[center][img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/935994562026016780/1042155323756130407/WalkerHeadPic.png[/img]
[h3]My Empire of Dirt[/h3][/center]
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[b]Walker's Farm[/b]
[i]Whitlash[/i]

A blade bit the earth with a hungry [i]crunch[/i], chewing the dirt in a mindless rhythm. The hoe swept the little pile of pebbles and sand to one side, shaking it out over evenly spaced mounds. [i]Crunch.[/i] Atop the mounds, tall stalks of corn shivered in the chill morning breeze. The sun would soon warm them, but only a few sparse golden ears would receive the life giving light this late into the season, maturing just in time for one last harvest. Still, the fields had been kept free of weeds and Mole-Rats all this time, no matter the yield. [i]Crunch.[/i]

Walker paused when he reached the end of the row, leaning one elbow on the hoe as he turned to look over his handiwork. A half-acre of corn, the mutant hybrid fruit known as tatos, the modified Razorgrain wheat, and carrots stretched between him and a quaint little farmhouse. This was his home, now, and one could see by the orderliness of the rows, the trimmed bushes and a single pruned Mutfruit tree that he spent a great deal of time taking care of the place. He had never understood why, more than a century after the bombs dropped, so many houses still looked like collapsing, half-rotted trash heaps. Over the last five years, he'd taken an axe to the plentiful forests around Whitlash--a single solid oak could get you well over a hundred board-foot of lumber--and by hand split, sawed, and sanded enough planks, posts, and trim to replace parts of the porch, the stairs, the floor, and a big hole in one of the walls. With slaked limestone and a few bits and bobs, he'd whitewashed the whole thing too--after a good, thorough scrubbing, and sweeping out all the dead leaves and piles of refuse. Sure, maybe the average folk--except maybe Vault Dwellers--didn't have education or proper tools much anymore...but why not just learn things the old fashioned way, through trial and error?

[i]Too busy surviving, probably.[/i] On that thought, Walker spat and picked up his hoe again. But before the crunch, he heard a new sound...the rumble of a truck, coming back from the river. The leather-skinned man watched them from beneath the patched rim of his old hat. [i]Ol' Nicholas don't usually come back that quick...[/i] Then again, they didn't need as much fish as the "mayor" usually hauled back anymore--with the last harvest on the horizon, the farmers didn't need as much Indian-style fertilizer. Walker thought it wasteful, but who was he to deny someone their hobbies? He knew perfectly well the need to take one's mind off things--and with that thought, he spat again.

Not long after he started down the next row, crunching away, he heard the truck stop near the town hall. He also heard that dang-blasted generator start up. Walker was as carnivorous as the next red-blooded American, but he didn't know why David insisted on using that fuel-drinkin', noise-makin', foul-smellin' contraption instead of salting or smoking his kills. Nonetheless, he continued to plough. Best not to concern himself with what other folk did or didn't do. Best to just take care of his own, as best he could. His own little farm, his own little house, his own rickety, no-good, little-older-every-day self...

His empire of dirt. Best to just take care of it...because no matter how much he'd like to trade it, no price could soothe the hurt...
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[b]Town Hall[/b]
[i]Whitlash[/i]

A few hours later, Walker entered the town hall among the rest of the townsfolk. David, still covered in blood, sat up front with a sour look on his face. Had the hunt not gone well after all? The boy could've at least dunked himself or wiped off before he came over. Another young fella, Conor, stood near a row of seats with a book in hand--no, not a book, [i]the[/i] Book. Good, at least he had the right one this time. But that meant the rest of those Mormons couldn't be far behind him. Walker's lip curled, but he took off his hat as he crossed the threshold and took the sweaty handkerchief off his neck, hastily shoving it into a back pocket. Unlike the missionary who wanted for others to be seated, and the hunter who wanted to be right at the front of the action, Walker moved to a corner at the back of the hall and stood against it with his arms crossed. From here he had a good view out of the windows on one side of the building as well as the whole of the interior--and anyone who walked through the doors, while they might not see Walker himself unless they turned their heads. Most would probably be offput by his silence and expression. Some of the more experienced folk, who had seen a gunfight or two in their lives, might also realize the significance of such a position.

[i]If I had the caps to bet, it's Raiders...[/i] The old man tapped his foot. He needed to start taking his late-night walks again--even after all these years, he couldn't let himself get complacent.