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Post by Shin RyuKen on Jun 18, 2014 19:28:23 GMT -5
His face caved in. Three days of travel in these decrepit meadows. He reminisced on the first thread of life he began to detect after miles of immeasurable heat and a leviathan trail of footprints etched into the sand. Few words were exchanged; what he saw instead for the briefest glimpse was the sign of a castaway's life, who declared himself a prisoner seeking a bail he would never find. His eyes closed shortly after they met, but he could remember the grim happenings as his mouth opened, dripping with blood and sweat, unable to muster any attempt at dialogue other than a miserable groan while his eyes began to point northward. In this direction the man from nowhere followed, taking in the corpse's stead.
Eventually it stopped being sand in the wasteland. There was just a musk of dust and body odor that invaded his headspace. Unfortunately, the more he paid attention to the imperceptible traits of the air, the less he would he able to see what was right in front of him. It was easy for men in this lifeless dune to notice the invisible and regard the real and tangible as an illusion. Perhaps therein existed the myth of the mirage in the desert; the callous visions of ghosts that plagued the minds of weary travelers. He sought knowledge and answers, so the troubled history of aimless nomads in the desert was what he began to withstand. Whatever it was in front of him, was not a mirage.
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Post by Mayor on Jun 19, 2014 1:07:19 GMT -5
The soft shuffle, though muted to the forcibly deafened ears, did not hide the weary figure. In a land filled with dustily-clouded visions of both the body and the mind, Emil was one of the few seeing clearly. Through the narrow slit of his visor, the world condensed to a clear image, unsullied by the extreme conditions which obscured others like him. A small glance to the side, and the comparison was clear. As the other figure approached, worn by the world's ferocity, eyes sunken and glassed over by the sun and sand, Emil did little to acknowledge. He had shut himself off from the world to stalk his hunt, so it wasn't worth engaging now.
The wastes took their toll, regardless of experience, and the taxation had begun reaching uncomfortable levels. So began the first hunt, the primordial excursion, the search for life. The skies beat down overhead, hammered the ground with oppressive heat, but never with enough force to hammer him down. Once life was found, the second hunt began, tracking the progress, serpentining across the harsh sands, the life was charted as it forced its way through the sloping landscape. And though he was not yet at the end, it was more clearly in sight than the figure beside him. The arid atmopshere pecked at his nostrils, where dried synapses flared at the introduction of new blood, though not that of the life that was being sought. A slight lick of the lips offered no relief, but revealed only remnant flavors of meals long gone, quivering at the chance to relieve the thirst. But to satiate required the end of the hunt.
Shoulders lowered, eyes focused ahead, the rubbing of dried fingers like sand paper to wood. As the signs of life presented themselves to the hunter once more, it was no longer the time to dawdle, to revel in the discovery of friend or foe. For a world so expansive, so visibly vast in the desolate landscape, it seemed so narrow now. The hunger consumed, brought back old habits, old tendencies, never wanted, but always reliable. Follow the path of life, they said, for at the end, awaits only death, and salvation.
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Post by Shin RyuKen on Jun 20, 2014 12:22:46 GMT -5
The interdiction of two silhouettes was an optimistic occasion - but at the same time, it maintained a hostile environment. When the man started to squint into the depths of the wastes, the other side of the desiccated lands gave rise to a timid figure whose eyes were clearly better equipped for the lurid airborne dust than he was. The man's eyes were hidden under the slit of shadow created by his hat's brow, but it was clear by the wavering gait that he was struggling through the lifeless sands.
At the checkpoint of his day his march started to dull out, his presence slithered across the earth to reach the man in question. His boots and his face were peppered by the copper dust in the evening sunset and all he could think of was the mirage that slogged toward him at a similar pace as him. With an insatiable hunger and exhaustible soul, his body was a fallible machine that could only be given a new swath of oil. He reached for a canteen along the right side of his belt and twisted the top, reaching for the last of what his rusty bottle had to offer. He had gone hours without sight of an oasis and his conviction was starting to fail him.
