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- Joined
- Dec 22, 2014
The winds howled their hot rage over the desert sands, as if the world itself was shrieking foul curses in a long, unbroken tirade. The world did have every right to be angry, after all: It had given mankind everything, and what had those damned humans done? Turned around and killed it. Well, nearly. Boiled its oceans, scorched its landscapes, turned just about everything alive on its surface to radioactive dust. Yet for all the Earth's rage, for all its fury, it still could not kill off the last of its murderers.
It needn't worry, however. They seemed plenty intent on doing it themselves.
There was something more on the winds than sand and desolation that day, however. A fiery roar. Wheels, metal, gasoline. Adrenaline. While much of the world was dead, some parts of it were very much alive, making their presence known with all the sound and fury they could muster. A sand dune exploded as one truck plowed through it with all the grace of an enormous boar, kicking up a cloud of dust that trailed in the vehicle's wake like a small storm of its own. It was flanked on either side by men and women on motorbikes who would occasionally zoom ahead and return with snippets of information concerning the road ahead. At its back? Half a dozen trucks and cars, each of them following the lead of the man in front.
Ned was his name. Formerly Man-Slayer Ned, commander of the Fourth Ranging, War-Cleric of the Bladekult. Now? Just Ned. Ned, a fugitive like the few dozen who followed him. Set to die for the crime of making the wrong enemies in a new regime, named traitor by those he'd fought and killed for. In the chaos of the succession rites brought on by the High Man-Slayer's death at the hands of his chief rival, many of those who'd once held a comfortable position had been cast down and deemed a threat to the new order. It was a miracle that even this many had made it out in one piece.
He drove now in his own War Truck, all dressed for battle with nowhere to go. They'd been on the trail of a caravan for days now, and he was growing weary of the pursuit. Many before them had sought refuge with the nomads of the caravan, and he prayed only that they would see fit to absorb a company of hardened warriors into their ranks. He leaned lazily on the steering wheel, a big man at just a bit more than six feet in height with broad shoulders and a hard body built by a life at war. His face was one that lent itself easily to wild-looking grins, for a wild man he was. Square jawed with a big mouth, his narrow - and thrice-broken - nose sloped up to a pair of slate-gray eyes, locked in a hard expression and made all the more fierce by the heavy black tattooing that surrounded them in a thick, jagged band. His hair was like fire, colored crimson and streaked with its natural orange, some even made golden by the sun to compliment his heavy tan. It was worn long and wild on the top and in the back, though the sides had been shaved to allow for the more intricate tattoos that had once marked him as Man-Slayer and War-Cleric, an impressive series of sharp curves that slithered past his ears and curled down his jaw. All of that was dressed up in a dusty leather coat, ragged trousers and a pair of heavy boots, a pair of goggles dangling around his neck.
Just as his mind began to wander once more, Ned's attention was snatched up by the approach of a returning scout's bike. The scout drove himself right up alongside of Ned's truck, grinning as he bellowed into a crude horn that amplified his voice enough to be heard over engines and winds. "Man-Slayer! News!"
That snapped Ned out of his lull. He pulled on his goggles and rolled the window down, hanging his head out the window and nodding down at the rider.
"Scouts are sayin' we've got tracks at our rear! Thinkin' we've got a tail!"
Ned grimaced, closing his eyes behind the goggles. Jack's crew, no doubt. He still remembered the mad bastard's threat on their way to the garage, when the succession's in-fighting was at its worst. He was looking for Ned's head, something to present to his new master as a token of loyalty. That'd do the trick, too, sadly enough. "Keep tabs," he called back over the roar of his engine. "The caravan?"
"That's the good news," came the rider's call back. "They're beddin' down for the night! We'll be on 'em in an hour, tops. That still the plan?"
