ITT We write fluff for scenes from the Wasteland

>Game Show Executor
>To keep the public entertained, more and more laws regarding entertainment were repealed. After a point, special "Blood and Guts Game Shows" were produced and became increasingly more popular. Contestants were oftentimes taken directly from death row and forced to participate in horrific scenarios that had a high fatality rate
>This machine was built for one such game show, during it's "Medieval Season." Contestants had to face a horde of multi-limbed mechanical knights in various settings, from prop castles to stonework monasteries, from deep sandy slave pits to forested glades.
>However, once the disasters struck and society was turned upside down, many of the medieval machines were left powered on and confused
>With no one giving them commands, they took hold of their steel weapons, and set off in search of new contestants

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>Mawman
When the ban on experimentation and manipulation of the human genome was lifted in 2040, the prolific and expansive Biotech companies of the world went hog-wild on toying with something they had so long been denied.

While the majority of projects were geared towards improving humanity, some more dubious groups began fiddling with the idea of creating entirely new species from a human base.

This is all common knowledge of course, but in the Wastelands of today, the scattered communities and survivor enclaves of europe struggle to think of a reason as to why the world before would need something so vile.

Love the idea. Gonna dump some of mine here too.

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Jareds Party Van:
The van of Jared, one of the most insane drug addicted cannibals out there.
He stalks the wastes always hungry for more fresh meat.
The outside of the van is kept relatively clean but the inside...is another story.
Corpses skinned clean.
Bones bleached.
Trash bags full of rotting flesh and skin.
All driven around by Jared.
Who is he and why is he like this?
No idea.
All I know is that it's party time and everyone is invited.

It's an Anthropophagi you uncultured PLEB

>Cruelty Ritual
The Savage Tribes of the American Southwest are an eccentric and violent bunch at the best of times, pre-war feelings of paranoia and general outrage from the community transforming into full-blown xenophobia and bloodthirst in the wake of the Apocalypse.

One such tribe, known as 'ThundaBringers' is notorious across Post-War America for their huge and terrifying assortment of Rituals they perform in their efforts to 'Bring back Paradise'

One such ritual is the so called "Rite of Bleeding Fathers" and is used by tribal mystics in an complex 'spell' to ward off Sloth and Adultery among their tribes men. Or performed before great battles or festivals whenever the mystics feel a need for it.

The ritual includes tying a Bull or suitable beast of burden to a sturdy pole or anchor, and driving cruelly barbed stakes into the beast, igniting them once they are set. The stakes pierce deep into the animal and are coated with a mixture specifically prepared before the rite that can keep the fire burning, even when inches deep into a living victim. The tribes warriors, fathers, and any young men looking to wed are tied to poles surrounding the animal and are forced to watch it's slow and rather painful demise.

The mystics, once the animal succumbs to the cruel treatment remind all attending that this is the fate of all who would commit sins of adultery, sloth or cowardice. And they are not at all afraid to carry through on that promise.

[NOTE: Despite it's effectiveness in to scaring witnesses into better performance, this Scribe does not recommend it, or any similar process for incorporation into S.O.B.S. (Society of American Bomb Shelters) doctrine due to concerns of resource expenditure, cleanliness and violation of existing ethics codes.]

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Jesus... that's brutal man.

>Children of a Broken World
The Fractured Army is a post-war militia largely dedicated to the suppression or destruction of any post-war society's that disregards or strays from the path of Democracy. These home grown extremists are surprisingly effective for how disorganized and helter-skelter their myriad forces are, and despite there being little in the way of standardization of equipment or training, each individual soldier retains a large degree of autonomy and self-sufficiency.
One consistent hallmark of raids performed by this group is destruction of any symbols they deem impure, which can range from religious icons and flags, to the complete mutilation of the faces and identifying marks of entire towns and settlements.

