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Iron-Jaw Indianapolis


The scum that had manned the improvised artillery broke down in panic, as the gun next to them had been turned into a bloody mist and scrap metal, while shrapnel from the explosion had cut down three of them. Dropping the powder and scrapped explosive, the cultists, raiders and mutants almost had made a run for it, before the Pack-master jumped to it. Two strong hands reached for a raiders head, before with a loud, wet "SNAP" he broke his neck and tossed him away. Cracking his knuckles, the cult warrior stared at the faithless, the metal of his chestplate glittering bloody, and his cutter gun hanging loosly over his shoulders. "I kill every little bastard who tries to make a run for it, now back to your posts!"
One of the more brave souls, a dusty and bloody raider, stormed forward, a pipe in his hand, trying to smash the cult warrior over his head, yet he was faster. His sharp gauntlet connected with the unprotected belly of the raider, and tore it open, before he interlocked the arm of the scum, and broke it with an equally loud snapping noise. Bleeding and groaning, this display of violence and brutallity restored order quickly, and moments later, the crude barrel mortar once more fired back at the advancing legion and Brotherhood..

A grain of sand, trying to stop a flood!

The giant riding molerat scraped hard over the ground below, its sharp claws scratching over the asphalt of the old parking building, as the Iron-Jaw made his way up the parking building. Behind him, his loyal warriors marched, men who had been with him when they had crushed the Überboss of Fredricksburg, felled the lone-tree republic and burned the capital wasteland to the ground. Another explosion, rather closed, shaked the building and for a moment, the molerat hissed in fear, almost standing up, so that the Iron-jaw gave its rings, connecting the leash to the beasts flesh, a hard tug, that restored its balance. Finally, his group reached the roof, and what he saw made him grind his good teeth over his iron ones.

Far down below, he could see the enemy advance, the ad-hoc defenders of this town no match for legion discipline and Brotherhood firepower. "First wave and this scum already breaks...shameful display!" If he had half the men, but proper cult warriors, he would make the enemy bleed for every step. The roaring guns of the Pitt would return death and destruction onto the bombardiers, the trenches would turn red, as the legionaries would met the hardened veterans of the Capital-wasteland and even the Republic wars, fighting in enclosed spaces, man against man, while roaring marauder tanks would return fire. Yet, all he had was the cultists that had flocked to the banner of the missonaires, and the army of Overboss Lee. And Iron-Jaw found them wanting...

The Overboss was strolling around the deck of the parking-building like a mad chicken, barking orders, and tearing on his hair. "THEY ARE RUNNING! WHY ARE THEY RUNNING! TELL THEM TO STAND AND FUCKING FIGHT...AHHHH!" Iron-Jaw snarrled at the sound of fear in the Raiders voice, as the man turned, glaring at the arriving cult warriors, outnummbering the raiders on the roof. "About fucking time! Your men need to attack now! We need to fight a way out of the city now!" Another explosion came down, this time tearing into a nearby building, and the overboss almost fell over. "There will be no retreat, the prophet has ordered me to hold this city, and this i will do! Your men are lacking faith and spirit, yet the sickness of cowardliness starts at the head of an army.." The head of the Raiderboss turned deep red, as he stepped towards the mount of Iron-Jaw. "Listen here you weirdo fuck! THIS IS MY CITY! These are MY FUCKING MEN! I AM IN FUCKING CHARGE..." Spit flew out of the raiders mouth, yet as he looked around, he could see that his men did not dared to move. Like wolves, the Cult warriors moved in, no raider daring to raise their guns at them. "Your lack of faith is disappointing, Lee! I will not have unbelievers in my defense of this, toss this heretic off the roof!"

Lee wanted to pick up his rifle, yet two cult warriors were faster, taking hold of his arms, and with one swift motion, pulled him towards the edge. The raider screamed in blind fear, while the Iron-Jaw already turned around, taking in the scene around them. Multiple lines and trenches were already overrun, red figures cutting down fleeing rabble, while elsewhere disciplined fire was followed by swift bayonnet attacks. Never before, had Iron-Jaw seen such a combination before. A long fading scream signaled the fall of the old boss, and with a sigh, Iron Jaw turned around. "All Pack masters are to abandon their rabble! All my brothers, my faithful warriors of the Holy City are to take all the supply we can carry, and bring it into the tunnels! You..." He pointed with great calm at the remaining raiders. "Food, supply and ammunition are to be brought underground! Let them have this city...a night of long knifes shall follow for them.."

With the last Packmaster abandoning the rabble and the lack of leadership, the defense of the town crumbled quickly. Raiders, mutants and untrained cultist were no match for trained legonaires and the might of the Midwest brotherhood. Soon, even the last barrel mortar was silenced, before being tossed over, and its crew being left behind, cold and dead. The broken body of Overboss Lee was found soon after...shattered on the ground, seemingly fallen from its fortress, the gigantic Indiapolis Mall Parking lot

Iron-Jaw calmly petted the head of his giant riding rat, who nervously chewed on the arm he had given her to eat. "Calm girl...calm!" His men had gathered around burning barrels, far below in the old service tunnels and catacombs of the city. In the dim light, their metal armor reflected the fire in an display that was beautiful to behold. "Up there, the faithless have taken the city! Let them have it! They wont find us down here, not in such short time! We will wait, until their back is turned, and then, they will be faced with the full might of prophet. Now, eat and rest. Save your Miasma for the final assault..."

Slick / The Bloodline-Carrick / The great warcamp of the cult

The warrior jumped down into the ditch, the sand bloody and reeking below his iron plated boots. Naked from his pants up, he grimly stared at the cage in front of him, holding tightly onto the machete in his hand. Slick watched him, as he waited for the signal. One side, the tutors watched, on the other the unproven warriors like him, ready for their "bloodying". "OPEN!" The huge super mutant growled, as he stood behind Slick and another slave, who quickly pulled on the wheels to open the cage below them. Snarling, the ghouls inside began to wake, smelling the blood in the ditch before them, and noticing the single warrior, who would face them, with no way out. A howl went through the mass surrounding the ditch, as the unproven warrior raised his Machete. "Witness me, brothers!"

Then the first ghoul rushed out of the half-open cage, roaring as he ferally moved towards the trapped recruit of the cult. He calmly took the charge, evading in the last second, before decapitating the ghoul with a secure cut to the neck. The rotting body stumbled forward, as the recruit already turned his attention to the fully open cage, still filled with multiple occupants. "SHADAL! SHADAL!" He roared as a challange, swinging the bloody machete in his hand, as his fellow recruits shouted down encouragements. The warcry seemed to be challange, as three ghouls stumbled out of the cage, leaving it empty now. Slick licked his lips, as he looked down into the ditch. He had seen warriors struggle with two ghouls, yet three were a death sentence. Not that he had any sympathy for the recruit down there...

