manolitode

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Everything posted by manolitode

  1. After merely two months of enjoyable negotiations with @Admin this little survival story has made its way back home from a long and informative journey in the Camping and outdoor activites section of the forum. I think it's worth celebrating with a bump.
  2. The two TLD skills I truly master is: - Voice impression of a fleeing bear: 5 - Voice impression of a fleeing moose: 4 Despite these major advantages in life I would meet the long dark very quickly considering: - Carcass harvesting: 1 - Fishing: 1
  3. Nice ideas. I like the extra difficulty from water freezing, spoiling and being undrinkable when recently boiled. I especially would like water spoiling with time as an incentive to avoid the endgame ocean of plastic bottles. However I see a problem in the inventory with a lot of water types, based on whether they're frozen and spoiled at different % and in addition hot. Like now if you have both dirty and clean water in your inventory you get 2 inventory slots for water. With these extra properties of water I think you could easily end up with 10. If that becomes a hassle it will likely streer players to just make one "type" of water. Do you share my view that, though interesting for adding extra difficulty, the inventory aspect could be a problem. If so, do you have any ideas on how to solve that particular problem?
  4. The torch sways slowly before my eyes. The shoulder straps press hard on my collarbones. My shoulders explode with delight. It goes way faster down the mountainside than uphill. Ouch. I bandage my ankle. Argh. I bandage my wrist. The glimmering snowflakes float gently past my eyes. What's this? An avenue of oak trees? Constituting a heavenly sanctuary in the bleak landscape. I pick up acorns from the ground. The acorn guardian becomes aware of my illicit visit in the firmament. He barks his critical, all-knowing bark, sprinting towards me before suddenly slowing down. I go to the ledge. My knees hurt. But I can't linger. I can see the hut from here. The slope below is steep. I glance back at my pursuer. Guess I could throw my torch on your critical face. Just like the old days. Well not that old, but it feels like ages. I could if I wanted to. But I want to go home. To the hut. To the bed. And rest. I turn my side to the slope and descend, carefully. I reach flat ground. No more descending. No more climbing. Not today. Not in a while. I walk towards the hut. The wind increases forebodingly. No wolf here today, no bear. I walk past the fishing hut, barely noticing the bunnies by the shore. I walk up to the porch, open the door and drop my backpack on the floor. I lie down on the bed. But I don't fall asleep. An hour passes. Maybe more. What's that smell? I sniff my armpit. Am I a human being or a fleshy dustbin? I undress and start a fire in the hearth. The recycled wood from the summit should last for hours to come. I go out in the snow storm and let it shower my sore, foul body. I wash my clothes in the snow, rubbing them in birch bark. I leave them to dry on the floor by the hearth. I craft a few arrows. A fishing tackle. And mend my clothes. I put my house in order. I do have decent winter clothing now. And valuable tools, facilitating my journey. But I still need more pelts. How about a thick, warming bear bedroll for my expeditions? Or a moose jacket for the jacket king? If there's moose around, that is. I don't recall seeing one. I scratch my ribs. I barely notice, I'm starting to feel worse. The mountain excursion has taken its toll on me. My clothes dry. I dry and get dressed. I grab the last pieces of recycled wood and go to the fishing hut. The wind kisses my face. I light the stove. Hack through the ice, blunting the knife. Bass. Whitefish. Black night. More whitefish. The tackle breaks. I carry the cooked fish to the hut and drop them in the snow outside. It'll be enough for a few days. I sit down on the bed. I am worn to the bone. And I am enjoying myself. Maybe a bit too much? Perhaps I should just settle down here? Pick up archery, live off the land and be content? My mind drifts. To the wolf by the trolley, who nearly sent me into the long irreversible dark. To the marauding bear by the stranded ship. Who had the same thing in mind. And to the thin ice, that reached above water to grasp me. Or should I rather move on? And risk everything. I lie down on the bed. Should I? A blizzard ravages outside.
  5. It's a bright new day on the summit. Good morning cargo containers. Good morning pain. I saw through the containers, thus sawing the last drops of juice from the clattering pieces of tissue in my shoulders. I find a wool toque. And crampons. Fashionable yellow earwraps. Medicine. An emergency stim. And food. Lots and lots of food. Half of it spoiled. Besides that, I will leave the mountain with several boxes of matches, a firestriker and a snazzy collection of furs. The joy. The fire crackles. The flames flicker. Day turns into night. I sit by the campfire, munching monotonously on a salty thiamine mononitrate cracker. Sure it's dry but it's still a cracker. Apocalypse dining at its finest. But I ain't the only hungry fella up here. I feed the bonfire another piece of recycled wood from the green pile. Perhaps I should bring some of this wood down to the hut. My shoulders would love that. Here fire, have another. Good boy. I think of Danny. Look at me now brother. Climbing the top of the world, setting the summit on fire. I wish you could see what I see. Feel the pleasures and burdens of accomplishment. I remove my boots and socks and feel my feet. A blister here, a sore there. But that's the price you pay. I stare into the flames, massaging my feet. I think of all my friends out there. Magpie, Raven, Jimmy and Gemma. Patiently awaiting my return at the power plant. And of course, Crow. My loyal bender of car trunks. Not that he's ever bended a car trunk. But that's not the point. I know that he would, had he the chance. Hope all is well in the foul bunker. I think of my dear old cabin. I think of the flames engulfing it. Spitting me out like a bad aftertaste, burping. I think of the briefcases at the crash site. Spread like confetti. The crow feathers. The empty seats in the cabin. The... I stand up and pour the remaining crackers into the fire. I watch them turn black. I crawl into the bedroll and pull the cover over my eyes.