>Sporemen
The result of a biologic research laboratory getting cracked open by a bombing run with a radioactive payload, Sporemen are a shorthand term for the frankly staggering variety of fungal hybrids that came out of that crater.
Absorbing what specimens in the facility survived, the mutated fungal strains spread inland, their flesh irritated and scalded by saltwater. As they hunt, they expand their barely-ambulatory fungal flesh over the rotting remains of their prey, using the cadaver as a combination of proesthetic limb and mobile food source. Ancient or particularly successful sporemen have been seen almost as large as semi trucks, dragging their rotting bulk on hundreds of partially digested limbs.
On the upside however, for us still living folk out here, new sporemen are extremely rare. The fungus that makes them might spread often, but it dies in contact with saltwater, and requires quite a few corpses to get large enough to start to become ambulatory. Just remember to check for spores, because even immature, sporeman fungus will try to eat you, and it leaves unpleasant rashes and burns doing so.

Reminder that anything from pictures of the environment, items/artifacts, and diagrams are of course welcome.
Good shit so far Veeky Forums

First time writing anything so lets try this.
The Gun Box: The gun box is a mystery to everyone. It remained in a national guard armory with its own section for it. Many people have tried to take it or grab items off of it but when they do they just vanish into thin air. Some of there things are then left on it. Some have managed to take things off of it by damaging it but its risky since it might just absorb the attacker(s) Its local legend in the area to many scavengers.

>Base away from Home
The Mobile Wasteland Habitat is a heavily armed and armored vehicle with a resident team of operators ranging anywhere from an operating minimum of 3 to a terribly crowded 8 men.
Designed to offer a livable environment even in the worst locations the Wastes have to offer the M.W.H serves it's purpose admirably, with many operating teams becoming attached to the vehicle, assigning names, gender identities, and personality traits to the crawler.
Used Primarily in exceedingly long patrols over huge swathes of irradiated turf, the M.W.H rarely sees the horrors of open war in the wasteland, but when it does it's considerable level of firepower is feared and in some cases, openly worshiped by groups ranging from Bandit Clans, to Tribal Cults. Research into further improving the platform to perhaps fill artillery or mass transport roles in addition to its current job are underway.

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>Re-purposed Behemoth
"Build it? BUILD IT? No them bandit sonsabitches didn't build that there 'Megatrakk', they're BANDITS son. They ain't like us Cogfathers. They raid, they don't build, they pillage, they don't create. Hell, they prolly don't even know what really makes that rig o' theirs tick! All they did was stick a buncha guns on it, paint it in that dumb-ugly warpaint color o' theirs, and pour enough nitro innit to make one o' them duneridin' speed freaks panic! Hehe, no they aint gettin' that thing through our defenses sonny, we got enough shot, powder an' brass to keep them sonsabitches far, far away. Now run along boyo, they need yer help over in the botanicals...and stop callin' it a garden! That's where sissy plants grow! We growin' the good shit!"

You know that all this shit happens on Spain and people actually pays to watch it on bullfights?
Even the fire thing is something that happens on certain towns for the annual fairs. There is a specific town where the catch is that the whole mass of people must trick the bull into falling off a cliff.

Ave Nex Alea.

"The Void Cyborgs tell us many things about ancient times. For example, there have been six World Wars. The first World War introduced trench warfare. The second World War was a barbarous slaughter. The third World War burned away half of the world in 15 minutes. The fourth World War almost made mankind extinct with viral diseases. The fifth World War taught us that machine intelligence was far superior to us. The sixth World War showed us that even a world of rubble and ruin can produce enough to wage 20 years of total war."
"And now we march to war again, into the seventh World War. The sixth World War has destroyed too much. The Ameroceanian Skylifts are all broken ruins after the betrayal of Indostralia. There are not enough resources left for us to survive. We must crush the Euro-Asian Conglomerate and take hold of their Skylifts or Ameroceania will be no more."

OP here on mobile, pretty jazzed that the thread is still here overnight.

Maybe we can keep it going today.

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>Filename describes picture as Moscow
What did my sides ever do to you?

"They're not demons. They're soldiers, just like us. You can tell by the way they move together. The way they respond to the godawful sounds the big one makes, he must be their commanding officer. Whether they realize their war was over long ago is irrelevant. You are not to engage them private. That's an order. Hopefully they'll migrate over the hills before the next harvest or we're fucked."

