The groggy morning (Husher01)(Spice01)

Husher blinks several times mechanicly, his jaw open an inch or two, yawns without covering his mouth, burps, and drags a hand across his lips. Gathering himself, he rubs his neck and takes in his surroundings, remembering the long night of slow drink, and staring at the bouquet in his hands.

"Why...Why did I trade...for these..." he mutters under his breath as he sluggishly brings them up to his face. He breathes in the scent, recognizing the inherent beauty, and frowning deeply at it. After another breath, a few fleeting images begin to occupy the void that the last 12 hours had become. A bottle of moonshine in his hand, a smear of blood on his face in a mirror, the true-beauty dancing.

Husher wipes his face looking for blood, but finds nothing. "What did I do..." he checks his knuckles, but they are no more cut up than he remembers them being "dont think I fought anyone..."

Husher thinks for a few seconds, checks his dusters myriad of pockets and curses "what the fuck am I going to do with flowers? Did I really trade my MREs for these useless...nothings?" He brings his holding the flowers down on the bar, shaking a petal or two loose from the offending fauna, and making one of the other losers sleepin at the bar look up before closing his eyes again. With his other hand he stirs his dirty index finger into the dirty glass in front of him, collecting a few drops of the moonshine that had robbed him his memories and apparently his stash of food and licking it clean. Realizing that the flowers will serve him no good, and that few of the people he knows well would be willing to trade anything of use to him for the bouquet, he thinks of the true-beauty again. Spice would appreciate these. Likely shes the only in the 'public who would be most interested in trading for them. 

Stomach rumbling, wishing he still had an MRE, Husher gets to his feet and begins trudging to where Spice stays. On the way he becomes more and more sure that something from last night was important, and was just laying just below the surface of the moonshine still sloshing around in his head. He pauses, and breathes out slowly, trying to tap into the psychic maelstrom, something he tries to avoid, as it normally only gives him hauntingly depressing vestiges of happier times, mental trappings of the time before the solitude, when he had people...


Roll: Open Your Brain (trying to remember last night, specifically, anything to do with Spice)

Roll +Weird2d6-1 

Highlighted stat: Weird. First xp marked

Husher, the morning after taste of moonshine washes around the inside of your mouth, at first slightly rotten with a hint of hang-over bile, but ats the taste swamps over your consciousness, the flavor reverts to the bitter, burning that you get strraight out of the bottle. The haze of the room and the haze of your mind start to swim together and your consciousness swirls backwards in time to last night's events.

It was Old Craterface from the Jackbox crew that had traded the flowers to you, you can see his face swimming out of the murk. You'd been watching Spice doing a chintzy cabaret number, and had already worked your way past the second half of the bottle. Spice wasn't giving you the time of day, but your eyes were trained on her. She was so beautiful and strong, and she emanated a heat and passion that frightened and enticed you.The liquor was softening your guard and your mind was dipping into some happy memories, threatening to get lost in them.

Old Craterface settled up to you at the bar when Spice exited the stage. He'd managed to talk up the flowers enough and you were drunk enough to give up your rations for them. He had tried to push the matter and get a few clips of your ammo out of the deal, but flashed your dead eyes full of quiet rage at him and he backed off. You were about to stumble towards her dressing room, the tale of your second wife burning in your mouth to tumble out in a drunken stupor, but the moonshine bottomed out on you and you never managed to get off the stool.

The taste of moonshine washing over your brain evaporates softly but quickly, giving you a warm sensation all over, and your hangover seems to dissipate with it.

Spice, The morning light hisses through the torn drapes over the window of your dressing room. The room's not your favorite, and certainly not what you'd call home. Still, it's the nicest one in the fort, and it's certainly better than traversing the black sands at night to get home. The room has concrete walls with scarlet and pink blankets, curtains, and rags hung over the walls, there's a patched inflatable mattress in the corner and a cracked mirror propped on a workman's bench where you've got your makeup and things set up. You wake up to the sound of heavy breathing in the hall and you recognize the air struggling through the thick and abused vocal cords as Husher's breath. He seems to be lingering, perhaps lost in the maelstrom.

There's a note under the door, inscribed with Old Caterface's distinctive, careful lettering. It simply says "North Gate." Looks like old issues are flaring back up. What is it Old Craterface has against you?

Anyway, between the note and huffing gunlugger standing outside of your room, what do you do?

Roll - Seduce / Manipulate
2d6+3


If it hits 7-9 I'll have Husher gain experience if he tags along.

Highlighted stat: Hot (marking first xp)

Spice, you watch Husher tuck those flowers away and can feel the moments of their life evaporating. You wonder to yourself if you should tell the grizzled old man to put them in water and store them somewhere safe until he can find a buyer. They won't last another hour the way he's treating them.

