H
Happy Trails
Guest
Original poster
The year is 1997. Two years ago, the long in the tooth USSR made a power play in an attempt to buy themselves another decade of existence. NATO intervened, drawing a line in the sand across Eastern Europe. When it came time for one to blink, neither did. And so the world as we know it ended in a wall of atomic fire.
Codetta will explore the story of a small group of survivors of The End. While the exact circumstances of where they are and how they are surviving will be decided by the players their story will be one of harsh and exacting survival. Themes that will be explored in this are: the quiet dignity in continuing on in the face of desperation; holding on to humanity despite humanity at its worst; and finding a way to rebuild while the world dies. Below is a tonesetter to give you a taste of how the game will feel. Feel free to post any questions below or DM me.
A solitary figure walks down a canyon of cracked concrete and shattered glass. Their muffled footsteps managing the faintest echo, reverberating off of the faces and exposed interior walls of the canyon sides. Layers of ill fitting clothing, stained scraps wrapped around the figure conceal their identity, transforming their silhouette into a misshapen wreck. The crunch of the deep snow giving way beneath them is uneven and labored. Their shadow projects something larger and more impressive than its small, limping, source could ever achieve.
The wind howls, whistling through the cracks in the half decayed buildings of the city. It disturbs the thick dust that has been allowed to accumulate in corners made unreachable by rot. This haze cloaks the the figure, obscuring their edges. For a moment they disappear, now a part of the landscape they deliberately disturb. A single being of dilapidated dignity.
The wind falls silent, allowing the dust to settle into old crevices. The street becomes clear once more, the contrast displaying the figure in greater relief. They have paused in front of one of the ruins, considering it with a sad look. Favoring their right leg they step out of the false riverbed of the street and on to the embankment of the sidewalk. From within layers of ruined shirts, jackets, and scarves they produce a simple chain necklace with a brass key for a pendant.
With a soft click the key fits snugly into the lock and rotates freely. The door opens with unnatural silence onto a memory. The figure takes a step into the past, a tremble starting in their hands. They survey the room, taking in the mismatched stools against the bar, its top polished smooth with small impressions worn in from use. As they move to the bar the tremble spreads to their knees.
With a hand they caress the worn bartop and the tremor works its way into their chest. Finally as they fall onto a stool the tremor wins out and a laugh erupts from them. It bounces off the walls and fills the room. Even as they fall silent the laugh lingers, a phantom companion.
The figure begins removing layers from their salvaged clothing cocoon. As the rags fall away they tell their own story. The topmost layers bare the muck of muddy roads and dried mucus from stifled coughs and sneezes. Next the clothing becomes a tangled web of repaired tears and seams with sweat stains, and a fresh hint of dark crimson. Gradually the hint grows more pronounced from a light steak to a large smear, starting at the hip and continuing down the leg before finally terminating at a drenched sock.
With all but the final layer shed the figure leans against the bar, a skeleton with paper thin jaundiced skin in well cared for t-shirt and jeans. Neither the shirt nor jeans show any sign of the hard life the others layers have lived, except for the blood stain. They hang loosely off the Skeleton, perhaps fitting well 50 or more pounds ago they now make him look like a child playing dress up. Smiling, apparently oblivious of the blood that was beginning stain his boot, the Skeleton reaches over the bar and grabs a bottle.
With the cork held in his teeth he turns to consider the bar once more. He spits the cork onto the floor and silences a coughing fit with a long pull on the bottle. For a few minutes they sit there, smiling and drinking in silence. Halfway through the bottle he rises and walks to a pool table across from him, using a pool cue from next to the bar to steady his alcohol aggravated limp. He shoots a game singing classic rock songs to himself, pausing only to go and get another bottle when the first runs dry. With the 8 ball sunk and the sun setting, casting a long shaft of light across the bar that exaggerates it into a work of art, he hobbles back to the high-backed stool he first selected as his seat so long ago. With a fresh bottle of bourbon cradled in his lap the Skeleton rests his eyes, humming Elvis to himself until a final blissful sleep comes.
