The THV has desecrated the lives of many, depriving freedom of the night with the terrors that lurked in the shadows. Villador was the last bastion still standing, protecting those who lived within the walls from the wasteland.
But what about those outside the walls?
Danger lurks in every corner, the unsuspecting become prey, while those who learn to survive must do what they can.
Hunter was no different from any other survivor of the wastelands. Relying on the UVs to keep them sane, and fighting every day just to survive the wickedness that was brought to them. He just wants to learn more about what caused his amnesia.
A survivor without a past but with a future.
An answer appear when something from someone else's past came to him.
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So, uh. After rambling about sonas in the server, I decided: Duck it.
Why the hell not.
Here's 'Welcome to the Emporium!", a collection of random bs and stuff that Aiden happens to face when he is within the Emporium. Characters and sonas here and there.
What kind of things will our young pilgrim find himself in?
//
0. Aiden Caldwell
“Aiden! Great job on the delivery as always.”
Driscoll, the guildmaster of the Carriers Guild, said so happily, with slightly wrinkled envelopes in his hand. He was sorting through them as he turned to the young pilgrim.
“Happy to help, professor. Is there more that needs to be done?”
It’s been a few days now beating the top carrier’s record in a span of a few hours. Driscoll's preference for the pilgrim over Derek or any other carrier prior to becoming an Elite Carrier should come as no surprise. The number of deliveries made since the first week was astonishing enough that even most couriers felt jealous for the first time in ages.
“Not with me, but there is someone…” setting the folded paper onto a small stack of unprocessed packages, neatly piling them one after another. “...who will need your help getting bigger stuff around Villador. Give me your map.”
“Bigger stuff?” Aiden looked confused, unfolding the paper map from his pocket and laying it flat on the table. “What do you mean?”
Aiden has only been getting small, nicely wrapped packages and envelopes to people around Villador—some in the tall buildings around the Central Loop and some at Old Villador.
Day and night, there was no such thing as a break for the pilgrim.
“I’ll let you find out. Besides, I hear that yer a Nightrunner now, yes? That’s quite a task, huh?” Driscoll scoffs, a little disappointed that his top carrier will likely be dragged to do more stuff outside their guild. Then again, Aiden knew that the man respected his decisions and would remain to help out when possible. Bright green circle in one of the buildings, not too far from the Fish Eye, just south.
“This guy can help you out with your equipment. Many nightrunners, including ourselves, went to their pops before they disbanded. We tend to go to them for repairs whenever possible. High quality stuff, I have to say.” Having caught Aiden’s attention, he definitely should get the chance to upgrade his equipment. They’re starting to show some wear and tear that began to concern him, and most repairs by other craftsmen, even Vincenzo, doesn’t seem to keep up with his stunts.
“Then I guess I need to take a look at their menu when I get there.” Aiden laughed and took the paper, carefully studying the markings. Driscoll’s cursive writing that labels the point of interest
Crane never wanted to feel like he is going to lose someone.
Not again.
When Brecken returned to the Tower injured and alone, not a single sight of his apprentice, a sense of worry began to wash over him.
"Layton!"
Kyle sprints up the chair with the bound recruit, his knife in hand, tearing through the ropes like nothing. The moment he saw the familiar blue hoodie, a wave of relief washed over him.
He knew something wasn't right with these people.
He knew he should have trusted his gut instinct when they first met those survivors.
Crane grasps Layton's bloodied face. Recognising that more harm has been done to what was already there. There are two jagged lines in each corner of his mouth. These aren't going to heal completely, it appears.
This was what Rais meant when he gave Layton a smile.
"I'm so fucking sorry!" Crane clutches Layton tightly, desperately hugging him, hoping for a reaction. "I was too slow, and—"
He felt a hand brush against his back.
"You big oaf," Layton mumbled, trying not to open his jaws. “You're crushing me."
"Oh my God, sorry!" Relaxing his grip, he allowed Layton to breathe before accidentally suffocating him. Kyle wiped away a small tear from the corner of his eye. "Do you… Layton, let's head back to the Tower." He had the impression that Layton needed some time to collect himself. Both physically and psychologically.
"I just want to get out of here... I feel shite."
Layton grumbled, his hand hovering over his mouth. Kyle could tell that it hurt. Markings like that indicated that Rais intended for this to be excruciating; the lines were probably not done in a single sitting but rather several times. He intended for this to be an unforgettable experience for the youth.
Rais was a psychopathic man.
"Jesus Christ, you had me worried when you didn't answer my call," Kyle began to spout whatever came to mind. "And the moment Brecken came back alone, I was terrified—everyone was worried that he did worse on you! Rahim... fuck, he almost went looking for you by himself." Kyle exhaled. “But that’s enough about us, are you okay?”
"Still kicking." Layton chuckled. Uneasy but still alive—that's all that matters. "But, really?" He pointed to the wounds left by Rais’s attempt to assert superiority against them. Still rather feeling drained. “This hurts like hell.”
Kyle had a gentle smile, offering a piece of fabric to replace the old mask.
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Oliver fiddled with padlock with a paperclip and tension rod made from a piece scrap metal–which he found laying about in some bin.
Did he like to dig his hand into trash?
No.
Did he have a choice?
...
Well, yeah but it's survival.
Oliver was in need to find some components to his plans. A plan that can help with the apparent Volatile Nest that was found underground and pestering their somewhat quiet neighbourhood. To be honest, he wasn't exactly suited to do things himself. A growing dependence for his friends and family kept him afloat and without them, he's nothing more but a man who's only good with fixing stuff.
His best guidance was the man behind the radio.
"Need an advice from an expert?"
Crane chuckled, obviously hearing the fustrated sound practically screaming from inside Oliver as his the metallic object snapped.
"For fucks–"
"Language!"
Crane saying "Language"?
That's definitely not characteristic coming from the man who swears 24/7 even when his life is not in danger.
"Since when did you care about profanity?"
He questioned, kneeling to the ground as he ramages through his backpack for anymore spare scraps he can sacrifice to pick this damn lock.
"Not long ago after Brecken let out a paragraph of slurs. Don't want you picking the same habit as your uncle."
"He's not my–"
"It was a joke."
Oliver rolled his eyes in annoyance, almost turning his bag inside out to find barely nothing he can craft a pick with. Did he use up all the scrap metals just for a single lock already?
Surely, not. Maybe to fix his weapons but they do definitely go by quickly if you don't restock fast enough.
Inhaling a large quantity of air and puffed one his cheeks, thinking he could do next. Placing the contents back into their respective place whiles keeping in mind on an approach to this locked obstacle.
"You need to work on your jokes, old man."
Oliver cheekily said as he lifted his hammer from his belt.
...
SMACK
...
"Fucking microphone hit my face– Who are you calling old?!"
For a moment, he thought that sound of smack was coming from his side. Only to realise it was Crane's clumsiness in action.
"Well, first, language. Second, I'm talking to you and you are like... fou–"
"Don't finish that sentence. I will eat these chips next to this mic if you do—"
BANG
"What was that?!"
"Sorry, that was me. Just smashed the padlock. Turns out it was pretty old like you."
"..."
"Crane?"
Sliding the handle down the loop on his belt and questionly tapped his headset. The supposingly peacefuly sound...didn't sound peaceful.
