DGS4 Phase 2-3 -- The Caboose

[The Man in Red]

Persons Present:
Rebecca Chambers
Sherlock Holmes
Stitch
Kiryu
Mahito
Domri
Wunya
Popeye
The Man in Red
Roughly 13 3 of the generic, nameless Carnivale staff who survived the crash

The groaning of metal and splintering of ice was barely audible over the roaring and shrieking of wind, and the rumbling of thunder in the skies overhead. With a whistling, piercing toot of steam from his pipe, a certain sailorman burst from a drift of snow, marching obstinately forward toward the wreckage while pushing his comically small hat forward atop his noggin, back where it belonged. Some train! They just didn't makes 'em likesk they used to.

"Quite the predicament, wouldn't you say, mister Sailorman?" a whimsical voice chortled, as the Man in Red slowly strolled up, hands folded behind his back.

"It's quite a pickle, alright," Popeye growled. "I didn't even gets me hotdog yet."

This section features the rear ten or so cars of the train. The front-most one or two are dangling precariously over the edge of a rather steep cliff, while the rest are in varying states of 'completely wrecked' and 'merely overturned'.

The tracks the train was originally on are nowhere to be found, though the trail of its passage through the snow can still be seen to the east. The weather is snowing heavily, with heavy gusting winds and lightning arcing overhead, threatening to worsen into a much more dangerous storm.

There are few landmarks of any note to be had, though to the north can faintly be made out the flickering red of some kind of beacon, and obviously the train's path lead west-ward.

It's up to you all to decide what to do or where to go. The generic staff will do their best to be informative and helpful, especially under the watchful eye of their boss, but are ultimately expendable.

 

[Rebecca Chambers]

Wheels churning over steel tracks, sparks flying amidst sheets of a bitter, ice-cold rain. The Ecliptic Express barreling along, storm-ridden, ending in a thunderous banshee-screech of metal scraping across stone—

Wind whipped through the ruptured train car, the unearthly howl drowning out all other sound.

Her soft, panting breaths muffled beneath the deafening rattle of frozen precipitation, Rebecca stirred from where her body had been rag-dolled across the cargo compartment, arms instinctively shielding her head, various top hats, grinning masks and costume pieces sprinkled around her crumpled form like a very bizarre sort of confetti.

She gingerly moved her limbs, checking for any aches or pains, and nearly wept from relief when nothing screamed in protest. However, she couldn't assume that everyone else was unharmed, as well. She needed to make sure they were okay, too!

Sucking in a shaky breath, the scientist got her arms under body and attempted to shove herself upright... but found that she was quite unable to, securely trapped beneath something heavy. And warm. And suspiciously person-shaped.

Rebecca let out a confused noise, and with some difficulty, craned her head to get a better look. In the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a rather familiar scarlet uniform hunched over her, accompanied by a few wisps of blonde hair trailing over her shoulder.

"What an utterly wretched turn of events," Colonel Moran murmured dryly, her warm breath tickling at the nape of Rebecca's neck. There was a pause, and then Moran spoke again, considerably gentling her tone, "Are you quite alright, doctor? You're trembling. You aren't injured, are you?"

The heat of Moran's lean frame seeped into Rebecca's own despite the freezing wind twisting around them. Their limbs were entangled, the blonde-haired woman curled around her smaller form, presumably acting as a literal meat shield.

"Oh, er—yes, I'm fine!" stammered Rebecca, her voice sounding a bit strangled. "I just... have a bad history with trains crashing, I guess. Can you get off of me now, please? We should check on the others."

"Of course."

A beat later, Moran's weight rolled off of Rebecca as she swiftly rose to her feet—her boots sliding on the weirdly slanted floor, which she soon discovered was coated by a thin, slippery rime of snow and ice, causing her to stagger ungracefully.

Scowling just slightly, the soldier looked up to see a jagged, ugly hole torn in the roof of the rail car, peeled back as easily as if it were an aluminum can.

At her back, Rebecca also scrambled to her feet, the iced-over floor slick and treacherous beneath her. Just as it seemed she might lose her footing and bust her ass, Moran's arm shot out to steady her, gripping her shoulder firmly.

Turning her head, Rebecca identified the hulking form of Wunya standing with her legs spread apart. She was using one foot to balance on the sideways wall of the rail car, while her other foot rested on what used to be the floor. Holmes was also close by, sitting comfortably in the small indentation where the wall and floor connected, his long legs stretched out before him, pointed towards the roof of the car. He looked a little dazed, but unharmed.