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I admit, I chuckled. Never check the names of images I download but this may get me to change that.

saluto nex alea

"We call him Moose. We aren't sure where he came from, but he wandered in one day from the waste with a satchel full of canned food and the head of the bandits that raided the caravan a few months past bound up in extension cord behind him. He never speaks, but he's sat down at the fire a few times to eat with us, slipping food through the bottom of his mask. I wouldn't question it though, the man is a monster with that stick of his. Pretty sure it's a mace rigged up to an old car battery, because i've seen him hit someone with it and leaving them a twitching, burning mess."

The iron-folk are a notoriously secretive tribe of scavengers whose savage ambushes make travel through the ruins all but impossible. The leading theory is that the city itself is sacred to them and outsiders are strictly forbidden but we can only guess about that as there have been no observations of religious practice among them. They refuse to communicate with our scouts and the rest of the traders now keep a safe distance from their territory which is inconvenient considering the alternative trade route adds two weeks to the trip. Still it's better than getting a bullet in your skull. There's always one of them standing watch at the boundaries of their shadowed city. Like all of its kin the guard(as we've taken to calling it) wears a metal mask obscuring its face. It could be one person or a succession of different people wearing the same mask but there's never more than one.

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Was this inspired by that SCP or vice versa?

Maybe it's time for some monsters?

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>"So what did they hang those poor bastards for?"
> "Heh... Wouldn't take much to get hung around here stranger, but given the 'Public' venue this is in, probably for Stealing from Ol' Stonewall... Either Water or Gas"
> "Is he the leader around these parts?"
> "Yeah guess you could say that... He came in twelve years ago, and has kept this place nice and tidy since... Don't cause trouble, and you won't wind up like those two"

>The Two hanged men continued to sway and twist upon their nooses in the dusty wind blowing in from the wastes. The Stranger upon his bike continued looking at the spectacle before asking another question.

>"Anything else I should know about Stonewall?"

> "He also has an unhealthy obsession with old Confederate memorabilia even dresses like his namesake... But overall he's a decent man, better than those Junkers prowling the outskirts and wastes beyond...."

>"This place doesn't make any sense"
>"No kidding, $15.99 for a small bag of popcorn and $4.99 for a tiny candy stick... No wonder society entered an apo-"
>"NO- No... I'm meaning the Tree in the friken middle of this old theater."
>"Oh... Well what about it? Its just a tree?"
> "Look at the roots... The way it pretty much fills the center of this place, twisted like it's not even really a tree... Just pretending to be one..."
>"Well there are stranger things about now, I'd say a tree is the least of our worries at the moment... Oh! A snickers!"

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Being a scaver wasn't all that tough, the bandits were just as afraid of the old skyscrapers falling as anyone else. If you were willing to climb up hundreds of feet of mangled metal, then maybe you could find something good enough to impress the skyfarers.

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>"I won't have any thirty ought shells 'til the gun nomads roll back into town."

>"When'll that be? I need 'em ASAP"

>"Sorry stranger but they move at their own pace, sometimes they come twice a week and sometimes we don't see 'em for two or three months. They've always got spare scrap to trade and their ammo selection has never let me down. You could try and track 'em into the wastes but I wouldn't recommend it."

>"Why's that?"

>"Well it's not 'cause they're hard to find, they got the biggest caravan in the wasteland but they're well armed and don't take kindly to surprise visitors. Buddy o' mine tried once. Next time they came into town their leader was wearin' my buddy's scorched boots. It's obvious they're looking for something out there and it must be important 'cause they don't anyone following 'em. Take my advice stranger, let them come to you."

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The elders speak of days when machines moved themselves. They say that in the time before the era of storms, our ancestors manufactured the guns and bullets we use today to fight each other for control of the substance that fueled their vehicles. They failed to realize that it wasn't their guns that were the most dangerous, it was the smoke from their machines. Eventually, they ran out and only then realized what the had turned the world into. The era of storms came and wiped out their cities, leaving only the survivors, the elders, to travel the wastes in search of the life they once knew.

