[AW] Torch's Place At The Narrows

edited December 2010 in In-Game
Gritch, the Narrows is set right at a narrow part of the lake that the Chateau is nestled at, a fairly decent hike, but the closest waypoint to as you make your way toward the Chateau from outlying settlements. There's a massive and rusted truss bridge connecting the land masses on either side of the water, only on the side where Narrows is located, it looks like some giant monster has taken a bite out of the end half.

The main compound at Narrows is an old supermart gas filling station. Of course, it's been retro-fitted and reinforced with rebar, concrete and the various parts of cars - a hood, a fender, etc... for covering windows and armoring the walls. There's a large tank truck positioned near what might the remnants of the filling station. There's still poles coming up from the cracked concrete where gas pumps used to be, that might have held aloft a roof so customers didn't get wet in the rain while filling up.

There are a few people you can see moving about Narrows. An old, decrepit looking man is moving to and fro, carrying with him a metal gas can. He's moving between several motorbikes that are parked. There's a couple men, women situated near or on the rugged, heavy looking bikes. Occasionally one of the bikers will fuck with the old man, giving him a hard time while the rest laugh on. Except one of them. It's like he's looking out at you coming down the hillside toward Narrows.

A few other travelers, probably merchants coming back or heading to the Chateau are resting under some slabs of concrete, near fires.

You don't see Torch, the guy who runs this little dive. He's probably inside the compound, where he's got a bar stocked with rotgut and various ales.

Looks like most everyone has made camp for the night.

What do you do?


  • Head to the bar. Ask aroun' in there. Don' got much jingle on me...(mechanically, I have none)...but, maybe with some drink flowin' tongues'll be loose, an' I can hear some word on God.
  • As you move into Narrows and closer to the compound, the bikers watch you suspiciously. They've all got patches sewn into their jackets and have tattoos on their necks. The few women with them are dressed incredibly provocatively, one of them going entirely shirtless, a simple scarf tied around her neck.

    There's a rundown motel past the compound. You know that this is where most of the Rough Riders keep their families if they have any. There's an old, beatup sign for the motel. Most of the paint has peeled off, but you can still see the outline of where the neon lettering probably once was - Sunrise Motel, no vacancy. From here, you can see the second story of the motel, a rusted up handrail following along the concrete walkway. There's a woman standing, her hand on the rail. She's holding this toddler in her arms, his hair curly and yellow, face covered in grit and grime.

    There's not much of a door leading into the barroom. It's the frame of an old sliding gas station door that opened by motion sensor once upon a time. The glass has been busted out and now it's just a beaded curtain. The hood of an old Chevy is leaning against the front, probably used to cover the door in a storm or after closing time.

    Inside. It's colorful in here. Greens, Reds, Blues and Yellows and Oranges. Some working Christmas lights have been strung up all around the place, giving it a festive vibe. Torch is at one end of the long bar, talking with a trampy looking wench with some exaggerated makeup, jean skirt and sleeveless blouse. Torch is balding, but he keeps his hair on the sides growing long. He's got a gap in his front teeth when he smiles, but that's not often.

    The beads clatter together as you enter and Torch puts his conversation on hold and walks over toward the end of the bar where you're standing.

    "Ey dare, mate. Need a drinck?"
  • (I know I don't have any barter on me right now, but is it safe to assume I've got enough on me to pay for a drink?)

    "Yeah. An' do me a favor, stick aroun' for a bit. I got some questions I need to ask."

    Whatever grog they're servin' here, it's probably shit, an' normally I don' go in much fer the drinkin'. Not really my thing; I was always more of a smokin' man. But it never hurts t'look like a local, with a mug in my hand, an' put a wee bit o' jingle in the barman's pocket.

    Never been here, really. Had to swing on out once, an' once nearby, t'deal with some ghost-shit, but didn' stick around. This place jus' seemed kinda like a shithole, same as the rest, an' I had no reason t'stay. Got the name o' the barman, an' that's about it.

    Kinda regrettin' it now.
  • edited December 2010
    You might have enough smokes to trade for a drink. That might put you low on smokes though, with maybe a couple bent or half-used ones left.

