Not Halloween at all

A brilliant new comic at subnormality - refreshingly skeleton-free.

Stefan Gärtner is still writing for The European

Short, sharp columns , making their point in a few passages - highly recommended.

Yahtzee's little dictionary

This week, the incomparable Yahtzee of zeropunctuation fame delineates some terms in his column at the escapist. There exist some very good scholarly treatises about computer gaming and how it relates to other narrative forms, but most gamers don't have the time or inclination to read them. So rather have a look at this: It is short, sweet and grounded on knowledge one can only acquire with a lifetime wasted on games.

Fallout New Vegas

Fallout New Vegas is out and it has kept me very busy. It's far too early for a in-depth review, but from where I am standing, it is at least as good as Fallout 3. Also, the first good mods are out. FOOK has made a return, as have Blackwolf's backpacks - both are heartily recommended. As a small redress for my long absence, I present to you the ballad of Digger Omar - the adventures of my FNV character, which I plan to present here on a weekly basis.

The Ballad of Digger Omar, First Canto

Digger Omar worked for Mojave Express
That much you should know before I digress

The face of a demon, the beard of a prophet,
The hands of a strangler, much feared in his outfit

He kept a bloody sharp kukri in a blood caked sheath
And his soul was as black as the back of his teeth

Now Omar, he worked for Mojave Express
And one day he met with bad luck in excess

Four men came to kill poor old Omar
And, cautiously, wisely, shot him from afar

Down went Omar, for ages he went down
Down to the hot place, in fire to drown

But Satan got scared when he looked from his throne
“By my grannies’ eyes, he’s not one to stay prone”

“He’s the worst, this Omar, this evil old digger,
He’ll rule hell in short time, this much I figure.”

And thus Satan, the pussy, thought it was fit
To inflict Omar on the living, at least for a bit

Up from hell went Omar, up always up
til he woke on a bed, as weak as a pup

There sat an old coot who called himself Mitch
Who put Omar back together stitch for stitch

Who took the digger for some tests and some screenings
And discovered with dismay Omar’s violent leanings

“You are strong, you are swift, you are hardy,
Neither fast in the brain-box, nor overly tardy”

“Too ugly and uncouth to be a town greeter,
that much I see with my old vigour-meter”

“Now let’s take a glance at your psychical health.”
And Doc Mitch diagnosed: melee weapons, stealth.

With a shiver he returned the digger’s gear
The armor, the kukri, one cut-off ear

Some coin, an old shotgun, a handful of shells
a bottle of poison for spear tips and wells

“I patched you” said Mitch “and I now ask a favor.”
“And to some this favor might have a strange flavor.”

“Goodsprings is peaceful and no place for grief.”
“And thus I just ask you, dear digger, to leave.”

The digger, he grinned, with teeth black as ice,
with a soul like a grave, no man to play nice.

“I like you, old doc, and I’ll do you this favor.
I’m not ungrateful to one who’s my savior.”

“Just a small, tiny thing, before I must fade,”
“My gear is all there, but I miss my old spade.”

A tear in his eye, with trembling finger,
Mitch indexed the shop to the grim harbinger.

Omar went in and the air grew a bit colder.
Omar went out with his spade on his shoulder.

“Thanks, Doc Mitch, for restoring my vim.”
“If someone should ask: I’m going to Primm.”

A regretful doctor, a shop cleared of things,
That’s how Omar left the town of Goodsprings.

Something for a rainy sunday

This is a webcomic for everyone who likes Star Wars and RPGs, very much in the vein of "DM of the Rings". Roleplayers will recognize the usual suspects: The rules lawyer, the man asleep at the wheel, the avatar of chaos and, of course, the long suffering game master - Be advised: This will kill a day!

The depiction of the goings on in the scorched earth campaign will continue later in the week.

