We crested a dune and found ourselves near the skeleton of some enormous ancient beast. Some distance from the skull, part of a weathered ribcage stuck up from the sands, canopied with crudely-stitched hides. Gutter pointed a gnarled greyish finger.  “That’s the place I saw that foul...

It was nearly a moon ago now when it happened.  The High Mesa is so far south of most squats, his cave so far up its face, his post so deep within, that perhaps it’s no wonder we didn’t hear.  But the cavern must have echoed with the noise. The scrape of wood on stone as his...

Today, for the first time in far too many moons, the air is filling up with the ticking of wordmachine keys, and a piece of paper is filling up with words.  To anyone who’d been missing these missives, I give all apologies.  This old wordmachine busted worse than I could fix. But,...

It’s hard to sum up the strangeness of the last few moons.  I’d have written it as it all happened, and tried – but coughing a gout of blood deep into the workings of a word-masheen makes it work a wee mite less than well.  But it’s clear of the blood at last, and...

Knowledge comes in bits and pieces, if it ever comes at all.   I’ve come by this news all out of order — talking a couple nights ago with Pan ((Pandorah Ashdene)), who saw it all end, and the day afterward with Tsu ((Tsukiko Dreamscape)), who saw what came before.  As for what...

This all happened some time back now, on the 51st day of the Season of Shelter. I’ve been trying to keep it secret from untrustworthy folk, and trying to make sense of it all.  But, way things spread, they probably know already. I was wandering around the east side of the Stygian crater...

No Pulp this week.  Only pulp happening here is the bloody masses I keep coughin’ up. Writing anyway.  Writing and drinking.  Takes my mind off the sick.  Can’t hardly keep focus to write, but it helps me anyway if nobody else.  Too sick n drunk to care. Don’t care if...

The Season of Revival seemed to seek nothing but punishment.  Late ice storms, snow storms, and general coldness keep scavengers bundled up, even as the Season of Violent Winds drew near.  The Buzzards still seem to be nesting, even though other food could be found again – but a brief...

Half a decade of existence is no small feat, no matter what it is.  For a Second Life estate — where regions and communities come and go so quickly that even dog years seem conservative by comparison — five years is even more significant.  To help recognize this milestone in The...

The Digger wrote up the basics of how all this started — the dead girl, the key, the stones, her weird tattoo, the Courier, and that old note from Madeye. None of us knew Madeye all too well; that time he was prancin’ about the Bazaar all crazylike was the first and only we’d...

Winter digs in the knife one last time.  Pellets of ice, hard and sharp and slick, pummel everything.  The business of scavenging and trade go on unabated while the sheets of ice and sleet cover our actions.  Wastelanders seem inspired by the foul weather.  We, too, harden ourselves and...

The nights grow a little bit shorter now.  The winds blow a little less bitter.  The arctic air threatening to slowly freeze your guts with every breath becomes a little less dry, a little less biting.  It always starts so slow, with only these small changes, but day by day Revival comes....

Shelter.  That’s all a body could want, this deep into the season.  Somewhere to hole up against the cold, when not clawing needful things from the unforgiving sand.   Some scrap of ground to claim for oneself, to make safe.   A refuge.  But refuge is never easy to come by in The...