An open-world campaign set in Deadlands: Hell on Earth, using the Savage Worlds rules.
Alright, peeps, you can check in here when your characters are done.
Here I am, rock you like a hurricane.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday...
Uh, I was told there would be punch and pie?
Witness!
It looked easy.
When Councilman Dovac unrolled his wrinkled, heavily-creased, quaint paper maps, the route he outlined had looked simple enough.
"I-80 west," he'd said, tracing the line through the holes and smudges on the paper. "Then get off here --" His finger descended with a thud on Reno. " -- and detour around. Get on 395 and follow it north until you reach Ashland. It's considered the gateway to southwest Oregon, so it's as good a place to start as any." He looked up with a smile. "That's where you'll start. That's where you'll start to rebuild."
He had made it sound simple, and maybe to an entrenched bureaucrat it was. But something about his confidence and his earnest desire for success suckered you, and you left Junkyard behind feeling that the trip would be swift and safe. Your individual experiences with travel in the Wastes loomed in the backs of your minds, yet you roared down the scarred blacktop, thoroughly infected by Dovac's enthusiasm.
It didn't last.
You feel like you've seen everything the West has to throw at you on this journey. Road gangs, weird weather, zombies, militias, cults, Doomsayers, the Combine, and mundane ration shortages -- several times, you even got lost. An 800 mile trip, one that the older among you know could, in better days, have been made in twelve hours of constant driving.
It's been two weeks.
Your most recent stop was a small, friendly community in northern California called Gazelle. The people there were simple, the sort of folks you leave behind feeling good for having met them but haunted by the distant certainty that they were too nice, too good, to last. Inside a year, Gazelle will probably be gone, a shell of civilization, gore-spattered and hollow.
Still, your time there was pleasant and the people helpful. They even had enough of a surplus of fresh grapes that they were able to spare a few handfuls, now crammed in Ziploc bags stored somewhere in your rides. Of more relevance to your quest, the good people of Gazelle told you of what lay ahead on the road northward. The stretch from Gazelle to Ashland is a sort of dead zone, devoid of significant settlements, owing to an inexplicable bombardment by ghost rock bombs on Judgment Day. A trio of ghost storms tower over the major roads, forcing travelers to make use of a complicated -- and often blocked -- system of back roads. Fortunately, travel northward is common enough that the townsfolk were able to give you thorough directions and you parted from them on good terms.
Even with their help, however, the last stretch of your journey was anything but easy. No monsters, no muties or raiders, just you versus the vagaries of nature and the ravages wrought by mankind's hubris on his tentative mastery of the world. Put another way: the roads are terrible. You get stuck twice, backtrack three times, and come close to giving up at least once. A handful of signposts, left by helpful travelers to direct others taking the same path, encourage you onward and, after two and a half days picking through roads goats would have trouble on, you've finally passed an old, spray-painted, gunshot-riddled sign with the barely legible words WELCOME TO OREGON visible in the day's hazy light.
__________________________________________________________
Only a few miles from Ashland, a survivor community you know to lie within the remains of old Ashland, a town from before the War. It's supposed to be a friendly place, a settlement that thrives on trade and visitors, so you cautiously begin hoping for a chance to rest and bathe before pressing onward, pursuing your task in whatever way you see fit.
It's mid-afternoon, old road signs assuring you that you're only two miles from Ashland, when you encounter your first real trouble since before Gazelle.
Positioned on the side of the road and facing southward is a crude crucifix constructed of eight-foot-long I-beams lashed or welded together (it's hard to tell from this distance). Tied to these beams at wrist and ankle by what appears to be razor wire is a young man -- or most of a young man, anyway. Whoever took the trouble to tie him up was also thoughtful enough to split open his stomach. Whether the bastard went ahead and pulled the boy's guts out then and there, or if he left them to slowly fall out over a period of possibly days, is hard to say.
