@gabzwrld asked : the stench of death is loud and clear. / prmpt.
he does not sneer or snarl at her hesitancy as he may have once bared teeth at the vaultdweller on a radiated lakeshore, embolded by his underestimation of her bloodthirst. instead, he stalks ‘pon the ruined caravan with a low grumble of agreement in his throat. hazel irises flit to the shadows, the dehydrated wasteland brownery waving in the desert wind, and he stoops in his haunches to inspect the felled brahmin. the beast has gone cold despite the sun in its abraxo blue apex, and rot has turned the hide to clinging against the pack animal’s ribcage, its eyes already wrenched out by cazadors and geckos hungering for soft meat ‘fore the deathclaws get to it. near to the toppled trading structure, there’s matching piles of ash, about mid - calf in height and glinting with tandem radiation and the shine of caps under daylight. the ghoul murmurs to himself a second time, jaw working idly in a moment of consideration.
energy weapons. less common in the years following the mcgraff’s execution. the attack on a caravan meandering towards freeside, even less so. his head raises to inspect the road ahead of them as though he could still spot the perpetrators, and mouth seals hard around his teeth to suck the moisture off whatever remains of his enamel when he sees only open asphalt. trouble. the knowing sits in his bones, same as those old prospectors who claim to feel a radstorm encroaching in the soft tissue of their joints fifty miles ‘fore it billows over their settlement. they’ll need to reroute, and he’s none too fuckin’ pleased about it. the faster he can get miss maclean off his hands the better, far as he’s concerned.
“ grab whatever’ll fit in that fancy vault - pack o’yours, ” he says at last, palming through the remains off his left knee and pocketing the red lacquered metal he panhandles from the ashes. as he searches the second mound, his knuckles knock a stimpack, rusted 'round the injector pump and yet filled to the top line with its healing concoction. he eyes lucy maclean from the shadow of his hatbrim. creature as soft and inexperienced as her, he reckons they’ll need all the medical supplies they can acquire on their venture across the mojave. can’t hand her back over to young henry with a festering radscorp sting now, can he? ghoul pockets it without a word and rises to his feet, dusting the sand from his knees. “ we’re goin’ west after this. there’s a settlement ‘filliated with the followers o’ the apocalypse that’ll pay a pretty penny fo’ whatever we can scrounge outta these crates. means we can stock up and keep headin’ fo’ your daddy – hopefully, wit’out anymore roadblocks. ”