Seemingly aware of the danger, the recruit grabbed his machete tighter and took multiple steps back, hissing as he seemingly new, that once these ferals would surround him, he was as good as done for. Yet fate seemed to smile onto this unproven warrior, as he two of the ghouls charged at him at the same time, allowing him, with a quick side-step, to make them run into each other, before taking off the legs of the third one with a swift, yet brutal cut. Now on the other side of the ditch, the recruits above cheered, before starting to chant. "SHADAL! SHADAL!"

Before the two ghouls could get up, the recruit already had wanted to go at them, yet the ghoul that had lost his legs quickly held onto his boots, snarrling, and making the recruit lose his balance. Screaming, he almost fell, before sending his boot down onto the ferals had crushing it like a ripe mutfruit. For a moment, a cheer broke out, that turned into a shattered mutter, as the ghouls tackled him. Slick was sure, that this would be the end, yet was proven wrong. Skillfully, the recruit burried his machete in the head of the ghoul on top of him, before tossing the dead body over and struggling with the other. The snarrling beast fearally tried to bite him, yet the recruit was able to shift the balance, and ended up falling over, right on top of the beast. Then his fists smashed into the face of the feral, over and over again, the air filled with the loud cheer of the fellow recruits. Finally, after an time that felt endless for Slick, the recruit looked up, coated in feral blood.

The mutant tutor behind Slick took his time, before he roared out his judgement. "WORTHY!" A rope was tossed down, and moments later, the now proven warrior was pulled up on the other side, a new machete pressed into his hand. Slick watched in disgust, as he could see the grin and the pride in his eyes. He would be given an armor, a gun and a rebreather, allowed to breath deep the refined miasma, before being send out, to fight in the great war. The tutor behind him gave Slick a hard kick, almost making him fall over. "Collect the meat, slaves have to eat!"

Standing next to the ditch, Slick had to catch the parts that were thrown upwards by his fellow slave, and place them in a wagon, to be send to the slave barracks, feeding them the remains of the ghouls that were slaughtered to train the warriors of the Monolith. Slick could not count how many it were, yet a group of twenty was here, for their final test, to prove their worth to be called warriors of the Cult. Looking up, he could see the one who´s turn it would be next to enter the pitt. He was young, yet broad shouldered and with a wide array of scars on his naked chest, making it rather clear, that he was one of the slaves who took up the offer of warriors service. "D...done master!" The slave in the ditch croaked, as Slick leaned down, helping him out, almost throwing up from the smell of rotten blood down below. Behind them, was the feral pen, in which countless ferals and trogs were herded, to serve as living training dummies. In the early weeks of training, the recruits would have the luxury of fighting against them chained to poles, or with their limbs cut off. It was to get them used to blood and killing. Seldom, the masters decided to use slaves, yet the purple robed masters of the temples of labor called it a waste of workforce, more so with the tunnels and catacombs of the Pitt still sprawling with ghouls and trogs.

Two other slaves, using long poles, forced four new ghouls into the cage, before Slick and his partner closed the second gate, while the young looking recruit jumped into the ditch. He shivered, as his fellow recruits began to once more chant encouragement down to him. Slick felt a strange pity for him, as the mutant behind them stomped down with his foot. "OPEN!" Once more the two slaves were forced to open the gates. This time, two ghouls charged, yet the young recruit made the mistake to stab for the belly, before pushing the ghoul from him. The machete stuck, leaving him unarmed. Slick felt his stomach turn, as he looked away. A long, pained scream followed, as the recruit was torn to shreds. The recruits hissed and muttered, as the Mutant behind them simply spat out.


Slick thanked the heavens, that this time, he was not asked, to collect the meat...

It was all Maxons fault!

If he had send reinforcments back to the citadel, they would have beaten the Cult. If he had not claimed the position of Elder, she could have stopped his idotic expedition that had seen his demise in the commonwealth of Boston. If he would have not brokered this damn peace with the Outcasts and if he would have not taken her glory against the Shepard, she would have won the election...and the East-Coast Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel would still be a power worth mentioning..and not a rabble, hiding away in the ruins of their old enemy!

The plans to restore Raven-Rock, had been to turn the ruins into an auxiliary base for long-range operations into the west, using its distance from most settlements in the captital wasteland, to easily resupply expeditions, without causing much attention, as well as to scavenge for enclave data and technology. The plans had been criticized, for making the base far to small, leaving too little room for personal, which would lead to a shortage of space when in full operation, yet today, they couldnt even fill half the rooms, with others having been simply abandoned and given away to collect dust.

Staying close to the terminals, the Lioness looked unmoving, as she could spot the dots on the holo-table, moving a single finger onto her ear. "Knight-Captain Harris, you have a visual?" Static followed, as the three little dots spread out further, keeping their distance as they sneaked towards the building. "Prides Shadow here, Fireteam leader! Can confirm visual! Informants reports seem truthful! MWBoS heraldry confirmed! Request permisson to uncloak and approach!" Lyons felt a sour taste over this request, before taking a step away from the table. "Permission denied! Distance is to be kept and the fireteam remains in cloaking at all times!" Where had the MWBoS been when the Citadel fell? Where had they been when she had launched her counter-attack? They came onto her chapters lands now, like scavenging crows, yet she would not let them absorb her chapter in shame and dishonor! They would force her to stand trial in her fathers place, answer for what had been just and honorable! If it werent for her acts, this chapter would have been as dead as the world believed it to be.
"Keep an eye on them, but avoid all contract and detection! You will not engage, if the MWBoS is attacked, you hear me? You remain in position and report! Lady-Commander out!"

Harkon, the younger Brother Barrack 23 / Labor Camp 12 - Hibbing, Minnesota

The knife was sharp and when it slipped into the ghouls neck, the eyes sprang open, as a scream was muffled by the younger brother, who pressed his hand hard onto the mouth of the informant. Licking the stumps of his lips, he leaned in closer, as he looked into the dying ghouls eyes. "Shhh, its all over!" The younger brother could feel the pain and the fear in the ghoul below him, as he pulled out the knife, allowing the rotten blood to flow faster from the cut veins. Finally looking away, the Ghoul let out a sigh, as he cursed his duty, yet for the comming storm, there could be no disloyalty in their ranks. The window was slim, and the order had been given. The Day of liberation came closer and closer, and the force needed to be prepared for it. People like the pitiful worm below him, had earned themselves easy hours, food rations, cigarettes and protection, by giving away information to the guards. Not, that any of them could have come close to the identity of Hastura, she who would liberate them all. Her orders had been whispers, small notices and hints, yet there was no second guessing. She gave the name, and this person would not see another day.

