The Swamps
Jul. 13th, 2013 06:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aaaaaaaagh_skyThe light that streamed through the door of the barely-still-standing swamp shack had a golden, welcoming hue to it. Star Paladin Cross resolutely looked the other way until it had faded from the edges of her vision. "Well?" she said when she heard the rattletrap hinges' squeak fade away.
"Almost certainly not sentient, or even intelligent," came Paladin 101's answer. "I had two different scientists dissect the head and they both said the same thing."
"Good," said Cross. "Have you eaten yet?"
"No."
"Want to?"
"Sure."
There was a blur of light on the eastern horizon, for all that the sun was setting in the west. "I see blue," 101 reported, sniffing the air. Her goggles gleamed faintly in the slanting evening light. "Smoke smell."
"Probably means there's people," said Cross. "Unless there's something else here that can make fires. I'm not finding any sign of our people at all. Unless you've got some other kind of scent trail-"
"I don't."
"-then we're changing our course. Regardless of Tobar's idea of directions."
There was another shack this time, this one larger, better kept. Its wooden walls were sagging, half-rotted things- in places. In other places it had been patched and repaired, and recently, by the look of the wood. Cross took that for a good sign. Someone was-
SPANG!
-apparently setting traps in the area, if the metal-and-muck blob clinging to 101’s left ankle was anything to go by.
There were several Brothers back at the Citadel who made a practice of painting markings on their armor to indicate how many of a given kind of foe they’d brought down. Stick figures for humans such as raiders or Enclave soldiers, larger green stick figures for supermutants, rotted-looking hands for feral ghouls, stylized swooping marks for deathclaws- things like that.
Cross didn’t pursue the practice herself. It would’ve marked up far too much of her armor. But she couldn’t help but wonder how one went about representing ‘three bipedal mutant catfish, two enormous spotty green mirelurks, a trio of swimming hairy mole rats, and something green, gilled, and prone to spitting corrosive liquid’.
The yao guai didn’t count, even if it was close to twice the size of a Capital Wasteland yao guai. It looked at them, tried to sniff Dogmeat, and ran away.
There was light up ahead now, for certain. The swamp … waters? Muds? It was hard to settle on the right word… well, the all but impassable, trackless muck was starting to give way to more solid ground. True, there were armpit-deep pools all around, and a trail of current that fed off into some larger stream in the distance, but the land was starting to reclaim itself properly from the waters here. If there were any place at all that they might pick up Whydah and Morgan’s tracks in the area, it was going to be here. Cross heaved a sigh of relief.
101 heaved herself out of one of the muck pockets, muttering under her breath; she adjusted her goggles and began to scan the area. “There’s been people here, all right,” she said after a moment. “Recently, I think. It’s not a strong trail but it hasn’t been washed away or overwhelmed.”
She gestured to Dogmeat and pointed to a spot of turf that looked, to Cross’s eyes, like any other. The dog bent his head and sniffed at the ground. Then he whurfed, a low, brusque sound, even for him. It reminded Cross of her old instructor back at Lost Hills, twenty-five years and several thousand miles away.
“Dangerous, boy?” said 101.
Dogmeat whurfed again. This time he bared his teeth.
Without a word 101 turned to give Cross a hand out of the muck and onto the stable ground. There was no need for speech. What could either of them say besides something is coming, be ready?
A snuffling and a crackling noise from off to the left caught Cross’s attention. She reached over her shoulder for her laser rifle. The source of the sound showed itself a moment later: two massive, dark forms, beasts of shag and bone and upward-pointing… what was the word for a tooth that wasn’t a fang? Tusk, maybe? Something like that. Their red, glittering eyes were tiny, harder to spot in that bristly face than a mirelurk’s mouth, and their noses were weirdly flat-ended. A long ridge of muscle and hair and protruding bone ran up from the backs of their heads over massive shoulder-humps of muscle, and then down again to shaggy, spotted hindquarters. They reminded Cross of something- some beast out of an old book, perhaps. But whatever the creature was in the book, it was never so large as these things. One might easily picture the men of the world before the War riding such creatures into battle.