  6. My stomach simmers and coos. I need a break before pulling up the backpack. A nearby cave entrance draws my attention. A corpse leans against the cave wall. I feel dizzy. Another rope on the cave floor. No thanks, I'm feeling just fine. I leave the cave empty-handed. Every pull of the rope feels like rubbing my shoulders from within with glass shards wrapped in sand paper. And nails. I pull my backpack over the edge. But I fail to put it on my back. I just can't lift it. I connect a few wires together and tie them around my stomach with a cord line to the backpack. I walk towards the plane, dragging it through the snow behind me. Come on rucksack. We've been through so much together. We're basically there. Wouldn't want you to miss it. We pass two deep-frozen chaps in the snow by the plane. I feel nauseous. They look like they died from the cold rather than the crash. Are you crew or mountaineers? Silence. Most likely the latter. Lets take a look at the monstrous metal Klondike then. It's a cargo plane. Its back body is fairly intact. Cargo containers and crates await me inside. I pack up the hacksaw and start sawing the contaaaiiiiiiiiii good Jeeesus almighty. I stop, clenching my fists. My shoulders need a vacation. Bad. Like a year-long siesta on a tropical beach. And a warm, gentle massage. And a drink. I guess I could make a fire before opening the containers. I throw a piece of coal in the flames. I build the fire larger and larger from the green wooden crates in the plane. Breaking them hurts, but not as much as sawing. I get warmer and warmer as the sun sinks in the sky. And I'm awfully tired. And sore. I better lie down.
  7. I grab the end of the cobra, staring up towards the ledge. The relentless icily wind spreads the cold all through my body. I clench my jaw. I'm climbing to the end of this rope, even if it's the last thing I do. Mountain, you don't get to win. I am the jacket king, Thor MacKenzie, collector of prybars. I pull lightly at the rope. My shoulder protests. This will ruin my shoulders for a long time. Unless I can spare them somehow. Climb upside down with my feet first? It would look funny for sure but then I would die from internal massive injuries. A lighter backpack perhaps? I unpack all the water, sticks and stones and leave them in the snow. I pick up a mess of cords. Wires, why do I carry you around? Oh well, you never know. I put them back and give the rope another try. Still too heavy. What if I could climb without the backpack? If I tie it to the end of the rope I should be able to pull it up afterwards. I tie a half hitch knot through the shoulder straps and start pulling myself up. One pull. And another. And another. No way, my shoulders are killing me. I slide down, slightly burning my palms. Better but not quite there. I'll need to use my legs. But how? I'm sure I learned this in PA. Time passes. The wind turns gentler. How about...? No. Would it work if...? Nope. What if the rope lies on the vamp of my left boot and I step on it with my right? It creates a plateau, giving my shoulders a short respite before the next pull. That works. I climb all the way up in one go. I pull myself over the ledge, grinding my teeth from the pain. There it is, the kamikaze plane. The high altitude goldmine. My stomach rumbles. My shoulders beg me to throw myself off the mountain. Plane, you better be worth my while.
  8. I wake up with snow on my face. I wipe it off with the back of my hand. I'm hurt. A voice irrupts into the cave, whisking the snowdust. A howling blizzard whips the mountain. Clearly objecting to my presence. You squeamish mountain you. I dazedly grab my bedroll and backpack and stumble further back into the cave. There. Out of the snowstorm's reach. I feel my throat. Is that blood? Right. Note to self. Don't wipe your face holding a knife. I dig out the sewing kit from the backpack. Ridiculous. I put it back. I pull out some lichen and a low quality hoodie. I convert them into bandages. I carefully wrap the bandages around my neck. The bleeding stops. I put on my backpack and walk out the cave entrance. It's still snowing hard. You still mad with me mountain? Reishi grow on the mad mountain's tree stumps. I cut it off with my knife and put it in my pocket. A torn apart deer lies by a cave entrance. It's an upsetting sight. I look around. No predators within sight. I pick up the scattered crow feathers. The cave holds a lime green backpack and a polka pig colored mountaineer's rope. I roll my shoulders. No thanks, I'm done rope climbing. I search the backpack. Empty. I exit the cave. walk to the ledge of the mountain looking down. I whistle. I must be close to the summit. Shucks. I have bled all over my Mackinaw. I look up the mountain crestfallen. The ledge is far up. Swinging on the mountainside I see another godforsaken polka pig cobra.