Placing the shiv in the other hand of the ghoul, Hakon closed the deads eyes. Just another suicide among many, another muty who could no longer endure the hard labor and the mines. Others raised their heads from their bunks, yet Hakon knew that there was no longer a need for secrecy about the murders in the camp, nor for threats. Most already had sworn devotion to Hastura, she who would bring liberty, while the rest would not dare to speak out against her countless servants in the camp. Calmly, and without haste, Hakon walked out of the Barracks, his shift taken by another ghoul with a forged number, taking his place, serving the great uprising in his own way.

Outside the Barrack, he was another huddled shadow among countless others, trying to evade the eyes of the watchmen, yet even the most simple minded slave of the brain in the jar would know that something was off. The MLA logo appeared far more often, the fire was back in some mutants eyes, and a whisper had filled the night...yet even this, was shrouding something darker! For the Brothers did not served a petty revolution, they served the prophet, and his favored servant, Hastura, she who would bring liberty. Few had known of the monolith before, yet the words of the older brother had been seed, falling on fertile ground among the ones without hope. For all were equal in the eyes of he who slumbered, human or mutant. The guards would not know the runes carved into the wood and the inquisitors would be too busy with the threat of the MLA looming, seemingly defeated.

Stumbling into him, another prisoners almost fell over, as the younger brother groaned in anger. He felt the paper slipped into his pocket, yet also could see the guard in the edge of his eyes. To not show an reaction would be suspicious! "Watch your step you maggot!" A kick followed, right into the soft part of the knee, as the younger brother wanted to kick again, before a guard shouted. "Thats enough, you ugly mutants!" Spitting out, the younger brother stepped away, the paper feeling heavy in his pocket, slowly moving to his own barrack. In its shadow, far from the eyes of the guard, he opened the sheet, before looking at its content.

"This week, prepare the faithful and the tools!"

The order had been given, the faithful would answer!

Cthalpol the Iron The Long Path of the Prophet - Point Lookout

Cthalpol the Irons mouth remained unmoving, as he looked down at the arriving Suttbray and his small escort. Toy soldiers, like Cthalpol had seen so many! They had not bleed in the hills, shivering the in cold of night, and feasted on the flesh of the fallen to endure hardship, that would strip all weakness from them, leaving them hard as iron. He snorted, before stepping closer, his mighty hand calmly taking hold of the bearded mans head. The voice had a sound of grinding metal, sharp as a dagger and cold as the bite of steel. Yet it was lead by a woke mind of a scholar. "Tell me, do you feel in charge of your fate?" Like wolves, the Cult warriors around moved in closer, men and mutants, scared and grim, veterans of the hills, devoted to the monolith. Their hands rested on looted guns, sharp blades and dark trophies, as they waited for how their leader would react. "I had wished to remain in the hills, for i enjoyed the fight there. Killing the men of Franklin was a hard task, yet each victory, was sweet and nurishing. I learned much from their ways, and would have liked to ended them by my hands. But the prophet has ordered me here, to overlook you, Convert! He has hopes for you, but i have not! I am here, to provide military assistance, yet make no mistake, for if you are found wanting, i shall be your executioner, Mr. Suttbray!"
Letting go of the mans neck, the Super-Mutant stepped past him, as he nodded to one of his warriors, who calmly presented Suttbray with an roll made out of dry, brittle leather, some parts of it sowed together, ink markings still on it.
"Half my forces will remain here, to turn this harbor into a fortress of the faith, and paint the swamp red, with all who dare to oppose us! The rest of my army will come with you, and sail to the place you call Jacksonville!"

The roll, wrapped into human skin felt alien to all touch, almost shivering and alive. Opened, a disgusting smell would come from it, as a single piece of old, damp paper would fall from it.


Prioress Cabot New Vegas, The Tops "The voices of Vegas - The Billy Knight Show"

Looking from behind the stage the Prioress looked at the slim figure of Billy, who slowly strolled onto the stage, wearing his trademark suit like a slick salesman, before waving into the crowd. "Welcome, Welcome, Welcome! So glad you all could make it! My, my,my...what do we have here! Hey mister, keep your hands where i can see them! Gomorrah is down the street!" Some laughter came from the sides, as a red-faced Brahmin Baron slowly took the hands off the shoulders of what looked to be his companions for the evening.

Strolling over to his armchair, Billy Knight took a seat, as the small band still was playing near him, with the ghoul saxophonist getting more and more into short final solo. "Ay, Ay, Ay...look at that! Better check if your tongue is still in place, Jacob my rotten friend!" The ghoul just rolled his eyes, as the crowd once more broke out into a short polite laughter. Billy used the moment to light himself a cigarette, looking rather dandy in his sharp suit, his hair slick and smooth. "So much going on in Vegas, and so little time. I wont bore you folks with politics, but y´all know if any NCR folks is around, you man notice them due to the gigantic sweat building up on their heads right now. time you invade, try preparing first!" Clapping into his own joke, the Prioress narrowed her eyes, as could not help but feel more disgruntled over her appearance on this show. But there had to be a public face to be maintained.

"But tonight´s first guest, is someone you may have heard before. Like most people, i didnt realized when they appeared, but BAMN...suddently it was the talk of the town! The Church of Starry glory...first time i heard it i thought it was some kind of new menu item at he Ultra-Luxe, but no, its a new religion. Well, some people got worried, but i for my part, got intrigued! So, without further delay...THE PRIORESS!"

Once more, the band was fired up, as the prioress walked onto the stage, a wide, flashy smile on her lips, and a slow pace in her step. The dress was modest enough for her position, yet still fitting for the occasion, as she stept towards the host, who got up from his chair, before gently taking and kissing her hand. "My, my, my...must say, Marrying in your church may be rather hard for most men, with such reminders of lives beauties running around. Its a pleasure, Prioress!" "Oh please, Mr. Knight! Just call me Emogene!" The prioress had little intrest in perusing anything that would seem like pompous or an agenda. She had made her plans the moment she had received the invitation, and would stick with it. She had adapted for almost 400 years now, this was just another masquerade.

"Well then, Emogene, lets be frank and earnest here! And i am not talking about the names i use in Boneyard and New Reno. What is your church, and why is it here in Vegas! Everyone seems to know about it, but nobody seems to know details. Help us understand your little congregation!" Emogene smiled, as she herself would open her small cigarette case, before leaning in, allowing Billy Knight to give her fire. She leaned back in her chair, taking a moment to blow out the smoke, before answering the Question.