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At age 15 each member of the tribe must go on a solitary quest to the Stone Father and carve their name into his throne.

What system is this image from? I know it's one of the Modiphious games.

Sorry user, got it somewhere else on tg. I posted it here to find an explanation for it, couldn't really think of much myself.

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If you think that Florida's wildlife got any better after the war, you'd be dead wrong. Literally. Pre war growth hormones and post war radiation have left practically everything that has a pulse, and a few things that don't, titanic mutated monstrosities. This gatorclaw can eat 15 men without breaking a sweat, and could probably tank just about every piece of ordinance you could throw at it, bar a howitzer shell. Those claws aren't just for opening letters either, they can slice through a suit of power armor like it was hot butter. It uses things like that old truck to sharpen em up something nasty. Now are you gonna buy something, or just keep asking about the photos on my wall?

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>modern Chechens

Worshipped by the most debased of the illiterate swamp dwellers, the crocodiles of the southern reach can grow to enormous size and have been known to kill men for sport. Only particularly ambitious hunters should stalk these creatures.

This one's a personal favourite of post-apocalyptic images.

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Not sure if this counts a post-apocalyptic.

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Ah, the ol' sluices. You saw 'em, did you? Yeah, nobody knows where they draw from, but twice a week like clockwork human bones an' gallons o' blood comes flowin' out of 'em.

'S why we don't drink the water from the swamp.

Do me a favour though, aye? If'n you ever find out where it all comes from, don't tell me, a'right?

When the portal collapsed I saw with my own eyes that Brent was still inside. I thought he was dead. I grieved for him. Now he is back, or at least physically. I still wonder if he didn't really die that day.

In either case, Brent Cutter was forever changed when he returned from the world beyond. He was always a master negotiator, but he way with people now is not natural. Now a megacorp exec, almost everyone who deals with Mr. Cutter regrets it mater.

He has this aura about him, for those who can sense it. I have never seen a greater darkness. Even the demons we fought together were not half as terrifying as the monster that is now Mr. Cutter.

>She didn't trust the water. Compared to the other slow clear streams this ones reddish brown color wasn't desirable. Though the people downstream seemed healthy enough, claiming it was a vehicle of the god's will, that through transmission the frame would guard them from harm and accidents.

>The high elder said that she would no longer need her mustang for the time of restoration was soon coming and the gods would grant us power and seat us as shotgun to them the drivers of our fate. A children's story.

>The people reminded her too much of home, of her father. She glanced down at the clan pendant around her neck and the mustang trappings the red of her house. 'No' she thought. 'I must find the Pharm, the Thousand Oaks, find a cure for me.'

>Tucking the horned pendant back, Dodge griped the reins with her hands, the right lacked feeling and had lepard spots hidden under the armor.

Make story for pic related?

This was inspired by SCP-093

I still say it is appropiate for death to wear a suit and tie.
After all, wasn't it the killers of the old world that wore ties?
But the broker, the broker might be something else. With how uncertain life is nowadays there's almost as many people that have seen him as that haven't. When you're close to death, or cutting through an irradiated zone, you might see the smokey figure in the corner of your eye. An avatar of smoke that calls forth visions of nuclear annihalition.
There are... stories, about him. For every great man, every fast upstart and uncannily powerful empire builder, there is a tale of a contract with the broker. Some sort of deal.
Superstition of course.

"Can I interest you in some ear plugs? You'll need 'em if you intend to spend the night around these parts. It's for the screaming. Listen it's not as bad as it sounds I swear! I wouldn't lie to such a fine upstanding traveller such as yourself, certainly not! Where do the screams come from you ask?...

Some things are best left unsaid my friend."

simonstalenhag.tumblr.com/post/129062281897/we-need-to-talk-about-annika-the-world-was-on

This is all that pops up form me. The guy has alot of pictures for this kinda stuff.