For a moment, all were silent as the derailed train car swayed and groaned around them, the grating sound of metal scraping against rock reaching their ears.

"I fear we may have gone off a cliff," stated Holmes, his voice barely audible over the roar of the storm and the great creaking of tortured metal. Every gust of wind set the cargo compartment to rocking again, buffeted about by the raging blizzard outside, their insides clenching with each heart-stopping lurch.

"A big problem, this thing," Wunya agreed bluntly, tossing her silver hair over her shoulder with a flick of her head. Her strong jaw clenched, her green eyes focused on the ragged rupture in the ceiling. "No trouble with good core strength. Will be good exercise."

The corners of Moran's lips twitched, forming a thin semblance of a smile.

"Indeed. Doctor, climb onto my back, if you would."

Rebecca glanced sharply at Moran, her forest green eyes going wide. "You can't possibly mean you intend to—"

"Please, doctor," Moran replied with a nonchalant air that was alarmingly at odds with their predicament, rolling her eyes. "I've seen greyhounds with more meat on their bones than you."

Pursing her lips, Rebecca hastily adjusted the olive canvas bag slung over her shoulder, ensuring that everything she'd found was securely stowed inside it. Then, she gingerly shuffled her feet on the slippery floor (and wall, considering the slant they were all forced to contend with), draping her arms around Moran's neck—and, with the other's assistance, lifting her legs so that they could hitch around Moran's waist.

"I haven't had a piggyback ride since I was twelve," complained Rebecca.

Seeming utterly unfazed by the added burden on her back, Moran shifted her footing, her legs bending at the knees to assess the ragged tear in the metal roof above them. Her muscles tensed, her spine curving into a feline crouch, poised to pounce.

Her sharp blue eyes narrowed, calculating, as she righted the peaked black military cap atop her head. "Then hopefully this will spark happy childhood memories for you, doctor, rather than dredging up old wounds."

And then, with a mighty, lunging bound, they soared through the hole in the roof—twisting and turning in mid-air before landing with a solid, creaky thud on the train car's rooftop.

Almost immediately, things got about sixty-billion times colder.

"Ah!" gasped Rebecca, gritting her teeth and clinging to Moran for dear fucking life, her fingernails digging into the other's uniform-clad shoulders. "It's so cold!"

Indeed, it was. A pale shroud of relentless snowfall blanketed their vision as Moran's boots slid across the uneven surface of the swaying train car, the pair of them staring out at the drop below—a steep, plunging cliff streaked with ice and jutting stone, an uncertain expanse of snow-covered plains stretching into seemingly infinity at the bottom.

A forked branch of dry lightning seared across the sky with a deafening CRACK as Moran scanned their surroundings, squinting against the near white-out conditions. With the precision of a trained sniper, her eyes focused on the pulsing red beacon in the distance, its scarlet glow piercing through the swirling snow like a cold, glaring eye.

Rebecca, too, was able to just barely glimpse the beacon through the snow, her chin propped up against Moran's shoulder as they continued to teeter rather precariously on the derailed car. "This might seem a little obvious, Colonel, but I believe we ought to head in that direction. It's our best bet at shelter."

And our best bet at finding answers, she didn't need to say aloud.

"As you say, doctor," Moran gave a slight sniff and leaped once again from the top of the rail car, landing gracefully at the edge of the cliff.

Straightening her uniform with a smart, perfunctory flick of her wrists, she began to march. But before she could venture more than a few steps in the beacon's direction, Rebecca pointedly cleared her throat.

"If you'd let me down, please," she said. Then, glancing back at the dangling train car, "And we'll need to wait for Mr. Holmes and Wunya, too!"

Colonel Moran ground her teeth, just slightly, though it was difficult to discern which part of Rebecca's statement in particular sparked her ire. "Of course, doctor."

Back inside the sideways rail car, Wunya looked at Holmes, and Holmes looked back at Wunya.

The detective smiled up at her hopefully.

With a heavy sigh, the half-orc begrudgingly flexed her biceps. "Fine, I help skinny man with silly hat in this thing."

Pull-ups were Wunya's specialty, after all.