"It is not my church, nor my congregation. I am little more then a guiding voice, offering help to the people that seek it. For this is what the Church of Starry Glory is. A helping voice for all, who seek the special something that Vegas CANT offer. Many who come to us, for we welcome everyone, no matter which walk of life, tell us about their angst, which they only felt in the city of Vegas, for even a paradise like this, can lead to melancholy for some people, who feel that life is going over them too fast. This is where our church is coming in, and which brings me such fulfillment! To allow people to slow down, and realize what beauty there is in each and every one of us, beside the glitter and glamour." The prioress could see the sweat build up on Knights face, as he seemed for fear that this would turn into a critique of the city and with it, a critique of Mr. House. Seeing him in such a state woke a strange satisfaction in the prioress, as she watched him. "So think bad of Vegas? Blaming it for the problems these people have?"

The prioress sharked her head, before once more guiding the cigarettes to her red lips. "Not at all! Vegas is a paradise, and rightfully the greatest city in all the wasteland! Yet i do think, that our little church does provide a certain service this city needs, yes...craves! We do so gladly, and for those who cant afford it, free of charge. Nobody needs to feel lonely, for there is a greater community around us all, even if we cant see it!" Knight nodded, before once more lifting up his cigarette. "But there is the accusation that your church is little more then another cult, like the Hubologists or...well, radiating friends of the Atom-Worshippers!" Raising an eyebrow, Emogene looked right into Knights eyes, before smiling. "Do i look like the kind of woman who would worship radiation? Or follow an crazed man called Dick? No, we are not a cult! Our church is open for everyone to come and go, and we dont demand any oaths of secrecy. Nor do we claim some devine truth as our birthright. All we do, is share the ideas and devotion of starry glory...the idea that there is something great out there, and that it loves us!"

Knight blew out some smoke, before he tilted his head to the side, the fear of criticism on the system seemingly gone. "Well, it would be hard to believe for me, that a crazed cultist would get onto a stage like that, and...well, look as charming as you do, Emogene.." "GET A ROOM, BILLY!" The rough voice of the ghoul Saxophonist, broke the silence and it was followed by a long laughter of the crowd. "You are a charming man yourself, Mr. Knight! But you are just as welcome as anyone else, to visit our church in western Vegas. We do have plans to expand, but have yet to find a fitting building for it. Real estate is sinfully expensive in Vegas.."

To close the door back to her changing room, had been more then welcome, after the endless chatter of Billy Knight, who soon after the start had drifted into bad jokes and puns, what seemed to be his common form of entertainment. Still, she was quite sure, that the unenlightened had bought her tale and story. Sitting down in front of the mirror, she took a moment to look at her reflection. Closing her eyes, she could hear the squealing of the thing her father had turned into, which now was hidden away, deep below the church...

T H E C U L T O F U G - Q U A L T O T H

The Blind Prophet / The deep pits below the Holy City

Few knew, that the city above, was just a small part of the true extend of the holy city. Below it, had been a true, apocalyptic sprawl of tunnels, chambers and halls, so extensive, that to this day, even the massive excavations and works of the cult, had only opened a fraction of them to be put to use for the Cult. Some where used for storage, to house slaves or as dungeons for sacrifices and prisoners, yet the most feared of them all, where the breeding pits, where the Cult had been experimenting with radiation, chemicals and the miasma. Death had been ripe, yet the prophet had made sure that his devoted flesh-crafters never lacked equipment, beast and slaves to experiment on.

The greatest success had been the giant Mole-Rat, able to carry a man on its back, forming the mount of choice for the cults cavalry. So far, it had been the only creature they had success at breeding in masses, yet the hopes were high for other monstrosities to soon support the war effort...

Thousands of steps, the prophet was carried on his palanquin, deeper and deeper into the pits, surrounded by the heavy boots of his personal guard, the iron masked deathless guardians, dark green skinned super mutants, fanatical in their faith and fearsome in battle. At each time, ten of them where around him, armed with heavy rifles, an axe attached to the barrel. Slave, Master and sometimes even beast, quickly fell on their knee, as soon as they saw the palanquin and guardians approch, as the carriers and guardians carelessly stomped over everything in their path. The Prophet remained silent in his seat, his legs crossed and his hands resting on the black book in his hands. Even now, it was whispering at him, confirming his choices and pushing him to greater deeds. "It will be done...all has been to your design! I can see it clear, i can see the path! Fools, vermin, insects...they are mere tools, tools for your deed!" A cold shiver ran down the prophets back, as he threw his head backwards, before breaking out in a loud laughter, roaring and pressing the book closer to his chest, before suddently turning around. "THIS ONE...I WANT HIS HEAD NOW!"

The slave let out a panicked scream, as two of the prophets deathless took hold of him, begging for mercy as he soiled his pants. The blind prophet grinned satisfied as he heard the sound of flesh been torn, before waving off in the direction of the sound. "Give me his head...NOW GIVE IT TO ME! I WANT TO HEAR ITS SECRETS! IT SHALL TELL ME WHERE THEY HIDE IT! NOW NOW NOW!" For the rest of the step, the prophet would clutch both the book, and the bloodied head against his chest. Then clarity once more came over him, like a wave approching a beach, and with a disgruntled groan, he tossed the head from his palanquin, before rubbing his bloodied hand off on his robe. Insanity was as light as a feather, yet a clear mind weight more on him, then the whole city above.

Disgruntled, the Prophet longed for the easiness of the madness, as he glared at his surrounding, blind, yet taking in the sounds around him. Corridor after corridor were passed, as the short snips of sounds came from them, then faded as the openings passed them, as the smell of blood, shit and decay lay in the air, heavier then at any other place in the holy city. Slavers tugged chains of giant beasts, while cages where pushed and whips were cracked. Somewhere, a deathscream of something huge filled the silence, before a louder roar filled the air, broken by a long human scream. The prophet let out a sigh, as he covered his nose, the holy book still in his hands. Then finally, they stopped, and the prophet rose from his seat. Used to the movement, he easily stepped down, a waiting back of a slave already allowing him to lower himself, as his other foot found a back to pass onto, before another allowed him to reach clear fooding. Raising his arm, he felt the strong grip of one of his deathless, as he was guided forward. By now, they had to be miles below the earth, as the monolith seemed so far and so small, that the prophet felt a cold shiver of fear down his spine, as he broke free from his guiding guards.

The sniffling great-master of the pits ran around the prophet like a cornered rat, squealing out compliments and excuses alike. "We...we work like madmen! Yes..yes...but there is only so much we can do with the materials we have! We need more equipment! Better laboratories! More scientists...more... The prophet had outpaced him by now, as the heavy steps of the great-master had a hard time to follow, seemingly troubled to press himself against the close walls, that the prophet could feel around him. The hallway was narrow, yet their goal lay right ahead. "Show it to me! Show me what the secrets of the old world allowed us to creat! Show the warrior you have promised me." A heavy door was opened, as futher people fell on their knees. Yet the prophet could feel the thing in front of him. He could feel the wild soul, unbroken and...