Dead Town Bakersfield

As soon as the group is back on the road, Mal puts the foot down – at least until the crossing, the route seems to be safe enough for some speeding and the day is growing shorter. Zed is on his street bike, a hundred meters ahead, his black duster flapping in the wind. After they leave the route to Good Water they become much more careful. Some call it “exploration pace” – driving no faster than twenty klicks per hour, a scout on bike ahead, constant radio contact and frequent stops to check the surroundings. They are in the wastes now, flat land to the west, the Appalachians rising in the east. Only few things live in these places, and there are few signs of the Long Ago apart from the ancient blacktop and a rusted hulk now and then, serving as a windbreak for hardy shrubs. Dan Hawking finds tracks of the other group’s jumper at one of those stops. “Three days, may be two. Hard to say, tracks age fast here.” They drive on, towards the afternoon sun. Soon, they get a first glimpse of Bakersfield. “Quite sizable” is the first thought in Mal’s head when he scans the ruins with his binoculars. “Twenty thousand souls. Bad shape.” The road seems to run right through the ruins, with another blacktop coming in from the south, forming a T-crossing in the middle of the ruins. Lots of red brick buildings, two or even three stories – sadly, their roofs have mostly caved in long ago. Some old billboards on the walls, long bleached white. There seem to have been some fires in the days of the Fall. A church at the crossing, still a fine-looking structure with its white bell tower. Apart from the big roads, the streets are choked with sand and brambles. No signs of human habitation or recent visitors. The binoculars change hands. “It seems quiet enough.” Rod says “Probably the others are somewhere in a building, trying to fix their jumper. Shall we go for a look?” “Yes, but let’s be very careful. They could also be in a slaver’s cage or rotting in shallow graves. A hundred men could hide in these ruins. We go very slow, and always keep an eye on a way out.”
Dan nods, and Zed goes back on his bike, his unspoken, unenviable duty being to scout the road in the ruins ahead and being the first to be shot at. The Conquistador creeps up to the edge of the ruins, then halts, as Zed makes a run up to the crossing and back. He goes in with some speed – if you have to be a target, at least be a target that’s swiftly moving, that’s what Judge Boyd said at times like these. Zed roars in, his head low between the handlebars. Empty ruins flash by, mostly burnt out shells now filled with underbrush, car wrecks nearly covered by the shifting sands. Rusted streetlamps and road signs, partly obscured by some kind of creeping vines. He mostly runs on sand: the blacktop is only visible in some spots. He reaches the mid-town crossing and stops the bike. A short look around: Not a living soul, not even animals, just lots of sand and brambles. At the western edge is a big whitish structure, a large building. It seems to be in better shape than the rest of town. A school, maybe. He guns the engine and races back. A bit breathless, he reports. Mal nods “Okay, we go in. Zed, please go fifty ahead. We stop at the crossing and then think about further action.” He looks at the sky. “Maybe two more hours of good light. I’d like to return to Refugium before it gets real dark. At least back to the route where it’s safe and cozy.” Dan makes his hang-dog face “I don’t like it.” “Of course you don’t.”
The small convoy goes in, no faster than a wanderer on foot. Zed reaches the crossing, the Conquistador fifty meters behind, just at the old church and its looming tower, when the heavy vehicle breaks through the sandy surface and drops a yard into a large pitfall. Mal, Rod and Dan Hawking are jolted around. Mal screams “Ambush!” and draws two of his MACs. He bursts from the hatch in the roof like a ludicrously well armed jack-in-the-box. At the crossing, Zed has realized the predicament of the others. At the same moment, a bottle thrown from above bursts on the roof of the jeep, a clear, honey-like fluid spattering everywhere. Rod gets a whiff of the stuff and turns pale. He shouts “Nerve poison! Everybody out out out!” Everywhere, the sand seems to boil – black stingers and pincers rise from the dust, shaking the sand off pitted carapaces…
Bakersfield is one of ten thousand dead towns. Year after year, it lies silent under moon and sun, rotting away, sanded down by the soft wind coming from the mountains. In two generations, only a few mounds of brick will be left and maybe some name in maps which are becoming obsolescent fast. From a mile away, the town already starts to look more like a patch of vegetation than a human artifact. But this afternoon, the silence is broken by the roar of a motorcycle accelerating deep in the ruins, and, at first, short bursts of automatic gunfire and disciplined rifle shots. But after a moment, the shooting becomes frantic – long, barrel-melting bursts, rifles fired as fast as the trigger will go, interrupted by one, then another hollow explosion. As suddenly as the shooting began, it stops. A final, long burst from a submachine gun, then silence returns to Bakersfield.

