Old ruins are crazy. I’ve seen hundreds of ‘em at this point, and it never stops being cool. And why should it? There’s something neat about running your fingers over some stone, looking at the vines growing over it, and knowing that some dude might’ve nailed his wife against that wall ten thousand years ago or something. Then, and I mean this, she might’ve stabbed him in that very same spot a year after that! Seems pretty cool to me. That’s the kinda stuff I like to think about when I’m poking around in the really old places. Maybe not that specifically, but then again, maybe that. Depends on my mood.
You can tell the really old places from the places that are just old, too. The last place was really old. I’d known it when I saw the place, that way that you know something all the way through your body even when your mind isn’t sure yet, and I was excited to skulk around in there.
You know what really pisses me off, though? When you spot a cool ass place like that from up on a cliff or something, and there’s half a hundred stupid obstacles between you and the place you wanna go so you have to slide down an embankment, climb down a stone face, stop for lunch, make sure you’re keeping hydrated, and blah blah blah until half the goddamn day is over before you even get to where you’re trying to go.
That’s how it was this time, and I had to set up camp outside the ruin before I even got to take a look around. The sun was already setting, and I don’t fuck around with that shit.
Some of us like to go inside first and get a look around for a minute or two then set up camp in the stone walls, because stone walls mean safety for amateurs.
I’m no amateur, though. I’d rather set up some safety measures, establish a perimeter, and bivouac up against the outside wall. I’ve seen the kind of stuff that can hide out in the really old ruins, and I’d rather take my chances with a wolf or something. Couple good stabs or a bullet to the head and the problem is solved, and that’s the way I like it. No hunter’s gonna find Ellie Williams in the belly of some beast, no Sir, I play it carefully, and that’s why I’m still around when a lot of other scavengers aren’t.
This one time I set up a tripwire, rigged it right up to a Bouncing Betty half a hundred yards from camp, and this motherfucking bear tripped right over it and KABLOOEEY! You ever scraped a bear steak off a rock and cooked that shit up for breakfast? That’s A-1, top tier stuff.
That night passed by pretty quickly. Those of us in the business keep the right tools on us to start a cozy fire, cook up a can of something, and steal a couple hours’ shut eye before the next day’s plunder.
When you get far enough out from the big settlements and get out into the real rough and tumble you don’t worry quite as much about starting a fire for the night. If you’re too close to a town, though, you’re begging for rustlers…or at least mooches. Nothing worse than opening up your last can of beans and some rib-skinny good-for-nothing comes stumbling out of the brush and tugs at your heartstrings until you’re going to bed hungry and half a can of beans further into the poor house. Those motherfuckers are like cats, they can hear the sound of a can opener from mile out, and I’m not even kidding.
Out in the woods you’ve gotta worry about the beasts, and most beasts don’t love fire, at least in my experience. The ones that do, well, that’s what you establish your perimeter for, right?
Anyway…out in the boonies you don’t have to worry about that, and I’ve never minded being by myself. Some people can’t take that, they go nuts out here, or they keep their scavenging close to the settlements. I’ll tell you this for free: that’s a one way ticket to nowhere, population everybody.
The outer wilds have a way of weeding out the amateurs, so that the people like me get first right of refusal on the good stuff. You hoof it out a few days or a week or two, rough it hard, muscle your way through some impregnable ruin, and come away with some rare-as-fuck artifact and you’re made in the shade for weeks or sometimes months.
That’s the way I do it, and that’s the way real professionals do it. The legends like Indy, or Newt Scamander - guys like that.
People in the business can go one of two ways if they want to be lucrative: Kraw or Cevanti. I chose Kraw, because you can eat animals even if they’re predators. Folks who choose Cevanti are another breed…you can’t eat machines.
So, I woke up early that morning and I was lucky enough to wake up intact with none of my traps tripped. My circadian rhythm is spot on, man, as reliable as those watches the guys who obsess over the time wear; the sun had just peaked up over the trees, and that’s the best time of day because even man-eating beasts need to sleep. I like to rise with ‘em, that way we’re on equal footing and either of us could get the jump on the other depending on whose luck is better.
