SedentaryCobra
Outhouse Poet
Dust King - PTU Guild House
The warehouse that the Peseo Trader's Union worked out of was generally active, but things tended to move at a slow pace, moving as fast as the stubborn ox that carried their goods would allow, most days. The cracked, stained, and paint splattered concrete floor and the rusting corrugated metal walls gave the warehouse a metallic echo, usually only heard when things got particularly loud. Several makeshift 'offices' resided in post-war expansions to the warehouse that branched off from the far edge. Generally, most were empty, or filled with one or two individuals in private meeting.
On that particular day, though, the warehouse more resembled a very angry wasp hive someone had the misfortune of stepping on.
Two large, green, canvas covered trucks, restored to their former glory, dominated the floor of the cavernous warehouse. The entire vehicle was specially suited to the harsh jungle, with aggressive tires, two spares, and a powerful diesel engine, one of which was rumbling loudly in the warehouse. Commands were shouted across the warehouse in barking, angry tones, and the workers, despite the tones, prepared the two trucks with a grim fervor, with jaws and gazes lined with determined zeal.
"Will there still be enough space for the passengers?" From one corner of the room, one worker to another.
"We've got to do this. We need to do this." Heard from elsewhere.
"Look, we need those resources. I don't care who's skulls you have to crack to get them, just get it done!" Shouted from across the warehouse.
"Is the team nearly ready? We can't afford any delays. We're already a few men short of where we should be"
In one of the makeshift offices, towards the front, Dust and several other individuals were gathered around a small table. While the door was shut, a handful of people waited outside, watching the discussions taking place through a large, plexiglass window. While the majority of the sound was muffled, Dust could still be heard shouting within at another, older man. "Look, I don't care about the danger or the costs! He's my uncle, dammit, and your brother!" He slammed his fist on the table, red faced and angry.
"Dust, you'll be charging straight into the tiger's den! You're still short more men than you should have, and you don't even have proper equipment! For christ's sake!" The older man, yelled back. The rest of the men and women at the table looked back and forth between the two, uncertain. The individuals outside were looking in, transfixed by the event.
"We need to get out there, now! It'll be nearly dawn by the time we find them, even with the trucks and assuming we don't run amok. Leaving now is the only way we can possibly hope to save anyone!" Dust shouted back, exasperated. The older man dropped his head and rubbed his brow, and threw his hands up in defeat. He opened the door, and walked out with Dust.
"Look, Dust, I can't stop you. You're going to do whatever the hell you can, no matter what I say. Give it half an hour. I'll put out one last call over every radio frequency we can, asking for a last few fighting men, and up the reward from the previous offers if they're on the truck in half an hour and get back in one piece." The older man made it clear that it wasn't an option with a stiff glare.
Dust gritted his teeth and accepted it. He wasn't truly angry, he found, as he nodded his head slowly in agreement. Just tired and stressed, he and his uncle both, and they both knew it. Dust turned to see the handful of individuals looking expectantly to him. He nodded, face grim. "Grab your guns and get ready. You heard the man, thirty minutes." Dust said. They gave varying responses, from excitement to grim determination, but they all were prepared mentally for the journey ahead.
Dust leaned against one of the I-beam supports and closed his eyes, red and irritated. He rubbed the dark circles under his eyes, and pulled a bottle of pills from his pocket. Unscrewing the cap, he poured several into his hand before throwing them back into his mouth and swallowing them. He grimaced at the taste. "Uncle Mark, you better have not let those damn bandits take you down." He muttered.
Jeremy Greene - Peseo Waterfront
Jeremy sighed in disappointment at Secrée's response. "Alright then. If you're so determined. I guess I'll see you again next time you blow through Peseo, then. Farewell." He said, as he finished wrangling the radio. Setting it back on an empty counter space, he turned it back on. He was about to begin the process of tuning it once more, having messed the knob during his fiddling, but upon turning it on, he was greeted almost immediately by a emergency message.
"-offering a reward of one hundred and twenty silver for any fighters willing to risk life and limb rescuing a stranded caravan attacked by bandits. I repeat, the Peseo Trade Union is offering one hundred and twenty silver for any soldiers to help rescue the survivors of a waylaid caravan. Weapons are provided for anyone accepting the offer. The rescue missions begins as a few more men to finish the crew. Join soon at the Peseo Trade Union Guildhouse, and speak to Dust King, Ezekiel King, Marianne Watts..." The voice crackled through the speakers. The message faded out into static slowly, transitioning to another frequency.
