[center][b]Another "End of the World" Role-play [ReLoAdEd][/b][/center]

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Dorjan stood a few yards from an old city bus dating back to pre-war times. With no less than a half dozen hunting rifles aimed at different parts of his body, he got a feeling of unease from the militia, dedicated to guarding this settlement. Dorjan's gaze was drawn to a man standing on top of the bus, directly ahead of him. From his appearance and stature, it was safe to assume that this was the leader of the militia. Clothed in a dirty, red knee-length jacket, blue, worn, mud-ridden jeans, black work shoes and a white hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head. This man was certainly the best dressed of the militia to say the least, he was also the only one with an AK-47 assault rifle and the only man not to be pointing a gun at him, rather having it slung over his back. Dorjan, examining this man in what seemed like an eternal silence, also noticed the courier bag slung over his shoulder, khaki in color, his grey, messy beard of a decent length, unkempt and the lit cigarette between the man's pursed lips.

"What's your business with Aurora's End... Stranger?" The man asked, his left hand staying firm in his coat pocket, while his right raised to grip the strap of the rifle.

"Refuge!" Dorjan replied, an authoritative volume to his voice so as to make sure he would be heard.

"Refuge you say?" The man asked before a pause, other members of the militia began to murmur among themselves although their body language indicated they were more relaxed by Dorjan's admittance. "You sure don't look like a refugee." The man paused again to allow the now spent cigarette butt to fall from between his lips before stubbing it out with the heel of his shoe. "If it weren't for the fact that you're not carrying no fancy weapon, I'd be inclined to say you look like more of a bandit."

Dorjan paused before giving a reply, his left hand tugged at the gas mask hanging around his mask before allowing his rucksack to slip from his shoulder down to his right hand, the same hand that had been firmly gripping his hatchet. Dropping both to the ground, he held up his hands for a brief moment before resting them down by his sides as the dust settled around his bag and ax. "I'm not looking for a fight, and I'm not looking for no trouble." Dorjan kicked the bag forward with his foot, his hatchet dragged along the ground with it. "Refuge... That's all."

The man, leader of the militia said nothing. However, within moments a member of the militia emerged from the bus and began checking the bag. 

"He's clean!" The militia member shouted back to the leader before pushing the bag back towards Dorjan with his foot. Dorjan took the bag and the hatchet from the ground, although made sure to hold the ax in a more relaxed fashion.

"Well alright then..." The leader muttered down, barely audible to Dorjan. "I suppose you'd best get yourself inside and we can see what we can do for you!" He called out, down to Dorjan specifically, at an elevated volume as the statement was obviously meant to be heard.

Following the gesture of the man who had checked his bag, Dorjan followed through the bus and out the other end into the settlement. Safety, at long last. Walking down the dirt tracks, Dorjan took in his surroundings, this was the first non-bandit settlement he had ever been in without the intention of raiding. The calm, relaxed environment was something to be admired, although none of the settlers seemed to give him more than a passing glance.

While making his way to a make-shift tavern that he had been directed to by a militia member, Dorjan was caught up to by a fellow dressed a little like a cowboy of old. As he suspected, this man introduced himself as the Sheriff of Aurora's End and went by the name, Wayne.

"You were checked at the gate?" Wayne asked, authority clear just through his tone of voice.

"That's right." Dorjan replied, tilting his head a little, wondering what exactly the Sheriff was getting at, despite having a fair idea.

"They didn't see your piece no?" Wayne gestured towards the hand-grip of the Glock-17 that protruded from the waist of Dorjan's trousers.

"No, I suppose not." He replied, pulling his jacket over the grip so as to conceal the gun.

"Look." Wayne began. "I don't know you and to be quite honest, the longer I don't know you, the better." He paused and looked over Dorjan and his rugged appearance. "Because if I have to know you, well... You're not going to be off to the best start, you catch my drift, son?"

Wayne was about fifty, Dorjan had a way of telling the general age of a person, usually never off by more than a year or two. He'd obviously been around before the bombs fell and having never grown accustomed to the Old World, Dorjan could not even begin to imagine what it must have been like to go from the pinnacle of technology back to the dark ages, only to begin crawling your way back again. "Yeah, I catch your drift alright." He replied, sternly.

"Well good." Wayne replied, just as sternly. "Don't go causing trouble and don't be flashing that gun about and we'll be just fine, y'hear?"

"Yeah. I hear you." With this Dorjan and Sheriff Wayne parted ways. [i]What a welcome...[/i] Dorjan thought to himself, sarcasm evident, even in his thoughts, as he made his way to and entered the tavern, aptly named, "The Pumphouse".

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