Do what you will; after you're settled and dressed, y'all head out across the sands. It's a couple or three miles across the desert to get to the North Gate. The day's heat is picking up already, and that dirty old duster that Husher wears is starting to bake and reek with years of his juices.

About halfway, you hear some high pitched yelping, howling, and something bordering on laughter, trademark to the wild dogs that scavenge and prey on stragglers in the desert. You've just shuffled yourselves into a valley between the dunes, you can see the tops of their heads silhouetted against the harsh and arid sky.

What do (either of you) do?

roll Read a Sitch

2d6+2

7-9 = Whats my best way past these dogs?
10+ = which enemy is the biggest threat? What should I be on the lookout for?

If you don't mind I'm just going to quickly go back before we leave for half a second. Then come back to the charged sitch. -Boojum

Spice's eyes widen slightly when Husher holds out the flowers - a handful of multicolored five petaled beauties the likes of which she hasn't seen in a damn long time despite being a bit worse for wear. It takes more effort than she'd like to prevent facade #7 from faltering.

"You really ought to put those in water, Hush. They... They're no good to you dead and in pieces."

>Assuming her place is considered safe enough (you know, relatively) to keep valuables for a short time:
After scrounging around the room for a few minutes Spice comes up with an emptied out tin can and fills the bottom with some of her water rations. (Assuming Husher permits it.) She gently takes the flowers from his rough hands, reverently puts them in the makeshift vase, and sets them down next to her mattress as if before an altar. Her face loses all traces of #7 for the moment. She clears her throat and attempts to slowly shift into facade #31 - friendly, grateful and pleased with the mildest hint of promise. It isn't much of a stretch. "They should be okay here for a little while at least."

>Assuming this room isn't really hers to begin with and is about as safe to leave good shit in as the average temporary hole up in Apocalypse World:
After scrounging around the room for a few minutes Spice comes up with a short leather cord two or three wire coat hangers bent in interesting shapes and a piece of cloth she was planning on trying to make a half T shirt out of. Looking around some more she grabs an empty tin can and nearly fills it with her water ration from her skin. (Assuming Husher permits it.) She gently takes the flowers from his rough hands, carefully places the stems in her water skin, and loosely binds the stems beneath the petals with the cords. After a few minutes she's reassembled the clothes hangers they now encircle the top part of her water skin with a makeshift structure above it keeping a good inch or two of room between the wire and the petals. She reverently drapes the cloth over the top of the protective wire frame as if it were a burial shroud over a loved one. Too frequently must things of beauty be secreted away and protected out of sight in this harsh world. She slowly gets up and hands the parcel off to Husher only now realizing she's kept her emotions on her face. She attempts to resist the flush she feels coming to her cheeks. Being caught broadcasting her emotions, it feels like being naked - and not the fun kind. Her eyes take on a defiant cast, as if daring Husher to comment the moment of vulnerability she let show. She slips into facade #2 - serious business. "Here." she says, handing him the carefully swathed parcel of treasure "Try your damnedest not to jostle them around too much, okay? And I'd like that skin back at some point."

Okay, back to the moment at hand...

Spice slips into a put out frown (a less pouty variant of #5) and sighs. She draws the curved blade at her hip and reluctantly prepares for the oncoming fracas. She scans the area around them, keeping her ears open, hoping not to be taken by surprise.

Your care for the flowers: I choose the second one, times a hundred thousand, Assuming Husher accepts your help.

The dogs start to come down the dunes. There must be 15 of them. They are big animals, 100 pounds easy. You can see their ribs poking angrily against their torn and mangy pelts, their eyes black with determination. They start to circle around, cutting off your rear retreat.

Which enemy is most vulnerable to me?
The dogs are circling in as a pack, but there are a few of the older mongrels sticking toward the back. If you can avoid the experienced hunting bitches and young scouts and scrappers in front of you, you should be able to take out their rear flanks.

What should I be on the lookout for?
The dogs seem to be acting pretty deliriously, even for their hunger. A frothy green foam bubbles at their mouths that sizzles when it touches the ground.

Which enemy is the biggest threat?
Keeping to the sidelines and biding his time is the biggest of the pack, 150 or 160 pounds, He's the alpha male. He can't be bothered to help unless his bitches can't get the job done on their own.

The adolescent scouting dogs yip and bey at you from a safe distance of 20 or 30 feet, one occasionally dipping in and darting out. Finally, some of the bitches charge through the fray. The bitch out front has a big scar slicing diagonally through her face and ending in her gouged and rotten eye, the green foam flinging backwards in the hot, winless air. She gnashes her teeth, bounding straight towards Husher.

What do you do?