PARTY MEMBERS: Rebecca Chambers, Sebastian Moran (Summon), Sherlock Holmes, Wunya.
CURRENT LOCATION: Outside the train.
DESIRED LOCATION: North beacon.
ACTION(S): Rebecca and Colonel Moran will be headed north, with at least Wunya following towards the beacon. Holmes can do as he likes, but Wunya's helping him out of the car.
FOCUS COUNT: 3/3
INVENTORY: Profile Consumables, Survival Gear, Loot Listed Below.

CURRENT LOOT:

• Whetstone.
• S.T.A.R.S. Captain PDA.
• Sunglasses.
• Voltage checkers.
• Battered old laptop.
• Programming manuals.
• Technical AI documents.
• Pince-nez style glasses.
• Legal pad (Carnivale contestants' names listed).
• Psychology manuals.
• Site Seven notebook.

 

[King Shark]

The snow was a tundra, a blanket, and as most prefer the blankets to be it remained smooth and unbroken.

It remained smooth and unbroken, too, until a small blue fist, fingers curled, punched through its icy top layer.

A creme brulée is a dessert, and it is a dessert whose satisfaction comes from cracking the surface. To make a creme brulée one has to heat an oven, beat a mixture of eggs and sugar together, combine that mixture with cream, stir, then place each piece of mixture into a correctly sized container for heating. Some broil, some bake.

A creme brulée is a dessert favored by the bold, and by the curious. Its fascination lies in its process, and the ultimate goal of a creme brulée after it bakes at temperature for two thirds of an hour is the crack. You can crack with a spoon, or you can crack with a knife, you can stab, you can bop, and the final satisfaction of the creme brulée belongs to its possessor. We all treat the creme brulée in a different way. Each of us punch into its layer in a way that matches the way we prefer to enjoy it.

Think that’s sensual? Well, it is. There’s a reason the creme brulée tops the list of high class desserts.

Much in this way, Stitch, buried in a layer of snow, punched his way through a layer of ice and birthed himself into his newest destination.

The conditions were blinding. To an alien, an experiment, such as Stitch, they seemed overwhelming; his buggy coals of eyes fought the elements, and he found his lashes frozen. Even his fingertips coated in fur though they were felt coated in the elements. If he could imagine being trapped in primordial ooze, that would be the sensation he would pull towards.

Voices felt near. Giant ears could afford him that much, at least. Though each granule, each flake of snow chilled him to the cartilage, he could listen. That was something he’d become good at. It was something, in fact, he’d become prideful at. Everyone has their talents, right?

He recognized someone. A silhouette appeared, big and imposing, but stalwart in its stance.

Wunya plowed through the whiteout with a shape on her back. She let it down, and the shape began to take form. A man with a uniquely shaped hat began to trudge out into the snow from his shuttle, Wunya, and stopped suddenly. He looked cold.

Wunya staggered forward through knee-high snow. She looked at Holmes, who, clutching his garments close to his body, seemed uncomfortable.

“I did this thing,” Wunya declared ruefully. “It was asked of me.”

Stitch found himself taking stock of his body. There were parts of him that were cold, and there were pieces of him that were freezing.

Others began to emerge from the wreckage of the train, and Stitch realized he was becoming engrossed in something he hadn’t planned on being a part in.

He searched the horizon, teeth chattering. He’d looked for chaos, and it had found him, but he was planning on finding it first.

PARTY MEMBERS: Rebecca Chambers, Sebastian Moran (Summon), Sherlock Holmes, Wunya, Stitch.
CURRENT LOCATION: Outside the train, and in the icy tundra.
DESIRED LOCATION: North beacon.
ACTION(S): Stitch is attaching himself to the group of Rebecca Chambers, Sebastion Moran, Sherlock Holmes, and Wunya for the time being.
FOCUS COUNT: 3/3
INVENTORY: Survival Gear

 

[Sigmund Vrell]

Mahito seethed quietly at the nerve of the sailor. Who the hell did he think he was to brush the cursed spirit off so easily. He very briefly considered attempting to kill Popeye then and there, but thought better of it. He still didn’t have full access to his powers. Plus, he had a witness. Two if you counted the boar (which Mahito didn’t). Running a hand through his messy hair, the curse gave an uneasy smile to the man before beginning to form his retort. Then, abruptly, everything went to hell.

Mahito went ass over head, almost concussing himself on the chicken stall as the train derailed, the horrible sound of screeching metal drowning out the noise of screeching animals. He felt like he had been thrown in a tumble drier for a good few seconds before the train came to a stop, the sound of a wrecking locomotive replaced by the howl of wind. As the curse got his bearings, the solid ground beneath him suggested that they were not, in fact, swallowed up in a space storm.