  9. Though it's not exactly Arabica beans it sure kicks me off the ground as promised. I grab the rope. My poor shoulders. The pain. They're probably ready to emigrate from my body. Luckily it's a short climb. I pull myself over the ledge, sit down in the snow and look up at the summit. I'm one step closer. Reishi, rose hips, deer and unrighteous bunnies. I have climbed into Mother earth's pantry. And man's. For another cargo container glimmers in the snow, waiting to be sawn. And so it shall. The hacksaw gnaws and squeaks, making it's way through the metal. The animals vanish. The container bottom is laid with tomato soup. I put the cans in my backpack. Though I was mainly planning to carry things down from the summit, not up. A snow-capped curled path leads me uphill around a rock. It's a path as broad as the Autobahn. Strange. The weather has been remarkably anonymous today. Cloudy. Somewhat windy. Somewhat chilly. It's the first time in weeks that I haven't paid the slightest attention to it. That's not an oncoming car is it? No, that's the owner of the Autobahn. Roaming towards me. She's not small. I pull out the knife, back up and brace myself at the mountainside. I look back. There's a narrow path in a cleft between the rocks. I glance at the bear. She saunters absent-mindedly. I'll let her do her thing. Through the cleft then. Another rope. Another shoulder abuse. Another sundown. Another cave. Another labyrinth. These mountaineer's ropes truly suck the juice out of both mind and body. There. An exit. I walk out in the freezing air under the star-adorned firmament. A timberwolf rushes towards me, barking welcomingly. I'm too decrepit to lambaste your furry face. I back up, clenching the knife. Back to the cave then. He doesn't follow. For safety's sake I go deeper into the labyrinth. I find an unexplored path. It leads me upwards. That seems promising. There. Stars. I roll out the bedroll and crawl into bed, still holding on to the knife.
  10. The arrow flies. Just above his furry ears. You lucky bastard, unknowingly sniffing the snow. I almost feel sorry for you. I squat behind the cargo container, reaching for another birch arrow. A shrill whimper. I peek over the container. My fiend sprints as if his tail was on fire. Up a path on a slope. Out of the valley. What was that? Long reaction time? Sudden anguish? Reminds me of the easily spooked rabbits. Whatever that was, the magnificent beast is gone. As the emergent mayor of the valley, I take a close look at its treasury. The cargo container is locked and the lock is broken. I saw it open. Inside await an inordinate amount of low quality clothes. Except, a second pair of wool socks. I find a path around the corner. I turn to the valley and salute it before leaving office. The path leads to an open cave room. Cuckoo? The echo is weak. I imagine a cello... wait what's this? A plastic container in the snow. A box of matches and a can of peaches. You're definitely coming with me. I make a campfire, boil some snow and prepare a cup of coffee. I pull a torch from the flames and get going. Unchristian, juicy rabbits ahead. Nastily hopping around, enjoying themselves. I put my hand in the pocket. I'm out of stones... I throw the torch in the snow before me, pick up a few stones from the ground and return my attention to the ra... they're gone. How come everything is so easily spooked around here? Have the rabbits by the hut been gossiping about me? Or is there something on my face? Focus. Where should I go from here? I turn around and look up at the summit. I spot a rope. Looks like my best bet. I roll my shoulders. One rope isn't going to kill me.
  11. The timberwolf stays at the ledge, closely observing my descent down the scarp. Nice and slow, mustn't lose my footing. I spot another wolf in the valley. Out of the fire into the frying pan. He warily wanders about the mess that the aircraft's torn limbs have created in his humble abode. I reach the bottom of his valley unharmed. Here's another anomaly for you. Me. Torchhurler. Rabbitslayer. Certified tea brewer. I remain undetected, bravely crouching behind a cargo container. I peek out above it. There he is. My condemned fiend. His back to me, sniffing the snow. I stand up straight, solemnly raising the bow. Artemis, aid me in the piercing of this perplexed beast. I aim for the neck and draw the bowstring. It's payback time. Payback for all the wrongdoings of your kin. For trying to eat my face by the trolley. For your cowardly attacks near the marsh and powerplant, two against one is just not fair. For driving me up ropes and down mountainsides. But first and foremost. Payback for all the rabbit-snatching. I exhale, releasing the arrow.
  12. I wake up on the bed inside the hut. A blizzard ravages outside. I should pick up my bedroll from the porch before it gets ruined. I open the door. Bad idea. The storm grabs the door it and launches it on my shoulder. I stumble backwards grunting. I clench my jaws, take a step forward and grab the door. I push it towards the storm until it closes. It stays in place rattling. I feel my shoulder. Bruised, not injured. Leisure time then. I gut the rabbit. I sharpen the axe. I repair the hacksaw. I grind the reishi mushroom to power. The pulverized dust from the immortal fungus whirls in the air. I smell its earthy, woody fragrance. I want to find that airplane. See what's in its cargo. The blizzard passes. I go out on the porch, enjoying the ice cold forenoon with a hot cup of tea. I pick up the bedroll, shaking off the snow. I look up the mountain. With the help of daylight I clearly distinguish the contour of a plane wreck. These kamikaze planes in the wild. Is this turning out to be some local tradition? I sip the tea. It burns my lip. Should I stay here and let my sore climber's shoulders rest up? Hmm. I might be sitting on a goldmine here. A high altitude goldmine. Besides, you trek up a mountain with your legs. Not with your arms. I go back inside and take stock of the food supply. It should last a few more days. That's probably enough to take me to the top. I pack the backpack light and step outside. A wolf lurks by the uphill stream that flows into the lake. Other way then. I walk past the fishing hut unnoticed. The sun warms the back of my head. The wind blows gently in my face. A treetrunk on the ground hides both cat tails and lichen. Nature's pantry. A bark. A furry four-legged creature sprints from towards me from the mountainside. I flinch. He slows down as he approaches. I start jogging downhill, making a half circle in the snow. My heart skips a beat. A bear appears on my other side. Hasn't he seen me? I sprint inbetween them, towards a ledge. Throw a torch? On a bear? I'm not taking any chances. I run like a hog. I brake hard by the ledge. A steep and rocky scarp above a valley strewn with plane parts and crates. Paws patter behind me. Down the mountainside it is then.