As if that weren't enough, the boy's face and chest seem to be covered in deep cuts, so many that his head and upper body are completely encrusted in blood. Needless to say, the gory scene has drawn its share of parasites and scavengers. The boy's viscera, lying in a pile at his feet, are a writhing mound of feasting and gestating insect life, while a lone crow, perhaps braver than its brethren, pecks disconsolately at an already-torn cheek.
The body is a few dozen yards up the road. The path ahead is clear, but, without abandoning the road or significantly backtracking, there is no way to proceed without passing quite close.
__________________________________________________________
Recognizing an old tactic the Legion used to use against the Grapes after s*+$ went south, Jenkins pounds on the cab of the S-10 from the bed.
"Heads up, watch the perimeter for ambush. The body may just be a distraction."
Suiting actions to words, Jenkins pulls his rifle from its sling and crouches in the bed to use the bed's wall for cover. He squints into the distance, scanning the side of the road on the far side from the corpse.
yeah...the syker is probably right. This has ambush written all over it.
Lucas pulls out his binoculars, and gives a thorough scan of the surrounding terrain.
"It looks all clear to me. We should go check it out a little closer. All the same though, let's stay frosty."
Lucas then grabs his shotgun and climbs out of the cab of the truck and starts slowly making his way to the crucified body.
"Clear on this side, sheriff."
Your cautious observation of your surroundings reveals little of note. Aside from a slight wind, the only sound and movement in the area comes from the scavengers on the boy's body. A few moments pass and still nothing, until Adam spots slight rustling in some tall grass atop a low ridge on the far side of the road. Pausing, he waits, eyes fixed on the location, preparing to call out a warning . . . only to see a pair of tattered, pointed ears rise up from the grass. A scrawny dog, patchy fur sporting numerous half-healed wounds, stares hungrily at the unfortunate young man before noticing the humans in the area. It locks eyes with Adam for a moment, a sadly human-like expression of fear and desperation on its face, before it turns and trots down out of sight.
Otherwise, you seem to be alone.
Lucas approaches slowly, shotgun at the ready, prepared for anything. Drawing closer, the stench becomes first merely noticeable before nearly overpowering you. The cloud of flies grows thicker as well, adding to the unpleasantness of the nauseating scene. You stop a few yards away, uncertain if you could stomach getting any closer, but this is near enough to discern more details of the boy's fate.
The razor wire has cut nearly to the bone on his wrists and ankles. Another day or two of rot and you wouldn't be surprised if the flesh on his hands sloughed clean off, leaving a mangled mess of blood and skin clumped on the razor wire and allowing the body to fall into the steaming pile of its own entrails. The look on his face (what you can see beneath the blood) is one of pure agony, leaving you fearful that the boy may have been alive when this was done to him. Supporting that supposition is the lack of any other obvious wounds: the deep cuts on his extremities are obviously from being tied to the girders, while the many shallower cuts on his face and chest can't possibly have been fatal.
Looking closer at those smaller cuts, you notice that they aren't just the random hackings of a psycho with a knife. There seems to be a regularity to them almost like . . . Taking a breath, you step a little closer, trying to see more clearly beneath the caked blood and feasting flies. Yes, there: it's almost like writing, some kind of regular symbols carved into the boy's flesh, covering his face and chest and leaving not an inch to spare. If it really is writing, however, you don't recognize it. It has the complexity of Chinese symbols, but it otherwise looks like nothing you've ever seen before.
Trivia hops down out of the cab and settles her gas mask on her face. Pulling a bit of jerky from her pack, she tosses it in the direction of the dog that recently moved off. She hasn't see a close up look of a dog before and hopes that with the treat, she can lure the dog out.
When it doesn't appear immediately, she carefully makes her way over where Lucas is standing. She's grateful for the mask, if only for the fact that it keeps the flies out of her face. Manual instructed her on the ins and outs of human sacrifice, even if she hasn't actually done it before.
