Back-Woods (post-apoc. adventure): Part 1 (This time for reals)

>>1604680
I hearda prettycool concept for the player character from an anon in the previous thread (>>1593306) so unless anyone has any other suggestions, I'll start centeringthestory aroundthat
>Humans
The hardy men and woman that inhabit the wastes are forced to contend with the transgressions of their fore-bearers. Survivors of the nuclear war survived the all-encompassing blasts through tactful planning, resourcefulness, & a desire to survive. A small fraction of the population were lucky enough to occupy "Dimspots": areas that weren't in the initial blast radii of the great war and were less affected by the drift of radioactive material that followed.
Those without a callous survivalist bent were unlikely to survive in the initial years of scarcity, gene altering fallout, & internecine battles and skirmishes for resources. Culture and society adjusted itself accordingly to match the brutality of this near extinction-level event & the now salient paranormal activity that sprung up in its wake. Nowadays, the vestiges of civilization are recuperating in the form of atomized settlements, clans, tribes, & militias. Trade is still alive and well, eateries provide gristly but somewhat wholesome foods, and cadres of mercenaries, sheriffs or goons at least attempt to keep the peace, albeit messily. Whilst such populations are often fraught with discord and beleaguered by raiders, beasts, & other threats, the idea of what once was and what could be is still the most haunting notion in the minds of many. Many brave humans wander the roads, forests, & ruins of the Old World for a number of reasons. To townsfolk, such individuals are considered enigmatic, dangerous, but rarely longevous.
>Chipae (pronounced chee-pay A.K.A. NOT ghouls)
The majority of the earth's populace was incinerated centuries ago; their forms burnt into the ruins they once inhabited. The radiation that ensued killed many of the survivors,but there are those who claim to have met individuals who have lived prior to the Great Exchange; those who have stared the apocalypse right in the face & came out...different. Such men and women were called the "Chipae": literally meaning dead men. Through the mutating effects of radiation, the manifestation of the will of some divine but cruel entity, or some other unknown factor, the Chipae had their lifespans extended at the expense but their faces and bodies were forever changed. Their flesh & hair fell away until they resembled walking corpses. Many of these individuals went mad, & retreated into the dark recesses of the earth; unleashing their malice on any intruders. The "Forlorn Chipae" are both pitied and reviled, but those among them who retained their faculties became physically and mentally tougher as a result of their drastic physiological changes. The constitution of the Chipae is the stuff of legend, & whilst they may not be the most popular at gatherings, many of them do not care. After all, they will most likely outlive 'em all...

>>1604683
>Ab-humans (A.K.A. NOT Super Mutants)
If the world wasn't destroyed in atomic fire, mankind would have most likely found another way to fuck things up. Brilliant minds have always worked laboriously to fashion new ways to kill each other since time immemorial, & at no time was this more endemic than the time preceding the Great War. America's genetic superhuman project, for example, was one of the government's most closely guarded secrets. "Participants" were selected from convict populations, POWs, & political prisoners to be subjected to excruciating & drastic bodily augmentation, mind-rending psychological conditioning, & an experimental serum known as PAAA-234 in order to produce the ultimate soldier; stronger, faster, & unshakably servile.
The dubbed Abhumans were never mass-produced or applied in combat before the bombs fell, but the project was considered a resounding success, with the small sample population mutants displaying exceptional aptitude in combat simulations. The engorged hulking subjects demonstrated great exuberance with the prospect of destroying the "Red Wetback Menace" for the glory of The United States. It must have been heartbreaking then that the apocalypse snuffed out the chance of this great advent. Emerging from underground facilities across the American continent, they were like orphaned children; stranded in the wastes. Moreover, the deleterious effects of the mutant's physical and mental conditioning began to show: with the majority among them displaying signs of schizophrenia, violent impulses, & other disturbing quirks.
It would take an individual of exceptional charisma and intellect to unite this disheveled population. The more cogent & affable Abhumans that wander the wastes talk with great admiration about a figure known as "Ol' Red"; accounts vary greatly from mutant to mutant but most considered him to be a messiah like figure,who's knowledge & wisdom was infallible. With His guidance, the Abhumans conquered great swathes of the continent, at least until His untimely death. With this despairing moment, Ol' red's flock scattered & wandered the nation; devoid of purpose. Abhumans are hugely varied in both demeanor & physicality, but all are feared or at least respected by both Humans and the Chipae due to their unpredictable actions and combat aptitude. It is also rumored that there are some Abhuman settlements out there, centered around a leader or warlord. Such a figurehead must have the brawn, brains, &/or charisma to unite a group of capricious mutants, but none possess more than Ol' Red, & the Abhumans remember that.
>Other. (Android? Weird mutant bug man????? IDK pls specify)
Select from the specified races and submit some concepts for your character.