  13. The power lines hum. The hut lights up. I distinguish a folded piece of paper on the table. It's a journal page. The handwriting is readable. So the author is a woman then. An imaginative woman. She writes that she's off to the mountain summit in search of a crashed aircraft. Could it be the one I saw today? Hardly, the crash site wasn't on a summit. I step outdoors, gazing at the dark mountaintop, the violet sky glimmering in the background. There's nothing there. A small structure on the frozen lake catches my eye. Go out on the ice again? Curiosity killed the cat. But curiosity also provided clothes, weapons and food. I warm a cup of birch bark tea by the fireplace and tack off my jackets and jeans. I'm taking the knife. Worst case scenario I'll use it as an ice pick. I walk down to the shore and tread the ice. Feels stable. Fever chills make me shiver. I keep walking. The ice holds. I reach the structure, a green fishing hut. A hammer and a lantern await me inside. I resist the urge to smash the latter with the former. A stove stands on the unpainted wooden floor. In the other corner, a frozen hole for ice fishing. Too bad I didn't bring Gemma, icebreaker queen. I sit on the floor, stabbing at the ice with my knife. It's not very effective. But it'll work when I have more time and a heat source. I should look through the book about fishing tomorrow. I pick up the tools and return to the hut. Inside the air is smoky and nauseous. I hastily dress and light a torch from the fireplace embers. I make a new campfire just outside the door. The flames will sheltered by the stone wall frame. I roll out my bedroll and lie gazing at the stars. Orion's belt shifts in green. A fellowship of three. So close but lightyears apart. Time passes. Green fades to black. I close my eyes. A howl breaks the serenity. I wake up in a haze. A shriek from the lake. Is that you Danny? I run dazed to the shore. The fog hangs low on the lake. Another sharp shriek. I run on the ice, nearly slipping. I instinctively regain my balance and stagger into the fog. Danny!? A nearby growl. I stop. A timberwolf appear in the mist. He turns his head to me, baring his teeth. I pick up a stone and throw it on his nose. And another on his side. And one on his leg. The wolf hesitates for a moment and runs into the mist. I kneel. A slayed rabbit lies on the ice, his limbs twisted. The pelt is fairly unspoiled. I throw a stone on the carcass. That counts as my kill. I pick my victory trophy by its paws and plow my way back through the fog. I come out by the hut on the other side. I exhale. Feels like the fever is gone.
  14. I eye the scenery. A stone hut looks over a glimmering crystal lake. A mountain towers up high behind the water. Above it, nothing but the solar system and beyond. Snowflings land on my face. I turn my face towards the moon and stick out my tongue. The first snowflake tastes like iron. The second like fir needle. The third like roasted rabbit in mustard sauce. I enter the hut and drop my backpack by the door. My joints ache. Or is it just the fever? I'm breathing clouds. I light the fireplace and throw the sticks in it. I pull a burning log from the fire. There is a plain bed, a crafting table and a moss green shelf. I search the shelf. A chocolate bar and beans. I can tell they are beyond ther best before date. But the low temperature should have preserved them. I put them by the fire. There's something else on the shelf. A blue box of wooden matches. Priceless. And on the bottom shelf, an empty first aid box. I feel a cold breeze on my face. I look up. There is a hole in the roof by the ceiling lamp. I dig out the rabbit hides from my backpack and stretch them out on the floor. I hope I haven't ruined them. The ceiling lamp starts to flicker.
