Before we set sail, an odd bunch converged upon the Ironsides Junior. First came a Yuan-ti, name of Sallow, though ‘Sal’ for short. Brooding sort, not much for pleasantries, with a mechanical serpent in tow. Can’t say I’ve seen such a contraption before, but the wasteland is full of wonders and horrors alike.

Sal had company, another automaton, this one named Rusty. A metal giant spouting a phrase like a mantra: “Built for Survival, Built for War.” Its presence alone set Sal’s Geiger counter into a frenzy. Something’s not right there, but it’s a query for another time.

Our crew grew further as a plasmoid stepped aboard, bright as the midday sun and as strange as they come. Zephyr, they called themselves, a miasma expert, and I reckon we’ll need that expertise soon enough. They weren’t alone either, accompanied by an automaton that defied explanation—a blend of nature and machine, with a bird nestled within its metal limbs.

A.ESMERELDA was the construct’s name, or so it rattled off in a flurry too quick to comprehend. I’ll have to circle back on that.

Introductions aside, we stowed our gear and set sail for One Mile Island. What awaits us there, I dare not guess, but the company I keep is proof enough that the unexpected has become the norm.

Esma, curious creature, asked ’bout mine and Gerrat’s history. Strange to recount it. The booze, the chems, the blackout… waking up leagues from where me memory last served, in that blasted pit of the Cistern. Still, the booze I miss, though the days since have felt ever so… hazier.

Gerrat, in his own turn, spun a tale stranger than mine – claiming a mere four years of life, born not of flesh and bone like the rest of us, but from the confines of a test tube. Still, in these lands of mystery and despair, can one really question the improbable?

While the rest began their stories, me attention wavered, lost in the rhythm of the waves and the creaking of the boat. The past is the past, and dwelling on it does no dwarf good.

Sallow, ever industrious, sought to mend the crane, while Esma, with a display of cords and connections, interfaced with the boat itself. Their efforts bore fruit, for the Ironsides Junior pushed forward with renewed vigor. Yet our spirits were tested, as each of us tried our hand at the crane, seeking salvage from the depths.

But as time wore on, the sea’s embrace grew cold. A fog, unnatural and dense, rolled in, casting an eerie pall over our journey. This ain’t natural… not for these waters…

…The fog is thick…

Couldn’t see a hand in front o’ me face, then outta the gloom, this soul beast appears, made of the miasma itself. Three skulls floatin’ ’round it, like some ghastly crown. Thing nearly made a meal outta the boat, and tossed me over like I was a wee stone skippin’ ‘cross water.

But Sal, bless their whippin’ vines, snagged me back to safety, not once but twice. Picked me outta the sea and yanked me from the clutches of that soul-hungry monster. Owed ’em two beers, and I meant to pay up.

As for that fight, was knocked out cold. The others managed to take it down while I took an unwilling nap.

Gerrat had a gander at the skulls. Called it a ‘Soul Elemental’. Miasma’s not just killin’ us slowly, it’s usin’ our souls for something more sinister.

Took a bit of a breather after, but it wasn’t to last. My body… it’s startin’ to act funny. Movin’ on its own, growlin’ like some beast from the depths.

The pip-boy, it’s hard to type. Fingers ain’t cooperatin’. Gerrat’s lookin’ at me funny. I’m trying to hold on, but it’s like the mist’s inside me now.

got to keep control. Got t-

Fingres not workig Whys it dubble vision? Grhhh… trying to keep typing but hands won shakey.

no no no not ferral not me

gerat stay back i cnt stp it

can’t seee screeen wel. typeing is hrd. wrods no come out rite

grrrrrarrrrrrrrr

sahhh gruhhhhhh

…graaahhhhhhhhhhhhh..

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

Ah, the life of a wandering dwarf in this unforgiving land! ‘Tis a tale of toil and sweat, but today, it’s one of triumph too. Been taking on jobs, aye, and not just any jobs – the kind that require a firm hand and a sharper blade. The Rusted Edge Virtuoso makes his mark!

First, there was the caravan escort. Simple enough. Guard a few brahmins laden with goods, traveling from Mirehold to Dusthaven. Thought it’d be a quiet walk. But, of course, wastelanders ambushed us near Broken Ridge. With a hearty shout and a whirl of my blade, I sent them packing. The caravan leader, a stout woman named Mira, was more than grateful. She even threw in a couple of extra Glowing Pods for the ‘show’ I put on.

Then, the old ghoul in Sundered Spire. Wanted a rare flower from the depths of the Miasma Marsh. A fool’s errand for most. But not for ol’ Blastbeard! Delved deep into the marsh, my trusty blade lighting the way. Emerged victorious with the flower, and a bit more miasma stench to boot. That ghoul wasn’t stingy with the Pods, I’ll give him that.

All said and done, I’ve gathered a tidy sum of Glowing Pods. Enough to find the finest tavern in the wasteland, kick up my boots, and indulge in some heavy drinking. Aye, tonight, Brogar “Blastbeard” Ironvein will drown his sorrows and memories of the vault till the world goes dark.

For tomorrow? Who knows? But tonight, the ale will flow and the tales of the Rusted Edge Virtuoso will ring out loud and proud!

Cheers to adventures yet to come,

Brogar

Encountered a radstag today. Majestic beast. Couldn’t help but launch into the tale of the “Dancing Stag Technique” – one of my finer monologues. The creature just stared, bewildered, then scampered off. At least it didn’t attack.

Stumbled upon the remains of an old campfire. Looks recent. Found a bottle, still half-filled with a strange brew. It’s no dwarven ale, but it warmed my insides. Left a note of thanks and a dwarven rune, just in case the traveler returns.

Mirehold’s not far now. The merchant’s tales spoke of a tavern, a place where stories flow as freely as the drinks. Perhaps I’ll find some work, and with a bit of luck, a decent drink to drown my sorrows.

Till the next chapter,

Brogar

Met a wandering merchant today. Tried to barter with the few trinkets I managed to take from the vault. Got a couple of rations, a map of the wasteland, and some tales. He spoke of far-off towns, of places where folks like me, touched by the miasma, find solace. Perhaps there’s hope yet.

The nights are the hardest. The silence, the stillness, they bring forth memories of the vault. I catch myself practicing my monologues, refining the tales of the Rusted Edge Virtuoso. A small comfort in these desolate times.

There’s talk of raiders to the west. Best to avoid that path. I’ve marked a route eastward, towards a settlement named “Mirehold.” Here’s to hoping they’re kind to a ghoul with a missing beard.

Brogar

By the fiery forges of my ancestors! The vault, my home, the only world I’ve ever known, has cast me out! Those bloody overseers said I’m a “danger” to the community. As if turning into this ghastly form was a choice I made. They fear I might go feral. Bah!

The blastin’ miasma! It took my hair, my beard – the very essence of a dwarf! And now, it’s taken my home. The lads didn’t even get a chance to bid farewell. Only old Thrain slipped me a flask of the finest brew as I left, whispering, “For the road, Blastbeard.”

This wasteland’s vast and daunting. I can feel the weight of my solitude. Yet, somewhere deep inside, the ember of the Rusted Edge Virtuoso burns. The stories, the legends, they’ll see me through.

For now, I tread onwards, one foot before the other, hoping to find a new place to call home.

Brogar