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Post by Delilah A. Black on Nov 29, 2013 0:27:30 GMT -8
Crows had first and foremost started as a humanitarian organization (after the bombs fell, anyway; before that, they were just your run-of-the-mill rebel gang); while they provided the basic necessities of life to the non-combative citizens who lived in their territory (and then some, in some cases), aside from keeping the people safe. On the occasion, they liberated the oppressed and gave them refuge.
In areas like these, in the lands too damaged to be of any use to nearly any gang, unaffiliated people congregated. If any assistance was offered to them of any kind, usually, it would be looked upon with great suspicion, if not outright disbelief. It was understandable; genuine good will was few and far between.
The calendar, or So Delilah was told, said that today was 'Thanksgiving'. After the bombs and the intermittent gang wars and the unending destitution...no one had much to be thankful for these days.
And so the First Crow would go, leaving bags of food on doorsteps; cold chicken or duck, with tupperware containers of mashed potatoes, with a bit of gravy. Some legumes, corn and carrots from the harvest; not much, but nutritious, clean, and cooked.
That was it; bags with no labels or indicators of who left them early in the morning on street corners. Just a lone figure sitting on one of the broken rooftops in the early morning light as it filled the concrete land with a flush of warmth.
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Post by Quinn on Dec 7, 2013 20:47:30 GMT -8
"Thank you dearie," An elder woman would say as a tin can of beans were passed around the fire person to person before finally reaching the end of the circle where Quinn stood to press the supplies atop the table counter. They'd made this place home, a small faction the sort that was too small to have a name or organized stance something the few within it might call family. "Not a problem, really a stroke of luck actually, a holiday miracle really." Quinn chuckled to herself with a meager smile one she never really wore to address anyone other than her kin here around this fire.
Speaking of home, or rather their makeshift living situation. The small family had made themselves comfortable over the past eight months residing in the shambles of this suburban house, one of the few in fact that had at least three walls standing. The fourth wall however stood at there fronts a grand view of the rest of the block and everyone that might just step into the neighborhood whatever was left of it.
The family was made up of four individuals: Gran, an older woman probably verging on her seventies and despite being shook up in the fallout she always wore a genuine smile on her features. Quinn. Alicia, the daughter of the family and a young somewhat erratic girl, her long brunette locks and olive shade of skin made it clear that her and Quinn weren't related. Finally Tommy the youngest of the group looking like he was about nine years old, small and somewhat stringy he didn't present much of a threat and was mostly disillusioned from the new world he'd been brought into.
As for tonight, it was a special occasion. Thanksgiving, even though the world had come to and end it didn't mean that they couldn't endure in some holiday cheer. The flame stoked and the weeks supplies passed around the circle it was better then they'd had in some time.
"Was well worth the trouble."
Quinn smirked to herself before plying her lips with a spoonful of mashed potatoes. A quick response however at the corners of her hues made a present caution to her figure suddenly alert of movement against the topography before her. The lone figure traveling, coming closer, step by step, sure to hit every front porch of the houses.
"Who's there?" Quinn immediately stated, rising up from her seat and stepping over the threshold of the shattered fourth wall into the front yard sure to distance herself from her "family". In such a rush to put up that distance that she'd forgotten her bat.
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Post by David B. on Dec 10, 2013 13:37:45 GMT -8
DYNAMIC GM ENTRY
Down the street a ways, three trucks plowed around the corner, tires peeling out. Behind them came four or five motorcycles, men whistling and hooting as they pulled up. There were about twelve men in all. They parked in the middle of the street and jumped out, five of them going after the bags of food left by Del and ripping them from the hands of the people around. Laughing and loading the food into the trucks, the men seemed full of joy at their tasks, only one man staying in the truck to watch.
Three of them went for Quinn, stalking over with quite the swagger.
"Why hello there, beautiful. Feeling lonely? How about you come with us. We will keep you warm."
The other two laughed as they moved forward, uncaring about anyone seeing them.
OOC:
Stats of men:
Str 13
Dex: 13
Con: 15
Int: 8
Wis: 9
Cha: 12
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Post by Delilah A. Black on Dec 10, 2013 13:56:29 GMT -8
The small group of people sitting around the fire she was currently observing from across the street had drawn her attention, warming her in the chilly November air. It was only when the roar of vehicles up the street that she turned her attention away, only to see a rather...horrible sight.
Delilah grimaced. She was only able to hope that this wouldn't happen; her experience and reason, however, knew better. And 'knowing better' meant taking precautions.
She looked down at the long bow she had brought with her, sitting beside the quiver of arrows on the rooftop. Archery wasn't her favourite thing in the world; she wanted to be up close when she ended a life, to remind her that every life she took had an effect. The best way to feel that, in her opinion, was when blood spilled over your hands. Archery and sharp shooting didn't offer that same heaviness of heart, a consequence of a killer with a conscience.
But she wasn't a Militia Sniper for nothing.
With a sigh, Delilah shifted onto one knee, picking up the bow. Normally, she wouldn't get involved; this wasn't her territory, and she had no jurisdiction of justice here.
But today, she wasn't Delilah Black acting on behalf of Crows. In lands where her titles held little sway, she was only a woman.
One with a very strong sense of right and wrong.
Looking up the street, she nocked an arrow, drawing the taut string to her cheek with ease. She tracked her target. Took in the distance...adjusted for arrow drop. Aimed her bow a bit higher to get the proper arc. Pulled past her cheek for the longer draw of the longbow, just past her ear.
The first arrow would be aimed at the neck area of a man trying to take a bag from a small family. The second and third, at the men loading the bags into the truck. A fourth...at the back tire of the truck.
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