  15. The heavy locking device clinks. I climb down the ladder. Discolored cardboard boxes, scratched metal shelves and a dirty mattress. I've seen less depressing graveyards. I sit on the backpack and craft another arrow. I feel warm again but my shoulders ache. I'm tender. Do I have a fever coming? I can't get stuck in here with a fever. I leave the water and firewood in the bunker. Crow, bender of cartrunks, you stay here and guard my stash. The sun is sinking. The air is calm. This will require all of my strength. I grab the rope again and pull myself up. Slow and steady. The boots slide. The shoulders burn. But I make it in one go. I lie down by the ledge, massaging my shoulders. Will they ever trust me again? A path appears between the mountains. I'm going straight into the wild now. Will there be deer at this altitude? I need pick up sticks along the path. It ends in an open landscape. I hug myself shivering. Cedar tree. Fir tree. Snow. And a sudden pang of regret. Why didn't I stay in the farmhouse? I could have slept in a queen sized bed again tonight. Instead I plow through the snow. The moon is my headlamp now. Two dark figures appear among the trees. I fail to tolerate their existence. I pick up a stone and raise my arm. They run off in immediately. That's a first. I follow slowly but lose them in the dark. No wait, there's one. I aim. And he's off. Come on. Give me a free throw at least will you. Is this a special, more easily spooked breed of bunnies? Focus. There's the other. I throw and miss. He sets off. I waddle through the snow. The diabolical fur ball is faster than he looks. He hops over a slope. I follow. Now that's a perfect picture.
  16. I find myself by a hunting tower. How did I get here? I look back at the tracks in the snow. The plane tail peeks out from behind the milkwhite hill. My stomach rumbles. I turn my head. The birchwood here is thin. A cluster of young saplings catch my eye. Arrow material, time to put the hatchet to use. Chopping is remarkably slow with the blunted blade. I cut harder, grunting. From the corner of my eye I see movement. The noise has attracted company. So much for silent hunting. I hack away hastily at the remaining saplings and put them inside my jacket. The wolf drives me towards the mountainside. I'm not letting you so much as scratch my newfound jackets. A rope hangs from the cliff face. I look up at the ledge. It's not that far. I fumblingly attach the hatchet to my belt, grab the rope and start pulling myself up. The distance to the ground increases. I fail to get a good grip with the boots and my shoulders burn with each pull. The wolf sits down in the snow below me. I'm too heavy. I won't make it. I start sliding down. He gets up on all fours, barking. I slide downwards. Here we go. I quickly let go of one hand, in the same motion I loose the hatchet from the belt and drop it. Right in his forehead. He flinches. Looks up at me silently. There's sincere surprise in his eyes. I lose my grip. He backs up, cowering. I land on my feet, sinking kneep-deep in the snow. The wolf limps off wobbling. That didn't work out. Where to now? Something glimmers by a fallen tree. I take a closer look. A metal hatch here? I turn the wheel.
  17. Nothing but straw bales as far as the eyes can see. Snowflakes whip my eyeballs. I squeeze the hatchet handle. I shouldn't get too comfortable. I have food for a few days, that's all good. But if I can kill a deer there will have enough venison for a whole week. I shiver. Even a jacket king can freeze sometimes. I wouldn't mind a pair of fur mittens. Any godforsaken rabbits around? I pick up a handful of stones and put them in my pocket. I follow an ice-paved stream, the wind whistling in my ears. I wouldn't hear a wolf it it snuck up behind me. The stream divides at the foot of a mountain. A shack on the shore looks ready to throw in the towel. I look around, nibbling on a raw carrot. Nothing but sticks and stones. A crooked path behind the shack leads me up the mountain. I wonder what awaits me at the top. A deer perhaps? I haven't seen a single animal today. I attach the hatchet to my belt and grab the maple bow. I reach a cave. Shelter from the wind. A green rucksack leans against the cave wall. I open it. A smile spreads across my face. A full box of salted wheat crackers. I taste them. Not too fresh. I turn the box over. Wheat flour. Could've gussed that. Thiamine mononitrate. Couldn't have guessed that. Folic acid. Soybean. Palm oil. Salt. Baking soda. Wow... and I was so proud of the wheatpaste I made the other day. But then these guys come along, playing a whole different ballgame. I have much to learn. I leave the cave, munching on a passable cracker. A red and white piece of metal towers up behind a snow embankment. Is that what I think it is? Could that be the aircraft the map was pointing me towards? I bite into another cracker and urgently climb the embankment. I spit out the dough. The slope below is strewn with human corpses. The bodies are intact, but their owners are long gone. So this really is hell then? When could this have happened? The wolves and bears have yet to find them. I walk down the slope and loot the corpses. Reluctantly... Planeparts, severed trees, briefcase and hand luggage lie in the snow.... and efficiently. Worn wool socks. Another pair of thermal underwear. A midnight blue hoodie. I pick up a briefcase and walk uphill to the plane tail. I light a campfire and sit on the briefcase, warming my hands. I look out over the scene. I cook reishi tea and pour it in the thermos. I stare at a female corpse by the planetail. She lies in a pool of blood. I look back in the fire and throw up in the flames. The flame flickers. A carrot and wheat puree flow from the corner of my mouth. Is this the coveted territory? I unfold the scribbled map. The airplane in the drawing is intact. The airplane before me is not. Useless piece of paper. I scrunch it and raise my arm to throw it in the fire. I hesitate. I throw the scrunched map in the backpack instead. I get up and walk down the slope. The sun warms my face. When did it stop snowing? I turn my face to the sky, eyes closed, and exhale. I investigate the plane cabin resting at the bottom of the slope. It's interior is fairly intact. And empty. I exit the plane by the side door. Though my mind lingers.