Attempting to extricate himself from the wreckage, Mahito found himself pinned by a twisted hunk of metal, decorated by no small amount of chicken feathers. He had barely avoided being bisected by the train, but that offered little relief when it had him practically stapled to the ground. Salvation came quickly, however, in the form of a beep from his collar.

“Auxiliary limiters removed. Primary limiters stable.” it announced cheerfully before it hit Mahito all at once. It was an electric feeling, as if circulations had just returned to his body after a long bout of anemia. Giving a little gasp of relief, the cursed spirit’s body grotesquely snaked it’s way out of the wreckage and to freedom. This was it. This was his moment to just let loose! Glancing around the area, he clocked his targets, both near and far.

Rebecca and Holmes along with a couple of other strangers in the distance.

The sailor man and a particularly important looking suited man nearby.

The feral youth still extracting himself from the wreckage.

Mahito clasped his hands together for a moment, forming a triangle, but paused.

Sure, he could take advantage of the chaos and just get to killing now. Or, he could play along and reap a reward that was all the sweeter later on. After all, a betrayal was so much nastier than a cold blood killing. Plus, he noticed that a significant portion of the cast (including that Travis asshole) was missing, and if there was one thing humans loved, it was the ‘us vs them’ mentality. With a little conniving, he could turn this tundra into a civil war.

“Come on…” Domri grunted as he struggled beneath the twisted metal cage that had formed around him, slowly but surely deforming it enough to break free. His efforts were helped by Tusker, the boar diligently working to free his master. “Fucking metal…”

“Here, let me help.” Mahito said, his hand transfiguring into a mantis-like claw as he approached, an unsettling smile on his face. Domri looked up at him wide-eyed as the spectre raised his claw and, with two swift slashes, cut away enough metal for the Gruul youth to clamber free. Still smiling, the claw shifted back into a hand which Mahito offered to the man. A friendly gesture with a horrifically deadly secret.

“I had that handled… but I owe you one.” Domri grunted as he accepted the hand and got to his feet. Mahito steeled his will, using all his self-control not to unleash Idle Transfiguration on the unsuspecting man. It was a Herculean mental task for the cursed spirit, but only a few moment later and their hands parted, with Domri utterly unharmed and unaware of what he just avoided. “Neat trick.”

“Thanks. Let’s just say you’re not the only one with a wild side.” Mahito grinned. “I didn’t get to properly introduce myself on the train. You can call me Mahito. It’s a pleasure.”

Current location: Just outside the wreckage

 

[Elise]

Popeye stood there a bit shell shocked and feeling sorry for hisself as he, for the fourth time that day, took stock of the situation. If he kept taking stock at this rate, he'd be a shareholder in this bum carnival in no time! But it was hard to think about anything else with old man winter up there in the clouds blowing away, spittin' sleet and wind down at the whole sordid scene. Popeye scooched his hat back and glared a dagger up and the bearded old coot in the clouds, and took in a deep breath.

"AW KNOCK IT OFF!" the Sailorman bellowed. To his credit, Old Man Winter did recoil for a moment, and the wind died down just long enough for Popeye to turn his attention to that red-suited character behind him.

"Now then-" he started, but a new chilling breeze kicked up even harder than it had before. Popeye leered over his shoulder at that cranky old cloud dweller, but relented. There was just no talking to some people...unlike The Man in Red, who continued to stand there patiently, peering at Popeye through his inscrutable white mask.

"We's gonna come to toyms, you and me." Popeye growled. He marched through the heavy snow and rolled up his proverbial sleeves. The Man in Red brought his velvet gloved hands to his mouth and feigned a pose of abrupt surprise.

"Terms?! Oh my...I'll have to have my lawyer present. One moment, would you?" the harlequin said. He balled his hand into the pantomime of a cellphone and held it up to his face. After a silent, windy moment, there came a muted ringtone from a snowdrift right to The Man's left.

One taught me love
One taught me patience
And one taught me pain
Now, I'm so amazing~

The Man in Red marched over to the snow drift and rummaged around in its bulk before pulling a limp arm and half of a massacred corpse out the drift.

"Well that's frustrating. On the upside, at least I'll get my escrow refunded!" the host chuckled. He turned back to face the Sailorman, who was looming an inch away from his porcelain mask. A single, long puff of steamy breath issued out of his pipe. Popeye stared at the sly sonofagun who had (legally) tricked him into this mess and had his goons pile on top of him.

