I'm bored. Might as well write a wasteland story.
update: I have not moved in an hour
Thu Mar 03, 2022 6:43 pm
Thu Mar 03, 2022 8:27 pm
Thu Mar 03, 2022 8:43 pm
The more the merrier.
I'd love to see more of Loken. I think I've namedropped him once or twice, but considering where his story left off it didn't seem appropriate to use him in crowd scenes or anything like that.AgentHellion wrote: ↑Thu Mar 03, 2022 5:01 pmI wanted his character to be allowed to be use by others for their stories. I might consider scrapping the first Loken story and doing another one l, since I no longer have all the resources I was originally using. But we'll see.
Thu Mar 03, 2022 10:19 pm
Fri Mar 04, 2022 12:17 am
Upon the ashen fields of the wasteland trod a lone wanderer, his path known not, his boots guiding his path as a trail of ghosts followed him. The barren desert laid itself out before his imposing figure, hills and dunes of radiated sand and dirt, mountains of burnt out cars from the Old Ages. the darkness engulfed the wanderer, and slunk away as he activated his flashlight, its white beams illuminating the grim darkness.
‘You know you cannot run forever,” the voices whispered from the pitch black earth.
‘Embrace what haunts you...”
Adjusting his mask, the man coughed, inhaling fumes. “I know my past, daemon. I will not embrace it while there is still a good fight to fight.”
“Your time has come, vieil homme. Know this before the end.”
“Leave me be, fantôme. I will not carry your sins further.”
The man rested beneath the bombed out corpse of a car, placing his backpack down upon the loose soil. He placed his rifle on the ground, first checking his box of ammunition and confirming his hunting rifle was loaded, and then quickly set to building a fire, gathering dry leaves and twigs into a pile before lighting a match from his matchbook. Few matches remained, six he counted indeed, Dropping the match into the pile, a small fire roared to life, hanging onto its pitiful existence. Removing his gloves to warm his bruised hands, the man removed a small can from his backpack, and opening it sat it near the fire for several moments before taking a small metal spoon and eating the contents. The car he rested beneath was an old government suburban, riddled with bullet holes, bones, and dark dried matter he believed to be brain matter. A small colt .45 pistol lay on the rough ground, covered in dust and dirt. Grabbing the pistol, the man ejected the magazine to examine its ammunition, it held five rusty bullets, and one additionally in the chamber. Slipping it into his backpack, the man laid his head against the most concave surface he could find: a dirtied car door. As the moon rose over the dark clouds of radiation, the man finished his can of beans, and stuffed the spoon into his bag before pulling his hood over his mask and laying his head back to sleep. Sleep conquered his weary soul, and he slipped into a series of dreams…
The sky is red as the man runs through the shadows, black mists lashing out at him. Screaming, hissing, tears and taunting laughter and jests fill the air as he runs. The ground is rotten, overgrown with red plants, and bones lay spread among the long vines, tripping and grabbing his feet. Lightning flashes, bright red and illuminating the darkness while red acetic rain peltered the man. At every skull he looks down upon he hears only the taunts, the fearful screaming of his friends appear and dissolve..
“You…betrayed….. us….Thomas!!” they hiss, echoing in the strange blood red night. A moon lingers above him as he sprints through the fields of skulls, while the shadows grasp at him, tugging, tearing, grabbing.
“You….failed…us...”
“I didn’t know this would happen! I had to save myself!” the man barks back, fear edging his voice as he screams the words at the formless mists. The voices shriek, freakish sounds that no human is capable of producing. They are high pitched and dreadful, the voices of damned souls long lost to a fate worse than death.
‘I… I saved them! It was you, or them!” the man shouts again, darting past a massive pillar of vines.
“Where…did…that…. .lead…you?” the voices rasp. The man’s stomach drops as the dreadful memories pursue his innermost thoughts, the rancid death and disease and degeneracy that followed, the fates beyond all moral comprehension.
“You…chose…yourself…Thomas!” the voices roar again, filling the air, spreading and spreading, engulfing all that is around the man, demonic and despairing and terrifying. The Vines move and shudder, the bones shake and rattle, the moon shines bright as blood and the sky dark as coal, ashen and grim and empty. The vines rise forth from the ground, forming themselves into masses and shaping into humanoids. The man stops in his tracks, and reaches to his belt in instinct for his sidearm.
