A morning of unexpected turns…

Woke with a pounding in me head. Blasted hangover. The kind that makes ye wish you’d stopped a pint or two earlier. Found meself in a cramped space, might’ve been an old maintenance closet once. Memories of last night’s merrymaking blurred, but the urgency of the banging on the door brought clarity. Some gladiator-looking brute was on the other side, hollering for me to get up.

Gear in hand, I left the room. Not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t a sewer pipe. The gladiator gestured, making it clear where he expected me to go. So into the stink and darkness, I went.

Emerging from the muck and grime, I found meself in a vast pit. Spikes adorned the walls, and a horde of raucous raiders peered down, their cheers echoing in the confined space. This was no ordinary pit. ‘Twas a battle arena!

A masked man, flanked by flying drones, greeted the crowd and introduced the day’s spectacle. Only, he botched up me name, calling me ‘Brongan’. Before I could correct him, another figure made an entrance. A mutant, introduced as Gerrit VanHelsing, though he quickly corrected it to VanHouten. The masked announcer’s credibility waned by the moment.

Battle was inevitable. Crossbow bolts zinged through the air. His went wide, bouncing off my trusty helmet. Mine found its mark. Drawing him to the arena’s centre, I watched as he jabbed himself with a syringe, his veins pulsating with newfound vigor. As our blades clashed, I realized that my sword did little against his rubbery hide. Changing tactics, I reached for my hammer, the very essence of the Rusted Edge Virtuoso.

With a prayer on my lips and strength in my arms, I swung. The blow landed true, felling the mutant in a single strike. The gods were surely smiling upon me.

As VanHouten lay defeated, the crowd’s roars filled the air. Victory was sweet, but I couldn’t help but wonder, “What now?”

No sooner had the crowd’s cheers faded when a monstrous figure crashed through a wooden barricade. The sight of him, like a behemoth born from the very nightmares of the wasteland, made the very ground quake. Yet, the raiders cheered for him as if he were their champion.

A voice from the crowd broke through the tension, and a can – some sort of drink – hurtled towards the arena. Yet before I could decipher its purpose, the giant advanced. Poor Gerrit still lay senseless, the remnants of our duel evident on his form. ‘Twas just me and the beast now.

Speeches were delivered, blows exchanged. Despite my best efforts and the teachings of the Rusted Edge Virtuoso, this colossus’s strength was unparalleled. Like a ragdoll, he hoisted me and ran, intent on impaling me upon the arena’s spikes. By sheer luck or divine intervention, I evaded that grim fate, only to be hurled against a water tank.

In desperation, I reached for the mysterious can, pouring its contents into Gerrat’s slack mouth. The result was miraculous! Rising like a phoenix, Gerrat joined the fray, his bone saw gleaming. In a whirlwind of rage and vengeance, he cleaved the behemoth in twain.

The arena’s mood shifted instantly. The masked announcer made himself scarce, and the crowd, fickle as ever, began to rain stones upon us. Taking our cue, we made our exit through the breach left by the beast.

Safety, and more importantly, a bar awaited on the other side. There, a man named Magnus hailed me. Gratitude was exchanged – for it was he who’d thrown the life-saving can. But Magnus had more on his mind than mere pleasantries. He offered a job, details scant, but he insisted on a rendezvous at the docks in three days.

While the prospect was tempting, the Rusted Edge Virtuoso is no one’s pawn. Promising to mull it over, I collected my winnings – a humble Glowing Pod – and took my leave. Gerrit, in his own way, slipped away separately. Only the wasteland knows what adventures tomorrow holds for us both.

Three days since the pit, three days scouring the wasteland for a proper drink. No luck. So, to the docks, I went, the promise of Magnus’s job a distant glimmer of hope. There, among the shadows and the creaking of the boats, I spotted Gerrit. That wiry frame and doctor’s coat of his stood out even from afar.

Our path led us to the Ironsides Junior, a boat that had surely seen its fair share of voyages. Yet as we approached, a challenge awaited. A woman, Aegis by name, stood guard. With a swift motion, she drew her gun, fixing it upon us. What followed was a series of bizarre, guttural exchanges between her and Gerrat. Whatever the meaning, it seemed to satisfy her, for she lowered her weapon.

Magnus emerged soon after, gratitude evident in his eyes. He outlined the task – journey to 1 Mile Island, a rumored sanctuary free from the deadly miasma. Our objective was twofold: confirm the miasma-free claim and procure any technology that might aid our survival. Yet, we wouldn’t be embarking on this quest alone. Magnus mentioned others, strangers, who’d be joining our party. Their arrival was imminent.

To sweeten the deal, and perhaps to even the odds, Magnus replaced our crossbows with musket rifles. A significant upgrade, to say the least. As the weight of the rifle settled in me hands, anticipation built.

For now, we wait, the horizon filled with both promise and uncertainty.

Till the morrow,

Brogar