12 – R&R at the Bar
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Realizing that Thrak is still ‘in the dark’, Cobb describes your current situation to the vision-impaired mutant (Jumrak listens in too, though he’s been less than forthcoming about his own poor vision). “This place looks to have been a gathering place for the Ancients. The pictures on the walls are actually pictures of their greatest warriors and athletes. I guess you could say the place is a shrine of sorts, where the Ancients gathered to worship their heroes and celebrate their victories with food and drink. I don’t know if any of the people in the pictures ever came to this place though. They must have had it pretty good until they screwed everything up.”
Cobb goes on to describe the rest of the building’s general layout to Thrak. “If things get rough and we have to flee, just follow my scent and I’ll lead you out.” (+10 XP for helping out Thrakazog – and Jumrak.)
“For now, maybe we should try and hide ourselves from a cursory look into the building and get a few winks.”
The group agrees, and you decide to rest and recuperate for a while before exploring the Lost City. There wasn’t a lot of survival gear in the slaver barracks, and you were only able to grab one day’s worth of food and water (two if you subsist on half rations), so you’ll have to go scrounging sooner rather than later. You crowd around the candles in the manager’s office and discuss plans.
“What do you guys think about the water?” suggests Jumrak. “Do you think it might lead out of here? I’ve seen streams go through caves in the mountains before, and there are sometimes passages. Once we’ve had a break, we should see if there’s a passage where the water goes.”
None of you have any other compelling suggestions; once you’ve rested you agree to head towards the water (towards map locations #20 and #22.).
True to his scav nature, Cobb starts a complete and thorough search of the ruined bar. (GM rolls a Luck check, in secret.) Meanwhile, Jumrak tests the heft of the newfound clubs (he distributes the other two clubs to Cormac and Vash) and examines the mysterious white balls, while Vash spends his time tending to the wounds of his companions. (He’ll Take 10 on the check. I’m not sure if Vash wants to use his first aid kit at this time; he’ll just use his basic ‘Treat Injury’ class ability and restore 1 hp to each wounded PC. If he decides to use up some of his kit, he could restore up to 3 more hp each.) Cormac seems to be slipping back into despondency…
A Short Time Later…
“Ha!” announces Cobb, holding up a metal flask. “The looters didn’t get everything.”
“Dibs on first sip!” Kronic chimes in, as Vash finishes tending his cuts and scrapes.
Cobb screws open the top, takes a sniff, and wrinkles his nose. “Hmm; vermouth. I’m certainly not drinking it! Sorry, Kronic – no sips; it might be useful for trade.”
“Fine, cheapass.” Kronic mutters under his breath. “I’ll stay near the door and watch out for slavers. Keep your weapons at the ready – we only ran a few blocks.” (There was a car wreck near the door, from which you can hide and still see down the street.) “If you need me to move anything just ask… I’ll keep an eye out.”
An hour or more passes. There are no slaver patrols, and no obvious indications of activity from the stockade. Hiding in his spot near the bar entrance, Kronic takes his time to carefully check over the rifle he has collected and make sure it is in good order from its fall from the tower. (GM makes a Perception check in secret). The rifle’s craftsmanship and construction is sub-par, but it appears undamaged. While focused on his new toy, Kronic’s attention is diverted and he is almost caught by surprise as a disheveled figure unexpectedly steps out of the alleyway adjacent to the bar! (GM rolls some dice…)
The man is filthy and dressed in layers of torn and stained clothing. As he staggers towards the hidden sentry point, he mutters to himself and stops short – he’s spotted Kronic! Cursing to himself for being caught so unprepared, Kronic draws his rifle into position (the bum’s at short range right now). In the dim semi-light, Kronic can’t even tell if he’s a mutant or just scarred and disease-ridden; at least he doesn’t appear to be a slaver.
And then, seemingly out of nowhere, the man draws a shotgun at Kronic! His bulging, watery eyes reflect fear and madness. An almost comical encounter suddenly becomes dangerous…
What are your actions?
Scorched Earth RPG 
Goreman squints at the figure crouching amidst the wreckage. He grips tightly to his hogleg and drools a bit onto his hands.
As Kronic gets a closer look, he quickly wishes he hadn’t. The man is simply appalling to behold. His hair is black and matted with dirt, arranged sparsely around his head in thin patches. It appears that he would have facial hair if his skin wasn’t so dry and abused.
The man shambles closer yet, slowly and with a limp. That’s when the odor reaches Kronic. It’s the unmistakable stench of a man with dysentery who’s recently soiled himself. His clothes still bare the wet diarrhea spots to prove it.