  18. manolitode

    Home

    I really like Quonset for endgame (unfortunately it doesn't like me back). It checks so many boxes. Close to a forge, close to fishing, an abundance of firewood, a moose spawn and a bear route in the yard, indoor cooking, crafting table, excellent storage, etc etc. But I haven't used Quonset as base for years. Too many of my survivors have died from surprise wolf attacks among the yard clutter and the surroundings. Perhaps it's more doable now that we have a protective vest? Anyway, I'm curious how you handle the wolf threat long-term? If I were to use it as main base again I would probably eliminate the population one by one and drop the occasional meat to lure possible spawns from their hiding places. Speaking of the maintenance yard in BR, I think it much resembles the advantages and disadvantages of Quonset. But I find the wolves less of a threat since you can shoot their brains out from the cold office window.
  19. A blizzard ravages. I prepare tea. I mend clothes. I drum on pots and cans. I dance from room to room, shaking the coffee tin rhythmically. Crow the crowbar breaks into a metal locker. It's not his thing but he makes an exception. We're celebrating after all. A jacket has found its way to us. I pull up the zipper and tap it gently. I'm never leaving your side. The blizzard passes. I can see clearly from the viewpoint now. A large, alluring two-story farmhouse awaits me in a white open field. Behind it the golden fireball sinks into a carmine sea of clouds. I roll the backpack down the mountainside and follow closely, sledding on my rear. That saved me some time. The field is wider than it seemed from above. The snow much deeper. I feel like Dante's Satan, plowing through the waist-high snow. I reach the farmhouse and walk a lap around it. I open the cellar door. Pipes, wooden chairs and washing machines. Among the clutter lie potatoes, carrots and a book about fishing. Is there a lake around here? I walk up the stairs. The kitchen is well-equipped. Another cooking pot to add to my rhythm section. And plenty of food in the pantry. The match sizzles. The stove burns. The water boils and the potatoes soften. Meanwhile I explore the building. Room to room. Torch to torch. A cotton toque here. A spraycan there. Lots of books to burn. I turn the water taps in the bathrooms. The pipes are dry. The office room upstairs is a mess. But something peeks out from under the bed. I get down on the floor and pull out a Mackinaw jacket. Victorious. Again. I go downstairs and sit by the stove, happily munching on the evening meal. Clothes and food. Without firing a single arrow. I pull a torch from the stove and go back upstairs to the bedroom. I throw the burning torch on the carpet and drop into the soft mattress.
  20. Snowflakes land gently on my face. I wipe the beard with the back of my hand. The freezing air gnaws on my skin. I put on the red mittens. This is a whole new level of cold. I'm at the foot of a hill. I glimpse a hunting tower on the top. It's a steep climb. I struggle up the hill. My lungs hurt. I reach the crest breathless. I throw off my backpack and drop in the snow, breathing into the mittens. A minute passes. And another. I'm sweating. Should've thought about that. Better get a move on then. I go up the hunting tower. A book about archery awaits me on the floor. The cover looks kind of artsy. Not the time to browse it though. I put it in the backpack and turn around to leave. My heart skips a beat. A deceased man sits in the corner, collapsed against the wall. I exhale. Friend of yours Danny? A gust of wind stings my skin. Time for fire or shelter. Something stands out amongst the trees. It's another corpse in the snow. Looks like he died harvesting a deer. All this death. Is this hell then? I sit in the snow and collect the crow feathers. The wind increases. I look up. Is someone watching me? A brown bunny hops towards the woods. I hurriedly collect a few stones. Be a brother and share your pelt with a weary traveller will you? Aim. Throw. Miss. The rabbit skids in the snow and runs off between the pine trees. I chase after him but my backpack is heavy and my lungs burn. A wolf lunges from behind a tree. His jaws catch the rabbit by the spine, tearing and shaking it. The struggle is short. Throw a torch and claim the bunny? Wait, where's my torch. I've put it in the backpack. Dumb move. The wolf's teeth sink deeper into the flesh. Throw a stone and claim the bunny? Too late. The hide will be ruined by now. I take a detour around them, acknowledging that my silent hunter ability has room for improvements. I glimpse an antenna stretching towards the sky. It's not far. The snowflakes start to hit me sideways in the eyes. I find an oversized antenna and a fenced-in square structure by a vantage point. Looking down I see a road and...and... is that a fence? Can't see much in this weather. Civilization nearby at least. I'll take another look when the weather clears, but for now I'll explore the building. I try the handle. I'm in a nerdbox. Wires and gadgets and buttons. I press them all. The surprising response of a crackling human voice doesn't happen. There's a bedroom. A calender from 2004 hangs on the wall. Doesn't matter. I wouldn't be able to tell today's date anyway. I search the shelves and drawers. A tin of sardines. Bingo. Its best before-date looks promising but then again, who knows. What else? A dusty can of soda, a coffee tin and a small arms handbook. If only there were guns around. I pull out a drawer. My pupils grow larger. A dark green, furled piece of cloth. I hold it up, unfurling it. I put it on, sinking into the down. I have a ski jacket. I am the king.
