Thread: A Fine Predicament (Retro/Tryste)

Six years ago, Michael had been college bound, his fate seemingly clear. The change, for him, was far than just losing his toys. He had grown up some seven hundred miles to the south and east in a suburb of Atlanta, and when the cars stopped working, it had been anything but a peaceful change over. For the first day or two, people tried to continue their lives as if nothing had changed. Food was still plentiful, then. A week passed, and as it became increasingly obvious that food was going to be hard to come by, the fighting had started. Roving bands of young men at first, going from house to house, searching for hidden hoards of food. When hoards became scarce, and hunting even more so, people turned on the one large land mammal still in abundance. As a bonus, it was easy to catch, if you weren't squeamish. No one knew who started the eating of humans, but once it started the bands quickly multiplied, and those who did not were quickly killed. Within a month, the city of Atlanta was a charnel house. Not that Michael had been there during this. He had been among the few who really understood what this change had meant, the fighting and the dying. How little food was produced around the city. The second day after the change, he had stolen a horse from one of the expensive ranches that surrounded the city outskirts. Once he had loaded it up with as much supplies as the poor beast could carry, he left the city and never looked back. The best weapon he could find then was a Gladius, kept from his days of re-enacting. Those days also provided him a Lorica Segmantata, which with two cans of dark green spray paint was a workable enough suit, and the knowledge of how to use both, at least in theory. He got plenty of practice in the days to come. His destination? Anywhere with food. He had traveled like that for close to two years, hiding when needed, fighting when he absolutely had to. He improved the Lorica as he went, adding more plates down to his elbows, vambrances for his forearms, and plates down to his knees to protect his lower body as well. The gladius had been traded for a spatha, and the square shield he had taken at first replaced with a round one of boiled steer hide over a half inch of plywood. He had eventually fallen in with a band of men in similar straights, teaching them the fighting that he had learned, picking up a bit more as he went with them. By the end of his wandering days, he had picked up three dozen men. The band had joined up with a dozen others to make up the founding seed for the city of Karak Dorn. The collection of huts had swelled from a palisaded village to a walled city with high stone walls built by those who came seeking safety and were willing to submit to the founders to earn their keep. The men of Karak Dorn had sought to bring civilization to the surrounding area, of which her father's farm was just outside of. They had traded with him, and so Michael winced when he saw the trail of the reavers. They had been foolish enough to steal livestock from Karak Dorn, and the city had found it best to be most punitive when it came to dealing with such, destroying the reavers whenever possible to prevent them from returning. It looked like they'd be here just in time to find the dead...not that it was the first time that he'd had to clear an eater cookpot, but it never got more pleasant. A sharp motion was given to the four horsemen with him, directing them to spread out and surround the farm house as he dismounted. The modified Lorica had been further modified with the addition of a helmet with overlapping plates to shed attacks from the delicate flesh of the neck and a new coat of paint...blood red, the better to strike fear into the men who wanted to attack the city, as rows on rows of men in bloodred armor faced them with drawn blades. His armor was the only one that was different, with the helmet painted black as befitted a founder. He drew his spatha as they drew in sight of the house, and kicked the horse into a gallop..just in time to see the gang of reavers bunch up around the door, then bust it in. Decision galvanized in his mind, and the five horsemen kicked into a trot...perhaps they'd be there in time. He kicked his feet free from the stirrups while barely slowing the horse. A step onto the porch, a cut to the left, and a reaver fell while barely realizing he was under attack. Another fell to the blades of one of his men, and then Michael was inside. Dorn, Dorn! He cried, stepping within the small house. The scene was taken in at a glance...the young girl kneeling beside her father, who was clearly already dead, and three other men crowding around. Michael crashed into one of them barely thinking, punching that round shield into the face of the nearest man to drive him back a step before cutting his knee out from under him. He spun to survey the scene. His men had already killed the other two, and so he turned the blade to finish the man he had cut before turning to her. A scrap of the man's coat was used to wipe clean the spatha as he considered her for several long seconds. Finally, he spoke, with a sigh, It seems we got here a few moments too late, girl.