"I know what you think you saw and I understand. It's so comforting to imagine a peaceful bungalow beyond the walls deep in an idyllic forest. That bit about the security mech leaning against the enormous tree? I love it. And the former officer that lives there? What a colorful character with such fanciful stories! But you and I both know that there is no reason for anyone to flee our fair city and ride into the horrors of the wilderness. It is preposterous! I think it's best if you admit to the council that you didn't see anything at all. It will be better for all of us, take my word for it."

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>Those who fail to learn from history...

The Church of the Seal is a brutal and violent post-war offshoot of Christianity that barely resembles it's original form in any extent. It's doctrine and theology using terms from the bible without understanding it's context, it would serve one better to disregard any of the original terms, meanings or symbolism if one is to understand Sealish theology.
The central concept of the Church is that the apocalypse laid bare a Seal to hell, and the current state of the world is a result not of that terrifying 'final' war, but the pollution and evil that seeps out from under the Seal itself, and only through rigorous worship, crusades, and the pursuit of purity can mankind begin to rebuild the Seals integrity and bury it once more.
Aside from their confusing origins, one thing is certain, they are zealots to a man. From a young age Soldiers of the Seal are trained in the arts of warfare, torture, and obedience to higher members of the clergy. And in a twisted sense, they are used as a form of currency by priests and folk of higher standing. With the amount of Soldiers under a single persons command serving as a status symbol as gold or wealth would in other societies.
These men and women are traded, used in purchases, and discarded as one would dollar bills, if dollar bills were armed to the teeth and exceedingly violent.

This barbaric practice has stunted the growth of trust and trade with other post-war cultures-and is the primary cause of a recent growth in xenophobic tendencies in Priests of the Seal. Given the surprising size of the Church, this could give way to an expansion in post-war conflicts across America.

>"You taking over for the night?"

>"Yeah. Council wants to talk to you about what you did."

>"They still mad?"

>"Obviously, you know you aren't supposed to go outside the walls, let alone into the forest. And what you say you saw? You really think we're supposed to believe that you saw those things acting like us?"

>"Whatever. I'll see you in the morning."

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I finally got a good look at his stick tonight and I think I can replicate it. Even got a few ideas on how to improve it...

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>To Join the Free Templar Order, the Applicant must first spend a night before each of the Stone Lords, reading the legends and ruminate on their actions. The Emancipator will be the first of many, it will be a long year for the young man, but worth it, if he completes the Pilgrimage of Free-Masonry.

>post apocalyptic cults that worship American icons
I Fucking love that shit.
And I love you, user.

It's such a common theme in post-apocalyptic stories... But I love it so damn much.

The new religion of Abraham, of liberty, justice, freedom, hats and facial hair.

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The Great Wa'shing-Tahn, First Among Equals, the Commander-in-Chief and Father of the Nation.

Honour him before all others, child, even before the Emancipator, for without Wa'shing-Tahn, none of us would be here.

"Karloman, find anything?" Sevri asked, half smiling, and tapping the leg of his companions.
"Asshole", Karloman retorted under his breath, tightening his left hand over his overcoat, the crisp-wasteland air funneling underneath his tattered protection.
"You know - Severi continued, ain't nothing out there for miles, the settlers are all eaten up!"
"Yeah!", Ark yelled, lighting his last cigarette and pointing out over the mountainous desolation. Karly, baby, yo' crazy if you think anyone made it out in this weather last night, Ark pattered on. Their bone's were picked clean, ya feel me?"

Karloman, desperately stared out in the wastes, the silence seeming to mock him. He could hear the faint moans and cries of the beasts who had just finished their bloody feasts before the sun scared them back towards their blackened lairs inside the woods.
"Damn... We were to late." Karloman shook his head. Suddenly a loud tugboat horn sounded from the vehicle behind him, shaking the morning frost from the trees.
Severi, clutched his rifle tighter and spit over the edge of the now alive and warming metal beast.
"Karls, lets book it man, we got other camps to save!"
Karloman, clutched his jacket once more, and said a prayer towards the clouds. Ark puffed a few more smoke rings and tossed the flickering ash into the truck bed.
"Maybe this time we'll get what we came's for...", Ark wondered staring at the glowing cherry.

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