>>1604688
>Other
Subject #6277-D8 (Anon's aforementioned character description NOT MINE)
Before the war, D8 has little fragmental memories of his what his human life was like. All he remembers the cold, stale iron facility he was entombed in by the scientists that dwelled there. Like many of his kin, he was subject to PAA-234, but the mutation made him a variant more removed from a regular Abhuman.

The PAA-234 effected D8 to such an extent that his humanity was something xenometric in a biological sense. His true form was that of pure flesh with deep black eye orbs, with no discernible pupils. The procedures rendered his skeletal system to painfully shift to more exoskeletal one. At will he could formulate any arm into a blade or hammer due to the forced evolutionary comabt serum that was PAA-234.

That wasn't the most insiduous aspect about Subject #6277-D8 however. Within his body lies an elongated tail bone probiscus. With this, he can inject any prey with chemicals synthesized in his mutated adrenal organ system that was formed due to the testing. The probiscus of its true malevolent and deceptive nature, can absorb the genome of any living lifeform. All the cells are absorbed into the tail bone structure, where it is stored in a specialized cell system that allows D-8 to shapeshift into ths absorbed creature.

D-8 found out that has telepathic control over Abhumans or any organism affected by PAA-234. He used this to consolidate power over the more brutish, unintelligent Abhumans in the test subject pool. After the event of the nuclear exchange, the facility went on lock-down. The automous nature of the site allowed the researchers, maintenance crews, and security force alike to bunker in while the initial nuclear fallout subsided.

All seemed to go well, until D-8 killed and absorbed his handler assigned to him. Assuming his identity, D-8 breezed across the other cells largely uncontested, freeing the other Abhumans. Using his deceptive tactics, he led a sucessful uprising gaining full facility.

>>1604690
After subsequentily executing the head researcher administration, he ordered the other Abhumans to round up the imprisoned faculty. One by one he absorbed all of them, gaining more genomes to his growing base of shapeshift. D-8 allowed the mutants to go free to roam the wastes to their own desire, he was a solo predator. Now D-8 wanders aswell, grifting the only downtrodden settlements and tribal communities with his seemingly mystical levels of inhumanity. With every new genome, he gathers awareness of new abilities to his arsenal of biological enhancements. His only negative is that he cannot stay out his true-form for long, or else the one he currently mimicing will deteriorate. He either has to continuously switch forms or rest to restore the genomes he was masking as. Only animal, fish, and insect genomes are the ones he can retain indefinitely due to their simplicity.

>>1604688
Chipae (Another anon's concept ALSO NOT MINE)
Brendan Jamerson had been a prepper, he'd never really believed that anything would come out of it but it was a fun hobby that could come in handy every once in a while. He wasn't prepared for what happened, he was prepared materially, he had knowledge on how to survive and he knew how to deal with society crumbling. But the loneliness of being the only survivor took it's toll; Brendan was not prepared for the aftermath of the apocalypse.

Brendan had lived a little ways outside of the city. When the bombs fell, people did stupid things. Some figured that the police were nothing now that the state didn't exise, they weren't wrong. The city should have been fine, by apocalypse standards of course, but the panic, riots, gangwars and that one mutha' fukah who blew the city up, he must have been collecting bombs for years to get so many bombs. Brendan hadn't left his home since the announcement of the end of the world and once he had built up the courage to visit the city; all buildings taller than three floors had had their supports blown up and were collapsed.

>>1604690
>>1604691

Supporting D-8!

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You awaken to find yourself lying prostrate in a forest clearing. Startled, you attempt to re-position yourself; your bestial hands and feet digging in to the ashen snow that lies beneath you. You're surrounded by forest; the canopy being so thick that the sky is only visible upon looking straight up. It could be early morning or evening, you think, but you're not entirely certain. The boles of the tortured hardwood encroaching upon you contort like the forms of feral dancers around a bellowing flame, & they're long slender branches reach inwards. You seldom feel unnerved, but your lack of cognizance over the preceding circumstances that led to this predicament & the unsightly brush that surrounds you puts you on edge. Or perhaps it is not your immediate environment that perturb but something...else.
& then the cold hits you. Fuck, you hated the cold; it's malevolent touch further chilling your frigid reptilian blood. Typically, you can change your morphology to match your surroundings, given you are provided sustenance, but you feel weak and beleaguered like your mind and bodily functions are under attack by some unknown entity. Then, from your rear you hear the distinct sound of a distant twig breaking. You attempt to scramble away, but to where? You find yourself transfixed at the center of this damnable grove whilst the sounds of disturbed leaves and breaking branches grow louder and louder.
Turning to face this noise, your heart's rhythm increases exponentially with each errant snap. Then, the sound of labored breathing becomes evident, & you begin to see the contours of some hulking bipedal monstrosity emerging from behind the trees...
(cont'd)

>>1604833
You awaken once more, only into a different location: a cool, dark cellar with sagging beams and a hard stone floor. Given your enhanced sight, you adjust to the dark in moments. You're immersed in a pile of furs, leaves, & blankets; whatever that could be used to keep yourself warm through the winter months. Surrounding you are the remains of whatever you ate before the brumation period: cans of dog food, the remains of small animals, etc.