At last he moved again, and the tip of his hat was sloped up slightly in order for his eyesight to be visible to the man in front of him. It was strange that he could not see his own, but nonetheless was all the more wise for it. This goggled man's body was showing clear signs of age, and the wasteland was not the sole proprietor of his aging body; he could tell from the posture and the worn gear that he hailed from hardship not unlike that of his own. The man's expression did not change for this stranger as it tends not to do, seeing as he does not communicate in words and there was no other way for him to express being on guard without hostility. He pegged his right foot forward and prepared for an answer from the stranger in goggles.
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Post by Mayor on Jun 22, 2014 22:49:18 GMT -5
"If you're going to move towards me, it would be best to keep up. I won't slow down for those who can't follow."
Though the words rang callously, they carried no malice. It was a factual statement, following the laws of both Emil and survival: either move forward, or be left to fade to dust. Though the sands seemed lifeless, he knew it held more than the two men. Soon there will be one less the old habits hissed into his mind, the hunger must end. It was true, Emil had gone longer than he would have liked since his last meal, and the opportunity was close to end the streak.
But what of the one who had joined Emil? A short glance shot in the tag-a-long's direction: light armor, tools, munitions, weaponry. All speckled by the dust which consumed the landscape, but the dirt and grime of the man's accouterments rested deeper than a mere surface coating of sand. Tattered and ragged, bleached by the sun's fierce glare, it was clear that he, like Emil, was no stranger to the elements. A kindred soul, perhaps.
Perhaps a test would fare well. The hunt would likely prove more successful with more people. A stronger pack makes a stronger hunt. Emil missed the pack. Not the hunt, though. The hunt was at hand. His head bounced away from the ragged man and back to the trail. The trail led to the hunt, and was the hunt. The route was there, it was now time to follow. No time to wait, for either man or conditions. Dry nostrils flared once more. Breathe deeply the habits said, you won't get to once the hunt begins.
A strong exhale, hot air flowing into its kind, becoming one with the conditions around it. Emil would need to as well. Posture sunken, he began to sprint. No time to wait. No time to breathe. Only movement was the way. Only the trail ahead existed. Only the hunt.
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Post by Shin RyuKen on Jun 27, 2014 1:43:00 GMT -5
It was difficult to discern the motive behind this figure. He was clearly not a mirage; his words rung with the clarity and sincerity of one that did not intend to deceive or to discourage. It was a man that breathed the same desolate air as he did but endured the same resistance of the wavering dunes that he walked on. It was then that this sunken carcass began to slither at a breathtaking pace, taunting the man to keep up with him.
One phrase struck the man from nowhere in particular, compared to his other words. "for those that can't follow." The immortal law of the sand was that the land itself had no equal, for that it conquered both plant and animal life alike in an exhaustive grasp. Was this man really trying to assert himself over someone else? Perhaps then it would be wise to outpace this man, to make that point clear.
He began to pursue Emil, with the intent of matching his pace alongside him. He made no attempt to mute the sound of his footsteps as his boots gained enough traction to at least start to catch up to him. It was uncertain where this man was headed, but chances are he was headed into dangerous territory.
The man took no precautions. With a steady arm hovering behind him, he wanted to teach Emil his first lesson of the desert - always be prepared for anything at the sight of a new horizon. He reached for his crossbow but did not project it at his new ally; instead, he mounted it over his shoulder, aiming it in front of him, ensuring that no suspicious characters would cross them without warning. If the stranger was going to lead the way, he may as well be leading by example. His posture was much more flat than that of Emil's, warning him that such a slouched back may cause a gradual collapse of his body in battle. It was a risk the muted man was not willing to take.
The desert remained barren and few signs of hope remained beneath the skyline, which gleamed with dread under a red sun. The charcoal sky was barely cooling down and choked the hydration out of their bodies only a margin below what they were used to. Signs of life were nonetheless far and few in between. A single cactus made its appearance after miles of travel, awaiting the response of the two travelers after no others dared to cross its path.
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Post by Tokrochiru on Jun 29, 2014 23:30:15 GMT -5
"They say that the most deadly predators are the silent ones."