“You.. have no gun…. To run to… Thomas..” a deep voice hearkens.
“It is…you…and… us.”
The vines took hold of the man, pushing him to his knees, and grab his scalp, pulling his head back as a shadowy figure takes form in front of him.
“This…is the…end… EMBRACE IT.” the form screams, its deep voice resonating and reverberating in the deepest pits of this demonic hellscape, and it reaches towards the man’s head, a blade forming from blackness and decipherable only by the red accents and red lightning, and it raises the blade, readying a killing stab when…
A bullet ricocheted off the car frame, the loud boom and discharge of a distant rifle jolting the man awake. The man, in alarm, quickly grabbed his rifle as a second bullet pings off the metal.
“There! Get his loot!” a dry voice shouted as another loud boom followed. Footsteps, heavy boots, ran off to the west. Adjusting his rifle’s scoop, the man peeks up beyond his hiding hole, and ducked back down upon seeing his foes. A group of rowdy men, dressed in overalls and black trousers, stood on a small ridge to his east. One held a large rifle, equipped with a large scope and bayonet, while two more held small sidearms and were dashing towards him. Readying his rifle, the man prepared for the first of the bandits, flicking off the safety and hiding beside the car door. In a moment the first man came around the south of the car. Before the enemy could comprehend the attack, the man fired his rifle quickly, knocking the man back with a loud thud and echoing boom. The second man came around the north of the car, and seeing his dead comrade faltered. The man rushed forth from his hiding place, knocking his foe to the ground with a strong and sudden tackle, and both firearms fell to the dirt. The bandit punched and kicked, smacking the metal filter of the man’s gas mask, but the bandit was no match for the man. In a brief second the man punched his enemy hard, knocking him out, and stood up, drawing his pistol, he finished the bandit. Picking up his rifle again, he stood by the battered hood of the car, the paint chipped, readied it and took aim. The bandit fired off several more rounds, hitting the rusted metal. The man took a deep breath, and exhaled. His gloved hands squeezed the metal trigger, the recoil knocking him back slightly as a mist of blood penetrated his foe. Sitting down again, he sighed.
“What….is…the problem... Thomas? Don’t like…killing? This…harbor of ghosts... too much for you?”
Fri Mar 04, 2022 12:36 am
81Ceta_Deta wrote: ↑Fri Mar 04, 2022 12:17 amshort story I threw together in a few hours. interpret it as you may. thoughts/criticism welcome.
This is great are you gonna make more?
Upon the ashen fields of the wasteland trod a lone wanderer, his path known not, his boots guiding his path as a trail of ghosts followed him. The barren desert laid itself out before his imposing figure, hills and dunes of radiated sand and dirt, mountains of burnt out cars from the Old Ages. the darkness engulfed the wanderer, and slunk away as he activated his flashlight, its white beams illuminating the grim darkness.
‘You know you cannot run forever,” the voices whispered from the pitch black earth.
‘Embrace what haunts you...”
Adjusting his mask, the man coughed, inhaling fumes. “I know my past, daemon. I will not embrace it while there is still a good fight to fight.”
“Your time has come, vieil homme. Know this before the end.”
“Leave me be, fantôme. I will not carry your sins further.”
The man rested beneath the bombed out corpse of a car, placing his backpack down upon the loose soil. He placed his rifle on the ground, first checking his box of ammunition and confirming his hunting rifle was loaded, and then quickly set to building a fire, gathering dry leaves and twigs into a pile before lighting a match from his matchbook. Few matches remained, six he counted indeed, Dropping the match into the pile, a small fire roared to life, hanging onto its pitiful existence. Removing his gloves to warm his bruised hands, the man removed a small can from his backpack, and opening it sat it near the fire for several moments before taking a small metal spoon and eating the contents. The car he rested beneath was an old government suburban, riddled with bullet holes, bones, and dark dried matter he believed to be brain matter. A small colt .45 pistol lay on the rough ground, covered in dust and dirt. Grabbing the pistol, the man ejected the magazine to examine its ammunition, it held five rusty bullets, and one additionally in the chamber. Slipping it into his backpack, the man laid his head against the most concave surface he could find: a dirtied car door. As the moon rose over the dark clouds of radiation, the man finished his can of beans, and stuffed the spoon into his bag before pulling his hood over his mask and laying his head back to sleep. Sleep conquered his weary soul, and he slipped into a series of dreams…
The sky is red as the man runs through the shadows, black mists lashing out at him. Screaming, hissing, tears and taunting laughter and jests fill the air as he runs. The ground is rotten, overgrown with red plants, and bones lay spread among the long vines, tripping and grabbing his feet. Lightning flashes, bright red and illuminating the darkness while red acetic rain peltered the man. At every skull he looks down upon he hears only the taunts, the fearful screaming of his friends appear and dissolve..
