Open Apocalypse

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

I return the old man's bow: but deeper, more respectful.

So Sensei carried with him the past, from before the fall - but so be it, not for me to reignite what I never knew. Legends are legends, stories are stories, the past is the past.

I am still crushing Elijah's hand in mine. I carefully relax my grip, but keep hold: I don't know why, but I do.

Tonight, I tell myself, he and I must talk: I must, at least - time to try trust.

In the dirt, by my triad symbol, is a map.

[DoctoroMindbender]

The danger appears over, but still my heart pounds hard against my ribs. The  gesture of respect, or is it submission, is foreign to me. Good thing, I suppose, that I was not in her shoes. Long before I walked the road, before I tore a swath of terror through the blasted deserts, I vowed to myself I would never kneel again. I had done enough kneeling for one life, enough to know where submission leads. But it has grown late, and the flickering fire light casts the camp in ominous shadows. I speak to the older woman "I have gifted you information. May I ask the simple favor of some food, and a night's sleep for my companion and I in return?"

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

My hand still in his, I wonder what he intends by 'companion': but it is fitting, correct.

The map is neat, sparingly sketched. I add to it my own trail, joining Elijah's in a fork from the west. Then, tentatively, I add the ridge of the low mountain range on which we are: to its east the higher range and between them the north-south line of the supposed river; at its northern end the lake and its bend to the east. The clan woman nods as I do this.

Edited December 16, 2022 by Gangsta Moll

[DoctoroMindbender]

Kinimara, that is the woman's name - this leader of men. Gesturing with her arm, she invites us to a table, where others of her clan are gathered. These communal tables, everyone eating together, almost as a family, bring back memories, stir feelings I had long suppressed. From the corner of my eye I see children, hiding, their eyes peeking out cautiously to gauge the strangers among them. That brings back other memories, fresher, ones I can't suppress. No matter how much I fuck and drink, they haunt me in the darkness.

We sit. Laid out before is meat. It is tough, with the coy sweetness of wild game, though what animal it was in life was lost in the aromatic smoke of the cook fires. Served with it, small misshapen fruit. It has been so long since I've had a fruit. I bite into, my teeth pressing against it's hardness until it finally yields with a satisfying crunch. Bitter juices fill my mouth, and run down my throat.

Edited December 17, 2022 by DoctoroMindbender

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

The communal dining takes me back - almost brings tears to my eyes. But it is a bittersweet remembrance: thecsurvivors from the west came, as have Elijah and I, and were welcomed - cautiously, as we have been - and their very presence, as well as what they knew, led to what followed. Fighting skill, ruthlessness, hatred...potent tools of survival but deadly seeds of destruction when allied to despair and selfishness and jealousy.

I survived, and so has Elijah: what we did, to do so, is unspoken - though I think we both know, from our silent walking, that it is unspeakable. We are survivors, coming from the west.

But for now, there is food, and people, talk and chatter - and from Kinimara the occasional casual curious question that Elijah bats away as if unheard. There is more to her interest than tactical, I perceive. And she is very beautiful- with beauty that transcends looks and rises from inner poise and strength, and confidence.

I taste the bittersweet fruit, drink carefully - avoid the white smoking bowls. Tonight, if Elijah is with me, I will speak of the unspeakable. 

[DoctoroMindbender]

I eat quietly. Some of it is exhaustion. I have not talked that much, since well before I rode the wastes, reciting passages memorized from an all but forgotten ancient text. The rest is the feeling, gnawing at my gut, knowing that I will have to do more, tonight. Ruby needs to know what kind of man she has been traveling with, hopefully what kind of man she will be traveling with. I don't want forgiveness. There is none for my sins. I made peace with that a long time . But she should know.

Lost in my thoughts, I do not see who passed me the bowl. Truthfully, I do not care. I breathe in the smoke, sickly sweet, feel it's warmth flow through me. I am hoping for something to fortify my strength. Instead, I get a heady rush, a small touch of oblivion, followed by lingering feeling equal mix bliss and paranoia. I pass the bowl on, painfully aware that I am the outsider here, again feeling every eye on me, the people snickering and talking in low tones in my peripheral. I know that it is just the drugs mixing with my own apprehensions. I know it isn't real.

But it damn sure feels that way.