As the two hunters pressed onward, sand caking on their feet,a thin humanoid in a tattered brown cloak approached. His hair was scarlet, and his vulpine ears were a clear indicator that he was beastkin of some variety. His face was almost sickeningly gaunt, and while he appeared to be youthful, the dryness of his skin nevertheless created unattractive wrinkles and folds.
"But I wonder, do these predators know their prey? Or are they prey themselves, merely in denial of their true nature."
The beastkin cackled to himself as he moved closer to the pair of wanderers. He appeared to be waiting for some sort of input, though it was clear that he understood that neither of the people he was addressing were big on speech. Perhaps it was his way of attempting to irritate them. If so, however, why? What was this creature doing here, and why did he act like he knew who the two strangers were?
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Post by Mayor on Jul 31, 2014 22:28:17 GMT -5
A guttural growl, an inborn reaction to the appearance of the crossbow, escaped from Emil's throat. It was not meant to escape, but it tore through Emil's diaphragm uncontrolled, a remnant of his past which could not be suppressed. Bad memories bubbling of a past long gone, but if there were one foe it was the hardest to fight, it was the past. Push past it. There's nothing to fear of it. It's aimed beyond, not at, you. A calming, dry inhale. Exhale the tension. It passes.
Another. There is a third in this desert. Not the prey, not from the prowl. Bring back the higher function. There's a beastkin approaching. Rare to find one out in the desert. Fur typically would be too heavy, too warm. Emil could certainly understand why they would avoid the environment. Still, it bothered Emil to see anything so close to what it would typically avoid. Without knowing that reason, he sized the beastkin up.
Thirty paces out. Outnumbered, should the other stranger remain loyal. Appearance seems almost malnourished, though posture and laughter would indicate he is neither starving nor stranded. Caution would be best, but not the biggest threat the shifting sands had to offer.
Hopefully the stranger would remain loyal. Emil valued that, and would be sure to reward it, particularly if things went south. It would be nice to regain some of that pack mentality. Survival always worked better with more support. And survival might be what becomes the game here. Slowing his approach, Emil rose from his hunch, straightening his back, while keeping a close eye on the beastkin. The shifting sands could hide many a falsity, but would have a hard time obscuring spoken truths.
"Don't suppose you're also looking for dinner." he lightly growled.
Inhale. Focus. The prey could wait. Would have to. Be prepared. Best rule of self-preservation: only you are out for you. Exhale. Need to find out why this beastkin, why here. Need to maintain thought. Need to interact. Need to survive. Need to calm down. Emil was no longer the beast he once was. Inhale. Exhale. Wait.
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Post by Shin RyuKen on Aug 2, 2014 20:35:41 GMT -5
Eyes set on the strangers in the desert, the man crept up in pace to remain at the front wing of his new comrade. The gaping rictus of the sun hung loosely over their heads. It meant nothing for the man from nowhere to hunt anyone or anything where he was from. Most of his time was spent sowing seeds and growing vegetables in the desert sun. He hoped he would not have to invest most of his time trying to maintain the machinery of human thought over his own health.
The new ally seemed reliable, but reckless and almost mechanical in his behavior. There was a tenacity in the way he spoke and responded to his surroundings that became predictable in the first few minutes of meeting him. The man withheld most of his judgment before further exposure to Emil, but knew there would be a lot of adjustment to every new person he met. Even at the tone of hostility, he knew there was a way to develop oppressive environments beyond violence.
Alas. Emil was preparing for battle. The first rule of survival in the wasteland was to lower the hostilities unless provoked otherwise. It was more of a philosophy the man from nowhere applied to everyone he met, but it resonated especially with this encounter. The beastkin did nothing but speak in wishful cryptography to them. Strangers who were big on threatening rhetoric were often in dire need of response; for, they too are lost, in one way or another.
To teach Emil the way, he turned the crossbow back towards him. Arching a forearm towards Emil, the man ceded his pace to block Emil's path with a crossbow horizontally angled in front of him. He did not intend to attack Emil, merely to disprove his train of thought and put him on a different track. Emil did not attack this man right away, why think differently of a few furred creatures? Turning a shaded eye to Emil, the man shook his head indicating that it would not be best to confront these beastkin right away, but rather negotiate with them on which roads led nowhere.
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