“You…betrayed….. us….Thomas!!” they hiss, echoing in the strange blood red night. A moon lingers above him as he sprints through the fields of skulls, while the shadows grasp at him, tugging, tearing, grabbing.
“You….failed…us...”
“I didn’t know this would happen! I had to save myself!” the man barks back, fear edging his voice as he screams the words at the formless mists. The voices shriek, freakish sounds that no human is capable of producing. They are high pitched and dreadful, the voices of damned souls long lost to a fate worse than death.
‘I… I saved them! It was you, or them!” the man shouts again, darting past a massive pillar of vines.
“Where…did…that…. .lead…you?” the voices rasp. The man’s stomach drops as the dreadful memories pursue his innermost thoughts, the rancid death and disease and degeneracy that followed, the fates beyond all moral comprehension.
“You…chose…yourself…Thomas!” the voices roar again, filling the air, spreading and spreading, engulfing all that is around the man, demonic and despairing and terrifying. The Vines move and shudder, the bones shake and rattle, the moon shines bright as blood and the sky dark as coal, ashen and grim and empty. The vines rise forth from the ground, forming themselves into masses and shaping into humanoids. The man stops in his tracks, and reaches to his belt in instinct for his sidearm.
“You.. have no gun…. To run to… Thomas..” a deep voice hearkens.
“It is…you…and… us.”
The vines took hold of the man, pushing him to his knees, and grab his scalp, pulling his head back as a shadowy figure takes form in front of him.
“This…is the…end… EMBRACE IT.” the form screams, its deep voice resonating and reverberating in the deepest pits of this demonic hellscape, and it reaches towards the man’s head, a blade forming from blackness and decipherable only by the red accents and red lightning, and it raises the blade, readying a killing stab when…
A bullet ricocheted off the car frame, the loud boom and discharge of a distant rifle jolting the man awake. The man, in alarm, quickly grabbed his rifle as a second bullet pings off the metal.
“There! Get his loot!” a dry voice shouted as another loud boom followed. Footsteps, heavy boots, ran off to the west. Adjusting his rifle’s scoop, the man peeks up beyond his hiding hole, and ducked back down upon seeing his foes. A group of rowdy men, dressed in overalls and black trousers, stood on a small ridge to his east. One held a large rifle, equipped with a large scope and bayonet, while two more held small sidearms and were dashing towards him. Readying his rifle, the man prepared for the first of the bandits, flicking off the safety and hiding beside the car door. In a moment the first man came around the south of the car. Before the enemy could comprehend the attack, the man fired his rifle quickly, knocking the man back with a loud thud and echoing boom. The second man came around the north of the car, and seeing his dead comrade faltered. The man rushed forth from his hiding place, knocking his foe to the ground with a strong and sudden tackle, and both firearms fell to the dirt. The bandit punched and kicked, smacking the metal filter of the man’s gas mask, but the bandit was no match for the man. In a brief second the man punched his enemy hard, knocking him out, and stood up, drawing his pistol, he finished the bandit. Picking up his rifle again, he stood by the battered hood of the car, the paint chipped, readied it and took aim. The bandit fired off several more rounds, hitting the rusted metal. The man took a deep breath, and exhaled. His gloved hands squeezed the metal trigger, the recoil knocking him back slightly as a mist of blood penetrated his foe. Sitting down again, he sighed.
“What….is…the problem... Thomas? Don’t like…killing? This…harbor of ghosts... too much for you?”
Fri Mar 04, 2022 8:42 am
Return to “Roleplay & Fanfiction”
