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 An evening at the Proffesor's Shack.

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Wilson Grayes

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PostSubject: An evening at the Proffesor's Shack.   Fri Apr 17, 2015 6:36 pm

((While I realize the forums aren't really meant for in-depth RP(or at least, not used for it.), the more Role-play oriented event of late was quite refreshing, and it's prompted me to create what is below. Now as a disclaimer, if true Role-Playing isn't in your interest, you might be better not wasting your time reading this. But if you are interested, or familiar, or perhaps even curious, then please, read on. Feel free to respond in whatever way, as this isn't a run-on scene, or open, for that matter. No need to lead your post with OOC.))

       Tucked away within a quiet sand-blasted canyon within the Wastes sat an odd, yet seemingly maintained shack. It's wooden edges spoke of time's passing, as did the rusted fencing that served to enclose the building's small front porch. But while a brief glance would suggest neglect, a closer inspection would reveal the opposite. Atop each angled face of the steeped roof sat small, efficient solar panels, the devices having been wired directly into a capacitor within the roof itself, as though to retain any energy generated throughout the sun's passing overhead.. The doors, both to the porch and the house proper, were intact and in good shape.

   Though it was far from the most secure of dwellings, it offered most of the comforts a Waste-dweller could need, let alone want. Much had gone into making the shack quite as livable as it now was, but that was something the shack could tell for itself. All along it's wooden floors were various deep scratches, hardened objects crushing, cutting, or wedging themselves against the surface beneath them. Anyone with a modicum of observatory abilities might guess it to be from moving in the decor, and furnishing into the Shack itself, and process that, for a single aging Man, could not be easy.

   Accompanying the scratches, were a myriad of stains, some hinting at spilled blood, beverages, and in some areas, the by-product of chewing tobacco, the spit itself. All bore witness to the Shack's occupation, and everything that it had involved. But within the small, dimly-lit shack, was it's single, and lonesome occupant. The Professor sat on the edge of his cot, his signature hat propped atop his knee as his hand scratched at his shaved head. After a moment's passing, he gingerly removed his glasses from the bridge of his nose, sighing as the thin spectacles were laid upon the bedspread beside him. Having heard enough, he turned off the radio on his nightstand, the local broadcast he'd just heard having given him enough grief for one day. For a moment, he thought of trying to contact his cousin, wondering if his Airborne relative might know anything further of recent events, but Grayes quickly decided against it. He rather hated talking to his Pilot-Cousin over the radio, as all he could ever hear was the forever deafening roar of a Helicopter's engines. It was a well-known fact that the Pilot spent far more time in the air than he ever did on the ground. No. He had heard enough for one day, regardless of who it came from. The only company he needed now, was that of the dwindling firelight of the oven at the foot of his bed. The chill of night wasn't long off, now. The Professor wouldn't be caught unawares to it, as he had many times in the past.

   With a groan, the Weary Man rose to his feet, slowly walking over to his medical stand, gripping the worn binder held within, and bringing it back to his seat with him. The binder sat upon the Man's jean-clad lap as it was opened, steady hands grabbing the sharpened pencil within and flipping to a suitable page for him to write upon. For several moments, Grayes stared at a blank, off-white sheet of paper, the page devoid of anything on it aside from the stains of the past. After placing the tip of his graphite-filled utensil against the parchment, it began to slowly move across the surface, each stroke, flick, and movement casting forth letters, their culmination reading as...

   "Hello again, Dear.. I know it's been far too long since my last writing to you, and for that I'm quite sorry.. But I were to say a day went by without me thinking of you, I'd be a dishonest man indeed. But I'm writing you with a heavy-laden heart, now.. One that, I wish you were still here to mend. The realities of the world we live in have once again made themselves vividly clear. In a region nearby, a refugee camp of sorts was setup, offering food, water, and shelter to those with little else to turn to. It was an initiative that I can both relate to, and respect.. While I don't know the group, or people responsible for setting the place up, I'd like to think they had pure intentions, and goodwill in their hearts. But as the old adage goes, 'All good things must come to an end.'. Unfortunately for this camp, and everyone within, this case was no exception...

   Now, I know you aren't one for unpleasant details, so I'll spare you of them.. But it's my truest hope that the people responsible of the atrocities committed will not be blinded by their sugar-coated reasons, or swayed by any delusions of Humanitarianism. Each and every one of us will answer for the deeds of our life, be they good, or bad.. Well I.. I don't suppose I need to remind you of that, now, do I.. No, I don't think I do.. I reckon that's all I've got for now, Dear.. I plan on paying you a visit here, soon. The flowers on the porch are just about to bloom, so yes, they'll be coming with me.. I know what you'd say.. But my lack of a green thumb or not, even you would have to admit that the fact that I've kept those things alive, in these kinds of conditions is something deserving of some credit.. In any case.. I shall continue to wait for you, as I've done for some years now.

                                   Until we see each other again, your mournful Husband, Wilson A. Grayes."
                                   
     As the Professor laid down his pencil, he slowly rubbed at the side of his face, be-ridding of trail of moisture that had streaked down the wrinkling skin, there. Beyond that, he used the fabric of his sleeve to gently pad at the corner of the paper he'd written off, trying to soak up the droplets of what would look like water. After shaking his head to no one other than himself, he pulled out the piece of paper, and rose to his feet, the binder sliding from his lap and clattering to the floor. Kneeling down in front of his contained fire, his gaze idled across the orange-red process of combustion taking place within the oven. He'd linger there for some time longer, his thoughts now farther away from Earth than his body could ever hope to be.

   Before long, the Man's evening routine would take place, and his eyes would close, preparing for another day within the Wasteland. Such was reality. It wasn't easy. It wasn't pleasant. But it always went on. Life might begin, and it might end.. But time.. Well time didn't stop for anyone.
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PostSubject: Re: An evening at the Proffesor's Shack.   Mon Apr 20, 2015 2:36 pm

Finally, someone who understands proper spelling and grammar posting something roleplay related.
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RedCloud

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PostSubject: Re: An evening at the Proffesor's Shack.   Mon Apr 20, 2015 4:10 pm

ey ey boi im gonna write my big awesome amazing TBU-FF hybrid backstory and faction history...
one day....

and also 10/10 prof best wall of text i ever bashed my head into

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