Legwork in Refugium

The men reconvene in the safety of the car, sheltered from the cameras. Dan does not like the place “They watch us. Every step, someone is watching us. With those cameras. They hide something, in there.” The others do not share his deep distrust. Mal says “We are about as smart as before. But with some luck, we’ll meet their leader tomorrow. Maybe he will let something slip.” Rod concurs “And until then, we should pay the settlement another visit, and talk to the locals. I’ll offer my services, maybe a grateful customer will tell me something useful. You could visit the two hotels and ask around for guests that were more noteworthy than the rest.”

The Conquistador rumbles down the incline back into the square. As soon as the car comes to a stop, Rod begins his routine of offering help and succor to the sick, the weak and the wounded, promising the merciful benefactor’s well-schooled eye and deft fingers as a remedy whatever ails the good people of Refugium. In most settlements, there would be a queue of the desperate and hurting after few minutes – here, it takes about a quarter of an hour before a supplicant turns up. A worried mother asks Rod to follow her to the bedside of her sick child. While the young parents look on, Rod quickly diagnoses a common pediatric disease. It does not take much time, nor more than a modicum of his skill to bring relief to the sweating boy. He tells the parents what to do during the next days and also inquires why they did not go to the monks to help them. The grateful young man is a bit embarrassed “If it had become any worse, I would have gone up to Brother Chaucer. But the monks do not heal people for free – it would have cost me quite a bit of the next harvest. And then Marge found out that you were here.” Rod really seems to be the first benefactor visiting Refugium after a long time, and maybe more frequent visits would be a good idea. At the moment, there seem to be other visitors in town: A single, wild-looking biker at Sue Snell’s and a group of explorers at Dago’s. “But they left before the finished their business with Chaucer, and left their stuff with Dago, or so I’ve heard.” While Rod firmly refuses payment in scripts, the mother still is able to thrust a packet of food into his hands “It’s the least we can do.” When the others hear of the single traveler, they become suspicious - The other false benefactors also traveled alone. They are prepared for bloodshed when they enter Sue Snell’s establishment, a cleanly, spacious place, its furnishings scavenged from some roadside diner and lovingly maintained. Their fears are unfounded: While the man seems to be accustomed to violence, they quickly rule out the possibility that he is the one they are looking for. He is just a drifter making his way across the Desert Heart who bought the answer to a rather difficult question and is just waiting for the monks to supply an answer. That leaves the other group – the men saunter over to Dago’s. They soon realize while this is the second-best place to stay in Refugium. The whole building smells of bad cooking, the sleeping cots are nearly on top of each other. To Rod it seems that insects scamper away at every single step. The ho’teller himself is a nasty little runt, complaining about the group of four which rented cots for three days an then just vanished without making the final payment. They left some of their equipment – sleeping bags, clothes, a few books – and Dago sees it as right and proper to sell of these things to cover for the lost earnings. The three men and their female companion told him that they would pay the close ruins of Bakersfield a visit “but they definitely skipped town. Probably lost interest in the research they sponsored, and thus not only scammed not only me, but also the honorable monks. They’ve been gone for two days now – probably sitting in Holy Flame City drinking away the scripts they owe me.” The longer the explorers listen to Dago’s justifications for trying to sell the equipment, the stronger becomes their feeling that the other group is missing in Bakersfield. It is early afternoon by now. still lots of light to burn till sundown. Mal interrupts the ho’teller’s stream of recrimination “Listen, Dago, how about a deal. A proposition. This Bakersfield, is it far from here?” “Oh no, about twenty klicks from where we stand. In the early days, we even got some of our building materials from there. Just go the road towards Goodwater and turn left and the first crossing, going west. It’s a blacktop from the old days. Your car – a most magnificent ride, if I may say so – would have no problem there, while the jumper of those thieves...” “Yeah, I might have an offer for you. We too have some time to kill. What if we go to Bakersfield. If your guests aren’t there, they have most likely skipped town, and you would be justly entitled to their stuff.” “As it’s right and proper.” “And we would be entitled of a cut, making sure that everything is right and proper.” Again, some fierce haggling occurs. But finally, a deal is cut, and the Conquistador leaves Refugium, back on the old route.

