aaaaaaaagh_sky | Voodoo

"Hmmm... well, there's Two-Bears-High-Fiving, and there's the shaman, and-"

"Numbers, pal," interrupts Hector. "We don't need to know everybody's name."

"Oh. Forty or fifty men, then. And about that many women, but I don't know how many children there are."

[The number given is an approximate guess at best and is almost certainly wrong, but it seemed a better idea to cite something than to simply handwave.]

"And I'm guessing the White Legs have more." He sucks air through his teeth. "You're up shit creek, bro. You got a plan?"

"You'd better ask Joshua about that," says Follows-Chalk. "I'm still a junior hunter. He's the war leader." He nods ahead, to where the river widens and the canyon walls pull back on either side. "He's just up ahead there, in Angel Cave."

It's dark in Angel Cave. It feels surprisingly moist, too - cave fungi line the walls, and every few paces are a group of tribals huddled around a fire, talking amongst themselves and sharpening weapons. Fawkes gets more than a few looks from them, but that can't be helped.

The dude their eyes are all drawn to is sitting at a table in one of the larger caverns, field-stripping and cleaning what looks like, if not a M1911A1, then a very good clone of one. Guarding the entrance is the biggest tribal in the cave - he's got six inches and sixty pounds on Voodoo, easy, and he looks down his nose at him, glaring as he crosses his arms over his massive chest.

"You show respect, owslandr," he says. "Or he show you thunder and fire."

Voodoo's response is a lazy thumbs-up. "Got it, dude."

The tribal's eyes narrow. After a moment, he steps aside, allowing Voodoo through.

"You must be Joshua."

The bandaged figure glances up and nods, though he pauses less than a second in his attention to the weapon at hand. "We should have given you a better welcome on your first visit to Zion," he says, "but from what I hear the White Legs beat us to it. White Legs seem to be the only visitor we have these days, although I'd heard rumors a few people from the Mojave might have come looking for us."

He checks the gun over and sets it aside, then picks up another weapon to begin working with.

"I don't suppose you encountered a courier in your travels?"

"Didn't see nobody I'd call a courier."

About those pistols: there's a lot of them on the table. None of them are in mint, like-new, or even particularly good condition - in fact, some of them look the "guaranteed to go bang once" type, but they're passable for the most part.

"Why, you expecting a delivery?"

"A message, more likely, but the courier I was expecting to see follows his own time-table." Joshua moves on to another pistol. "Assuming he's safe at all, of course. I pray for the safety of all good people who come to Zion, even Gentiles, but we can't expect God to do all the work. What brings you here?"

And here Voodoo hesitates a little bit, because this far out west, this close to Legion territory - you can't be a hundred percent sure where people's loyalties lie.

"Got word of a problem in the Mojave called Caesar's Legion. Whole bunch of bad dudes - making a habit out of enslaving the locals, conscripting tribes, killing anybody who resists, you get the picture. We-"

And here he turns to gesture to the group.

"-are the problem-solvers. 'cept we got caught up here on our way to Vegas."

Edited 2015-11-03 19:44 (UTC)

"Is that so?" One gets the impression that if there were eyebrows left behind those bandages, one of them would be rising now. "You do come from a long way off, then. Otherwise I'd imagine you'd have heard about what the White Legs did to New Canaan, as part of Caesar's price to let them join."

Hector mutters something; the bandaged man's eyes narrow. "Tell your companion there that I don't test people with falsehoods. New Canaan is no more- undoubtedly because of me- and the Legion is waiting on the White Legs to finish their campaign of blood and fire before extending their reach into these valleys."

Edited 2015-11-03 19:59 (UTC)

Voodoo holds a hand up in what he hopes is still the universal signal for "dudes, chill" before pulling up a nearby chair and sitting opposite the table from Joshua.

"If those White Legs have half their numbers in brains, they'll have bottled up the valley by now. We're good, but we can't leave with the terrain giving them that big an edge. Even if we could, they're Legion proxies, and from what you say, the Legion itself ain't far behind. Figure you know how I feel about those kinda guys."

He leans back in the chair, regarding Joshua for a moment more.

"Looks like that puts us on the same side."

He points a thumb at his chest. "I'm Voodoo. That's Fawkes, Josepha, Al, Hector, and Kate. We ain't much for numbers, but we've got lots of gear and lots of fights under our belts."