You emerge from your tumulus slowly, taking into consideration the possible atrophy. On the other side of the room, you see a set of stairs leading up to a barred hatch. In the middle of the room lies a worn pool table holding your equipment. The cue rack lies to your right, which is partly illuminated by cracks of light seeping through the boarded up floor-level windows. What do you do first?
>Walk to the hatch
>Walk to the table
>Walk to the rack
>Other

>>1604929
>head to the pool table

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>>1604929
500 Hours in paint rouch sketch (thought I'd try this "draw" shit out.
>>1604933
WOAH someone's lurking? I'm flattered. Thought I was writing to myself for a minute.

>>1604946
Yes, I am lurking. This is an interesting start. Also, what type of housing is this? Bunker, cabin, ect?

>>1604933
You amble towards the table: it's green velvet worn away after centuries of disuse. You slide your hand across the musty wooden finish. On the table lie more empty cans and <insert memento/trinket/bauble/etc. here>
>Use this opportunity to develop your character by giving some examples of his personal effects. Is he a part time wood-worker that fashions his own latticework from branches and twigs as a hobby, or does he have an interest in the works of Shakespeare or Holy Scripture? Does he have a morbid obsession with skulls or shrunken heads or does he have a pendant bequeathed to him by a long-lost love one? The decision is yours...
>>1604994
>Also, what type of housing is this?
We'll get to that, but it's certainly no bunker. You're a little groggy from the hibernation so you don't recall where you hunkered down. All you know is that the place looks like a cellar with wooden walls and rafters and a cobbled stone floor.

>>1605018
>Most of the items on the pool table would be improvised weaponry. Spears, hatchets, steel reinforced boomerangs, the likes. Some weathered woven garbs would be folded to the side, with sandals ontop of the tunic garb. Raw flesh of various different species would sloppily line a different section of the table. D-8 didn't need any of his prey cooked considering his biological psyche. His only book is a research book studying different animals and their hunting habits.

>>1605071
Your in-built instincts command that you stalk & kill your prey for both pleasure and sustenance. You gaze down at your handiwork: a collection of wooden and steel tipped spears & flint daggers arraigned neatly awaiting usage. Also in your possession is a Woodsman's hatchet; honed with sandpaper. Content, you turn your attention to your meager collection of books. You have appropriated a number of trapper's bibles and hunting manuals to bolster your skill with hunting quarry, including a moth-eaten copies of ?fric?n G?me Tr?ils: ?n ?ccount of the ?fric?n W?nderings of ?n ?meric?n Hunter-N?tur?list & R?nch Life ?nd the Hunting Tr?il; both written by the illustrious former head of state and big game hunter Theodore Roosevelt.

You reach for the patchwork tunic & sandals at the side when you notice a small handheld mirror. Piqued, you grab it.
>Take this opportunity to decide what our character looks like. All though are character has the ability to assimilate genomes, think about what his "true form" looks like. Overly muscular or lean? Lanky or squat? What kind of distinguishing features does he have?

Alright, seeing as it's almost midnight where I am, I'm gonna call it here. I'll be back tomorrow; hopefully interest picks up a bit then.

>>1605206
The most prominent feature of D-8 would be his pure white exoskeleton covering his exposed hardened flesh-skin. Pure black obsidian eyes stare back, any other being seeing what he is would be rocketed with chills of no imagination.

His teeth is razor ship, being complimented with a long dexterous tongue. Every movement made is so sudden and fast, one less observant would deem it as mechanical and non-agile, but that is far from the case.

>>1605268
Beady, black eyes stare back at you with introspection. Your skin is porcelain white and covered in bone like protrusions that resemble an insectoid exoskeleton, complementing your athletic build.
Your face, on the other hand, is almost reptilian. You have no hair and in the middle of your face lie two vertical slits where a human nose would be. With your long, forked tongue, you lick your razor sharp teeth as you eye the cuts of cured meat also on the table; partially preserved by the cold cellar air. You sink your teeth into a particularly succulent hind leg of indiscernible origin.