Note: Ace on Wild Die
Spirit roll total: 11
She notices Lucas's scrutiny of the body and takes a closer look, stepping over the spilled entrails to keep from disturbing the scene. She stops and examines them to see if the entrails are in a pattern of any kind.
Not seeing anything immediately apparent, she moves on to examining the body itself.It's difficult to make out all the markings with the flies buzzing around her head, but she tries to discern if these marks look familiar or if they may be magic related.
"I don't speak any Chinese...but I'm guessing this is a sign...maybe warning? That we're entering Alvarez's territory. It sure is some g&+#@~n despicable s~!*."
Lucas slowly steps towards the direction the dog went, reaching out his hand in a friendly manner.
"This reminds me of my neighbor's dog before the bombs dropped. She was smart as a whip. Real good with commands. C'mere girl...it is girl, right? We won't bite'cha. If that's yer owner hanging up there I don't think he'll be feeding you any time soon."
Jenkins steps down from the bed of the truck, slinging his rifle as he does so. He moves over next to Trivia, but doesn't bother to inspect the body or characters etched onto it closely, he knows good and well that this kind of spookery is outside of his wheelhouse and he has plenty of nightmares already.
"I think you're right, Lucas, but if you are, the implications are far more f!+!ed up than just this poor c@*!$!#!#+. He's fresh dead, only a few days by the smell. And how long does skin last on a corpse in this weather? How often do they have to mangle some poor m&&@!#!!#$*$ and stick him up here to keep this warning or magic or whatever the hell it is functional?"
Jenkins pauses long enough to spit the taste of death out of his mouth and climb back up into the truck's bed. F&#& me, I'm going to need a drink soon.
"How many roads come into these f!**ers' territory? How long would it take before you depopulate whole survivor communities keeping this gruesome s!$+ up?" With a last glance at the body, Jenkins's eyes harden, glittering and uncharacteristically alert and sober. "Or maybe they just grab strangers and string them up. Suspect we ought to be even more careful from here on, especially if those carvings indicate actual spooky-f#!# talent."
Xander has always favored being careful, strategic, but in his time since waking up in this hell he's about as trusting of these situations as an abused animal. As soon as he heard "ambush" he took up a defensive posture with his rifle, making use of the cab's roof as a stable platform. He doesn't like using his rifle if he can avoid it, but if someone is watching they probably won't find his bow as intimidating.
He tries to spot anything his companions may have missed indicating hostiles nearby.
Xander watches as Trivia and Adam approach the crucified body, then turns his gaze to their surroundings. There is, thankfully, little to see, though some movement in the grass draws your attention. Sighting down the barrel, you see the head of the same dog from moments ago peeking through the grass, its eyes fixed on the jerky Trivia tossed its way. Despite its obvious hunger, it comes no closer. As Lucas approaches and tries to coax it nearer it seems ready to bolt, but something in his voice or manner soothes it enough that stays put, though it visibly shakes with anxiety at Lucas' slow approach. Both of you (Xander and Lucas) feel certain that trying to push the dog any further will cause it to flee.
Meanwhile, Trivia wades through the near-solid fog of decay to give the markings a closer examination. Aided by the gas mask, you're able to withstand the stench long enough to come to some conclusions about what you're seeing.
"Hey guys, let's load up and get out of here so the dog can eat the jerky in peace." And, I don't want to be around if the people that did this happen to swing by.
Trivia rolls her eyes. For all the talk of men being brave, it seems that most of them remain cowards. She backs away from the body until she is free from the cloud of flies. She pulls her mask up to be better understood.
"Demons. Maybe big ones. Maybe small ones that it'll eat you in little increments." She clicks her teeth together to illustrate, then rubs at her nose, trying to banish the smell. "Surprised that the animals didn't trigger the ritual, but it'd be best we didn't leave it here like this. I think I can dismantle it, but it'll take some time. Best none of ya go pokin' it."