Graham considers this, although neither his hands nor his attention to the cleaning and stripping of the stack of pistols before him so much as falters. "Even with the White Legs broken, you would still need maps or a guide to find your way out of the area," he says. "The good news is that once that happens, we can help with that. Daniel, one of the other New Canaanites, has made many maps of the region. For good neighbors such as yourselves, he'd share them once the fighting was done and the smoke cleared. It would be wise, though, for us to prepare for an evacuation. In the event something went wrong, we'd need pre-War tools to help us navigate beyond Zion. Whether they came from you or from one of the places here in Zion that the Dead Horses or the Sorrows consider taboo-"

He shrugs.

"Well. So long as they function. A route should be prepared for the people, no matter how experienced or skillful their defenders might be."

"'Pre-War tools'. We talking compasses, shit like that? 'cause we got those."

To prove his point, he digs into a pouch on his chest rig before producing one, holding it up to the light for Joshua to see.

"Compasses, yes." Graham leans forward to peer more closely at the compass. "Not bad. I suppose it would be excessively providential to hope that you might have communications hardware and an emergency medical supply kit to spare? Follows-Chalk would be able to guide you to the most likely places to find substitutes if that's the case."

"We got headsets and pocket radios," Voodoo says, tapping the mike running along the side of his face. "Blowout kits, too, but nothing we can spare."

"Understandable," says Graham. "In that case, I'd like to ask your assistance in securing enough of those supplies from the old facilities to meet our people's needs before any other moves get made. I'm afraid I can only offer you Follows-Chalk's help- the other Dead Horses won't go near the remaining pre-War buildings. The Sorrows believe in a spirit that lives in the caves here, say the spirit punished them once for trespassing. They put marks around the cave entrances and the old buildings to keep people out. It doesn't work on the White Legs, of course, but the Dead Horses are spooked. Follows-Chalk may be inexperienced compared to the rest of them, but he knows enough of our language to ignore the taboos about pre-War buildings."

Voodoo nods, once, and stands. "Guess we better get to it."

Joshua's bodyguard glares at Voodoo as he passes by on the way to his group.

"It'll be a different ballgame after sundown - we need to move light and fast. Hector, Josepha, you're with me. Fawkes, Al, Kate, you stay here and standby in case the White Legs move on this place. Help Joshua if he asks, but otherwise, just sit tight and wait for word. Hooyah?"

"Can do," rumbles Fawkes, and the humans nod along with him. "Good hunting, Voodoo."

There's a patter of feet as Follows-Chalk trots up to the group. "I just got told I'm gonna go with you," he says. "What are we looking for today?"

"Comm gear and medical kits," Voodoo says, changing out his carbine's magazine for a fully-loaded one from his vest. "Joshua says you know where to find that stuff in the valley. He right?"

The young tribal purses his lips for a moment, then nods. "North and west of here," he says. "I saw an old building once, with the hand mark on it that keeps the Sorrows out. There's things in there that look like what you want. Gotta be careful getting there, though."

"Oh yeah?"

Keeping the muzzle pointed at the cave floor, Voodoo pulls the bolt halfway - indeed, a round is chambered and ready.

"Careful why? White Legs, wildlife...?"

"Things that live there, mostly," says Follows-Chalk. "Bigger geckos. Sometimes yao guai. Sometimes green things you don't ever get to see too well before they drag somebody off and you never see them again."

Such is postnuclear armageddon life, huh?

"We'll keep an eye out. You know the way, so you're on point."

Beat.

"You know - taking the lead."

"Okey-doke," says Follows-Chalk brightly, in that faintly stiff manner you only really get from someone who's just sure they're using somebody else's words properly. "Let's get moving."

As they head out he notes quietly, "Lots of Back When places to choose from just in case, but for the things we need, best to start with the really closed up places. Three I know of: a building down by the river called a "Fishing Lodge," the old ranger station in the northwest, and the general store right by it. Probably the general store's the best one."

A few quick hand signals from Voodoo, and the group forms a wedge as they head back out into the canyon.

"You know this valley, we don't. General store it is."

The route Follows-Chalk takes used to be a winding trail for hikers; there are reflective circles hammered into the trees every so often, where there isn't a visible beaten path underfoot. Now and again Chalk stops the group to let something pass. Herbivores, usually, at least if the enormous sheep-like things he calls bighorners haven't taken up eating meat in the years since the War. Arachnids at times, too- "Watch out for those little brown scorpions," he mutters as something the size of a middle school child scuttles by. "They won't kill you, but you'll be seeing funny for hours after, and you'll be hurting for days."

Josepha wrinkles her nose. "Is there a treatment for that?"

"Oh, sure, but I only got enough for one person," says Chalk. "The shaman's got more if we need to take you back."

"Great."

The path continues, winding upwards over a hill to rejoin the cracked remains of a road wide enough for cars. A battered sign to one side reads CAM GR UND.

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