Goreman’s tattered, nearly shredded blue jeans hang precariously low around his waste, allowing some of his fetid pubic hair to bush out from beneath. This is a sight that could make a zombie gag. He wears a shoe on his left foot, his right foot bloody and swollen, seaminly ready to explode with puss with every hobbling step. A throbbing, blue varicose vein bares the only clue that blood still runs through the foot at all.
Goreman speaks in a raspy, heavily accented voice: “Who dare? Nah’ ain’t lookin’ fer no troubles, nah.”
“Golf?!” Thrakzog snorts. “How in the hells did we end up holing up in a golf building?”
Thrak can see and sense several of his companions darting questioning glances in his direction. Of course, they couldn’t know that several years of his childhood were spent being tossed from family to family after his own abandoned him in infancy. There was one that made its home in the monstrous ruins of a gathering place of the Ancients, where trade was conducted and leisure was pursued, each with the same sort of reckless abandon that told of time being of the essence such that one pursuit would lead invariably to the other in a vicious cycle that played no small part in the downfall. One small section of this grand place of trade and pleasure was still known only as Pebble Beach, where tiny man-made river beds were dry of water and filled with things that looked like rocks, but weren’t. There was an abundance of small while (and multi-coloured) balls and many well-crafted, heavy-headed clubs, exactly like those found here in this new, strange establishment. Thrakazog knew the balls and the clubs meant ‘golf’, and he knew it was a game the Ancients played that somehow involved the fuzzy green surfaces, but he knew not how.
Part way through the explanation to his new mates, Thrakazog flings back his head in disgust and lets loose with an even more vociferous interjection than his first one: “What in the bloody hells is that thrice gods-forsaken reek?!”
He hears, “…ain’t lookin’ fer no troubles, nah,” and slips the heavy, comfortable wrench from the belt at his side, clenches it two-handed, and looks to Cobb for clarification on the source of the stench and the gutteral language. They are obviously one and the same, and coming from just outside the building, but Kronic’s out there and this has the potential to turn ugly very quickly.
I can’t see what’s going on, but I sure can smell it and it’s foul. I’m not “lookin’ fer no troubles” either, but I’m not looking to be caught off guard. Now that I know that this “golf club” can smash a rock-hard ball out of view, I know it can smash a skull too. I’m going to inch up to the action, with the club ready, trying to stay out of view of the stranger. Well, I’ll sneak towards the smell in any case and hope he can’t see me either.
Kronic Fires… I ain’t no talker. This guy wants to show steel than he better be ready. Especially after I didn’t get my drink I called dibs on.
After shooting I will charge into melee and finish him off, unless he begs for mercy I take his gear off the corpse. If he begs for mercy I will subdue him and take his gear from his unconscious body and let the talkers deal with him.
(I hope the sound of gunfire will alert my companions…Caught surprised and not allowed to drink, Kronic is not happy.)
Cobb glances around to discover the source of the stench, thinking maybe some type of vermin wandered in. Hearing the voices from outside he hops up with a start and points the rifle in the general direction of the door.
“Who the hell is that?” he whispers to Thrakazog.
The loud report of Kronic’s gun makes him jump. “Dammit! They found us already?” Cobb glances back in the direction of the escape route to ensure that no one is sneaking up from that direction.
Goreman takes the round in the stomach and falls to his knees. A thick spew of blood spashes onto the debris strewn sidewalk infront of him as his shotgun hits the ground. A look of horror and suprise washes over his visage as he covers up the gushing wound with his hands. His shaking gaze travels slowly down to his abdomen to inspect the damage.
A weak voice mutters “Nah…ain’t…lookin’…fer…no… trrr…”
Goreman falls onto his back and begins to hyperventilate, thrashing about a little on the dirty concrete.
Cormac sees an opportunity, although he would have liked to have arrived to it without so much noise. He knows he can get that shotgun without exposing himself. He positions himself at the door and quietly suggests, “Kronic, let’s not expose ourselves – to anyone out there or whatever disease he’s carrying. I can get that shotty from here.” He concentrates on the shotgun and channels his power…
Thrakzog gets the gist of the goings-on from the stench, sounds, and report of voices exchanged. Kronic has obviously shot some sort of interloper for whom hygiene hasn’t been a priority for quite some time, and it sounds like he’s in his death throes.
Still clenching his heavy wrench in his large hands, and seeing Cobb covering the rear escape, Thrak makes his way to the front door to better apprise the situation.