‘I’ve seen and had so much blood on my claws, it’s not even phasing me anymore at this point in my life..’
Gordon’s mind drifted amongst his idle trains of thought, padding through the dimly lit halls of safety inside a local settlement. Moments like this were ones he savored in getting away from the madness of the outside world; the killing, the slaughter, the misery. Not to mention all the bigotry and bias going around. Be it rooted from a faction renowned for recovering technologies, leading a band of mercenaries to kill for caps, or perhaps earning that same pay by slapping indentured servitude around their neck? It was all the same either way.
..Or perhaps the griff had been in the Wasteland for too long, the insanity slowly starting to claim his fragile little mind.
Either way, it left a quietly mulling griffon musing to himself along the way back to his office. Having been through a barely successful operation of putting together some buck whose rib-cage had seen better days, the prior stress was slowly leaving his system. For now, this was a chance to regather one’s self; perhaps even go out and socialize with some of the others around this place.
To him, it sounded like a lovely idea. Too bad it would have to wait until the end of his shift..
And so, here Gordon was - home amongst the den of straightened cleanliness. A metallic shelf in the back held two different distinctive bottles amongst it’s open space; three of which were of freshly-found drinking water, and the latter three held a healing salve to be ingested, fresh from the Ministry of Peace itself. Other drawers shrouded away various supplies used in treating a variety of wounds. Antipoisons, bandages, medical braces; the whole nine yards of healing was what this griffon specialized in.
Sitting back down at the office chair, Gordon felt the familiar grooves of a terminal’s keyboard. Claws clicked in at the keys, logging in another entry of his own little diary.
‘Personal Log Entry #3
Doctor Gordon Cloudhopper
May 15
It’s been a few days since my arrival here at Outpost..what was it again? Ah, ‘Outpost K-5′. For the most part, it’s been eventful. As you know, ponies come and ponies go through these gates. Some stop to trade, sit a spell, and even to get themselves relieved of their wounds. Some even come to me; a griffon who’s dedicated his life to cracking open bottles of potions, rather than cracking skulls.
The initial welcome of being assigned to aid the folks here was somewhat lukewarm at first. There was skepticism floating in the air at the thought of a bird like me being nothing more than just a hired gun, perhaps even a vigilante. I showed them quite opposite, as those who were fallen? Soon found themselves back up on their four hooves. Or paws. Or whatever appendages it is you walk on.
However, sometimes..The silence kills me. Have you ever just sat in the darkness and not moved once? That eerie vast of nothing is what chills me the most, aided on by my paranoia. I’m always expecting something to jump out at me; maim me, or kill me. That’s the common wasteland instinct, after all.
Either way, I’m back here now. I’ve cleaned up my tools and made sure to secure my pistol by the side; that handy, whisper-quiet 10mm. It’s kept me safe when I’ve found it necessary to use; and let’s hope I don’t need to use it more often than I should.
I’ll finish up the last of these patients and get to relaxing amongst the others in town. Perhaps I might stop by the general store; see what bargains they have. Sugar Bombs sound good right about now..
End of log.’