Codetta will explore the story of a small group of survivors of The End. While the exact circumstances of where they are and how they are surviving will be decided by the players their story will be one of harsh and exacting survival. Themes that will be explored in this are: the quiet dignity in continuing on in the face of desperation; holding on to humanity despite humanity at its worst; and finding a way to rebuild while the world dies. Below is a tonesetter to give you a taste of how the game will feel. Feel free to post any questions below or DM me.
A solitary figure walks down a canyon of cracked concrete and shattered glass. Their muffled footsteps managing the faintest echo, reverberating off of the faces and exposed interior walls of the canyon sides. Layers of ill fitting clothing, stained scraps wrapped around the figure conceal their identity, transforming their silhouette into a misshapen wreck. The crunch of the deep snow giving way beneath them is uneven and labored. Their shadow projects something larger and more impressive than its small, limping, source could ever achieve.
The wind howls, whistling through the cracks in the half decayed buildings of the city. It disturbs the thick dust that has been allowed to accumulate in corners made unreachable by rot. This haze cloaks the the figure, obscuring their edges. For a moment they disappear, now a part of the landscape they deliberately disturb. A single being of dilapidated dignity.
The wind falls silent, allowing the dust to settle into old crevices. The street becomes clear once more, the contrast displaying the figure in greater relief. They have paused in front of one of the ruins, considering it with a sad look. Favoring their right leg they step out of the false riverbed of the street and on to the embankment of the sidewalk. From within layers of ruined shirts, jackets, and scarves they produce a simple chain necklace with a brass key for a pendant.
With a soft click the key fits snugly into the lock and rotates freely. The door opens with unnatural silence onto a memory. The figure takes a step into the past, a tremble starting in their hands. They survey the room, taking in the mismatched stools against the bar, its top polished smooth with small impressions worn in from use. As they move to the bar the tremble spreads to their knees.
With a hand they caress the worn bartop and the tremor works its way into their chest. Finally as they fall onto a stool the tremor wins out and a laugh erupts from them. It bounces off the walls and fills the room. Even as they fall silent the laugh lingers, a phantom companion.
The figure begins removing layers from their salvaged clothing cocoon. As the rags fall away they tell their own story. The topmost layers bare the muck of muddy roads and dried mucus from stifled coughs and sneezes. Next the clothing becomes a tangled web of repaired tears and seams with sweat stains, and a fresh hint of dark crimson. Gradually the hint grows more pronounced from a light steak to a large smear, starting at the hip and continuing down the leg before finally terminating at a drenched sock.
With all but the final layer shed the figure leans against the bar, a skeleton with paper thin jaundiced skin in well cared for t-shirt and jeans. Neither the shirt nor jeans show any sign of the hard life the others layers have lived, except for the blood stain. They hang loosely off the Skeleton, perhaps fitting well 50 or more pounds ago they now make him look like a child playing dress up. Smiling, apparently oblivious of the blood that was beginning stain his boot, the Skeleton reaches over the bar and grabs a bottle.
With the cork held in his teeth he turns to consider the bar once more. He spits the cork onto the floor and silences a coughing fit with a long pull on the bottle. For a few minutes they sit there, smiling and drinking in silence. Halfway through the bottle he rises and walks to a pool table across from him, using a pool cue from next to the bar to steady his alcohol aggravated limp. He shoots a game singing classic rock songs to himself, pausing only to go and get another bottle when the first runs dry. With the 8 ball sunk and the sun setting, casting a long shaft of light across the bar that exaggerates it into a work of art, he hobbles back to the high-backed stool he first selected as his seat so long ago. With a fresh bottle of bourbon cradled in his lap the Skeleton rests his eyes, humming Elvis to himself until a final blissful sleep comes.