    Torch scans you momentarily, then he goes off to find you a drink and you hear something you didn't really notice at first. The woman, she's got an old brown bottle she's sipping from and she is staring at your suit.

    The barroom is sorta 'L' shaped, and off in the nook where it turns at the right angle, there's a distinct buzzing emanating.

    Sketch, that's you. You're working on a tattoo for someone. I don't know who yet. Maybe one of the bikers from outside? The raft gang is where? I mean, why are you here? Are they coming to meet up later or are you on your own for some reason? Maybe visiting your sister/brother in the Rough Riders (or a wife/husband of a Rough Rider, since this place is the family refuge)?

    Sketch, you also see Gritch enter. He looks fucking crazy.
  • Alright, I'll trade 'em for a drink. Like I said, still better to blend in, an' it'll help t'seem a bit more casual. I'll...I'll either figure out how to get more smokes somehow, or...I'll...go without. (Shudder)

    I look at the woman who's starin' at me. Just so she can hear, I say, "Yes, ma'am? Somethin' you'd like t'ask, or say?"

    I don' much wanna go noticed here, but I'm gettin' the impression that some people here might know me, an' that's not a good thing. Better maybe to deal with it straight away, than to jus' let 'em watch me an' stew on their thoughts. Maybe.

    I noticed Sketch in the corner, but I ain't gonna pay him mind unless he comes t'me. Fact is, like I said, I don' wan' attention.
  • "Where'd yah find that suit, honey?"

    She uncrosses her legs and there's only but a shadow falling on her nether regions beneath the jean skirt.

    She's patting her hand on a stool next to hers.
  • "Not here, ma'am. Not anywhere here. Had it fer a while. Got it from some ruins we found, back when I was a young man. Liked the color, so I kept it." Fer a momen', I'm jus' considerin' ignoring her offer fer me t'join her, but then, I reconsider. I slide over t'her stool, an' sit down.

    "You look like a knowledgeable lady. Maybe you could help me. I'm lookin' for any word anybody got on some guy, goes by the name o' God. You know anythin'?"
  • edited December 2010
    She takes a deep swig from her bottle and nods toward that buzzing sound and then tilts her head outside. She's licking her lips. They're chapped and there's a cold sore tucked between them in the corner of her mouth.

    "I think these boys are working for 'im."

    Torch comes over and sets a dirty glass filled with some strong-smelling liquid on the bar near you.

    "Quiet down, Priss."

    He leans over onto the bar with his elbows.

    "What's yer name, fella? I seen you 'round here, but I know faces better than names. You live up at the Chateau right? You headin' up to dare?"
  • edited December 2010
    "Nope. Came from the Chateau, headin' elsewhere. Lookin' fer God. Name's Gritch." No point in lyin'. I'm not a good liar, an' chances are, stories of a man in an orange suit would get the right name, anyway. Maybe my honesty'll help me out a bit.

    "You know where to find 'im? Or should I talk to those men, like Priss here suggested? Got no beef with 'im, just want his help a bit."
  • Torch gets a stern look on his face.

    "I suggest you keep your voice down, Gritch, and quit sayin' that name 'round us. Why you lookin' for the guy anyways?"
  • "Somethin' wrong with the name? Haven' heard much about the fella, t'be honest. Just gotta find 'im fer some help with a personal problem." I don' like how much trouble this name seems t'be drawin'. But then, I'm not gonna stop now. It's this, or find an' sacrifice a kid. Still pick this.
  • edited December 2010
    "Just tryin' not to draw attention. You come from the Chateau, so you know some of the Rough Riders' families are livin' here. I ain't tryin' to mess that up with Uncle. Get good kickbacks for lettin' 'em stay here. Now, problem is, I think these bikers are workin' for that new guy. I'd wage anything they're acting as scouts. But, that's bad, old timer. You know how things was when Uncle had Dog Head to deal with. Now, some new guy coming in after we done had some peace and quiet. Why go stirrin' that up? Can't Uncle help ya with yer problem?"

    Torch pours himself a drink.

