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Scorched Earth Symphony

Wasteland

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a part of Scorched Earth Symphony, by XToxicX.

Destroyed and Desolate, the Wastelands are home to many and much.

XToxicX holds sovereignty over Wasteland, giving them the ability to make limited changes.

119 readers have been here.

Setting

The Wasteland is a dangerous place to be, but isn't everywhere? It is most known for the bandits and gangs that roam. Much is to be found and scavenged though.
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Wasteland

Destroyed and Desolate, the Wastelands are home to many and much.

Minimap

Wasteland is a part of Scorched Earth Symphony.

3 Characters Here

Abe Ellory [0] C'mon, Hilde.
Erik Stone [0] Seasoned wilderness canoetriper and survivalist nut this guy was infantry for a while before all this.
Illaria LeVough [0] A hard headed young woman who is hell-bent on survival

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Setting

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#, as written by Legate
"Fucking weather" the man grumbled "either its pissing down or freezing up or it's 40 degrees. Damned war sure played hell with the weather, make no mistake". Well at the end of the day you were either alive or you weren't. He was alive and most surely intended to keep it that way. Everything in his bearing bespoke that. From the way he walked to the way his eyes searched the surroundings to the careful placement of each foot. He walked at a steady gait taking time to place each foot his gun on the strap around his neck held in a low guard. That's just how it had to be these days, shit was messed up. You had to keep your guard up and stay sharp or you were gone in seconds. These were all the thoughts that were running through his head as a deer broke from cover and bounded off. He leveled his gun in an instant. That instant unfortunately was AFTER the deer had left. He sighed, "Well there goes dinner, and lunch, and any other meal I might have eaten. And I am not eating pidgeon again. Dear god that was awful, we made a deal remember. No, HEY now don't you get shirty with me. Yeah I know we're gonna eat it again when I get hungry enough." He spread his arms wide as if appealing to the world. "You would think it was bad enough talking to yourself, but losing the argument too?! huh, god damn" His stomach growled. "Yeah I know you're hungry why don't we find you some trout eh?" And with that he moved off into the woods again with his back to with the morning sun rising behind him.

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Fred had been trekking for half the night along the ruined and cracked road that was once called the I40. He had spent the other half running. Running from the creatures of the night. The shells of people who wanted nothing other than to taste his crackling skin, his muscles hot and thick, juices running from them over their spits and fires. But hell if that was going to happen, he would sooner cut his manhood off than let himself become nothing more than dinner for lunatics.
He had walked into the small town they occupied suspicious, he had ran out frantic. He had even let off a few shots from his rifle at some of them before he got out, and he knew he at least got one of them good. One of them good in the head. They had taken shelter in an old fast food restaurant, 'Fiends of the golden arches' he dubbed them. He chuckled aloud at that one.

They had chased him for about half a mile or so, before the appeal of his flesh had run out. "So much for fast food" he had thought. He laughed at that one, too. He had thought about lighting up a piece of cloth on a stick, to give at least a little light on his journey, and he almost had, until he heard a few lonely bird calls 'sun will be up soon' he thought to himself, 'might as well save the fluid for a better use..'.
He came across a road sign as the sun began to illuminate the land around him. 'Mclean'. An old town, obviously not a big one. '2 miles', he read. 'Not too bad, might be I'll find an old house to sleep in'. Fred had adapted to travelling at night very early on. Most of his dangerous encounters had been during the day, and he had not seen half as many people about during the darker hours of day. Much safer. But it made hunting for food a lot tougher. He learnt to be creative, he had learnt to look for clues to where the feral animals would be sleeping, to where they scavenged most, to where they hid from the roving bands of raiders and cannibals who might fancy a tastier bit of meat. They was usually chewed boxes, turds warm and cold. The smell of a felines urine was unmistakable. And if he smelt it, that meant more than once of the little pests. Why would a cat mark his scent unless he felt threatened?
He came across a cat almost as soon as he entered Mclean, it was basking in the morning sun. There was not much meat on the creature, he could see that through the scope of his rifle. The poor thing had a ruined ear, and a few seconds later, with the squeeze of his index finger and the sharp crack of his gun it had a ruined skull as well. He picked the animal up by the hind legs, and carried it over to a red barn he spied just south of the interstate. An empty field lay next to the barn. The weeds among the whole estate had grown unruly, thick and tall. He made shelter under a tree in the middle of the field. He skinned the creature, and indeed saw there was not much meat on the animal. Nevertheless, meat was meat.