Edited December 19, 2022 by DoctoroMindbender

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

Elijah inhales deeply from the bowl: I see his eyes darken, watch his tensed face relax, note the dreamy sensual look colour his gaze. An aphrodisiac, for sure - as indeed I can attest.

And I see Kinimara, her own eyes dark as night, look at him.

Is this it? Is this where it starts? Jealousy: yes, I can call it as that. Jealous of what? A frenzy of killing, a night of fucking, a silent day's hike: what is there here from which to claim ... ownership ...faithfulness... 

Are we so degraded, so lost, that death and fucking and silent trudging are now a 'relationship'? Like animals, who fuck and then fight to stop others from fucking their... what .. their fuck mate?

And I, who had .. how many ... three? four? ...in the tent ... fucked them all, walked away unmoved. I, what primal rage provokes this .. tiny yet tangible .. prick of jealousy, that a woman looking at a man should rouse such a feeling in me?

We are survivors, Elijah and I: survivors come from the west. Am I bringing discord  dissent, here, with me?

I am so tired.

"Fuck it!" I think: and I take the smoking bowl, and inhale it, deeply.

 

[DoctoroMindbender]

Past the paranoia, I feel the euphoria overtake me. It dulls my senses, slows my reaction. I question if this was a mistake, that this may cost me later. Slowly, carefully, I make my way towards Ruby, taking all my focus to keep my balance. Whatever this feeling is, it is different then the bravado and fire of the clear homemade whiskey so common in the wastes. It's something bestial. As my eyes fix on her, ringed in the aromatic smoke, my heart thumps in my ears, feeling like it will burst through my chest and warmth rises in my loins. Images fill my head, things I want to do to her. The thought of Ruby, naked, writhing beneath me. Or using her mouth. Or collapsed on the ground, covered with dirty and the slickness of my cum. I could throw her to the ground, do it right here, to hell with those watching. Nomadic life had robbed me of such inhibitions long ago.

I close my eyes, and try to force those thoughts down. Though, if she is consuming the smoke, maybe she's having the same thoughts about me ...

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

(Kinimara, clan leader, NPC):

The man - Elijah - the fighter from the west, inhales so deeply from the smoke bowl that Kinimara almost fears for his health - for his sanity. And the woman - Ruby - the tension in her is palpable. Unknowable, what the bond is between these two: lovers, comrades, fellow-travellers, ill-met? The Ways of the People are forged in the fierce fires of ferocious fear and feral frenzy: fighting and fucking, primal needs unleashed, unrestrained, after the fall - channeled, vented - used and defused by easy convention. In these two, these strangers from the west, is no such channel for release.

The woman too, now, breathes deep of the smoke: defiance, even rage, in her demeanour.

Elijah is unsteady as he stands, but stands strong in front of the woman. Fighting, or fucking? Which is it to be? Their eyes blaze, the young braves snigger, nudge each other, clear a space - an arena, a cageless cage.

The woman - Ruby - sways, steadies herself, crouches in a fighter's stance:

"Fuck you!" she breathes: sways again, eyes closing briefly: reaches for Elijah, fumbles the grip, almost falls into his arms like a wrestler defeated:

"Fuck me..." she whispers: and the young braves cheer in anticipation. 

Edited December 19, 2022 by Gangsta Moll

[DoctoroMindbender]

Ruby collapses into my arms. Her weight is not much, but off balance it is enough. I fall to one knee, holding her just off the ground. Having her here, at my mercy, and the hungriness over takes me. I press my lips to hers, a gesture with no tenderness or gentleness, just animal fury and passion. Fuck of fight. Fight and fuck. I force my tongue into her mouth, rolling the tip across the roof of her mouth. I regain control ... or enough ... to pull back. I stare deeply into Ruby's eyes, in them seeing my own passion reflected back at me. Or maybe it is just a trick of the light and my own primal desires. I move my gaze to one of the tents, then back to her, that one look asking a question without words: Here or there.

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

The kiss is fierce, fiery, aflame with passion.

Woozy or not, I want more.

He hesitates but I do not. My arms reach up to wrap around his neck, my lips seek his, my tongue swirls with his, my dizzy body draws his down, on top of mine, I feel the lust ignite inside him, and I want it.

[DoctoroMindbender]

I tumble on the ground on top of her, catching myself just before slamming into her body. The deal was struck. The choice was made:

There would be no slow build up.