    "Tell ya what. You head back on up to the Chateau an' tell Uncle he's got some problems down here and next time you pass through, I'll getcha all the drink your belly can handle. And, that one too."

    He motions toward your drink.

    As he's talking, you feel Priss' hand starting to feel your leg.
  • edited December 2010
    "Sad t'say, friend, this is one problem which Uncle don' have much of a hold over. It's of a more...esoteric nature than Uncle's equipped fer. I'd love t'be helpin' you, too, friend. But s'bad timin'. This thing I got, it's of the essence. Gotta handle it quick-like. Can't you send summat else up to the Chateau?" As I'm speakin', I'm eyein' the biker-types. Appears my hope o' progress is with them.


    An' my hand is, not unkindly, but not pleasantly, stoppin' Priss. Quietly, if'n I can.

    Don' got time fer that, an'...well...

    After Mimi an' her place, I'm thinkin' well about a life o' celibacy.
  • Torch makes a perturbed noise.

    "Bah! Can't send no one from here without them thinking something's up. You're a traveler. Guess I could get some river rats to do it, but I don't trust 'em. Guess I'll just have to wait till they head on out."

    He downs his drink.

    A few more people wander in through the beads. A couple of travelers take up a seat at a table and two of those bikers move in toward the buzzing sound.

    Let's pause here and see what Sketch is up to.
  • edited December 2010
  • Absolutely! Roll for me.
  • edited December 2010
  • edited December 2010
    Nope. I agree.

    "Ouch! Fuck!"

    Shit. You must have been pressing too hard on your needle, distracted as you tried following Gritch in his conversation.

    Chok steps forward and takes your arm. The one with the needle in it.

    "What the fuck are you doing?"

    He's saying it slow. His breath is strong with the rotgut.

    "You think I'm going to pay for that?"

    He takes the woman's breast and squeezes it hard, helping you focus on the nipple.

    What do you do?
  • Sure. Go for it.
  • edited December 2010
  • What's your concrete assurance? You can tell he's not sold. I mean, he can just decide not to pay you at all and fuck it if the girl has a fucked up tattoo - it's almost done anyways.

    Also, what's your tattoo tool look like?
  • Gritch, you notice the altercation.

    The two bikers who just came in sit at the far end of the bar, away from you. Torch looks at you. Then, throws a greasy, wet bar towel over his shoulder and heads down there to get their order.
  • Don' care much about the altercation, not yet anyway. Doesn' quite look like it's gotten to fightin', an' Sketch's a big boy. He can take care o' himself, 'specially if he's choosin' t'deal with these types. S'nothin' against him, it's just, I might make things worse if'n I try to intervene. That, an' I'm much more likely t'get m'self shot.

    'Course, I'm liable as not to end up like that anyways.

    I slide myself on down to the two bikers who just came in, an' hope they're in a kind mood.

    "Hello, sirs. I was hopin' I might share a word or two with you, seein' as you appear t'be connected fellers. Maybe you might be able t'give some help to a travelin' fella?"

    Fer a moment, my mind splits to Seville, an' remembers how intent he was on gettin' me, an' I'm lookin' at these two, an' wonderin' if they'd know my name, too. But I'll burn that bridge when I come to it.
  • The biker closest to you, he finishes ordering his drink before he answers and then finally turns to you. He's tumbling something, maybe a nail, between his teeth. He's got three thick stripes of hair going down the center and sides of his head. Clearly, an artistic haircut.

    "Eh? Piss off, fuck."
  • I smile a weary smile at the fucker.

    "I'd love to, friend, but I'm thinkin' the folk in here'd look real unkind on public urination."

    I could try lyin' to him, try convincin' him that maybe I got some jingle, could make it worth his while. Not really worth effort, I'm thinkin'.

    (I'd like to read him. Here's the roll.)

    #DiceRoller( 2d6+2 )
  • Nice, direct, and simple.

    How could I get this asshole to tell me where God is?
  • Buy him some drinks.
  • Bleh. I don't have enough cigarettes left for that, do I? I mean, I'm hoping that since 1-barter is actually a fair bit, just because I don't have 1-barter doesn't mean I don't have enough to pay for a drink or two for this guy.
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