The Bookseller

The explorers drive the Conquistador up the incline towards the looming building. The walls are concrete, as are the watchtowers. No guards man them, but someone has placed strange machines in the shadow under the flat roofs - too far in the darkness to make them out clearly. If there are buildings apart from the large tower in the middle, the walls are high enough to hide them from sight. As the vehicle gets closer, the travelers can make out signs, letters and words on the walls, some as high as a few feet, others miniscule, as if written with a pencil. They find the campsite; a level field with a water pump at the side and another surveillance camera on a pole in the middle. The only entry to the jail-monastery is just across: It looks as if someone bolted a rusted metal box at one side of the perfect hexagon. This box is quite large , a square ten meters long and slightly higher than the walls. It has a gate big enough for a truck. There is a door cut into this gate, just big enough for one man, standing open and leading into the darkness.

Dan Hawking stays with the jeep, cradling his rifle and eyeing the camera balefully, while the others step into the convent gate. It is a gloomy, cluttered place, lit only by ancient, blind skylights. A metal gangway crosses the room at half height, and there, between a jumble of humming juice brains and monochrome monitors sits the master of the gate: The visitors just see his big, jowly face, the severe half-moon glasses and a corona of wispy white hair, lit by the greenish glow off the monitors. His voice fills the gate “Ah, new faces! That’s swell, swell indeed. I am Brother Chaucer, and responsible for all and any deals, trades, requests and agreements between Refugium and the outside world.” By now, their eyes have adapted to the murk, and the explorers see two youngish men in cowls, their heads shaven, standing right next to the small door. They carry submachine guns. The hall itself is filled with low tables full merchandise: household items, electronics, clothing and books. Many, many books. There are lockers with guns behind wire mesh. “We pay in scripts for any equipment that you might sell us. We are paid in scripts for wares that are on offer here and for the special services that we deliver.” “Great,” Mal thinks “another crackpot currency to join the collection.” But he remains silent. Chaucer goes on: “If you have come for information, I will help you formulating the correct inquiry, estimate the chances of success and the probable duration of the query. I will also set down a non-negotiable price for this service, if we are successful. If you want a certain piece of text multiplied or changed from an electronic source into a real book, the cost is fixed at three pages per script.” “So, what’s a script then?” Zed asks. Chaucer seems just too happy to answer. “A script is a promissory note, guaranteeing the bearer of one script the instant issue of ten sheets of white paper in this hall. That means that one script is worth ten sheets of paper.” Mal makes some calculations in his head. Rod speaks up “Would it be possible to pay with our own services rendered? I am a very proficient physician, and if one of your brothers or sisters needs treatment…” “No, benefactor, we have our own people for that. But thank you for your generous offer. So, if you have a query to be answered, just ask me.” He gives a strange smile “I’ll be here all day. You may also look at the selection on the tables, but in any case I must ask you to leave your weapons with the two brothers at the door.” Zed has spent the whole exchange looking around. As Chaucer comes to an end, he spots movement just below the ceiling: two machine guns sit on rails in the shadowy corners, away from the skylight. No one seems to operate them, but there seem to be cameras fixed to the weapons. Mal leaves the hall, while Rod and Zed study the merchandise under the watchful eyes of the young monks. Chaucer seems to be busy on his machines. Nothing on the tables interests the two adventurers as much as Zed is interested in the machine guns under the ceiling. They track him as he moves about the hall, fingers a book here, has a look at a knife there. As he suddenly turns and looks straight at the cameras, the guns return to a neutral position with a short whir. Rod asks “You surely sell many books. I thought you collected them?” “These are duplicates. We sell them at good prices – they are surely not useful to anyone rotting in storage. But we pay very good prices for new books.” “I see. Excuse me, but I have to ask. Part of our modus operandi, really. When did the last benefactor visit Refugium?” “Oh, there hasn’t been a visit for more than a year. It seems the people of your order working these parts know that a doctor is present. You are very welcome anyway.” Mal returns, having left his guns in the Conquistador with Dan, carrying a sizeable package wrapped in cloth. He strides up to the gangway and addresses Chaucer “I have something valuable to sell. I’ll take scripts if those scripts buy me certain things we agree to beforehand.” He opens the package and pulls out a book. This book is unlike the many damaged and warped paperbacks on the tables. It looks like something that was already old when the Long Ago fell and yet was preserved through some lucky coincidence. It is bound in thick leather; its pages are of a strange strong paper, the letters of a very unfamiliar type. “It’s a bible, but it is also very old. Older than the Long Ago. Very rare, possible the last of its kind. I thought this might be a good place to keep it safe, but I also recognize value when I see it. And I expect to be paid for value.” Although Chaucer keeps quiet when he receives the ancient bible, his hands tremble as he puts down his glasses and examines the book. This takes some time, with Mal reading every twitch and every breath of the gatekeeper. “Ah, yes, quite so, truly old, although possibly not older than the Long Ago. A common misconception. Surely very valuable. Indeed, this is one of the rare purchases where I will have to confer with other people. Someone is on his way as we speak.” A few minutes later, a young black woman in a cowl enters from the other side of the convent gate. Rod can’t help but think of an old acquaintance back home, although this one wears her hair quite short. She introduces herself as Sister Zola, responsible for the acquisition of books. She, Chaucer and Mal start a serious discussion about prices, possible deals take the unique nature of the item into account. After a short while, one comes to the conclusion that Father Ling will have to decide if Refugium needs “another bible”, as Zola puts it, and what kind of resources he would be willing to spend on such a vanity item, or as Mal puts it, this unique and basically priceless work of art and last remnant of our heritage. This will take a day – Chaucer recommends the two hotels down in the settlement, tomorrow afternoon at the latest the master of Refugium will have an answer concerning this surprising offer. "I see you tomorrow" he says as the explorers leave "Do not forget to write your name somewhere on the monastery's walls - if you can."