No exchange of dirty words.

No foreplay.

Just fucking, under the bright light of the moon, and the naked gaze of the tribe.

Below me is Ruby, the mysterious woman who I've shared a night with, I hope to maybe be more then just silent companions with. Below me is also a piece of meat, a warm, soft thing to be used to slate my animal lust. Another man might blame the drugs for such thoughts, but I have no such illusions anymore. The fasteners securing her shorts give way quickly to my fingers. I slide them down, exposing her most private, most secret place, to be used for my own deprivations and for the entertainment of the crowd. I guide her hands to my waist band, together our fumbling fingers undo the belt and slide down my pants.

The crowd cheers again as my cock is free, on view for all. But they seem so distant, so far away, only what's in front of me exists. A few of the young warriors, lean, sun scorched men and women, tentatively step closer to get a better view.

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

It is almost like a fight - wrestling to strip each other, fighting to get naked, almost ripping each other's clothes off. His cock is raging hard, like rock, erect and thick - and his look is of a man lost utterly to lust. I want it - need it - desire it: to be fucked. There is only sex, there is only fucking, cock and cunt and naked bodies - I cannot blame the smoke, I don't care if I can't, this is all there is: fucking, being fucked. His body is scarred, patterned with fine stripes - and lean, and fit - and held above mine, naked, his cock rubbing on my thighs.

This is not fucking for fun; nor fucking for food, or fucking for fear - nor is it sex for its own sake, orgasm sought for the oblivion it brings: this is fucking as a raw primal animal need - and that need, right now, is not to be fucked just by anybody, but to be fucked by him - by Elijah. My legs open wide for him, my fingers grasp and guide his throbbing cock to my wet needy cunt, my ankles lock behind his knees, my cunt lips part wetly for his cock head.

I feel it in the tension of his body: see it in the heat of his eyes; sense it in his movements. He is going to take me, right here, right now: hard, and deep - nothing else matters, to him or to me, but me being fucked, by him. I can feel it, see it: how to him, at this moment, I become ... a sex object... to be fucked, to be used, to sate his desire, to satisfy his need. Fighting and fucking - like this, in the white heat of it, they merge: my hands claw at his back, urging him to do it to me: his hips tense for the full deep ruthless merciless drive that is to come - and I loose my grip on his back, push my arms up above my head, lay myself out under him - splay my naked body on the dusty sand, expose myself to him.

And as his hands grasp my wrists, pinning me on my back to the ground, naked, under him - I surrender to it, to the fucking - to him.

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

(Kinimara, clan leader, NPC):

There is more to this than the smoke: these two are more than - or less than - lovers; something deep, primal .. and held back, denied ... drives them tonight.

To fuck so brazenly, so openly, in front of the Tribe, this means something to the People - the raw primal power of animal urges unleashed, here binds the clans, cements the bonds between them: bonds based on the raw primal power of animal urges channelled, not dammed: used, not suppressed. In these two there is tension - something animal held back: desires denied, needs unacknowledged - and that suppression is being tested here - breached, like a dam bursting.

The man's body is lean, fit, muscled - striped by scars that serve only to enhance his attraction. In her mind, smoily, Kinimara sees the image form, of the man's body raised, naked, above hers: a sexual thrill washes through her - every woman watching who has shared the smoke will see some such image: as will every man who has inhaled the white smoke will see under him the image of Ruby, naked, spread, pinned down. All who smoked will share, hazily but with intensity, in the fucking that is to come.

Kinimara feels the desire rise in her: the want, the need, to be taken by this man, as he is to take the woman here. A shiver of sexual thrill, then the burning need fades, as it should, to a smoking smouldering fuse to burn inside her for as long as it may. Tonight is not her time: this is Ruby and Elijah: time enough for Kinimara - and any other woman who shares this smoke induced desire - to bide her time, should her time ever come. But now, here, as Kinimara watches - the fucking of Ruby and Elijah begins.

[DoctoroMindbender]

I am here. But I am also everywhere. I am looking out at Ruby, but also looking in from the eyes of the clan.

I feel Kinimara's touch, experienced, caring, age having not dulled her passion, but it is Ruby I see staring back at me, a Ruby separated by the passage of time, new lines on her face, grey starting to claim the color of her hair. I also feel a young warrior, barely a woman, whose never felt the touch of a man, my lips wrapped around the warm flesh of her breasts, small and hard like the fruit of tribe, but sweet. I look up for approval at my actions, and it's Ruby who looks down at me, the sadness replaced by hope of an earlier time, her face unscarred by the dust storms, unscorched by the relentless sun of the road.