Toot.

"You know, I think you and I got off on the wrong foot-" the demoted ringleader offered.

Popeye weren't havin' it.

"Oh yeah?!"

CURRENT LOCATION: A short distance from the wrecked caboose
DESIRED ACTION: Give The Man in Red a good drubbin'
FOCUS: 2/3 (Using 1 Focus to give Red his lumps)
INVENTORY: Survival Gear (somewhere around here...), Spinach

 

[The Man in Red]

"Hmm." The Man in Red simply stared down the obstinate sailor man without so much as batting an eye, though it was perhaps somewhat hard to tell behind his mask. One of Popeye's massive meathooks swung out face-ward, only to meet empty air as the bemasked showman simply bent at the waist, leaning backward sharply and bringing one hand up to his chin thoughtfully. "I can't really say I expected this right off the bat," he admitted. "But I suppose it was inevitable."

His further musings were interrupted by his world suddenly getting turned into a blurred tailspin as the disgruntled sailor man yanked his feet out from under him, setting him to spinning in the air while he was put through an unexpected role as the human speedbag, the flurry of rapid fire punches sending him to spinning and rolling away through the air to plonk down ass over teakettle in the snow on his shoulders, hat drifting slowly down to land upon his askance, upturned hindquarters.

".....well then, my good sailor. I hope you realize that, as they say, this means war," he muttered. "I only hope you will be more amenable to a bit more cooperation after this fracas has been worked out of your system."

The Man in Red accepts your challenge. Get thy dukes put up, sailor man!

You can elect to write up a fight post to carry out your flavor of violence of choice (1000 word limit, in such case) or opt to pass on such and I'll draft up an outcome in a few hours after percolating on some thoughts and things.

 

[Elise]

Ding ding ding, as they say. Popeye pushed hat forwards, again and marched straight at that slimy little hustler in the snow. He leered down at the skinny hindquarters poking out of the snow drift, and paused, holding his fists up.

"C'mon, on yer feet! I wants no part in yer crummy gang!" the nautical nitwit croaked.

"Well, that's awful sporting of you..." Red said as he lurched to his feet. He took a moment to brush himself off, replace his hat, and heft and entire track-tie he had discovered in the snow-covered wreckage. Popeye had a moment to frown before the grinning mask darted under his heavy-handed haymaker and swiped the metal bludgeon in a cracking uppercut to Popeye's jaw. If the sailor man had any teeth left to lose, that woulda definitely been the end of them.

Popeye reeled backwards a few steps, clutching his aching jawbone, and gave the Man in Red a couple of winks with both eyes.

"So, ya likes basekball do ya?" Popeye snarled. He looked around for a moment. A frosted wheel axle poked out of the snow to his left, and grabbing it, the sailor man twisted and cruchified it down to the size of a sold-iron baseball.

"Batter up!"

The hunk of steel was pitched straight at the Man in Red who, to his credit, simply sidestepped the projectile while keeping his gaze fixed on Popeye.

"Sorry gramps, but we're already playing a game. I don't have time for another." the ringmaster cooed. He advanced on the sailor, letting the pipe gouge a heavy line through the ice underfoot.

"Strike one!" Popeye roared. This was accompanied with another flying hunk of steel, which the Man in Red skipped away from again. The carnie watched it go sailing off into the blue-lit tundra where it hit the ground with nary a puff.

"You know-" Red began, but was cut off by the sailorman's triumphant roar.

"Strike two!" Popeye shouted. The Man in Red turned his gaze back towards the irascible deckhand with a weary look, but paused. Popeye was now holding an entire potbelly stove raised over his head. But rather than throw the hefty load, Popeye launched himself towards Red with a big old leap, and brought that sucker down on top of the stunned host with a tremendous bwonging crash.

"Methinks ya shoulda bunted, ackackackack." Popeye chortled as he stared at his handiwork. Dusting his giant gorilla hands off, he turned on the spot to go sauntering off...somewhere. This was, of course, when the door to the stove swung open and a red-gloved hand reached out and grabbed Popeye by the scruff of his shirt.

"Wwhoa!"

Another arm shot up out of the top of the stove pipe, track-tie in hand, and swung down with enough followthrough to send the grappled sailor flying a big arc -- up and down -- into the chute of a nearby hopper car. The Man in Red summarily stepped his lanky form out of the stove, straightened his tie, and leaned heavily on his wooden cudgel.