Dogmeat stayed by his handler’s side and quietly began to growl.
Before either Cross or 101 could speak, an upright figure came forward. It took a moment to recognize it as human; it… no, she, Cross was almost sure it was female… was covered in dozens of loose strips of fabric and rolled fiber and bark, all dangling from what Cross sincerely hoped was a layer of cloth rather than skin. If her face weren’t bare Cross would have taken her for some kind of mutant plant creature. She cocked her head and eyed Cross and 101. “I don’t know who you are, nor do I care,” she said. Her voice was light and clear, and she spoke like someone accustomed to making herself heard through thick vegetation and obstacles. “This place is ours. You are not welcome here.”
Cross stepped forward, her hand away from the rifle. “My apologies, ma’am,” she said. “We don’t-“
The woman lifted her chin sharply. One of the tusk creatures lowered its head as if making ready to charge. “I said I did not care. Did you not hear?” the woman said. “You came into our swamps without our leave. What business you may have I do not know- and less I could not care. Turn, now, and go.”
“We’re only passing through,” said 101 suddenly. “Trying to find comrades of ours who went missing, and get them out of your lands.”
“That’s right,” Cross said. “You’re the first human we’ve seen here. We had no way of asking leave before this.”
The woman sniffed. “If friends you had, then I suggest you mourn,” she said. “Though I’ve not seen another like yourself. Such armor and such arms I would recall; there’s no one wears their like upon these lands.”
”Within these lands is more like it,” 101 muttered.
Cross just shook her head and turned to the woman. “Are your people the tribe that trades with Tobar? The boatman, who comes to buy punga fruit?”
“No,” said the woman without hesitation. “My people make no trade with such as he. If punga’s what you seek, you’ve traveled wrong. Turn now and travel east, but leave us be. We seek no quarrel, only to- oh shit.”
Cross would have sworn they were far enough away from the swamp waters to be safe. Apparently the mutant catfish begged to differ. That or quite a few of them were just very, very good at moving quietly on land.
Either way, she reached for her supersledge, and 101 drew her sword. Time to fight.
"Almost certainly not sentient, or even intelligent," came Paladin 101's answer. "I had two different scientists dissect the head and they both said the same thing."
"Good," said Cross. "Have you eaten yet?"
"No."
"Want to?"
"Sure."
There was a blur of light on the eastern horizon, for all that the sun was setting in the west. "I see blue," 101 reported, sniffing the air. Her goggles gleamed faintly in the slanting evening light. "Smoke smell."
"Probably means there's people," said Cross. "Unless there's something else here that can make fires. I'm not finding any sign of our people at all. Unless you've got some other kind of scent trail-"
"I don't."
"-then we're changing our course. Regardless of Tobar's idea of directions."
There was another shack this time, this one larger, better kept. Its wooden walls were sagging, half-rotted things- in places. In other places it had been patched and repaired, and recently, by the look of the wood. Cross took that for a good sign. Someone was-
SPANG!
-apparently setting traps in the area, if the metal-and-muck blob clinging to 101’s left ankle was anything to go by.
There were several Brothers back at the Citadel who made a practice of painting markings on their armor to indicate how many of a given kind of foe they’d brought down. Stick figures for humans such as raiders or Enclave soldiers, larger green stick figures for supermutants, rotted-looking hands for feral ghouls, stylized swooping marks for deathclaws- things like that.
Cross didn’t pursue the practice herself. It would’ve marked up far too much of her armor. But she couldn’t help but wonder how one went about representing ‘three bipedal mutant catfish, two enormous spotty green mirelurks, a trio of swimming hairy mole rats, and something green, gilled, and prone to spitting corrosive liquid’.
The yao guai didn’t count, even if it was close to twice the size of a Capital Wasteland yao guai. It looked at them, tried to sniff Dogmeat, and ran away.