But it's not just me who is doing the touching. The looking. The fucking. I am Washakie, this responsibility that I never sought upon my shoulders, the worries, the regrets, all fading away ... nothing left but the soft flesh writhing beneath me. But it is me, my own voice, my own hands, my own cock, older. I feel a connection with him, the gang leader of the past. The fighting, the hard decisions, doing things so bad you sometimes wonder what's worse: Doing them or enjoying doing them. But also the leader, the respected elder, perhaps what I may become in the future. I am also a young buck, who can have his choice of the women of the tribe but today chooses this outsider known to none. It is me, without the scars from battle run, without the sins tattooed on my flesh, still idolizing the leaders strong in faith, before I first chose to walk into the wastes.

I am also looking up, at me. It is my hands, rough and calloused, pinning me to the ground. Looking at my body, a piece of hard mean gristly flesh. I feel my own cock inside of me, using me for it's own pleasure, but knowing it's I that I am using it for mine - down in the dust of the ground, rutting like an animal, knowing that tomorrow we may be human but today that is all we are - beasts fucking in the dirt. I feel our hearts, driving the blood through us like two machines, being driven by the passion, gasping breath, like two of the massive steam machines from the before times pushed to the point of exploding. I feel our bodies tensing together, I don't know where her self begins and mine ends. The pleasure rises, from the place where we both meet. As we reach climax, the waves over taking us, as I feel her whole body tense around me, and my whole body releasing into her I don't know who I am any more. Am I her, or am I me, or am I the clan. Are we in the present, the past or the future. Or am I all of them. All I understand is the fucking.

I do know that it is my lips moving, moaning out these words as we cum together

"... Fuck .... "
".... Fuck you ...."
" .... Fuck me ..."

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

I am orgasming almost as soon as he forces his cock into me: thrashing and writhing under him, my cunt clutching and clamping on to his shaft as he hammers it in so deep that the sand burns my buttocks as they are driven into it. And I feel him gather the force both to hold off his own gushing rush and to continue - to intensify - his punishing plunging plundering of my pulsating pussy. His hands grip my wrists, pinning me down - though I do not need to be held, other than to intensify the sexual surrender. His hips flex, driving the cock in, again and again. His head dips, his mouth suckling on first one tit then the other - a greedy sucking stimulation that causes me to twist and writhe in desperate eagerness to offer up my breasts to his lips and tongue. There is nothing but the fucking - but the fucking is everything, everything is all at once, I am being fucked, I am fucking back.

I sense it when it comes, even though I am subsumed so totally in it - surrendered to it totally, utterly - the deepest thrust, the fullest penetration, the pumping pulsing powerful flow, my hips rising so high my body arcs up like a naked human rainbow, lifting him with me, shuddering, shaking: and my cunt milking the sperm from him, powerful spasming ripples that squeeze the full length of his throbbing shaft, reflecting the powerful waves of orgasm that wash through me from head to toe and back again.

And now there is no longer fucking: there is only orgasm - all consuming, all powerful, white hot screaming shouting orgasm

Edited December 21, 2022 by Gangsta Moll

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

(Godayisu, Medicine Woman, NPC):

The old wild man breathes quietly: his leg wound cleansed, bathed, wrapped in the white willow bark strips: his lips moistened from time to time with the bitter sap boiled from the bark to dull the pain.

Godayisu strokes the warm damp pad along his body again, though his bare skin needs no further cleansing: but it is ... nice... comforting ... to stroke the bare skin of a naked man. Outside, two braves stand watch: but in here, in the tent, Godayisu strokes the man's body: caresses it, feels it with trailing fingers.

A wild man, for sure: crazed, perhaps - but cunning, clever, resourceful. Traps and tricks are not the way of the People: but the way is not the only way, nor necessarily the right one. Reparation must be made, yes, for the lives needlessly lost: but a life for a life is the old way, from the before times - life is precious now - valuable, not to be squandered. Which is why she tends to the wild man, succouring his life.