She peers at the dog. Strange that the thing continues to hang out here. Unless... She pulls out another piece of jerky and slowly approaches the dog. "Easy there, pooch. No one here is gonna hurt ya. Just want to make sure you are okay. Where's your master, huh?"
Note Ace:
Total: 7
Trivia creeps toward the dog, but as soon as you pass Lucas -- still some ten yards away from it -- the animal turns and sprints away, kicking up a small cloud of dust in its wake. It darts down behind the small ridge it was sitting atop, and none of you has a vantage point to see beyond. Finding its tracks and catching up with it seems unlikely.
Xander's not going to relax his guard until the posse is on the move again, and continues to scan the area. Ugh, why is she f~&@ing with the dog. "Trivia! Come on, you going to mess with the dog or are we getting outta here?"
"Is it possible this could be a resident of the town? Or possibly posted by the town itself instead of Suki?"
"Either way, we should probably move on and get to
Ashland. Trivia, if you can 'defuse'...that, please do. After that lets leave this place behind."
Lucas walks back to the truck, gets in and starts the engine.
Even with their help, however, the last stretch of your journey was anything but easy. No monsters, no muties or raiders, just you versus the vagaries of nature and the ravages wrought by mankind's hubris on his tentative mastery of the world. Put another way: the roads are terrible. You get stuck twice, backtrack three times, and come close to giving up at least once. A handful of signposts, left by helpful travelers to direct others taking the same path, encourage you onward and, picking through roads goats would have trouble on, you've finally passed an old, spray-painted, gunshot-riddled sign with the barely legible words WELCOME TO OREGON visible in the day's hazy light.
"Possible. Yes. Though if it's a resident things are very bad indeed."
Trivia waves her hand like she is waving away flies. "Yes, yes. Dismantle the demon summoning circle. Demons are bad. But if I was controlling the demons...No. Still bad." She slips her mask back on and turns once more to figuring out the symbols and the best way to break the spell.
She pauses mid-step and spins back around. "Oh! The dog may have been magic and watching the spot for someone. Or it may have just been a dog. But now we don't know. Unless it comes back with its master and they both try to kill us." You get the sense that she is grinning inside her gas mask. "Either way, if I mess this up and demons do show up, please try not to shoot my head off as I am very fond of my head. Unless the demons start to eat me, then please, shoot me in the head." She makes finger guns at Xander. "Alive good. Dinner bad."
And once more, Trivia begins poking at the dead body.
"Oh, that's interesting."
Jenkins quietly sighs. Why the hell are we poking the demon bomb trap magic whoosit again? Still, he keeps his concerns quiet so as not to disturb the insane, albeit amusing and kinda hot, woman. Instead, he puts his game face on and prepares for the dog to return with demon ninjas or the corpse to explode into little people that will try to burrow into his insides.
Total: 8.
"what's interesting...?"
dear Lord, if you still bother listening to the few sinners left down here, please don't let me die by being eaten by a demon some witch summoned by accident
Xander intently watches Trivia's hoodoo from over the barrel of his rifle, hoping that nothing goes awry.
After an hour or so of what looks to the others like nothing more than lots of intense staring and occasionally making a slight mark on the boy's face or chest, Trivia feels confident that the task is complete. The glyphs are now sufficiently altered, and the black magic has drained away, leaving the corpse . . . well, inert. Other travelers are safe from the trap, and the body can now be moved (or buried) without risk.
Even better news: the hour passes without incident. No travelers or creatures happen by. Indeed, were it not for the mutilated adolescent hanging nearby, you might think yourselves in a quiet, secluded part of the West. But what you know of Ashland -- not to mention the horror in front of you -- won't allow that illusion to persist.
"Oh, I was just thinking that it would be interesting to try something similar. Hmmm... maybe without the maiming. Demons probably like the maiming. But I imagine capturing them would follow a similar principle, which could be very helpful."
After finishing her task, she hops back into the cab. "Wouldn't it be interesting if there were demon summoners in Ashland? That would be unexpected." She grins, then smacks the outside of the door. "Onward!"