"A great success already! To form such a specimen from our limited tools! His body is strong, stronger even then the Super Mutants that already serve in your army, blessed prophet! Yet, they lack...well, we cant wake him, but that does not mean he is not alive!" The prophet could feel the fear in the grand-master, yet it was not uncalled for. Stepping towards the thing, the prophet almost fell over something, yet he could not care less, as he placed his hand on the creature. The skin was as thick as leather, and felt warm below his touch. "Be careful prophet! It could wake any moment now." "No, it wont wake! It will never wake...THIS THING HAS NO SOUL INSDIE IT! NO SPARK OF LIFE! IT IS AS GOOD TO ME AS A STATURE.." The prophet felt his anger raise, as his nails digged into the book at his chest. "You promised me, when i brought you the FEV from Vault 87, that you would make me an army of Super Mutants..WHERE IS MY ARMY, YOU WORM?"

It was the muffled whimper of the grand-master, that made the prophet seal his fate. Screaming, he could smell the flesh burn and heat near him, before grand master faded from this world. The silence remained, and the blind prophet slowly placed his hand back on the mutant. His face was deformed, even for such a beast, as his chest lifted up and down, and he took breath, yet never would open his eyes, nor form a thought in his useless brain. "Who is the most senior of you lot.." The prophet spoke into the room, with only the fire of the corpes of the old grand master bringing some noise, to the dry silence of the clicking and flicking of machinery. "That would be me, holy prophet. A shivering voice, just as weak and confused as the old one, yet the death of the former grand-master had sated the prophets anger for no. "What is your name?"

The question seemed to have taken the scientist by surprise, as he needed a moment to answer. "Lesko Weston, holy prophet! Most faithful, and always loyal to the cult! The prophet nodded, as his fingers moved over the maw. Sharp teeth had formed in it. "Tell me, what do we need to created Super Mutants that are ALIVE when they have turned?" Where a nose should have been, was just a snort, and the light breath was cold as ice. "Holy prophet, the samples we work with a highly irradiated! The FEV has been deluded and mishandled for almost 200 years by super-mutants themselves! We can only create super mutants with a clearer FEV sample...and non-irradiated hosts! I am sorry, holy prophet but this is the truth!" The sudden backbone pleased the prophet, as he slowly walked away from the creature, past the stuttering Weston and back to his guard. "We shall see to it then! This project is halted for now...see to it that the labor on it is used on other projects, grand master.."

Weston Lesko would need a whole five minutes, until he realized, that he had been promoted...

Hank the Whip / The City of the Skull Monolith

Once, many years ago, the ruins the Skull Monolith resided in, had been a city of hope. A young, yet proud republic had been formed, displaying the lone tree as their symbol and taking it up as their name. The lone tree Republic had rallied farmers and settlers alike and when the Cult came, they had taken up arms in defense of their home. They fought the good fight, yet in the end, the city was sacked in a slaughter, that had been made legend by the monument build in its memory. The Skull Monolith was a gigantic pile of pale bones, bound and glued together. In its shade, the river still ran, yet it was heavy with slag and polution as the tress had long cut, to provide material for forges, barracks and other buildings. Few of the slaves in the city of the Skull Monolith were of the old population, who had survived the slaughter, as the majority had been brought here, into one of the few other places of industry, the cult held outside of the holy city. It was a crude imitation to the factories and forges in the north, yet it still provided the slavers and warbands of the south with weapons, armor and ammunition.

Hank was licking his lips, as he tugged the leash of the slave girl, forcing it to walk with him, as he made his way through the workshop. "Good news, you lazy bastards! You are all sold...well, except of you, my darling! Aint no way i am gonna let go of you!" His eyes roamed over the body of the red haired beauty, who still struggled against the tug of his leash. He would enjoy breaking her in, before most likely selling her later, when she got to timid for his taste. Hank loved himself some girls with fight in them. The sack of caps on his belt felt heavy, as he made his way out of the workshop, the crying and sobbing of the slaves soon interrupted by screams and whips. "See girl? Lot easier with me. Gonna take care of you good! Yeah, really..really good!" His grin grew, as the girl spat in his direction, yet Hank laughed, before smashing the back of his hand against her face. "Some delicious fight you have in you...i like that! Dont lose it to fast, or i may make you regret it."

Tugging her back on her feet, Hank, crossed the busy streets, with Warriors, slaves and cultists going their way, light being provided by crude electronic lamps. A few stands offered their wares, yet above all was the chatter and chanting of the priests near the Monolith. Hank had to admit, it was an impressive sight, even though he cared little about the cults religion. All he cared for at the moment, was to get back to his boat with the red haired girl on his leash. "You have name?" Hank grunted, as he stepped through some mud, past a bleeding corpse of a slave, with two dogs ripping pieces of flesh from his corpse. The girl did not answer, yet kept glaring at him with eyes of pure hate. "Fine, i am gonna give you one later! Who knows, maybe i tattoo it onto your forehead, that you dont forget it!"

A dark laughter escaped the slavers lips, as he gave the leash another pull. Passing a line of slaves, that had to constantly push the wheel of a primitive mill, under the watchful eye of two cult warriors, who took turns on lashing the slaves. Far away, a rifles was fired, as drunken laughter filled the night. Another normal night in the town, that both cultist and normal scum frequented. Hank stopped for a moment, to light himself a cigarette, before turning to his slave. "Lets play a little game you trash...left cheek or right cheek?" Walking closer, he took hold of the girls face, grinning down on her, as he struggled, while he moved the glowing cigarette in front of her. "Shhhhh...just a little burn! Aint the worst thing that will happen to.."

There was no sound when Hank flew through the air, and the light was all around him. Night turned into day, as everything seemed muffled around him. Like a sack of flour, he was tossed around, by hot waves of air, as he could not even feel the pain. Another flash of fire stripped half his cloths form him, as for a second, he could see a Warrior fire into the sky, before a lance of light hit him, and turned him into ash in an instant. Then, he could feel the ground rumbeling below him, as he slowly turned his head and saw it. The Skull Monolith was burning!
Crawling, the Slaver wanted to get away, yet there was no escape, as the gigantic pile of burning bones, collapsed under its own weight, thousands of skulls falling down onto the people below. For just a second, Hank could feel the irony of the late revenge, the old people of the Lone-tree republic, could now rain down onto the cult that had destroyed their home...then the World around Hank turned dark.