The man's body is thin, bony - aged, old: but Godayisu is herself no longer a young virgin. Almost a virgin, though, she smiles - might as well be, as long as it has been: but she still has it in her, she can feel it, as she strokes the wild man's body and sees his penis stir.

Edited December 21, 2022 by Gangsta Moll

[DoctoroMindbender]

In that moment, an eternal moment separated from time itself. I feel all my selves, I am all my selves. Gideon Walker, young, naive to the world. And I am Death, reigning Hell upon the world, killing with sword, killing with hunger, killing with great steal beasts of the world before. And I am utterly, completely alone, I need no name for there is no one to share it with, walking The Road Eastward. I am old, a leader, whose body is failing, but I hide it from the young men - they would not understand, and I do not need to share with the other elders for they already know. And I am Elijah, here now. I am also Ruby. All the Ruby's, in this single moment of blinding white pleasure. I am also all the people of the tribe, feeling them all. The young men and women, fresh from their right of passage, I have the vigor born of youth, optimism not beaten down yet by the world. The warriors, hiding my insecurities and fears behind false bravado, unable to understand that opening myself up is what requires real strength. The old men, I am smiling wisely, remembering all of these things which I have been in my time. I am the tribe's young mothers to be, the most protected of the tribe, feeling the pleasure rise up, something base and animal, but also the life stirring in my belly, the connection between them into the web of life. It is also a moment, a time so small that it can barely said to have existed at all ....

The orgasm fades, I roll to the side, laying in the dirt beside Ruby. I am spent. Not just my body, but my mind and in my soul, though I traded that away so long ago. Most of all .... I am content. I could lay here, with Ruby, until the sun stops rising, until time itself is over, I could die here happy. But, I know that I must not. I can not. Death is the only real defeat in this world. I try to force myself up, but I am so weak I only make it as far as my knees. My heart is pounding so hard it hurts, my breaths are heavy, but I can't pull in enough air. I try to speak, but my mouth is too dry. No words come out. I meet Ruby's eyes, I grunt, and point to the tent. I know she understands my wordless offer, to follow. I crawl through the dust, finally pushing myself up. Hunched, I stumble forward. One shambling step. Then another. I string together enough to make it through the flap separating the tent from the night.

Inside, I collapse. I can feel the heat leaving my body, drawn out by the cold ground. I can feel the texture of the tent's leather walls against the bare skin of my back. My mind slowly starts to reconstruct itself, my identity. It all comes rushing back. All the fucking, the fighting, the whiskey, the drugs. But also the heart break, the feel of a fist against my face, the hang overs. The scars on my chest ache, remembering the hard fighting and wounds. The scars on my back scream fire, remembering the red hot touch of the lash. I remember what fear felt like. I have not been afraid of anything, not since the first murder. I am afraid now. Afraid that Ruby will not follow me, and that I will be again utterly alone.

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

I can hardly even raise myself from the dust. My heart hammers, my breathing is laboured and shallow, my vision blurs. Elijah crawls, drags himself, out of my vision. I try to follow but cannot, my naked body rolls, sprawling in the dust,  all energy spent.

The hands that raise me are strong. The faces familiar, through the white blur of exhausted vision and the addled headed memories of only a few hours past. Three faces - or is it four - did I really, was I really so ... cavalier .. was it four of them?

The hands that raise me are strong, firm, supportive. The faces ... respectful ... 

Strong hands, supporting me to where, had I seen, I would have wanted to go. The tent flap tugged aside: four pairs of hands helping me through it. Four faces, serious, respectful: four pairs of hands, clasped: four bows, low and graceful: four fit male bodies turning away, walking off. Do I hear, from them, despite their respect, laughter? Does one nudge the other with an elbow? "Not too bad" I think, silently, smiling.

Then I let myself slip fully through the opening, into the tent: and I lay, quiet, one leg draped across Elihah's thigh, one arm flung carelessly across his bare chest, one cheek so close to his that the bristles tickle. And I sleep.

Edited December 21, 2022 by Gangsta Moll

[DoctoroMindbender]

Relief sweeps over me. The warmth of her skin brings me comfort. But I am too tired to sleep. I lay awake, feeling the darkness around me. But the sound of her breathing, the slow steady beating of her heart, the weight of her body against my, lull me into a false half sleep. Dreams, memory really, haunt me, the cold sweat beating upon my skin, but I dare not toss or turn for fear of waking Ruby. In the morning we need to talk. I don't know what I will say, but I know what needs to be said. The Watermaker and his fanatics, and now this night of ... I don't even have words for whatever that was, whatever this is. For now, I lay with my eyes closed, my body buzzing, awake from the mix of chemicals thrown out by my own brain, morning will come soon.