"I was always more of a fan of golf." Red chirped as feigned a glance at his manicure. Right on cue, the door to the hopper car opened, and there lay Popeye, laid out in a pile of raw barley with a mean lookin' scowl on his face.

"Well then, ya'd better change out that putter..." Popeye growled as he picked himself out of the grain. The Man in Red watched him rummage around in the snow for a moment, loosening up in to a ready stance, but froze as the sailor man wrenched an entire length of train rail out from under the soot-stained snow.

"Fer a nine iron!"

The boatswain bruiser promptly swung the forty foot long length of gnarled industrial track across the entire clearing like it was no more than a dowel rod. The Man in Red tried to jump up and do like a cool flip over the huge arc of pain but let's be real.

It was a home run.

 

[Domri Rade]

Domri took a real look at the strange man for the first time. Stitches covered the man’s body from head to toe. The guy must love a good fight, though he probably wasn’t very good at it by the looks of it. His smile was forced and his aura was completely menacing and deranged. The lunatic must be barely holding it together for this event. Domri had run into people like this before on Ravnica. He had one word to describe people like this. Fun.

“I’m Domri,” the beastmaster said, the winds picked up and creacendo’d into a howl. “As much as I’d love to see what this ‘Death Game’ is all about, we have to leave.” A bolt of lightning punctuated his sentence, with the thunder booming a moment later. “Now,” he emphasized. “This storm is going to get much, much worse and I like having my fingers intact.”

“Aww, already?” the cursed spirit groaned, “I wanted to play with the rest of the survivors.” He kicked the snow, with a pout.

Domri’s mouth curved into a devilish grin. They were going to get along fabulously. Although the cursed spirit could afford to be more patient, ambush predators were far more successful.

“The storm will kill us soon, unless we find shelter,” he looked towards the sky. The heavy snow blinded most of his vision, but he could just make out the clouds tumultuously swirling. That was never a good sign. “We can ‘find’ everyone after the storm passes.”

The spirit poured in response but let out a begrudging sigh, “Fiiiiiiiineeeee.”

The beastmaster whistled, getting Tusker’s attention. “We’re headed out to the west. My gut says that’s the best bet. Mahito, was it? We’re getting on Tusk, here.” He extended his hand to help the cursed spirit up onto Tusker’s back.

“Whatever you say,” Mahito rolled his eyes, grabbing Domri’s hand. He helped himself onto the boar’s back, but his hand lingered on Domri’s. It made the beastmaster shudder. He felt naked under the curse’s touch. It was unnerving, feeling so exposed.

Domri helped himself onto the boar’s side, placing his foot in the holster for support. He placed himself against Tusker’s fur, grabbing a handful. The pig’s heat warmed up Domri’s blood. He realized he was not dressed for this kind of winter. It made him more aware that he needs to look after himself first. He had the feeling Mahito would leave him to freeze, and Tusker? Tusker would probably eat Domri, but that’s nature. How could he possibly blame that cute pig for doing what pigs do?

“We going or what?” Mahito cried out, “I’m bored and cold.” He swung his legs, kicking into Tusker’s side.

“Hey!” Domri growled, baring his teeth. “Don’t kick Tusker, or I will have him gore you. Save your bullshit for the sad sacks we run into.”

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry,” he apologized insincerely, sticking out his tongue. “Can we go, please?” Mahito said, tongue in check, mumbling something inaudible under his breath.

“Fine. Let’s go Tusker.”

Party Members: Mahito + Tusker’s + Domri
CURRENT LOCATION: Outside the train
DESIRED LOCATION: West of the Train, towards the original location.
ACTION(S): Mahito and Domri ride Tusker looking for shelter
FOCUS COUNT: 1/1
INVENTORY: Survival Gear

 

[The Man in Red]

Conclusion​

The Man in Red went sailing across the tundra, skipping and rolling over the snow and ice like some giant scarlet pebble over a half-frozen lake. He didn't come to a halt until he crashed into the overturned wreckage of a former train car, with a heavy metallic thunk that rang out over the icy expanse like a bell.

Almost immediately, he was back on his feet like a shot from a gun, splintering cracks spidering across his mask as it locked itself into a scowl. "So that's the kind of game we're to play now, is it?" he muttered, lifting a hand to wipe errant snow from his mask and leaving it miraculously clean of any damage once more. "Well, then, two can play at—"

A low rumbling noise from above sounded, drowning out the remainder of his words, as a shifting pile of snow slipped over the edge of the train car and plopped down, burying the deposed host under a mound of white powder.

