FalloutJack said:
Great Khan Campsite, early morning
Malkos had agreed to their terms, shockingly. Hell, the beast was even smothering the fire. However, as amicable as the Deathclaw had been, Ollie would prefer to be on his way as quickly as possible. While Malkos headed away with his not insignificant catch of mares, tauros, and one dead Rattler. Ollie jogged up to the crest of the hill, and let out a shrill whistle. [Walker Instinct] Putting a hand to the ground, Ollie sensed the nightmares' slight vibrations, growing into a steady rumble as the remaining mounts galloped back to the camp. Allegre cantered up to Ollie, sniffing affectionately at his rider.
Ollie gently stroked the Nightmare's nose before hopping onto the saddle and corralling the horses down the hill. "Tie the Rattler to a saddle and get him upright. We're running behind. We can get there by nightfall if we go hard, so let's pack up and move!"
Five minutes later and the Khan's aptitude for traveling light had paid off. A few packs lashed to a pack mare comprised everything the Khans needed for a settlement. Within moments, the group had moved on, riding at a full gallop as the sun rose high in the sky, signalling another long, dry day ahead.
[hr]
Fort Laramie, 11:00PM
Papa Regis stepped onto the front porch of the Khan Longhouse. It wasn't really a longhouse, just the big, old house they had discovered standing among the ruins of the fort. But it was tradition to make the largest building in a Khan settlement the longhouse, where members could meet at any time and be welcomed. A warm wind blew across Regis's weathered face.
"They're late," he said bluntly.
"Yeah, but like, it could be anything, man. You worry too much, dude. They'll be here, quick as a hopped up White-Tail racing a Nightmare." Jack blew a plume of smoke as he rocked gently back and forth in his chair overlooking the grounds.
"Yeah, but with everything that's been going on, I don't want to take any chances," said Regis. "If they aren't here by midnight, get Diane to take a group out looking for them. The last thing we need are more dead Khans. Honest to god, the towns are getting worse, even with everything we're doing."
"The Federales aren't like, holding out on us, are they?" drolled Jack. The old stoner was high as a kite, and only half paying attention to Regis's concern. He trusted Jack enough to confide in him, but not to expect much in the way of wisdom or advice.
"It's not that they aren't paying up for the protection fees, it's that they aren't holding up their end of the bargain. The fucking idiots haven't done a thing to deal with that Red Eyed Reaper fuck killing our guys, and a couple of our runners have seen Knuckleheads setting up shop in Cheyton. If the Raiders get any further west, we'll be cut off from our trade outposts."
"Dude, seriously, you are worrying way too much on this, you're harshing my mellow with all this doom and gloom business." moaned Jack. "I thought we like, came out here to get away from all that. We're top dogs around here, the people love us, and we've got the whole plains to ourselves."
"Whatever you say, Jack," huffed Regis, unconvinced. He stepped off the porch of the longhouse and wandered through the tents and campfires dotting the Fort. Makeshift walls built out of old cars and planks of sheet metal formed a solid barrier of defense around the interior, but Laramie was little more than a collection of old buildings and half collapsed ruins. But it was home, right on the riverbank, and a far more welcome sight than the desolate Red Rock Canyon. Food was plentiful, and they were close enough to Cheyton for steady trade.
But they were also on the frontline. A steady stream of refugees and pursuing raiders kept surging westward. Shows of force by the Khans had so far diverted the tide north and south of Laramie, but with the way things were looking, it was only a matter of time before they would need to make a stand. Regis wanted everybody to be prepared for that, and parties checking in late was first on the list of things that needed to be fixed.
[hr]
Through a pair of binoculars, behind a bronze mask shaped in the face of the God of War himself, two eyes burning with a fiery hatred watched the camp from afar. The hated foe, treacherous and scheming, had made themselves a new home. How touching. How despicable. These profligates, content in their cradle of power, would soon face the retribution twenty years in the making.
From behind the hill, a thousand men, soldiers, bandits, desperadoes and tribals, all awaited the command. The figure atop the hill raised his hand, swiping it forward in a silent command. Under the cover of night, the host advanced, bristling with weapons, desperate, hungry, and itching for a fight.
The Monster of the East had returned.