It was day, when Hank woke up. Not for a second, he believed to be dead, as many other fools would. The air was heavy with fire and ash, and where ever he looked, he could spot corpses. Yet her had surived, and he would not spend a second longer at this place. It was then, when he noticed that he was stuck, half burried below skulls and debris, yet nothing he could not remove in time. The sharp pressure against his side even told him that he still had his caps. Taking a deep breath, the slaver began to push, trying to free the buried part of his body, yet then, he also noticed the shadow falling onto him. Looking up, he could not make out the face as the light of the sun blended him, yet he could see the red hair...and the glitter of the knife in her hand

"Lets play a game, shall we? Left or right cheek.."

Thunderfoot Interstate 80 - Between West Wendover and Aragonite

The engine woke with the fury of a wounded deathclaw, as Thunderfoot woke it. One mile away from him, he knew his opponent would do the same. Then, the shot rang through the silence, and with a roar, he gave power to the wheels, as the red bike broke lose. Speed was gained quickly, as Thunderfoot could hear the cheering and chanting behind him. Yet his eyes were on his front, where the cloud of dust came towards him. His enemies bike must have been heavier and slower, most likely with sickles on his wheels and plates of armor on it.
The mile shrank more and more, as he finally could see his enemy and his eyes grew in fear.

"A Trike..."

He was taller, broader and stronger then he, and for a moment, Thunderfoot felt the fear that his fellow companions had for the road-captain he was facing. Holding his handles with one hand, he reached for the lance, bound to his back. The roaring sound of the trike easily muffled out any sound in the surrounding, yet Thunderfoot easily could tell that there was no way he could head on approach it without being crushed by its heavy frame. Cursing under his mask, his heart began to pump so fast in his chest, that for a second he felt like it would shatter. He could see the face of the old road captain, his lance pointed right at him, barley hundred meters away. He would impale him, and if not, easily crush his bike with his heavy vehicle, shattering his bones on the ground below, rolling over his body with high speed and leaving him to bleed out on the asphalt, broken and defeated...

Then he was passed him, the lance still in his hand, Thunderfoot had turned the bike in the last moment, to evade both his enemies lance and the glittering sickles on his wheels. Far in the distance, he could see the men of the road-captains chapter, howling at him, and most likely cursing him for not taking the first attack, yet Thunderfoot knew better. Speeding down the highway towards him, she knew, that if he would cross the one-mile, he would be free for them to shoot at, killing as a coward, fleeing the duel. He would have to face the trike again, yet his mind already formed a plan. Reducing his speed, he turned his head, seeing that the Trike already had began its process of turning for a second attack. Hitting the break, the wheels squealed like a dying brahmin, yet finally his bike halted, close enough to the end of the mile, that he could spot the hissing 80s behind the thin line of oil.


Thunderfoot ignored them, as he turned his bike, the lance heavy in his right hand, made of metal and decorated with ribbons of countless colors. Its tip had been sharpened, yet its length would never be enough to allow him to impale his enemy, without crushing his bike on the armor of the trike, or being impale himself by the lance of his enemy. Pulling off the mask from his face, he spat out, before once more giving life to the engine and roaring down the mile, towards his enemy. Fear pulsated in his chest, as he screamed it out, hoping to land a lucky strike on the wheels this time. The distance melted in seconds, and once more, Thunderfoot could spot the face of his enemy in front of him.


Thunderfoot stood up in the saddle of his bike leaning sideways as he tried to once more move his bike past the trike, yet this time, his enemy had changed his tactic. Taking cover behind the armor in the front, he did not even used his lance, but simply tried to crush him with the superior weight of his vehicle. Thunderfoot screamed, as he tore the handles to the side, trying to evade, yet this time, there simply was to little time. The sickle bit cold and hard into his leg, and the sudden impact made him lose his balance. Falling forward, his chest collided with the handles in front of him, as the spear, still locked into his arm and shoulder slided over the ground. Sparks flew, as the friction tore his arm backwards, before a nasty snapping noise followed.

He was able to let go of the lance, yet the pain was incredible. Gasping, a numb coldness filled his mind, as the bike began to stagger, then leaned far left. Seconds felt like an eternity, and the wold turned darker...

He did not felt his good remaining hand moving forward, as he suddently once more held onto the handles, his bike back straight, roaring towards his own men, who´s fear he could spot in their pale faces. Glaring at them, he tried to give a re-assuring war-cry, yet all that left his mouth was a dry croaking, as he stopped his bike before the line of oil, this time on his own side.

Looking on his shoulder, he could feel, rather then see, his dislocated arm pulsating like on fire, while his leg bleed heavily. He had still been lucky, for the sickle had been easily able to tear his leg straight off. Far in the distance, he could hear the triumphant horn of the trike. Spitting out, Thunderfoot turned his bike around once more, before reaching for his belt. Only his club and tomahawk remained, and with a grunt, he pulled out the later. The pipe with nails in it felt heavy in his good hand, yet it gave him a satisfying feel to once more wield a weapon. An idea had peaked in his mind, and with a kick, he gave his bike once more life, roaring back for the next confrontation.

This time, he would not lower his speed, but give full throttle, as the trike approached. Guiding the vehicle with one hand, while still holding onto the tomahawk was dangerous, yet the Trike took the challenge as Thunderfoot knew he would have. Once more the dust flew around them, as both duelist knew that this would be the last confrontation. The Road-Captain raised his spear, if as an insult or a salute, Thunderfoot could not tell, he clearly took him off guard, as he made no sign of moving out of the trikes way. Taking the left side in this exchange, the Trike driver suddenly seemed to realize that Thunderfoot was not carrying a lance, yet it was to late to move away. Trying to hit him with his lance, Thunderfoot pushed himself back, raising the front wheel of his bike, before letting go of the handle.

Then he threw the tomahawk, before he felt the trike pass, and the sickles of the wheel cross inches below his feet. Then, the two duelist had passed once more. Pushing his weight back forward, Thunderfoot took back the handle of his bike, and lowered the speed, before halting his bike by hitting the breaks. Trying to catch his breath, he looked over his shoulder, and his heart stopped, as he saw the trike still moving forward with the same old speed. The tomahawk seemed to have missed, and he would be left only with his club...left to be crushed on the one mile.

Then the trike drifted off the road, down into the sand, until the wheels finally rolled out....

Now, it was the screams of celebration from his men that broke the silence...

Vagari the Slave Interstate 80 - Camp of Thunderfoots warband / The night before

The meat of the molerat was bloody and though, yet the chapter had lacked time to roast it for the full day. Taking camp on the hill, Thunderfoot had ordered that half the Brahmins of the last raid should be left alive, so that they could trade them in for gasoline and water at the next chance, but had ordered his men to hunt. Today had been a lucky day, and at least some of the fires had meat over them. Vagari thanked the heavens for the chance, as he eagerly digged his teeth into the meat, sitting on the ground near the fire, close to his master, who glared into the flames.
"And you are sure about these numbers, Shinji?" The concern in his masters voice was hidden, yet Vagari could hear it. Yet this was a situation to be worried, so it was not out of place. "I am! 500 men have arrived this morning, i have counted them." Shinji, as if wanting to prove his point, raised the leg he was eating, as he loudly chewed with his mouth open. "Close your mouth, and learn to count." The engine whisperer muttered as he himself took a a swing from his bottle of beer. "There is no way that the Khans would send 500 men to support Shout-Thunder!"

