#the outcrier

[rotten-flesh-n-bones]

Sketchbook pages of The Gays - they may not be very gay but at least they're canon. Knowing me, I'll probably draw them some more later on since I seem to be on a Mad Max (game) kick

[chocohybrid]

thinking of them

[lectricity-boy]

tumblr user lectricity-boy makes himself mentally ill over outcrier mad max i said oh i'm sure

[the-revhead]

Mad Max draw the squad because I said so

[theoutcrier]

Playing Matchmaker

Rp with @imperator-ryan !!

During an outing where he was out gathering some more supplies for his new compound, Pittonii recognized a feeling of being watched. It was just about sundown over the wastes and he knew going alone at night was a deathwish. At this first sign of trouble, Pittonii knew exactly where to go. He ran like hell across the desert and quickly slid under a rusted out gate into the Crow’s Nest Outpost. Anyone possibly tailing him wouldn’t be stupid enough to follow him there. He hoisted himself up with a groan and smoothed the sand from his thighs as he made his way further into the Outpost. He kept an eye out for the CrowDazzle, as he’d most likely want some form of payment in exchange for shelter.

In Gastown, Outcrier was grumbling to himself over the duties thrust upon him by the ‘lazy bastards’ up top. He was one of the few who could still write well enough to send off important papers to neighboring compounds. He sighed as he scribbled the orders onto the pages of a very old sketchbook. It was a relic one may say, of the old times, but of course the Outcrier has no time to dwell on such matters when he was irritable. Folding the paper haphazardly, he shoved it into the hands of a warboy and shooed him out into the night with orders to take a crew out to deliver it. The note would be delivered by the crew to the third compound west of Gastown. It was a larger station than most of Stank Gum’s ilk, and more productive if the numbers Outcrier were calculating were true. The note was an order from Stank Gum himself, for the Top Dog to report to Gastown asap. Who that Top Dog was? The Outcrier had no clue, just that he was needed for something or other. After sending the note off, the racemaster decided that he’d get some sleep and slumped back in his favorite chair for a few Zs.

[wasteland-screens]

The Outcrier

[madmaxgamerip]

Visit Original Link

All of the Outcrier’s sleeping lines. (Note the first 20 seconds or so is just snoring.)

[thebyrchentwigges]

It’s the last day of Wasteland Weekend and...I’m still working on a last Mad Max story. Gaaaah! But, though I vow to post by the full moon, I will sell no ‘shine before its time. This one’s got to be good. Because: VALKYRIE. Have an extract from a story in progress, where Valkyrie lives...

By the time Valkyrie could smell Gastown, her fuel jugs were empty, and her bike was running with a disturbing rattle. The Flamers at the Gastown bridge let her through. When she offered a pair of their street wretches something to watch her bike, she got her boots kissed into the bargain. She strode along, glad to see the masked denizens oozing away from her and her rifle. The hustle of a big settlement made her blood sharp.

From a long-ago visit with Keeper of the Seeds, she remembered where the news approached reliable: the least grimy drinking establishment. Keeper had also warned her to set a goal and stick to it for strangers’ dealings. Val narrowed it down to a sniper’s pinpoint. Get in, get what she needed, and get out without bartering away another Vuvalini treasure. The further she went from Maadi’s grave, the more their crafts and scraps clung to her fingers.

The bar’s entry was a curtain of rubber strips. Removing her weapons at the door gave everyone a chance to see her. Valkyrie squared her shoulders. The longer she could stay without having to start a fight, the more she’d learn. The half-filled bar rearranged itself as one man stepped forwards. He was a whitefella, taller than the Fool, strapped into brown leather and goggles. The others fell silent when he spoke. “Look at you. Dust and death. Fresh meat for the grinder! Straight from the unforgiving wastes?”

Valkyrie lifted her chin. “I can barter.”

“You don’t even know who I am! Me,” he gestured grandly at himself, “I’m the Outcrier. I say hop, this place jumps. I say start your engines, they race and die for me. And I may be down to deal. Got news from the never-never, Wastelander?”

For all his bluster, this Outcrier’s stance was cool and distant. Val appreciated that. She said, “News for news. I’m looking for a woman. Her name is Furiosa.”