  21. I better be on the lookout for both dead and living things. Finding feathers is high on the agenda but hunting game should be the top priority. So I can sew more warm clothes from hides and rely less on canned foods and cat tail stalks. Though it will require a major transformation for my part. From a metaldragging, scurrying traveler to a stalking hunter. Since deer seem to be extinct in this area I have to try my luck elsewhere. But where? I've seen where the railroad leads, both ways, and it's not to game. Should I explore the lake with the fishing cabins? It's a short walk. Though I'm not too keen on traversing the ice again after the recent debacle. Hmm. What about the ravine behind the power plant then? A stream rarely leads to nowhere. If rabbits can live unthreatened and sinful there, before my arrival at least, I have a good shot at finding bigger game around. That's settled then. I'll go first thing in the morning. I prepare the rucksack, wire up the noisiest tools and crawl into bed. Wonder what tomorrow has in store for me. A blizzard? A herd of slow deer? Or bloodthirsty timberwolves? I close my eyes. I rise at sun-up. I line up the prybar collection on the desk. Who to bring? I choose you Crow, bender of car trunks. It's a frigid winter morning. Goose bumps pop up along my arms. My head remains warm. I go down to the frozen river. Bunnies. Wicked, unsuspecting bunnies. I chase them into a cave and stone them. The sweet sound of their cracking necks echo in the stone hall. I exclaim a victorious howl. Great acoustics in here. I imagine a white grand piano on the cave floor. A dressed up pianist with his back to me. Playing a soothing accompaniment. A faceless violinist at his side, gently plucking her strings. An unknown creature howls back at me from a distance. Not the time to linger. I exit the cave and find a path. Another frozen stream. Another cave entrance. I ignite a torch and enter. It's a whole cave system. I wander around warily, picking up coal amongst the rocks. Freezing at the occasional cracking sound. I see the sky. An exit. I put down the backpack and light a campfire. I sit down, leaning against the rock wall. I cleanse the rabbits in the purgatory flames. They taste delicious. I lie down on the bedroll. That's right, I'm a caveman now.
  22. I throw the torch in his eye as he plunges into me, rolling over my body. Looking behind me I see him running away. I let out a victory roar and crawl up. I hope your whiskers burn off you weaklings. The hatchet shines in the snow. I pick it up and go to the power plant. I stretch out the fresh guts and hides on the floor beside the older ones. The dried intestines feel rubbery. I could use them now. My ribs hurt. Am I harmed? I lift up the shirt. Bruised but not torn. I pick up hides, guts and saplings from the nearby cave and add them to the pile in the hallway. I'd like to craft but I should take stock of my inventory first. It's turning into quite a collection. I sort tools, items, cooking ingredients and edibles in the metal lockers in an orderly fashion. I welcome the moment of order to my messy life. Now, what to do with my five prybars? I line up the steel blue collection on the hallway desk. Since you have all worked so hard to find me you deserve a unique name and purpose. Behold Crow, bender of car trunks. Raven, slayer of wolves. Magpie, butcher of lockers. Jimmy, balance pole of iron. Gemma, the icebreaker queen. I mark their individuality with a spray can and put them away. All except Magpie. What's next? Right, winter clothing. I gather the dried rabbit pelts and rubbery guts and pull out the knife. Time to craft an impeccable hat. The pipes rattle. Hours go by. The rabbit hat gently hugs my skull. I remain smiling as the sun sets, you should see me now Danny. I browse the archery book with first daylight. Crafting. Bow. I decide to make the body of the bow from of a bendable maple sapling and the arrows from birch. Guts for the bowstring. I craft the bow and one somewhat straight arrow. Time to shoot my first arrow ever. Archery book. Shooting technique. I breathe in and aim for the wooden pallet. I breathe out and release. It hits the floor. I try again. Same result. What's missing here? Archery book. Crafting. Of course, fletchings! I make wheatpaste from flour and water and glue crow feathers to the arrow. Fire. The arrow stands straight and proud on the pallet. Splendid. Though, I'm short on feathers. There is enough feathers for a few more but I'll have to find more to perfect all arrows. Onwards to carcasses and corpses then.
  23. I'm alive. Clothes, boots and backpack dry by the small stove. Midday passes. My mind is weary and my legs and arms are sore. But I feel remarkably pleased. Just a short haul to the power plant. Then I'll have some proper R&R. I go up the stairs and gently sit Daniel up, leaning him against the wall. Take care buddy. I dress, consume cat tail stalks and light a torch. Onwards to the power plant. The sky is dovetail gray, the wind is elsewhere. I reach the river. Hey there rabbit, you're a sight for sore eyes. I stone him and pick him up looking deep into his wet eyes. I crack his neck. It makes a rewarding sound. I put him in my backpack and pick up some sticks while I sit on my knees. I spot something else among the trees. A deceased deep-frozen deer with majestic antlers lies in the snow, his rib cage exposed. It's a saddening sight. However, now that you're dead, could I borrow your antlers for a weapon? The horns shriek when I saw. The blade breaks. Another time then. I make a fire and harvest the deer by knife. Works like a charm. I cook the meat expectantly, looking forward to a roasted venison after days on the cat tail and dog food diet. The meat sizzles and smokes. A ring of pale grass appear around the campfire. The venison is tough and tasteless. I can't afford to throw it away so I put the meat and hide in the backpack, hang the guts on the belt and move on. The intestines flap against my jeans, soiling them. It's better than soiling everything else in the backpack. I follow the mountainside. Two wolves approach. I put a hand on the belt. Strangle them out with the guts? Probably not. I drop the backpack and walk towards them. I clench my blunted hatchet in one hand and the torch in the other. Let them come. The first wolf charges. I let him close and throw down the torch on his face. He runs off whimpering. The second wolf leaps forward. I swing the hatchet and fall on my side. We both miss. Where is the hatchet? There is the torch. The wolf regroups. I plow through the snow on my knees and reach out for the burning torch, turn around and see him going for my legs.
