cough
Dusty
Member
Sorta Sharp
- Last Seen: 2 mos ago
- Joined: 7 yrs ago
- Posts: 619 (0.24 / day)
- VMs: 0
-
Username history
- Dusty 7 yrs ago
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
In
Warhammer Fantasy: The Guild of Esteemed Sellswords - An adventure in the Warhammer Fantasy world! [REBOOTED] [FULL]
→
5 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
In
We Are Adventurers? (Name w.i.p. isekai / fantasy / medieval / swords & magic )
→
5 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
Intriguing, can’t wait to see the OOc
@BlueSky44 Everything should be corrected now.
Lol, that's a little embarrassing. "Oh no, trust me, I surely read the rules in full before posting."
I'd be interested in joining, can I get rolls? @BlueSky44
By in large the world hadn’t changed much for the smallfolk. Those little woodland creatures whose very existence was threatened by the ruthless, expert killers that patrolled the skies and lands day and night. As such they were less than impressed by these new, shambling humanoid monsters concentrated in urban population centers, who upon occasion wandered into their forested home. For many they worried about the normal hunters, and upon one scent of the decay that heralded the approach of the walking corpses they would scatter, flee down their respective burrows and trees hunkering down until the threat inevitably passed over. Content to live another day, and be the prospective meal for a more competent hunter. Unfortunately for this rabbit, Bubba did not stink of death, and his natural aroma gave no warning concealed downwind. Even his massive bulk, towering six and half feet high gave no clear warning, as the giant moved as soft and low as a snake through the leaf littered forest. Not even the tall twitching ears, sensitive to the whistle of an airborne rock, or the soft padded paws exploding into evasive maneuvers could save the doomed lapin from the inevitable. The rock, more akin to a small boulder smashed into the buck’s head sending it reeling, crushing its brains and skull and leaving a sizable dent in its small, fuzzy head.
Snorting at a stone well thrown Bubba stood from his hiding spot, dusting leaves and dirt from his red flannel button down, and blue jeans. He’d been sitting motionless for the better half of an hour, waiting for the unfortunate rabbit to warily sneak from its warren. He’d already bagged two others and a squirrel, and his fourth kill of the day, lying broken before him, its feet twitching in its death throes was a particularly large buck. Alone it could feed three hungry men, or Bubba. The catch had been difficult to be sure, the rabbit being as cautious as it should be, and Bubba had worried more than once that the wind would change and the creature would dart away unscathed. His concerns it seemed had been unfounded and he bent to tie a twine about the rabbit’s hind legs, pulling the cords tight and throwing the carcass over his shoulder. He strode easily through the woodlands, the rabbit bouncing on his broad shoulders, and the morning sun just peeking over the horizon, filtering soft light through the foliage overhead. In his free hand Bubba bounced his throwing rock, it was a good find, round, about the size of a large orange and made of a heavy granite of some kind. He’d found it in Arkansas along the banks of the Buffalo River, and ever since countless scores of small animals across four states and hundreds of miles had fallen victim to its stunning impact.
Storing the stone in his backpack Bubba splashed into a cool, fast flowing stream, that ran over sparkling pebbles, filling his bottle on the fresh water. Above him hung his other three catches, similarly tied by their hind legs and left on a low branch over the inch-deep water, just high enough so that an enterprising coon, or bear wouldn’t find themselves privy to a free breakfast at Bubba’s expense. Unknotting the staying rope Bubba tossed the three to join the fourth on his broad back, before striding purposely northwest.
His long legs ate up the miles easily but even so the sun set high at midmorning by the time he reached the Highway. The road was deserted of the living, and Bubba counted only a few roving undead as his company. For the most part they ignored Bubba, even as he hummed his tuneless hum, and strode boldly past them, unperturbed by their moans and unsteady gait towards him. The Glock at his hip remained holstered, and even though he wrenched his wood axe from its place, bit deep in a handy pinewood tree he made no move to clear the few zombies away. Scratching idly at his beard Bubba continued on his way, seemingly unconcerned that the group had left without him. He didn’t blame them, he was well known for being hanger on, a disjointed part of the whole and oftentimes he was gone for days at a time, generally bringing back a few kills, some fish, and even a few bottles of whiskey at one point. He always found the group again, or a new one. The group being the scattering of nomadic peoples whom he attached himself to. He’d been a part of at least seven different gathering so far, or had it been eight? Bubba could recall. They were different people in different states that Bubba either lost or abandoned once their interest diverted from his own. This group seemed to have an interest in traveling north however, which matched Bubba’s own so he remained with them, letting them do their thing, as he did his, their relationship symbiotic in full. This group was large too, and most unfamiliar with woodcraft making them easy to find. Their unconcealed spoor was practically a flashing neon signpost for Bubba. Still, they had half a day’s journey on him so it was best to set to with a vigor. So, he did.
The flat interstate made travel easy, and it was a little before midday when he finally spotted them in the distance, and an hour after that he reached their rearguard. They’d stopped for a breather it seemed, and Bubba frowned at this. To him it appeared they were going slower and slower every day, and the lackluster pace couldn’t be solely blamed on the six-year-old. Sure, disease was rife in their unsanitary conditions, Bubba had beaver’s sickness himself, but their lack of true progress did not bode well with Bubba. He’d thought it would have been evening before he located them, and here it was barely past noon.
Bubba stepped over a man named Wyatt McCarthy who was lying upon his back and past a girl he whose name he could not recall with her dog. All around him those of little consequence were settling down, while the self-elected leaders gathered. Bubba paused, eyeing the discussion with contempt. Letting the kill fall from his shoulder he dug around his pocket, locating his dip can and stuffed a healthy pinch into his lower lip. He was uninterested in their debate. If they’d bothered to ask him, he could show them where plenty of food and clean water was. Fresh water streams flowing from underground waterworks were plentiful, one only had to follow a deer trail to find them, and in a single morning Bubba had bagged enough food for six or seven people. Sure, they wouldn’t be living the high life like before, they’d be hungry and wanting and fighting for survival but it was better than this self-inflicted desperation for abundant resources. They never would ask him though, so Bubba felt no need to tell them just how bountiful Minnesota was.
Taking a seat Bubba drew his knife and began making small incisions in the first rabbit, squeezing the feet and dripping cool blood on the asphalt, watching the process in fascination. Taking his smallest finger, he inserted it under the rabbit’s flesh, wiggling it about watching the fur bulge and pulse, a morbid grin plastered on his face. Turning he looked straight at the girl with the dog, his blue eyes fixed on upon them with a sudden intensity. “I like your dog,” he informed her his voice flat, almost emotionless. He held up his rabbit, his finger still inserted beneath its skin. “Would it like something to eat?” In a single deft motion, he slit the rabbit from throat to rump, it guts spilling open for the world to see. Grinning he ripped out the heart and liver and lungs from the spinal cord, holding them out for Violet to take. “Here, he’ll like ‘em I know.”
.
.
© 2007-2024