That last year, most of 59', had been spent with the constant knowledge that the day of his trial was on the horizon. There was a commingling of excitement, dread and contemplation as he came to grips with the fact that he was going to be forced from his home, from his family, and only allowed to return once he brought back something of real value to the Clan. Traditionally this was a skill set, much as Mother had pursued higher education, and Big Mike had worked under Lapierre, the duration was normally at least a year and a day, but often longer. Two, three or even four years was not uncommon.
Now that it was finally here, it felt surreal as he stared out from the truck bed, his surplus jacket zipped up and his hair rippling in the breeze. The countryside he had known so well played out before them, and his heart felt heavy. He waved at the Patrol, having never had any problem with the Rangers. They took all kinds, and road maintenance was a serious business for a Nomad Clan. They were never close, for obvious reasons, but at least polite most of the time.
When they reached the station, and Grendel clambered out with his haul bag over one shoulder, he stood confused as he held the keys that Warhawk had handed him. He had been expecting to take a bus, and had never imagined that Warhawk would be willing to part with his truck. A lot of the Clans more mechanically inclined had worked on it, Grendel included, had worked to modify it to more comfortably accommodate a Troll. They had gotten the plans off of a little Net group called
TrogMog, which had given them the inspiration for the project. It now only had one seat, and space for gear, but at least the driver could stretch out and handle the wheel without jamming up his left arm all the time.
The battered PocSec, the CredStick, they were invaluable. Grendel had nearly always lived in a barter economy, and the feel of the Credstick seemed oddly light for something so precious. Gifts were somewhat expected before a Trial, but this was a lot.
The truck alone would be a lot.
So when Warhawk pulled out the Winchester, Grendel had to wipe away the tears that welled up in his eyes. It was perfect, a beautiful thing, while also being eminently practical. The grip was perfectly sized, and the antler had been so finely inlaid that he could not even feel the break between the redwood and the knurled horn. Even the engravings were meaningful for him, the soulless black plastic replaced with elements from the California coast that he knew and loved.
But it was still a deadly weapon. A 12 Gauge was a 12 Gauge, and although the beefier grip made the barrels look smaller than they normally would have, it threw same same amount of metal regardless. With the barrels so short, the pattern would be huge and the muzzle flash the size of a pumpkin, but it would easily fit in his bag, or under the truck seat or anywhere else he might have cause to stash it. He could even fire it one handed if it came down to it, although he imagined using both was far safer.
He embraced Warhawk warmly, tucked the sawed-off back in the truck and then enjoyed the last half hour or so of coffee with his friend. He needed to get on the road, and daylight was burning, so when they had finished he walked Warhawk to his bus then watched it pull back out out and head northbound, where he waved until it was out of sight.
Then, with a deep breath, he climbed back into the truck,
his truck and fired up the engine. As he pulled back out onto the highway, the shotgun tucked under his seat and all he owned in the haul bag behind him, he cranked up some
Third Tusk on his new PocSec and rolled down the windows as he gunned it south towards the Bayplex.
(Music for inspiration https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jM8dCGIm6yc )
Scene End
This message was last edited by the player at 22:01, Sun 16 Feb 2020.