Seconds later, one of his spindly arms shot up out of the powder, blindly groping around for a few seconds before slapping down into the slush. Scrabbling around and grabbing hold of a handful, he squeezed and compressed it together before hefting it up, waving it to and fro in the shape of an improvised white flag.

Results
• The Man in Red suffers 4 Stamina damage
• Popeye suffers 2 Stamina damage

 

[Elise]

Popeye watched the Man in Red go sailing through the air into the icy drifts with an inscrutable grimace, and after seeing his surrender, gave a single curt nod and dusted his hands. Well, that settles that. Now then, about all this chilly weather...it was pretty apparent that this nor'easter wasn't gonna break any time soon. The sailor man wasn't the sort of guy to complain, but he also wasn't about to ignore the chance of freezin' to death.

It seemed like the back half of the train was pretty much scrapped, but the freight cars probably had lots of stuff that could burn up nice and hot. By golly, if he was going to keep warm, that was the place to be! It was going to be a bit of a slog through the snow, but it was just a matter of keeping his chin up and eyes on the goal!

...

A few minutes later, a blue and ice frosted sailor man slid open the compartment door to a shattered cargo car, which had slammed sidelong into a hissing pneumatic brake cylinder. Popeye didn't half have a beard of icicles dangling from his dimples as he looked around, shivering loudly.

"Huguguguguguhuguhugugu..." he muttered. Despite, perhaps, overestimating his resistance to the arctic hell sweeping across this glacier, his instincts seemed to have paid off pretty well! Between the overturned barley hopper and shredded baggage, there was fire making material aplently!

Now he just had to try and thaw his poor frozen knees out.

Just then, there came a clank and a groan from his left. A small whimper as a young Carnivale employee extracted herself from a crate of travel bags, a bit battered, but otherwise uninjured by the crash. Candace looked up to see the frozen, grim face of Contestant Nineteen standing over her, backlit by the smoking wreckage and wreathing snow. Oh god. Oh god. It was him...the guy who had punched Henry to death a few hours ago. What was he doing out of his containment unit? She hadn't been briefed on this-

"Got a light?" Contestant Nineteen croaked.

Candace simply yelped and scrambled, half limping towards the twisted car connector out of sight. Popeye issued a shuddering little toot on his pipe.

"Huh. G-guessk this isk the n-n-no smokin' section."

Oh well. It looked like that flighty broad had left behind a rucksack fulla good stuff...Popeye filtered through the green drab duffel with stiff fingers. Buncha useful stuff sure...MREs, medicine or somethink, alla that kinda stuff. But hey, here's what the ol' sailor man was lookin' for.

"Hey, a l-l-lighta! Now we's cookin' wit coal!"

PARTY: Popeye
LOCATION: The Rear End Wreckage
FOCUS: 2/3
INVENTORY: Survival Bag, Spinach
ACTIONS: Attemptin' to scrape together a fire with scattered scrap and crap, somewhere outta the breeze

 

[The Man in Red]

Persons Present:
Kiryu
Popeye
3 of the generic Carnivale staff survivors (Poor, poor Candace)

With a little bit of ingenuity and a whole lot of not worrying about how ludicrous the idea was, the sailorman had soon rummaged up a respectable enough shelter. Plenty of wreckage and scrap around to wall out the wind, and more than enough flammable material around to get a fire going. Wasn't exactly what you might call lavish or something nice to look at, but it was comfortable enough after that blizzard out there, that was for sure.

Somewhere along the line, he'd been joined by the last of the survivors from the train crash. The big fellah in the suit didn't say much, and the few other remaining goons from this Carn-ee-val racket were huddled together, rather pointedly and obviously keeping the more visibly imposing form of contestant number nine between them and the seemingly deranged sailor man.

"I think we might've gotten lucky, with this storm..." one of them finally ventured, mumbling mostly to herself.

"What in blazes makes you say that?!" another groaned in open exasperation.

"Well...it's so cold out there, and the way it's storming...there's probably not gonna be anyone or anything else out prowling or hunting around, right?"

"Great. We're jinxed, now. You've doomed us all," Candace whined, burying her face in her hands.

The weather has turned even more foul, the intermittent gusting of winds dyeing down as even more lightning and thunder rumble ominously overhead, and even heavier snowfall looms on the horizon to the north, promising to sweep in soon.