Spitting out some skin, Shinji grinded his teeth, yet then himself drowned his anger with a sip of beer. With a sigh, the slave coughed, before placing his meat on his plate, before raising his own voice."500, in addition to Shout-Thunders own 300, that makes 900 Warriors against our,what 200? I know little of war and bravery, as proud and educated Shinji quite often reminds me but may i inquire how we plan on beating such numbers?" The engine whisperer grinned, as Shinji seemed to almost choke on his beer, before throwing the slave an angry glare. "By binding you to the front of my bike and letting you soak the bullets! Rotting bastards!" The slave snapped his teeth like a mechanic trap, before once more pulling out some meat from his plate.

Thunderfoot was still glaring into the flames, his own food untouched. "We dont have to fight them. We can still evade them for now, and the border is not far! Khans wont risk the wrath of Vegas. There is good money over there as well! Rich caravans, soft travelers and gamblers. Not like the scraps we can pick of the Khans trade routes.." The mentioning of Vegas woke something in Thunderfoots eyes, as the young leader of the Exiles shaked his head. "Vegas would ruin us, sooner or later! Be it by sending their metal-men on wheels after us, venture into Vegas, and it turns them sick! The place changes them, makes them weak in spirit and body. Now, i can choose not to go there, but what if the offer comes when i am starving? Will i be strong enough to deny the lights of Vegas for the honor of our ancestors? No, we wont go to Vegas, not yet!"

Shinji gave an approving grin, as he leaned forward. "South then? The legion has been bloodied, and their eyes are elsewhere! They dont have the tech Vegas has! We can slip past their guards, take what we want and if they want a battle...they shall have one! We shall cut the bulls balls off and throw them back at them!" Hammering his hand against his chest, he looked around, at the rest of the warriors who were granted a seat on the fire of the leader. Some nodded and grunted in approval. "It would mean to abandon the highway! And then what? You want our souls to forever roam the lands, seeking the path to the stars? Besides, i do not plan on becoming a petty raider like so many other road-captains."

Silence took over the group, and Vagari raised his voice once more. "You still have an army to back your words up, Thunderfoot. If you were to approch Shout-Thunder and surrender, i am sure he would grant you clemency! As far as i understand he was a lieutenant of your father AND holds the Khans trust!" Vagari had expected a storm of outrage, yet what he got was a hissing like an swarm of cazadores. "The Outlander-Slave is right, Chief." The engine-whisperer threw in, placing his bottle at his feet. "I remember Shout-Thunder, he loved you father like a brother. If you ride to him at dawn, and present him your sign, he will give you one of his own, and allow you to ride behind him! He is a kind man...but he has taken the khans gasoline, and will execute his justice for what we have done!"

Shinji jumped up, the plate falling from his lap, as the bald black man was stomping towards the chief. "Talk of surrender? Is that what your father would want to hear? Let these wreched women cry as much as they like! We still can ride west! With 500 Khagante warriors there is no way that they could catch us!" The engine whisperer sight, as he looked at the meat in the dust and at the beer pouring into the dirt. "Our fuel wont last further then Oasis! And our water is already almost gone. Sure, we can always leave the walker behind, but even then, we wouldnt even get close to the border! Which..." The sentence needed not to be finished, as everyone knew, that the NCR would never again tolerate any 80s in their territory.

"There is a third way, besides running and surrendering! A way nobody of you seems to be able to see!" Thunderfoot rose from his seat, before walking closer to the fire. "I can challange Shout-Thunder to a one-mile duel!" Silence followed, with Shinji grinning into the round, while the engine-whisperer took a sip from his private flask. The other Mem-bar warriors began to mutter with each other. "May i inquire why Shout-Thunder should accept such an duel? He has no reason to do so." The mechanic clicked with his tongue, before kicking up some dirt in the direction of the slave. "You should shut up about matters you dont understand, slave! Shout-Thunder will accept...but you wont want him to, Thunderfoot! He has fought more of these duels then he can count, and he never has lost a single one. He is a fearsome warrior, and as strong as a super-mutant! Boy, there is no shame in surrendering to such an opponent! He will treat you like a son, IF you show him repentance."

The chief said nothing, as he kept staring in the flames, before nodding to Shinji. "I want you to ride as fast as you can to their camp, and shout out my challange so that all can hear it! Nobody shall claim ignorance over it! Tell them that Thunderbirds son, is coming for a traitors blood..." The Engine-whisper coughed, as he spat out some of his booze. "You want to call him a traitor? Friend of your father or not, he will kill you for this insult!" Thunderfoots hands formed fists, as he turned to the engine-whisperer. "He is a traitor! He has taken the Khans gasoline, and lead his chapter in his name. If he would have pissed on my fathers body still warm, it would have not been a greater insult! Now, i am going to pray.."

With that, the young chief walked off, calmly as water, yet the old slave could see the shiver in his arms. He would not pray, but most likely empty his bowls in fear. He was afraid of what was to come, yet he did it anyway...once more Vagari could tell, that Thunderfoot had the makings of a great leader, yet also of one who would most likely die tomorrow.

Thunderfoot Interstate 80 - Between West Wendover and Aragonite / This very day

The injection of the Stimpack numbed the pain a little, as Vagari was pushing the arm. Yet still, Thunderfoot broke his promise not to scream, as the dislocated shoulder was pushed back in place. Gasping, he looked at his slave, almost falling from his bike. "C..cant you put in some more of it? The..the pain is a nightmare." The slave grinded his teeth, before looking into his masters face. "I may put some of it into this empty head of yours, trying to see if i can wake a single cell in your brain! You should get off this bike and lay hold still.."

Thunderfoot still held onto the bloody sign of the I80, which he had cut from the body Shout-Thunder. The old road Captain had been dead when he had reached his Trike, his tomahawk still embedded in his neck. Closing his eyes, Thunderfoot could not help but feel regret over having to kill this man, recalling him from a time that felt like an half-forgotten dream.

The sharp pain on his leg brought him back, as this time he did fell from his bike, as the slave was pushing the hot metal against the wound, after he had injected the rest of the stim into the wound. "HIGHWAY ABOVE...RIDING ETERNAL...NEVER FEEL PAIN AGAIN...AHHHHHH!" A strong arm helped him back on his feet, as Shinji lifted him back on his bike. "The Khans are getting ready to attack! Even if Shout-Thunders men are not with them, they still outnumbering us 2 to 1...lets get out of here, now!"