Ned's answer was a nod. That sent the rider away, who'd spread the news among the small company of vehicles with them. That kept his band of exiles from being surprised, at least, when he slowed down at the twilight hour, looking down over the caravan's camp from atop a large dune. With what little light remained, he plucked a mirror from his pocket and made use of the sun, creating a signal that'd easily be seen from afar, if they hadn't already noticed the trucks and bikes. A greeting.
It needn't worry, however. They seemed plenty intent on doing it themselves.
There was something more on the winds than sand and desolation that day, however. A fiery roar. Wheels, metal, gasoline. Adrenaline. While much of the world was dead, some parts of it were very much alive, making their presence known with all the sound and fury they could muster. A sand dune exploded as one truck plowed through it with all the grace of an enormous boar, kicking up a cloud of dust that trailed in the vehicle's wake like a small storm of its own. It was flanked on either side by men and women on motorbikes who would occasionally zoom ahead and return with snippets of information concerning the road ahead. At its back? Half a dozen trucks and cars, each of them following the lead of the man in front.
Ned was his name. Formerly Man-Slayer Ned, commander of the Fourth Ranging, War-Cleric of the Bladekult. Now? Just Ned. Ned, a fugitive like the few dozen who followed him. Set to die for the crime of making the wrong enemies in a new regime, named traitor by those he'd fought and killed for. In the chaos of the succession rites brought on by the High Man-Slayer's death at the hands of his chief rival, many of those who'd once held a comfortable position had been cast down and deemed a threat to the new order. It was a miracle that even this many had made it out in one piece.
He drove now in his own War Truck, all dressed for battle with nowhere to go. They'd been on the trail of a caravan for days now, and he was growing weary of the pursuit. Many before them had sought refuge with the nomads of the caravan, and he prayed only that they would see fit to absorb a company of hardened warriors into their ranks. He leaned lazily on the steering wheel, a big man at just a bit more than six feet in height with broad shoulders and a hard body built by a life at war. His face was one that lent itself easily to wild-looking grins, for a wild man he was. Square jawed with a big mouth, his narrow - and thrice-broken - nose sloped up to a pair of slate-gray eyes, locked in a hard expression and made all the more fierce by the heavy black tattooing that surrounded them in a thick, jagged band. His hair was like fire, colored crimson and streaked with its natural orange, some even made golden by the sun to compliment his heavy tan. It was worn long and wild on the top and in the back, though the sides had been shaved to allow for the more intricate tattoos that had once marked him as Man-Slayer and War-Cleric, an impressive series of sharp curves that slithered past his ears and curled down his jaw. All of that was dressed up in a dusty leather coat, ragged trousers and a pair of heavy boots, a pair of goggles dangling around his neck.
Just as his mind began to wander once more, Ned's attention was snatched up by the approach of a returning scout's bike. The scout drove himself right up alongside of Ned's truck, grinning as he bellowed into a crude horn that amplified his voice enough to be heard over engines and winds. "Man-Slayer! News!"
That snapped Ned out of his lull. He pulled on his goggles and rolled the window down, hanging his head out the window and nodding down at the rider.
"Scouts are sayin' we've got tracks at our rear! Thinkin' we've got a tail!"
Ned grimaced, closing his eyes behind the goggles. Jack's crew, no doubt. He still remembered the mad bastard's threat on their way to the garage, when the succession's in-fighting was at its worst. He was looking for Ned's head, something to present to his new master as a token of loyalty. That'd do the trick, too, sadly enough. "Keep tabs," he called back over the roar of his engine. "The caravan?"
"That's the good news," came the rider's call back. "They're beddin' down for the night! We'll be on 'em in an hour, tops. That still the plan?"
Ned's answer was a nod. That sent the rider away, who'd spread the news among the small company of vehicles with them. That kept his band of exiles from being surprised, at least, when he slowed down at the twilight hour, looking down over the caravan's camp from atop a large dune. With what little light remained, he plucked a mirror from his pocket and made use of the sun, creating a signal that'd easily be seen from afar, if they hadn't already noticed the trucks and bikes. A greeting.