"Sorry for the gruesome request, fellas...but I think we should bring the body. Let's load it up in the bed and get moving."
Lucas dabs a bit of spook juice on strip of fabric and ties it over his mouth/nose, then proceeds to cut down the body and load it into the bed of the truck.
Then Lucas gets back into the cab of the truck and drives off towards Ashland.
Jesus f@!@ing Christ, this is some nasty s##*. Who the f+%* does that? Jenkins presses himself as far as he can from the random, mangled boy-corpse and glares f!*&ing daggers as his hands start to shake slightly. Stuffing his hands in his pockets to keep the idiot Captain America-boy in the truck's bed from seeing, he stares out over the waste and tries his best to pretend that they were merely lost and doubling back again, not speeding towards some f+*~ed up gangers' hideout with the ragged remnants of some kid a few feet away.
Moving the corpse isn't as messy a proposition as you might have feared. Most of its innards have already fallen out and little blood remains to leak all over you. The hardest part is removing the razor wire without accidentally desecrating the poor boy's remains, but with a few minutes and some creative use of some tools you happen to have in the truck, you're able to get the body down and load it carefully into the bed. Lucas is left with only a slight smearing of blood on the front of his clothes and -- predictably -- a fine, congealed coating on his hands.
Those of you riding in the bed actually have it worse. Many of the bugs and insects remain with the body and aren't averse to exploring their surroundings. Even as the truck pulls away and begins picking up speed, flies and other unpleasant creatures remain hovering and crawling in your vicinity. The smell is difficult to ignore, but there, at least, the movement of the truck is in your favor, as most of the odor is whisked away, leaving a no doubt repulsive trail of decay in your wake.
From where you found the body to Ashland is a quick and easy trip by the standards of the Wastes, taking only fifteen or so minutes. Ashland itself -- Old Ashland, that is -- was a small town, one not worth a ghost rock bomb. Nor is there evidence that the town saw much action in the War: the remains of a long-since picked over field hospital lie on the town's edge, alongside the battered and vine-covered sign welcoming you to within the city limits; and the tail end of what appears to be a military helicopter protrudes from the upper level of one of the town's few buildings over three stories tall, the damage from its crash having collapsed the building's roof and caused its facade to tumble away to the street below -- but there are no streets clogged with military hardware, no massive craters left by explosive impacts, nor any buildings riddled with bullet holes. Whatever fighting happened in Oregon must have passed Ashland by.
The new Ashland lies somewhere within the town's perimeter. You don't have exact directions, only a vague indication to look on the old city's north end, but the streets themselves seem subtly to guide you. Whenever you find a pathway blocked by a collapsed building, overgrown roadway, or untrustworthy bridge, another path, noticeably clear of debris, is always available nearby. Sticking to the pathway thus provided, you soon come within sight of the outer wall of a survivor settlement. Centered around a small residential neighborhood with only one road in and out, Ashland is surrounded by walls made of every available material. Overturned flatbed trucks, piles of car bodies, makeshift concrete barriers, and even old-fashioned wooden palings line the spaces between buildings. The neighborhood itself is surrounded by a narrow, dense ring of woodlands, growing wilder with each passing year. The approach, then, is through a short corridor of encroaching shrubs and branches, debris on the ground indicating that the townspeople take the time to come out here occasionally and cut back the growth. The canopy of branches overhead, however, has gone untouched, leaving you to drive through darkness for a minute or two before emerging into a clear space around the town, where you are confronted by Ashland's gate.
There, you notice a couple of things : first, least worrisome and most obvious, are the guards standing watch over the gate. Armed with hunting rifles, the guards are pale and gaunt. Their cheeks are sunk and their eyes bulging above dark rings. Their grips on their weapons are loose and weak, and they do not raise them as you slow to a stop. They watch you with a combination of fear and desperation.