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

Sleeping with a man is new.

I have heard the phrase, from older people, but never experienced it quite like this. Just actually,  really, sleeping: well, waking sometimes but only to relish the sleeping all the more. Skin against skin, breathing, rolling as if in unison to snuggle closer. Post orgasmic bliss gives way to easy refreshing sleep: deep, cleansing.

Our clothes are neatly piled outside the tent flap. It feels natural, nice, to dress quietly, together. Time to talk, now: first with Elijah, then with Washakie and Kinimara. The map is clear in my head - where they went, where they meant to go. But the Tribe are headed east, not west.

Decision points: paths that cross, journeys that join and diverge. Branches taken, choices made - irreversible,  irrevocable: unforgivable?

My own hurts: my betrayals, my ... choices ... are recent, fresh. His, I see in his eyes, are older - choices that have left scars - like the scars on his back and chest: complex, complicated.

I hold his gaze: "we need to talk..."

Edited December 22, 2022 by Gangsta Moll

[DoctoroMindbender]

A single ray of morning light streams across my face. I close my eyes tight, to protect myself from the onslaught. Though it does little for the drum circle pounding away in my head. In the first light of the morning, the smell of the cook fires filling my lungs, in that respite of quiet before the day begins in full, I can't help but worry about the future. The Watermaker and his maniacs are still out there. The road we are on, and the road they are on, will cross again. There will be violence. I feel Ruby stir, watch her slowly open her eyes to face the morning, which always comes too soon. Maybe we won't have to face them alone next time. I take small comfort in the fact that I could be the man that we need, the man that she needs. I am no warrior, or soldier - and I am sure as hell no hero. I am a killer. Before this is finished there will be so much killing. I even killed a prophet once. Funny thing about a prophet. They're just viscera, bone, skin and blood. They die like any other man.

We dress, in silence. I hope she doesn't notice the dark circles under my bloodshot eyes. I know there are words I must speak, but I still don't know what they are. The thought makes me aware of my cracked lips, the dryness in my mouth and the lump in my throat. Our eyes meet, I try to hide the sadness, the pain of regret, and she speaks. I nod, silently, trying to form the words in my mind, and finally I manage "We do."

[Echo_OfTheStorm]

The dark-skinned woman pulls her hood further onto her head as she walks beside her old friends. The wolf to her right watches carefully for any danger, while the girl on her left does exactly the same. Little Red was also aware of everything around her, it was hard not to be these days. The three make their way through the morning light, Little Red had no idea where she was, and nor did her compainions. But she knew she was alive. moving forward. and that was enough for her.

[DoctoroMindbender]

@Echo_OfTheStorm
(Akashi, the Outrider NPC)

The remnants of a hangover lingered, but the young warrior knows that is his fault. Bleary eyes, look out over the horizon, for threats to the tribe. He had overheard the tales from the strangers yesterday. He is young and strong, he knows in his heart they can take any man, so why is he feeling the intense sense of dread, of impending doom. He peers out over the horizon, and sees two shapes, appearing in the distance. With a pull of the reigns, he halts the beast below him, so that he can try to get a better look. Could this be them, the one called Watermaker, the fanatic. One, clearly a person, covered in a cloak. The other, he is unsure of. An animal of some sort, certainly. It reminds him of the dogs the clan uses for all manner of tasks from hunting and war, to herding. But the size is all wrong, and there is something feral in it's appearance. He has heard of such things, in children's stories from the elders, but he believed they were myths. Wolf ...

Akashi considers his approach. They are alone, and they do not appear to be hostile. Certainly they are armed, that is the only prudent course these days. But they are not a raiding party, nor could one woman and her pet pose a threat to the tribe. Akashi turns to Washakie and gestures with his hands, the secret language used by hunters and scouts of  the tribe to communicate: Traveler. Friendly. I approach.