The warehouse that the Peseo Trader's Union worked out of was generally active, but things tended to move at a slow pace, moving as fast as the stubborn ox that carried their goods would allow, most days. The cracked, stained, and paint splattered concrete floor and the rusting corrugated metal walls gave the warehouse a metallic echo, usually only heard when things got particularly loud. Several makeshift 'offices' resided in post-war expansions to the warehouse that branched off from the far edge. Generally, most were empty, or filled with one or two individuals in private meeting.
On that particular day, though, the warehouse more resembled a very angry wasp hive someone had the misfortune of stepping on.
Two large, green, canvas covered trucks, restored to their former glory, dominated the floor of the cavernous warehouse. The entire vehicle was specially suited to the harsh jungle, with aggressive tires, two spares, and a powerful diesel engine, one of which was rumbling loudly in the warehouse. Commands were shouted across the warehouse in barking, angry tones, and the workers, despite the tones, prepared the two trucks with a grim fervor, with jaws and gazes lined with determined zeal.
"Will there still be enough space for the passengers?" From one corner of the room, one worker to another.
"We've got to do this. We need to do this." Heard from elsewhere.
"Look, we need those resources. I don't care who's skulls you have to crack to get them, just get it done!" Shouted from across the warehouse.
"Is the team nearly ready? We can't afford any delays. We're already a few men short of where we should be"
In one of the makeshift offices, towards the front, Dust and several other individuals were gathered around a small table. While the door was shut, a handful of people waited outside, watching the discussions taking place through a large, plexiglass window. While the majority of the sound was muffled, Dust could still be heard shouting within at another, older man. "Look, I don't care about the danger or the costs! He's my uncle, dammit, and your brother!" He slammed his fist on the table, red faced and angry.
"Dust, you'll be charging straight into the tiger's den! You're still short more men than you should have, and you don't even have proper equipment! For christ's sake!" The older man, yelled back. The rest of the men and women at the table looked back and forth between the two, uncertain. The individuals outside were looking in, transfixed by the event.
"We need to get out there, now! It'll be nearly dawn by the time we find them, even with the trucks and assuming we don't run amok. Leaving now is the only way we can possibly hope to save anyone!" Dust shouted back, exasperated. The older man dropped his head and rubbed his brow, and threw his hands up in defeat. He opened the door, and walked out with Dust.
"Look, Dust, I can't stop you. You're going to do whatever the hell you can, no matter what I say. Give it half an hour. I'll put out one last call over every radio frequency we can, asking for a last few fighting men, and up the reward from the previous offers if they're on the truck in half an hour and get back in one piece." The older man made it clear that it wasn't an option with a stiff glare.
Dust gritted his teeth and accepted it. He wasn't truly angry, he found, as he nodded his head slowly in agreement. Just tired and stressed, he and his uncle both, and they both knew it. Dust turned to see the handful of individuals looking expectantly to him. He nodded, face grim. "Grab your guns and get ready. You heard the man, thirty minutes." Dust said. They gave varying responses, from excitement to grim determination, but they all were prepared mentally for the journey ahead.
Dust leaned against one of the I-beam supports and closed his eyes, red and irritated. He rubbed the dark circles under his eyes, and pulled a bottle of pills from his pocket. Unscrewing the cap, he poured several into his hand before throwing them back into his mouth and swallowing them. He grimaced at the taste. "Uncle Mark, you better have not let those damn bandits take you down." He muttered.
Jeremy Greene - Peseo Waterfront
Jeremy sighed in disappointment at Secrée's response. "Alright then. If you're so determined. I guess I'll see you again next time you blow through Peseo, then. Farewell." He said, as he finished wrangling the radio. Setting it back on an empty counter space, he turned it back on. He was about to begin the process of tuning it once more, having messed the knob during his fiddling, but upon turning it on, he was greeted almost immediately by a emergency message.
"-offering a reward of one hundred and twenty silver for any fighters willing to risk life and limb rescuing a stranded caravan attacked by bandits. I repeat, the Peseo Trade Union is offering one hundred and twenty silver for any soldiers to help rescue the survivors of a waylaid caravan. Weapons are provided for anyone accepting the offer. The rescue missions begins as a few more men to finish the crew. Join soon at the Peseo Trade Union Guildhouse, and speak to Dust King, Ezekiel King, Marianne Watts..." The voice crackled through the speakers. The message faded out into static slowly, transitioning to another frequency.