  24. Another night in the loft passes. I pack my pioneering metallic wondertools and prepare birch bark tea. I unfold the scribled map of a territory far away and sit by the furnace as the embers slowly goes out. There is a mediocre drawing of a destroyed railway with an arrow pointing to an aircraft. I've passed the bridge for sure, but not the plane. Though it shouldn't be too hard to spot... A gust of wind makes me shiver. I'm burning daylight. Since there are no proper clothes in the apocalyptic world I'll sew my own apparel. I will head back to the tunnel and pick up the dried hides and guts. I light a torch by the furnace and traipse along the mountainside, nibbling on bulrush stalks. The legs feel strong, the arms less so. The sun sinks in the sky. Wolves appear in the marsh. I hurry past a bend by the mountainside and step out on the ice. It breaks immediately. I pant as the icy water closes around my body. Luckily it's shallow. I pull the hammer from my belt and crush the ice before me, dragging my feet towards the shore. I pull myself up on the ground, feeling twice as heavy as before. The woods are nearby. I light a fire sheltered behind a yellow pine. I throw a piece of coal in the fire, the flames snort joyfully at me. I sit down, a total fatigue overpowers me. Better get going before I fall asleep in the snow and kill myself. I make coffee in the thermos, dry up a bit and move on. Afternoon turns into night. I walk, drink more coffee and stop to make a new fire. Walk. Drink. Fire. Repeat. I dawdle through the tunnel. Along the railroad tracks, the sky cracking up in green and purple. I reach the house by the shore, with the maple leaf flag swaying silently in the night. I drop the soggy backpack in the hallway and hang my clothes and boots to dry. I drag my feet up the stairs. Oh, hey Danny. Is this what got you?
  25. The wolves disappear in the fog. I retrieve the torch, holding it close to my shivering torso. I follow the shoreline, gliding smoothly through the fog like a canoe. I find the village. Expect it's not a village but two dilapidated houses by an equally dilapidated bridge. Is this it? My backpack suddenly feels heavier. I carry on walking. Another ramshackle building appears in the fog. Though behind it stands a somewhat intact wooden structure. I rush to it. It has a craft bench, some drawers, wooden crates, a furnace and a bed on a loft. This is what I've been looking for. Well, not a house without a door, proper walls and a roof, though the apocalypse has made me less fastidious. No, this is the kind of forge I've been looking for. This is where I will craft pioneering metallic wondertools. I light the furnace with the torch and gather all the coal and metal I can find. I browse the archery book. Crafting section. Arrowheads. I finecomb the location while the furnace heats up slowly. I find a prybar in a drawer. Lucky me, I was just about to wear out the other four. I aquire a collection of cold dog food. Great. Like I said, less fastidious. I walk around the building. No rabbits around here? I miss their paradisical sinfulness. The furnace is burning hot. I craft a few arrowheads. They're not pretty and a bit blunt. I make more of them. Better but not good. I break down the wooden crates for fuel. It's hammertime. Behold me, Thor MacKenzie. Wielder of hammers. Destroyer of worlds. And crates. Was that a howl? I stop and look around panting and soaked in sweat. It's pitch dark and nearly silent, except for the furnace's gentle humming. I snort. I should save some strength for tomorrow and take a manshower. I leave my clothes to dry and rub my sore limbs thoroughly with snow. I dry up by the furnace, drink a full bottle of water and eat dog food. I crawl into bed in my birthday suit. The melody of the crackling fireplace lulls me to sleep. A metallic bang wakes me up. I sit up instantly. Right, that's burning wood falling over inside a metallic chamber. It's a beautiful sunny day. Nothing but marsh and mountains as far as I can see. Oh well, no excursions for me today anyway. I grab a handful of cattail stalks to chew on and add more fuel to the fire. I craft another set of arrowheads. I'm getting the hang of this. I craft a defensive weapon that resembles a hatchet. I cool it in the snow before raising it in the air, feeling its handle. Its fairly well-balanced, though the edge is a bit blunted. I chop at the wall. Wooden chips rain down on the ground. It'll do. Heck, I wonder if I'll ruin the pelt if I throw it on rabbits. I craft a smaller, sharper tool as well. I poke the tip gently. Hope I can stab through a wolfpelt with this. It's pitch dark again. Manshower. Dry up. Water. Dog food. Striptease.