Post by Insano-Man on Sept 24, 2018 7:38:44 GMT -5
This topic is a child of the Big Toe article directory.
THIS PLACE SUCKS
Caught in a maelstrom of rampaging artillery and viscous monsters are the common folk of Set. Stripped to their bare essentials and bunkered down in junk-plated shanty villages, life on the Big Toe is a daily affair of brutality in its most extreme. Building materials are limited, food is scarce, and untainted water is a myth. Support from the Loonies is left to the whimsy of roaming meat monsters, whereas aid from the Cult is never without its strings. Those few hardy enough to survive the hate of the place live in a state somewhere between abject destitution and stone-faced stubbornness.
Towns along the Big Toe are often built out of whatever can be scavenged from warzones and dead meatscapes. Bones, scrap metal, leather, rubber, and things unmentionable are all common materials for clothes and homes. Stone and brick are the few reliable sources of construction supplies. Genuine wood borders on legendary - most make due with substitutes from meaty facsimiles. The villages dotting the mountain are all shantytowns, walled off with old trucks, tanks, and titanic teeth. Each is a monument to grim necessity at its finest.
Settlers and militiamen on Talto are among some of the most hardened survivalists and soldiers on the planet. They compete closely with the Loonies for their resilience and meet eye-to-eye with the Cult for their ruthlessness. They are born into a war with the meat and live their lives under the care of incomparable survivors. They are christened daily in crimson mists, scarred by disease and injury few could ever imagine surviving. They live on the surface, in the open, bloodied airs, weighing their lives in spent ammunition and dead monsters. Few go to Talto willingly. Few have the chance to leave.
In the tainted airs close to the Crimson Expanse, food is both everywhere and nowhere. There is hardly much to be farmed; local plantlife is reclusive, rarely edible, and slow to grow. There is hardly much to be hunted; what little game exists along the slopes of the Big Toe is too small to feed much more than a single man. Instead, the sole source of food for most is the meat, pounded into submission and fried to the cusp of inedibility. For most, only the Cult can provide safe and palatable food - and even those who can prepare their own meals are still dependent on the Cult's supplies.
Water suffers similar difficulties. Closer to the base of the Toe, there is simply no such thing as pure water. Most is in various states of contamination, either by nearby meatscapes or pollutants from bombardment campaigns. Rainfall is typically much the same, tainted by the carmine winds blowing out from the Crimson Expanse. Towns and villages are required to maintain their own water purification facilities or source their water from outside. Looney aid is reliable only near the Big Toe's summit. Cultists are often able to find clean water anywhere.
Despite the Cult's overwhelming resources and willing aid to even the most resilient of towns, few are ready to give themselves over to the carmine faith. The Crimson Expanse is within eyeshot of some towns, visible as tendrils snaking out from the north or as isolated globs of virulent flesh all around. Meat monsters often wear the faces of family, friends, and once-valued Looney protectors. Cultist rituals are known and hated across the mountain. The spread of the meat poisons the land with disease, pain, and depravity. As much as towns are often dependent on Cult supplies, few ever swear their allegiance.
Life steadily improves with altitude. Further up the Big Toe, assistance from Looney bunkers is more reliable and more plentiful. Small, wintry woodlands supply timber and other natural resources in precious quantities. Falling snow is more readily liberated from the blood in the skies. Falling meat is smaller, less frequent, and less likely to survive impact. Towns appear more and more like their relatives on Patzaghd to the south, even to the point of aliens settling the secluded sections of the summit. A rigid, but healthy peace watches over the endless traffic of aircraft and convoys streaming out from the fortresses of Digit Peaks.
THIS PLACE SUCKS
Caught in a maelstrom of rampaging artillery and viscous monsters are the common folk of Set. Stripped to their bare essentials and bunkered down in junk-plated shanty villages, life on the Big Toe is a daily affair of brutality in its most extreme. Building materials are limited, food is scarce, and untainted water is a myth. Support from the Loonies is left to the whimsy of roaming meat monsters, whereas aid from the Cult is never without its strings. Those few hardy enough to survive the hate of the place live in a state somewhere between abject destitution and stone-faced stubbornness.
Towns along the Big Toe are often built out of whatever can be scavenged from warzones and dead meatscapes. Bones, scrap metal, leather, rubber, and things unmentionable are all common materials for clothes and homes. Stone and brick are the few reliable sources of construction supplies. Genuine wood borders on legendary - most make due with substitutes from meaty facsimiles. The villages dotting the mountain are all shantytowns, walled off with old trucks, tanks, and titanic teeth. Each is a monument to grim necessity at its finest.
Settlers and militiamen on Talto are among some of the most hardened survivalists and soldiers on the planet. They compete closely with the Loonies for their resilience and meet eye-to-eye with the Cult for their ruthlessness. They are born into a war with the meat and live their lives under the care of incomparable survivors. They are christened daily in crimson mists, scarred by disease and injury few could ever imagine surviving. They live on the surface, in the open, bloodied airs, weighing their lives in spent ammunition and dead monsters. Few go to Talto willingly. Few have the chance to leave.
In the tainted airs close to the Crimson Expanse, food is both everywhere and nowhere. There is hardly much to be farmed; local plantlife is reclusive, rarely edible, and slow to grow. There is hardly much to be hunted; what little game exists along the slopes of the Big Toe is too small to feed much more than a single man. Instead, the sole source of food for most is the meat, pounded into submission and fried to the cusp of inedibility. For most, only the Cult can provide safe and palatable food - and even those who can prepare their own meals are still dependent on the Cult's supplies.
Water suffers similar difficulties. Closer to the base of the Toe, there is simply no such thing as pure water. Most is in various states of contamination, either by nearby meatscapes or pollutants from bombardment campaigns. Rainfall is typically much the same, tainted by the carmine winds blowing out from the Crimson Expanse. Towns and villages are required to maintain their own water purification facilities or source their water from outside. Looney aid is reliable only near the Big Toe's summit. Cultists are often able to find clean water anywhere.
Despite the Cult's overwhelming resources and willing aid to even the most resilient of towns, few are ready to give themselves over to the carmine faith. The Crimson Expanse is within eyeshot of some towns, visible as tendrils snaking out from the north or as isolated globs of virulent flesh all around. Meat monsters often wear the faces of family, friends, and once-valued Looney protectors. Cultist rituals are known and hated across the mountain. The spread of the meat poisons the land with disease, pain, and depravity. As much as towns are often dependent on Cult supplies, few ever swear their allegiance.
Life steadily improves with altitude. Further up the Big Toe, assistance from Looney bunkers is more reliable and more plentiful. Small, wintry woodlands supply timber and other natural resources in precious quantities. Falling snow is more readily liberated from the blood in the skies. Falling meat is smaller, less frequent, and less likely to survive impact. Towns appear more and more like their relatives on Patzaghd to the south, even to the point of aliens settling the secluded sections of the summit. A rigid, but healthy peace watches over the endless traffic of aircraft and convoys streaming out from the fortresses of Digit Peaks.