There was light up ahead now, for certain. The swamp … waters? Muds? It was hard to settle on the right word… well, the all but impassable, trackless muck was starting to give way to more solid ground. True, there were armpit-deep pools all around, and a trail of current that fed off into some larger stream in the distance, but the land was starting to reclaim itself properly from the waters here. If there were any place at all that they might pick up Whydah and Morgan’s tracks in the area, it was going to be here. Cross heaved a sigh of relief.
101 heaved herself out of one of the muck pockets, muttering under her breath; she adjusted her goggles and began to scan the area. “There’s been people here, all right,” she said after a moment. “Recently, I think. It’s not a strong trail but it hasn’t been washed away or overwhelmed.”
She gestured to Dogmeat and pointed to a spot of turf that looked, to Cross’s eyes, like any other. The dog bent his head and sniffed at the ground. Then he whurfed, a low, brusque sound, even for him. It reminded Cross of her old instructor back at Lost Hills, twenty-five years and several thousand miles away.
“Dangerous, boy?” said 101.
Dogmeat whurfed again. This time he bared his teeth.
Without a word 101 turned to give Cross a hand out of the muck and onto the stable ground. There was no need for speech. What could either of them say besides something is coming, be ready?
A snuffling and a crackling noise from off to the left caught Cross’s attention. She reached over her shoulder for her laser rifle. The source of the sound showed itself a moment later: two massive, dark forms, beasts of shag and bone and upward-pointing… what was the word for a tooth that wasn’t a fang? Tusk, maybe? Something like that. Their red, glittering eyes were tiny, harder to spot in that bristly face than a mirelurk’s mouth, and their noses were weirdly flat-ended. A long ridge of muscle and hair and protruding bone ran up from the backs of their heads over massive shoulder-humps of muscle, and then down again to shaggy, spotted hindquarters. They reminded Cross of something- some beast out of an old book, perhaps. But whatever the creature was in the book, it was never so large as these things. One might easily picture the men of the world before the War riding such creatures into battle.
Dogmeat stayed by his handler’s side and quietly began to growl.
Before either Cross or 101 could speak, an upright figure came forward. It took a moment to recognize it as human; it… no, she, Cross was almost sure it was female… was covered in dozens of loose strips of fabric and rolled fiber and bark, all dangling from what Cross sincerely hoped was a layer of cloth rather than skin. If her face weren’t bare Cross would have taken her for some kind of mutant plant creature. She cocked her head and eyed Cross and 101. “I don’t know who you are, nor do I care,” she said. Her voice was light and clear, and she spoke like someone accustomed to making herself heard through thick vegetation and obstacles. “This place is ours. You are not welcome here.”
Cross stepped forward, her hand away from the rifle. “My apologies, ma’am,” she said. “We don’t-“
The woman lifted her chin sharply. One of the tusk creatures lowered its head as if making ready to charge. “I said I did not care. Did you not hear?” the woman said. “You came into our swamps without our leave. What business you may have I do not know- and less I could not care. Turn, now, and go.”
“We’re only passing through,” said 101 suddenly. “Trying to find comrades of ours who went missing, and get them out of your lands.”
“That’s right,” Cross said. “You’re the first human we’ve seen here. We had no way of asking leave before this.”
The woman sniffed. “If friends you had, then I suggest you mourn,” she said. “Though I’ve not seen another like yourself. Such armor and such arms I would recall; there’s no one wears their like upon these lands.”
”Within these lands is more like it,” 101 muttered.
Cross just shook her head and turned to the woman. “Are your people the tribe that trades with Tobar? The boatman, who comes to buy punga fruit?”
“No,” said the woman without hesitation. “My people make no trade with such as he. If punga’s what you seek, you’ve traveled wrong. Turn now and travel east, but leave us be. We seek no quarrel, only to- oh shit.”
Cross would have sworn they were far enough away from the swamp waters to be safe. Apparently the mutant catfish begged to differ. That or quite a few of them were just very, very good at moving quietly on land.
Either way, she reached for her supersledge, and 101 drew her sword. Time to fight.