After your hunger is abated, you decide it would be a good time to test your...abilities. To do this, you require concentration. Retreating to the corner of the room, you assume a meditative position. Your black eyes retract into the back of your skull as your skin begins to warp & change from a snow white to a darker pale; your exoskeleton dissipating and becoming softened flesh & sinew, your stature becoming shorter. As strands of blonde hair sprouts from your bald head and you begin to acquire normal human features, you start to resemble a bedraggled youth: thin with hazel eyes and long sandy hair.

Unkempt and emaciated, you recognize the figure you now imitate. You had found him bleeding to death alone on the out skirts of some ruins further north. He was young, no older than 18; having sustained a fatal blow to the head from some unknown assailant or through his own clumsiness, he had barely registered your presence. With his left eye narrowly hanging from a thread of nerve, you knew he wouldn't last as the blood flowed into his skull. You had the foresight to realize you needed genetic material for the post-hibernation. You felt the boy appreciated you "assimilating" him; in some ways, it gave the boy some symbolic semblance of immortality. If he didn't share this perspective, well, you wouldn't have really cared: you didn't care much for human sensibilities when they were slowly dying at your feet.

What do you do now?
>Racks?
>Hatch?
>Other?

>>1607996
>Synthesize caffeine in our system for a little pick-up and head to the Racks next

>>1608427
>Caffeine
Uhm, you don't know what that is, but with the dawning of the circadian cycle, your endocrine system secretes hormones that pique your alertness at a much higher than normal rate. The feeling is almost blissful as bio-engineered stimulants flood your veins for the first time in months. Savoring the pleasure, you strut over to the cue racks.

You appear to have used this as an impromptu weapon rack. Held in the rack's embrace lies a <insert weapon here>, as well as corresponding pouches/slings/holsters/etc.
>Select a two handed weapon.
>Composite bow
>Double barreled shotgun
>Hunting rifle
>Other?

>>1608427
Also, welcome to the thread, new ID.

>>1608520
>Sleek hunting spear barbed intrusions at the scrap metal tip, allowing for deeper gash inflictions and increased bleeding

>A belt chalk filled with copper based throwing knives. The copper was scavenged from various wires

>>1608566
Okay, we're nearly done with this little preamble. Hang in there guys.

You had never held a predilection towards firearms, preferring instead the close and personal approach for the dispatch of a foe. The rack holds your pride and joy: a long and slender metal spear, fashioned from a sign pole. It towers above you standing at nearly seven feet; it's honed broad tip glinting in the morning light. Just below the tip are 4 rows of metal spikes and a crossbar; the ideal bear spear. Next to the spear lies a belt holstering 5 copper based throwing knives, each being about 6 inches in length. You sling the leather strap of the spear over your shoulder & coil the knife belt around your waist around your tunic. The pole-arm feels balanced and satisfying in the palm of your hands, & confidence washes over your mind.
Also on the rack lies a large satchel which you manage to hold comfortably over the same shoulder as your spear. With a limited carrying capacity, you only take some essentials from the table: the sheathed hatchet and some cuts of meat wrapped in cloth. You regret leaving your wooden spears and flint knives, but you realize they would be somewhat superfluous. You don't care much for the books. With nothing more to consider, you decide it is high time to emerge into the sunlight. You slide on your sandals & you begin to surmount the wooden steps leading to the ominous wooden hatch.
(cont'd)

Ugh I'm so sorry for the long fucking "break". Been busy.
You climb the timber stairs leading to the cellar door to be met with an errant piece of crumpled paper on the top step. You acknowledge it; the characters scrawled upon it resemble a bizarre & crude cuneiform. Whilst the words are by no means English, the words seem to coalesce & form meaning upon your inspection. Evidently, this is a cipher you have at least perfunctory understanding of. It says:

"N O T H I N G L E F T H E R E. H E A D N O R T H O R S O U T H."

Cryptic. You guess that you may have written this as a reminder due to your more than temperamental memory, but your fleeting knowledge of this nigh forgotten code only permitted basic messages. You struggle to remember when you had learnt this language, for even a human has memories of their first words. You have none, as if your mind has been conditioned to forget. Your ruminations on the past are an enigma to you; some memories burn with clarity, whilst others are so nebulous they are all but forgotten.

Nonetheless, you press onward. Removing the bar fortifying the hatch, you push the doors holding back the world outside...

It would seem you were in the refurbished coal cellar of a rural cabin. The morning spring air is moist and cool; not exactly your ideal climate but tolerable. The dawn sunlight projects down over the short treeline & through the mist. The clearing you emerge into is surrounded by forest, with a slight gap in the treeline making way for a seldom trod path leading downhill. For a moment, you ponder what to do next. Do you...
>Investigate the cabin you emerged from.
>Tread the path leading downhill.
>Other.