Washakie nods his head, approving of Akashi's assessment. The affirmation fills the young warrior with pride, which he tries to hide but the leaders sees through him. Akashi spurs his horse forward, kicking up a cloud of dust behind him riding towards the two figures in the distance. As they grow nearer, he slows to a trot, no hurry, showing that he is not attacking. But also making sure they see the rifle slung on his saddle, and the spear he wears on his back should they be looking for an easy target.

"Hello traveler. What is your intentions in our hunting grounds?"

[DoctoroMindbender]

@Gangsta Moll

I spent the sleepless night considering my words, turning them over in my head. I still do not know what I want to say, what I should say, what I should leave out. The words come out none the less.

"I grew up in a hard scrabble farm. People I lot like this. Except we were fanatics. Followed the Prophet, no different then the Watermaker. He quoted from torn scraps, the remnants of some book from Before. He used his position to take what he wanted: water, whiskey, women, girls and boys."

===

The memories come rushing back. I was Gideon Walker. It was raining. Not the nourishing rain that brings life, but the hard rain that tore through clothes and crops alike, heavy with the black soot that still filled the sky generations after the end of the world. I had heard the rumors, but there were always rumors about great men. It had been a bad year, a drought, but still the tally of our farms and herds didn't add up. I had double checked the ledger, every accounting. There was only one place where the supplies we needed for winter could of gone. Only one man who could of taken them: The Prophet. I couldn't deny the truth any longer, and there was no choice but to confront him.

The world rattled with thunder as I forced my way into the meeting hall. There, in the entry way was Rebecca, my betrothed. She was pulling her dress up, trying to cover her nudity. I had never seen the soft round flesh of her breasts before, such things were reserved for marriage. Her face, flush with the shame of what she had done, of her sins. We both knew what she had done, and that she had done it willingly. "It's alright" I said, surprised with the tenderness of the voice coming out of my mouth "I will tell no one. Now go, my love." The pain in her eyes, the sadness, I could see that it broke her heart that I was not angry at her. How could I be? Who could resist the will of The Prophet.

But my anger was in full force, tensing every muscle in my body, clenching my jaw and fists, as I entered into the inner sanctum. Seeing him, standing there, with his false serenity, that calm smile he wore like a mask, I had to force myself to speak through the white hot rage "I know what you've done. It ends. Now." I was glad that it was raining, that my hair and clothes were matted to my body. I had sworn long ago he would never see me cry, and only the rain saved my vow. He got into my face, I could smell the harsh burn of whiskey on his breath, as he spoke "Wrath is a sin". I screamed back, unable to hold back "You dare speak to ME about wrath, father!"

I was blinded by my rage, and did not see the large meaty hand flying towards my face. The Prophet was still a mountain of a man, even as age had caught up with him, and he laid me flat on the floor. I heard his footsteps as he walked away, and struggled back to my feet. I could not let his wickedness continue. He was coming back, in one hand baring the silver topped cane he referred to as "The Staff", in the other a leather bullwhip - the same whip he would use on me as a boy when I failed to follow his orders or in readings of the sacred passages. The Prophet raised the whip up above his head, but I was no longer a boy and his reflexes were dulled by liquor. I caught the instrument of his discipline, letting it wrap around my arm, and pulled hard. He fell in front of me, struggling to get up. I kicked his arm, sending him back to the floor, but he again he tried rise. I picked up The Staff where it had fallen, and brought the head down across his skull. He lay on the floor, blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. The rising of his chest, and the barely audible groan meant he was still alive. I brought the cane down again. And again. And kept bringing it down upon his skull until there was nothing left but the metallic ring of the can tip echoing against wood.

Gideon Walker had died that night, along with The Prophet. I waded into the storm, never looking back.

===

"I paid him the wages of his sins." Such a dismissive phrase for patricide, but it is more then he deserves. Of all the faces that haunt my dreams, of all the murders I regret, his is not among them. I continue, the words flowing beyond my control "If that's what it meant to be a saint, figured I'd try sinning. Rode with a raider war band. We did things. I did things. Unforgivable things." To prove my point I roll up my sleeve, showing again the hash marks tattooed on my arm, "Each of these was a man. A woman. A child."

I hang my head. There is more I want to tell. How we had taken shelter in a gully from a sand storm, and were ambushed by a rival clan. How I was the only one to crawl out of that hole, started following The Road, chasing East. But I can't. My chest heaves, deep heavy breaths. I am sobbing. My face buried in my hands. All of the shame and guilt overwhelming me.