Second is a sign, posted a few feet from the gate. Made of plywood, the words are sloppily spray-painted on: QUARANTINE! DISEASE OUTBREAK! NO VISITORS!
Before you have a chance to speak, a third man joins the two guards on the walkway above the gate. As lean as the other two, this third man seems possessed of a stronger will. Whatever afflicts these people, it's clear he's suffering as well, but he has not let that soften him. Where the others seem burdened by the weight of their weapons, he draws strength from his, and where they look to you with a faint hope of salvation, he instead looks down with the grimly determined air of a man shouldering a great responsibility -- one he has no intention of neglecting, no matter the cost or circumstances.
"Whoever you are," he calls down, "be on your way. There's nothing for you here, and whatever trouble you plan on laying at our doorstep we don't want. So go on back to the main road and leave us be."
Lucas steps out of the truck with his hands raised.
"I promise you we're bringin' no trouble your way. We're part of an envoy from Junkyard lookin' to set up a forward outpost of civilization...so to speak...we thought your town was a good candidate to be our hub."
Lucas lowers his hand slightly and flashes his badge.
"Now, I know it don't mean much these days, but I give you my solemn word that we're here to help yer town to the best of our ability. If you let us in we can see what we can do to fix what ails you."
Total of 15
Knowing that even most supernatural diseases hold little fear for him, Jenkins stumbles out of the truck bed, with enough presence of mind to keep his hands well away from his slung rifle. Stepping up next to Lucas, Jenkins mutters under his breath:
"At the very least, get them to let me trade with whoever is healthiest for supplies. It's been a long, hard road, and we're out of some essentials. If not, I can probably scrounge up enough to keep us fed, but I'll need to leave soon before dark comes on. Even I don't like to hunt after dark."
Jenkins doesn't look back at the truck, or the mangled boy in it, but he grudgingly adds:
"And information. I need information."
Trivia hops out of the cab of the truck, gas mask slung around her neck. "Thinking you should listen to the woman inside. Sounds like she's got a good head on her shoulders. Ain't no reason to seal yourselves off, if there is a chance of fixing what ails ya. Also I suggest you let her go. No need to harm folks."
She approaches the gate, arms at her sides. "I don't even have a weapon on me. So open the gate and we'll talk. Or at least let us know what's happened to your town." She looks back towards the truck, then at the men on the gate. "It have something to do with the boy that we found? 'cause that was some real nasty work out there."
Impressive, too.
"Would like to know who caused it, so I can make sure it don't happen again.
Note Ace
Note Ace
+2 for Attractive Edge
Total: 17
Xander is content to survey the unfolding situation for the moment, but gets out of the truck bed for no other reason than to escape the pests and fumes.
The leader scowls down at Lucas, clearly unimpressed by his badge. "Calling yourself the law doesn't mean you can come in here and tell us how to --"
Before the man can finish dismissing you, one of the guards spins around, shouting down to others within the walls. "It's a Law Dog!" The resulting murmurs are audible to all of you. Equally obvious is the leader's death-glare, directed at the guard who made the mistake of speaking out of turn. A few voices can be heard over the rabble, each calling out variations on "Let her go!"
As Trivia begins speaking, a fourth figure appears on the increasingly-crowded space above the gate. A woman, middle-aged with a short brown braid and the same sickly appearance as her fellow townspeople. The leader -- if that is indeed what he is -- makes to say something, but the newcomer silences him with a firm gesture. "Alan, open your damn ears before anyone else dies! Did you hear what that girl said?" The woman turns to look down on each of you, but quickly focuses on Trivia. "What was that you said? What boy?"
The two guardsmen are equally focused on Trivia, though their interest is of a different nature. In a span of moments, it seems the balance of power has shifted to favor the newly-arrived woman, and the leader -- Alan -- spits on the ground and turns away from the scene, apparently acceding control to her. He disappears out of sight behind the gate, where a chorus of inaudible questions greet him. Those on the gate barely notice his departure.
