable territories. On the matter of all threats physical and injurious to the body, it had to be said; the city ruins and landscape were among the more treacherous of terrains one could venture through, all risks fully considered. The ground was never fully stable or entirely of sound rigidity, as loose floor boards or the very foundationary structure of the building was in most cases entirely left ramshackle from long-term decay. It was not unheard of of small communities basing their meek and miserable existence in the dilapidated structures out of sheer desperation, but given the creatures that more often than not moved into such places.. well.. No shortage of cover in the event of an ambush, so long as one avoided the more open areas such as the parking lots or open roads that lay uncluttered of smashed and torn vehicles.
It was through these ruined cities that the old roads from before swept through, their surfaces long since fractured and pock-marked in what holes and cracks remained and continued to develop. In spite of the unsightly appearance they gave, and the altogether uneven planes from which they stood, they were perhaps the best paths by which to travel, if only because they were the only roads that remained. From what roadways continued and were remembered by those traveling, it was enough that one could bear in mind a semblance of reference for navigational purpose, and to find ones path as well as where one was going. It served the mercenary well enough in his usual travels, though it wasn't something he used to partake in the enjoyment of the scenery. This loner had a job to do; track down a raider colloquially known as “Black Barnum,” and summarily put a bullet through his head, regardless of what risks may be involved. He'd travel the length of the road that led through to what remained of “New Haven,” and from there head north east, towards the killing fields. It'd be nice, truth be told. To get back to New Haven, rejoice with those few he cared to associate with as friends in this brave new world. Rub shoulders with the fellows whilst he'd drink deep of the local flavor, served graciously in what was usually a grime ridden fractured glass. A short session of restful solace before setting out into the heat of the wasteland to pursue his query.
All in all, it was a long and lonely road to New Haven, one joined by a fell wind and paved with the blood of ones enemies.
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9 years, 11 months ago
03 May 2014 23:32 CEST
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