Maybe it was the fever, or the adrenaline, but as Thunderfoot was looking over to the warriors of Shout-Thunder, he simply could not turn his back to them, even with the Khans approching from the south. Once more, he woke the engine of his bike, shooting back onto the highway. His right shoulder was numb and swollen, and he could feel his leg pulsating as if it would fall of any moment. Yet the single mile was easy to cross. Hundreds of 80s, Mem-bar warriors and Prospects alike, glared at him. Would they attack him? Thunderfoot was not sure, yet for the moment he felt fully immortal. Slowing his pace, he raised the sign he had taken from Shout-Thunder and presented it to his own chapter. "YOU SEE THIS? THIS IS SHOUT-THUNDERS SIGN! HE DIED ON THIS MILE, BY MY HAND!"

He was not sure what he had expect, yet it was for sure not silence. Turning his bike, he once more drove by, as he could see the cloud of the Khan warriors getting bigger and bigger, the first shots being fired in the air. "HE DIED LIKE A TRUE 80! HE DIED WELL.." The words felt like hot Irons in Thunderfoots mouth, as he croaked them out, still not seeing any reaction from the men in front of him. All the confidence from his victory fell from him. Had he been a fool? Why would they join him? He was not his father, and the Khans had given them so much. A bitter cold ran over his back.

The first bikes turned, as some of the warriors in front of him turned away from him, some even spatting out in front of his feet, while others still glared at him. "I AM GONNA FIGHT THE KHANS! BE IT ALONE IF I HAVE TO! BUT I DO SO AS AN 80! YOU CAN RUN OFF NOW, AND SOON TOSS AWAY YOUR SIGNS, AFTER YOU MARRIED KHANGANATE WOMEN...AND SEE YOUR CHILDREN GROW UP AS ANYTHING BUT WHAT YOU ONCE WERE!" It was desperation and fear that drove his words, yet suddently a single cheer came from the mass in front of him. "Fuck it, i am with you!" A single prospect broke off from the group, and rode towards him, before taking place behind Thunderfoot. "Whats your name, friend." Thunderbird still felt his heart pumping, as he fought not to fall out of his saddle. "Burned-her-hair...please dont ask.."

"Burned-her-hair! I will give you a true warbike after this is over! And for the rest of you...YOU WANT TO TELL YOUR ANCESTORS ONE DAY, THAT THIS WAS THE DAY WHEN YOU ABANDONED THE HIGHWAY AND TURNED YOUR BACK ON THEM? THE DAY THAT YOU DID NOT CHARGED WITH THE SON OF THUNDERBIRD? SO BE IT....BUT FOR THEY WHO WANT TO BE ABLE TO LOOK INTO THEIR ANCESTORS EYES, I SAY ONE THING...10 slaves for the man who brings me the first Khan head!" Now there was cheer, and suddently the feeling of immortality returned. Raising his good arm, Thunderfoot waved his own men in the distance, before hundreds of engines roared up like one.

Thunderfoot had only a single slave to his chapter, and he would not give that one away, but as he watched his horde roar past him, into battle, he knew, that after all this, he would be able to solve this problem as well!
T H E 80 ´s

The Grim Guardian Highway 80 - North of the Holy City

"Yankee Doodle went to town, riding on a bird, stuck a cell in his clock and called in Macaroni..."

The Grim guardians did had to slow his usual pace, as the Heiress of the prophet was strolling next to him, seemingly in an excellent mood, as she was singing loudly, clapping her hands at times and sometimes even snapping her fingers. For him, it was incredible annoying to behold, yet he could do little to keep her from acting in this strange, enthusiastic way. Yet, as far as he knew, it had been the first time that she had been out of the Pitt, so her happiness seemed at least in some way justified. He still was wondering where she had learned about these songs though, as he never had seen anyone singing in the holy city itself.

"Yankee Doodle keep it up! Yankee Doodle dandy! Light the Mutant Family up and with the plasmagun be handy!"

The Guardian raised an eyebrow, as he was sure that nobody inside the cult would dare to sing such a verse, not with mutantions being seen as a sign of the Monoliths favor. Humming in the tune, Marie grinned wider as she began to move her hands to music seemingly only she could hear. "Is the Heiress feeling alright?" He recived no answer, as the girl continued her tune. For a moment the Guardian considered to raise his hand to signal danger, only to finally get her to stop, yet she had a strange talent for seeing through lies.

"Father and I went down to bridge, Along with Colonel Sutler! There we saw the men and boys, as thick as nutrient pudding!"

Finally, even the Guardian could no longer take it. "Will you finally stop singing, honored Heiress? I need to keep my attention on the road and on the noises around us!" For a moment, the girl simply looked at him, then tilted her head, a grin growing on her lips. "StOp SiNgInG, hOnOrEd HEiReSS" Waving her guardian off, like some nasty fly, she sprinted forward on the road, forcing the guardian to rush after her. He cursed under his mask, as the heavy set warrior sprinted along the road.
Years of cult activity had stripped it clean of any vehicles, and most ruins had been clubbed down, to find the wealth of copper and other metals hidden behind in the walls. Still close to the holy city, trouble was yet not to be expected, yet the roads still held its dangers.
Thousands of words ran through the Guardians head, insults he wanted to scream at this brat, yet he could not let her out of his eyes for a second. The wound in his left leg burned, as he watched her run to the edge of the bridge, where once a river had crossed the land. The bridge had given in a long time ago, its carcass still shattered. Yet right on the edge, the Heiress stopped, and the Guardian had a chance to catch up.

Looking down from the edge of the bridge, into the dry bed of the long-gone river, the Guardian saw what had stopped the heiress. "Junkers..." The Guardian grunted, as he recalled this place once more, back when the bridge had been still standing tall. The world around it had looked so different back then, with a city being build on top of it, proudly defying the cult and the faith. Its ruins had burned so bright and high, that it could have been seen from the holy city itself. "We need to walk another way, Heiress...would you be so kind and follow me?" Marie did not move, but instead silently stood at he edge of the bridge. "Will Detroit at some point look like this? Or Chicago? Or New York?" The Guardian turned back to her, before nodding with a grin behind his mask. "The whole world will look like this, honored Heiress, at least all who defy the true faith and the prophet!" The Guardian could not ignore the scowl and sour look on Maries face, as she looked at the ruins, while her hands formed fists. "I see..."
@Dinh AaronMk
Hides his eternal pain, but looks rather swagger while doing so!
Bro... What about Halflings = Bavarians?
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