Lucas motions for Xander to hold up the body of the boy.
"This boy was found strung up with knife wounds and strange markings on 'em not more than a few miles out from town. I have a fear he may be one of your sons..We didn't want to leave him hang, and thought it be better to bring him home."
Lucas gestures towards Trivia.
"My friend here says those markings weren't exactly wholesome, and appeared to be trapped in some form. Now...did you folks have anything to do with stringing this poor sod up? And if not, who *did* perpetrate this act?"
I'm not going to be able to hold up that body in any way that is dignifying to the poor kid. Xander just motions to the truck bed instead, and calls out, "Yeah, the people that did this to this boy need to held accountable. Before we see to that, we'd like to make sure that he gets his proper respects. If he's one of yours, we'd appreciate your help in that."
The woman and the two guards peer down at the corpse. After a moment, the woman gasps, and the guard on her left stammers, "That -- That's the Carter boy!" He turns back, shouting down to those within, "It's Adam Carter! Somethin' tore his guts out!"
The murmuring beyond the gate grows in intensity, an edge of panic creeping into the crowd's tone.
"My God," the woman says. "Let them in, let them in!" She frantically gestures to someone within and the gate -- two large metal slabs seemingly cut from the side of a trailer -- is hauled open. Beyond, the crowd, numbering maybe over a hundred, makes room for your truck.
You roll carefully into town square, which is nothing more than a short stretch of two-lane road leading through what looks to have once been a pleasant residential neighborhood. As you come to a stop and the crowd settles into place, you find yourself in a settlement divided. A large group stands on the sidewalk to your right, with Alan, arms crossed, standing at their head. On the left stands a smaller group, only now being joined by the woman from above the gate.
There is much excited talk as you enter, and you catch a few comments and snatches of conversation:
"The Carter boy? Then what about the rest of the family?"
"They say they found him? More like they're the ones that cut him up."
"It was the demon! Musta been!"
"No, you idjit, it was the monsters!"
"That's not how the monsters do, Wallace, you moron, we both seen what they do, they -- "
"Ain't they just gonna bring more trouble?"
"Maybe they got clean food."
This last comment, otherwise lost amidst the hubbub, brings all the chatter to an end. Gaunt faces stare at you above hunched shoulders, those on the left with hope, those on the right with fear.
The woman, after quietly conferring with a few of the people on "her side," approaches you. "My name is Nadine, Nadine Holt," she says, "and I can assure you that no one here had anything to do with . . . " Lacking words, she merely points in the direction of the truck bed. "None of us have left town for days, and no one here is a maniac, so no, it must have been . . . Well, there are a few possibilities. We've got our share of problems. Look, let's lay this poor boy to rest -- " She gestures to a few townsfolk, who step forward and collect the body from the truck. " -- then you come along and we can talk."
She leads you away toward a house on "her side," where, past a fortified door and bricked-over windows, she invites you all to take a seat in a surprisingly cozy kitchen. There, she gets to work brewing some coffee on a countertop propane burner, giving you an opportunity to take in your surroundings or ask any questions.
"Here let me help you guys," Xander says to people seeing to the kid. The proceedings are pretty somber, but Xander tries to make some small talk and find out some things about the town. "I saw the sign about quarantine as we were rolling up. People still getting sick? Oh, and from some of the mumbling I heard, sounds like people are hard up for food. What do you guys do to survive out here? You guys trade with any other towns at all?"
Before heading into the town, Trivia yanks a bandanna over her mouth and nose. While she is all for helping these folks, she also isn't much interested in getting whatever they have. She shows no interest in the body and the proceedings. The boy is long dead and she got the information she needed from it.
Once seated in Nadine's kitchen, she wastes little time in getting to the questioning.
"Okay, Carter boy. He and his family from here? Your folks seemed awful certain that a monster or demon did that. What's been going on around here that made them think it was something supernatural and not just a crazy person?
Note Ace:
Charisma: +2
Total: 12