I busted up camp, slung my pack over my shoulder, tied back my hair, and grimaced. When you spend long enough out there in the heat and the humidity and you don’t take a bath your hair starts feeling like a grease slick. Easy enough not to feel like a scumbag with nobody around, but even I’ve got my limits. I made a mental note to take the plunge the next time I found a stream or something, and that was that. Easy enough, right?
I keep my life in my pack when I’m out in the jungle, and even when I’m at home because you never know when you’re gonna have to get out of Dodge. That means I’ve got a loaded bolt-action ride-along - safety on (I’m not a lunatic, okay?), a pistol on the other side of the pack, a full water skin, and a mini-mart of other tools for a wide variety of other situations. You never know what you’re going to run into! Most importantly, I keep a shake-charge flashlight in the front pocket of my jacket. I call it a pocket-rocket, which is funny to me, but doesn’t get many laughs from the other scavengers.
I followed the wall the way that kept the sun at my back because it’s easier to notice shit when it isn’t in your eyes, then I rounded the first corner and found myself a few paces from the a crumbling archway. That’s usually the way you want to go in when possible.
This time it wasn’t possible because the archway had done more than just crumble, it had folded like a lawn chair, and when I tested my footing against the rubble it shifted in a way that I wasn’t in love with.
In the business you have to weigh risk-reward, and you have to do it well unless you’re ready to be one of those good-for-nothing chumps whose skeletons decorate the ruins like so many storybooks.
You hate to see it, but you can learn a lot. A skeleton on the ground with a snapped off femur beneath a crumbled ceiling teaches you a cautionary lesson about testing the stability of rubble, no matter how sturdy it looks.
In situations like that, though, you can find another way in. There’s always another way in if you look around a little bit.
That time the other way in was up a couple loose stones in the wall, just an easy climb, and up over the wall where I wiggled through a hole about as wide as the gap you’d finder under your bed. I slipped right in easy as anything and lowered myself down onto the floor where I found it to be a lot darker inside than it had been outside, even by the morning light that filtered through the cracks.
No big deal, though, right? I hitched up my back and looked around: one door to my left, and one to my right.
I chose the door to my right. I moved quietly, which is a skill I’ve developed over the years. When you’ve been doing this as long as I have you can move across a stone floor in converse like they were bare feet in grass, and that’s just what I did.
I was ready to see what was behind door number one.
You can tell the really old places from the places that are just old, too. The last place was really old. I’d known it when I saw the place, that way that you know something all the way through your body even when your mind isn’t sure yet, and I was excited to skulk around in there.
You know what really pisses me off, though? When you spot a cool ass place like that from up on a cliff or something, and there’s half a hundred stupid obstacles between you and the place you wanna go so you have to slide down an embankment, climb down a stone face, stop for lunch, make sure you’re keeping hydrated, and blah blah blah until half the goddamn day is over before you even get to where you’re trying to go.
That’s how it was this time, and I had to set up camp outside the ruin before I even got to take a look around. The sun was already setting, and I don’t fuck around with that shit.
Some of us like to go inside first and get a look around for a minute or two then set up camp in the stone walls, because stone walls mean safety for amateurs.
I’m no amateur, though. I’d rather set up some safety measures, establish a perimeter, and bivouac up against the outside wall. I’ve seen the kind of stuff that can hide out in the really old ruins, and I’d rather take my chances with a wolf or something. Couple good stabs or a bullet to the head and the problem is solved, and that’s the way I like it. No hunter’s gonna find Ellie Williams in the belly of some beast, no Sir, I play it carefully, and that’s why I’m still around when a lot of other scavengers aren’t.
This one time I set up a tripwire, rigged it right up to a Bouncing Betty half a hundred yards from camp, and this motherfucking bear tripped right over it and KABLOOEEY! You ever scraped a bear steak off a rock and cooked that shit up for breakfast? That’s A-1, top tier stuff.
That night passed by pretty quickly. Those of us in the business keep the right tools on us to start a cozy fire, cook up a can of something, and steal a couple hours’ shut eye before the next day’s plunder.
