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5/13/2025, 9:03:59 PM
>>6240801
[2/3]
The pace at which you move grows steadily slower and more deliberate the closer you come to the landing site, mirroring the steady sinking of the sun into early dusk. There was no helping it. Blundering into a group of raiders at full speed would do you or that colonist no good. You dash from cover, to concealment, to cover again, each time taking a second to listen and look at the area surrounding you. Nothing so far. You keep checking for silhouettes, movement, light, anything to betray the presence of others. Still nothing. Move again. Look again. High alert. Sweat drips from your brow, you quickly wipe it with your sleeve. Holding the musket at a low-ready position for so long is very awkward, given the length and how the weight was balanced, but you manage.
You're confident that you held the bearing you needed to, the only factor that remains is the distance. You continue forward, caution increasing, into sparse forest choked by undergrowth, until you see a small light in the distance. A small fire. You resist the urge to quicken your pace. The shadows grow long and the sun continues to sink towards the horizon.
The light gets bigger and contrasts more and more with the darkening woods as you stalk. You see movement, and freeze. The shadows of three men shift excitedly amongst the branches and tree trunks. You continue to creep forward, gun pointed dead ahead, leaves and branches silently glancing from the passage of its' long barrel. From bush to bush you drift. You start to hear sounds. Objects clattering. Voices. Boisterous, words you can't decipher. Closer, closer...
You see the pod, and three shadowy figures moving around it. You're at the edge of musket range now. You sit low behind a small cluster of shrubs and fix your gaze on the scene.
You note three men, all dressed similarly to the one Allie killed at your campsite.
One, with a floppy pink hat, is struggling with his spear to open the top hatch of the escape pod. He has a large wicker shield beside him.
The other two are busying themselves with the contents of the pod's storage compartment, tearing open packages, dumping contents, and happily chatting to one another in a language you are still unable to understand.
The man with the red turban has more accoutrements than the others, a voice of authority, and a musket visually similar to yours slung across his shoulder.
The final raider is sitting cross-legged by a sports bag, and has an unloaded crossbow in his lap, a quiver of bolts at his side, and some sort of thick vest.
All three are unaware of your presence and seemingly unconcerned with the possibility of attack, occasionally whooping and laughing loudly when a choice piece of plunder comes into their possession.
[2/3]
The pace at which you move grows steadily slower and more deliberate the closer you come to the landing site, mirroring the steady sinking of the sun into early dusk. There was no helping it. Blundering into a group of raiders at full speed would do you or that colonist no good. You dash from cover, to concealment, to cover again, each time taking a second to listen and look at the area surrounding you. Nothing so far. You keep checking for silhouettes, movement, light, anything to betray the presence of others. Still nothing. Move again. Look again. High alert. Sweat drips from your brow, you quickly wipe it with your sleeve. Holding the musket at a low-ready position for so long is very awkward, given the length and how the weight was balanced, but you manage.
You're confident that you held the bearing you needed to, the only factor that remains is the distance. You continue forward, caution increasing, into sparse forest choked by undergrowth, until you see a small light in the distance. A small fire. You resist the urge to quicken your pace. The shadows grow long and the sun continues to sink towards the horizon.
The light gets bigger and contrasts more and more with the darkening woods as you stalk. You see movement, and freeze. The shadows of three men shift excitedly amongst the branches and tree trunks. You continue to creep forward, gun pointed dead ahead, leaves and branches silently glancing from the passage of its' long barrel. From bush to bush you drift. You start to hear sounds. Objects clattering. Voices. Boisterous, words you can't decipher. Closer, closer...
You see the pod, and three shadowy figures moving around it. You're at the edge of musket range now. You sit low behind a small cluster of shrubs and fix your gaze on the scene.
You note three men, all dressed similarly to the one Allie killed at your campsite.
One, with a floppy pink hat, is struggling with his spear to open the top hatch of the escape pod. He has a large wicker shield beside him.
The other two are busying themselves with the contents of the pod's storage compartment, tearing open packages, dumping contents, and happily chatting to one another in a language you are still unable to understand.
The man with the red turban has more accoutrements than the others, a voice of authority, and a musket visually similar to yours slung across his shoulder.
The final raider is sitting cross-legged by a sports bag, and has an unloaded crossbow in his lap, a quiver of bolts at his side, and some sort of thick vest.
All three are unaware of your presence and seemingly unconcerned with the possibility of attack, occasionally whooping and laughing loudly when a choice piece of plunder comes into their possession.
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