The Fjury Road

[eumenis]

Furiosa's ambition is not like a normal person's. In the Wasteland, survival is base mode; any ambition beyond that tends to be to gather power, hoard stores of supplies, or maybe, if you're a madman like Joe, to breed infants to rebuild the world in your own image. Furiosa is pretty indifferent to her own image, but she does want to rebuild the world.

They've spent the last several months traveling back and forth to and from the swamp where the Green Place once was, setting out reeds to filter the water, building structures, coaxing insects to return. The physical progress is slow going, but they've made solid alliances amongst the Crow Fishers. Which is why, when they hear that an unfamiliar group of slavers has snatched several of them, Furiosa immediately rallies a war party to chase them down.

The Crows are, after all, a lost remnant of the Vuvalini. They're her kin.

The War Party moves fast, worried about the head start their quarry must have--any slavers with half a brain will be headed away from the Citadel at breakneck speed. It's well known that they don't tolerate such things since Joe's fall.

It's a surprise when they start to catch up. More so when they realize the raiding party is stalled in the road ahead of them.

Comments

[mayberaven]

"Definitely not too proud to turn my nose up at luck. Honestly first day or so I thought this place was some sort of new dream. Sharing space with a giant pool of molten metal, seems reasonable to assume that'll turn dreams to a pretty dry desert but clearly it's not that at this point," Fjord hummed with a wry chuckle as he went rummaging through his beat-to-hell pack, coming out with some wax paper-wrapped jerky that he ripped in three, holding two chunks out in a hand towards Furiosa and Gale in quiet invitation as he bit into the third. Taking a moment to chew thoughtfully. "If this Nexus has a gate back home, I'll count this as extra lucky. If not, well... I suppose we'll have to get creative trying to figure out how to make contact, let alone getting me back where I should be."

"Also, if you see an orange tabby cat, try and pass around to your people not to kill it- one of my companions has a familiar, Frumpkin, that he can sometimes manage to send to other planes, it's possible he might use the cat to try and scout out where I ended up. Can't do that if he's stuck resurrecting the little hairball though." Fjord didn't mind Frumpkin, but had to play at annoyance with how allergic he was. Seems like cat dander was the same whether the cat was normal or fey.

[eumenis]

"A giant pool of molten metal?" Therein definitely lies a tale, Furiosa is convinced. "That sounds risky as hell."

Both women blink at the offer of food, clearly surprised by the generosity, but they both accept, and don't ask what kind of meat it is, nibbling at it trustingly. "Boys're making bean mash and sorghum," Furiosa tells him with a smile. "You'll get a share when it's ready. But thanks."

"No worries about the cat," Gale says. "They're in high demand with us. Keep pests out of the granaries. We've only got a dozen now, no one's going to kill and eat one. Might try to catch it to keep, is all."

And that, of course, begs a few explanations regarding just how bleak and dangerous a world Fjord has fallen into. Gale and the War Boys come and go with food and drink, but Furiosa sits with him and talks about the Wasteland, the Road War, and her quest to revive the Green Place. With no real magic to speak of and just basic, practical landforming techniques, it's hugely ambitious, but then so was the plan to defeat Immortan Joe, and it panned out quite well.

Salvage is gathered in time, and after a night at camp, the caravan turns. Fjord is invited to ride in the Rig with Furiosa, and he's welcome to sit in the cab with her, but the War Boys are also friendly and willing to teach him to perch on the back of the moving vehicle as they go. Handholds there are small, except for next to the guns and the crane arms, but they're careful not to let him fall.

The swamp that was once the Green Place is eerie. The Crows are a strange people; they speak in hoarse whispers and watch the skies obsessively for prey, but it's very obvious they're grateful to him for his intervention on their behalf. Before the caravan leaves for the Citadel, he's given a bracelet of braided leather with feathers and bone woven between the strands.

[mayberaven]

"Not as risky as you'd think. There's a family of dwarves that live there, the Dust clan. They call it the Underforge of the Wildmother, the whole thing is tucked into Kravaraad which is a pretty intimidating looking volcano to tell the truth. But even in the rooms you could still feel the heat of it." Them trying to catch Frumpkin was no worry- the cat would simply vanish from whatever hands or snare caught him, back to he assumed the Feywild until Caleb summoned him again.

He's glad that things seem to be continuing in a peaceful vein, happy to help pack up salvage- while he might not know what they'd find useful to pick from the rest, he can still carry things where they need to go, help with setting up and breaking down camp. It's not just to make friends, though he's glad to see that if anyone looks askance at his eye color, his skin or ears, they don't seem to pay it much mind beyond that initial glance, are willing enough to welcome him.

Fjord accepts the gratitude of the Crows, looking almost a bit uncertain about the idea but clearly glad that their people weren't harmed more than could have been. That they're reunited. The bracelet is gingerly wrapped around a wrist before they leave, the half-orc musing over the faint prickle of a breeze that wafts through, though he sees no sign of it in the area around them, no ripple of shallow puddles, no ruffle of threadbare fabrics.

He appreciates Furiosa's invitation to ride in the cab, but he feels much more at home now that he understands the idea of the vehicles better, riding on the back with the War Boys. Keeping a grip reminds him in some ways of scrabbling around on a ship, up the mast or in the rigging, or maybe along the side dangling from a rope to help with repairs. Enough so that he takes to the method of hanging on easily, doesn't seem to be in danger of falling.

The sun was high, the sky was a familiar, starkly searing sort of blue overhead, and while the Rig was strange, the blast of wind as they got to a good clip reminded him of those days when he was just another sailor, with no notion of anything more dangerous than another jaunt over the horizon to look forward to.

And the shanty that came to mind was fitting enough, so with a playful grin to the War Boys he was set up with he started singing a easy enough, lighthearted sort of tune that would be easy enough for the others to pick up along with him.