When you get far enough out from the big settlements and get out into the real rough and tumble you don’t worry quite as much about starting a fire for the night. If you’re too close to a town, though, you’re begging for rustlers…or at least mooches. Nothing worse than opening up your last can of beans and some rib-skinny good-for-nothing comes stumbling out of the brush and tugs at your heartstrings until you’re going to bed hungry and half a can of beans further into the poor house. Those motherfuckers are like cats, they can hear the sound of a can opener from mile out, and I’m not even kidding.
Out in the woods you’ve gotta worry about the beasts, and most beasts don’t love fire, at least in my experience. The ones that do, well, that’s what you establish your perimeter for, right?
Anyway…out in the boonies you don’t have to worry about that, and I’ve never minded being by myself. Some people can’t take that, they go nuts out here, or they keep their scavenging close to the settlements. I’ll tell you this for free: that’s a one way ticket to nowhere, population everybody.
The outer wilds have a way of weeding out the amateurs, so that the people like me get first right of refusal on the good stuff. You hoof it out a few days or a week or two, rough it hard, muscle your way through some impregnable ruin, and come away with some rare-as-fuck artifact and you’re made in the shade for weeks or sometimes months.
That’s the way I do it, and that’s the way real professionals do it. The legends like Indy, or Newt Scamander - guys like that.
People in the business can go one of two ways if they want to be lucrative: Kraw or Cevanti. I chose Kraw, because you can eat animals even if they’re predators. Folks who choose Cevanti are another breed…you can’t eat machines.
So, I woke up early that morning and I was lucky enough to wake up intact with none of my traps tripped. My circadian rhythm is spot on, man, as reliable as those watches the guys who obsess over the time wear; the sun had just peaked up over the trees, and that’s the best time of day because even man-eating beasts need to sleep. I like to rise with ‘em, that way we’re on equal footing and either of us could get the jump on the other depending on whose luck is better.
I busted up camp, slung my pack over my shoulder, tied back my hair, and grimaced. When you spend long enough out there in the heat and the humidity and you don’t take a bath your hair starts feeling like a grease slick. Easy enough not to feel like a scumbag with nobody around, but even I’ve got my limits. I made a mental note to take the plunge the next time I found a stream or something, and that was that. Easy enough, right?
I keep my life in my pack when I’m out in the jungle, and even when I’m at home because you never know when you’re gonna have to get out of Dodge. That means I’ve got a loaded bolt-action ride-along - safety on (I’m not a lunatic, okay?), a pistol on the other side of the pack, a full water skin, and a mini-mart of other tools for a wide variety of other situations. You never know what you’re going to run into! Most importantly, I keep a shake-charge flashlight in the front pocket of my jacket. I call it a pocket-rocket, which is funny to me, but doesn’t get many laughs from the other scavengers.
I followed the wall the way that kept the sun at my back because it’s easier to notice shit when it isn’t in your eyes, then I rounded the first corner and found myself a few paces from the a crumbling archway. That’s usually the way you want to go in when possible.
This time it wasn’t possible because the archway had done more than just crumble, it had folded like a lawn chair, and when I tested my footing against the rubble it shifted in a way that I wasn’t in love with.
In the business you have to weigh risk-reward, and you have to do it well unless you’re ready to be one of those good-for-nothing chumps whose skeletons decorate the ruins like so many storybooks.
You hate to see it, but you can learn a lot. A skeleton on the ground with a snapped off femur beneath a crumbled ceiling teaches you a cautionary lesson about testing the stability of rubble, no matter how sturdy it looks.
In situations like that, though, you can find another way in. There’s always another way in if you look around a little bit.
That time the other way in was up a couple loose stones in the wall, just an easy climb, and up over the wall where I wiggled through a hole about as wide as the gap you’d finder under your bed. I slipped right in easy as anything and lowered myself down onto the floor where I found it to be a lot darker inside than it had been outside, even by the morning light that filtered through the cracks.
No big deal, though, right? I hitched up my back and looked around: one door to my left, and one to my right.
I chose the door to my right. I moved quietly, which is a skill I’ve developed over the years. When you’ve been doing this as long as I have you can move across a stone floor in converse like they were bare feet in grass, and that’s just what I did.
I was ready to see what was behind door number one.
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