Arrival at Refugium

Thankfully, the explorers and their passenger have a thoroughly eventless ride to Refugium. While the roads from the Long Ago are in a sorry shape, someone put up posts and warning signs to guide travelers towards the settlement – also a hint, perhaps, at the dangers lurking off the safe roads. Mal makes good time, and the group reaches the former high security jail at about midday.



The old concrete building looms over the little farming community like a fastness of ancient times. The farmers’ homes are small boxes in the shadow of the large hexagon, its walls still crowned with rusting razor wire. After entering the settlement, the Nissan Conquistador is stopped by a small group of armed men led a tanned, burly brawler in metal armor with an impressive red beard that nicely complements his skin color. He introduces himself as Rupert Ropehands to the explorers, responsible for the security of the village and contact person for any strangers that come into town. He seems to be polite enough, if wary of the well armed visitors and their armored conveyance – at least until sister Duerrenmatt exits the car. She introduces the group and Rupert’s behavior changes at once. He gives some short orders to the other guards, who shoulder their shotguns and crossbows and leave the group. Then, Rupert readily answers many questions. Yes, this is Refugium, although they will probably want to talk to the monks, and not to the farmers. Yes, the monks will receive them, at least during daylight hours. Getting the information that a traveler came looking for might take a few days, though. There are two hotels in town, of which Sue Snell’s is the nice one, while Dago’s caters to those visitors who are on a budget or do not mind his dodgy food and unctuous manners. For those who do not want to pay anything at all, there is a small clearing close to the walls of the jail where one might put up a tent or two, and there is also a hand pump for water. Yes, there are other visitors in town: A group of travelers “just like you people”, and a single man on a street bike, both have business with the monks. No, Rod is the first benefactor who has visited Refugium in months.

While Rupert informs them about the wheres, whos and hows, the explorers get a good look at the square and the surrounding buildings. The houses look clean and well-built, as if following a certain pattern, and there are many signs with stenciled letters. The fields surrounding the village look fine, at least to the untrained eye. Adults and children mill about without giving more than a glance to the armored jeep: Refugium seems to do well. Dan is the first to spot the surveillance camera. It sits on a high pole and points at the middle of the small square where Rupert stopped the car.

After about half an hour, Rupert takes off, not without offering further help and information. Sister Duerrenmatt has long taken her heavy backpack and walked off towards the fastness. The group retreats into the armored jeep to deliberate. They have very little to base their further actions on: the false benefactor might be here, he could even be in the jail, infiltrating the small society there. They know next to nothing about Refugium and decide that their next steps should change that. Dan mentions the security camera above their car – he might be a bit overly cautious, but no one disagrees with his reminder that this is surely not the only camera pointing at them. Rod, who lit up after the stressful conversation with Rupert, asks “It would be nice to have some inroad or leverage when talking to the monks. Do you gentlemen have an idea, apart from me offering my services to any people in the jail who suffer from some injury or sickness?” Zed just glowers through the heavy smoke, but Mal smiles. “A few months back I stumbled across something that might fit the bill. They collect books? Rare, valuable books? I think I’ve got just the thing to get their attention.”