OOC: No, the Inn isn't where Rip was headed, he went to the entrance of town, where the caravans would be stored, or maybe the caravan office. Although in-game the town had no Inns, per se, they'd probably be on the East side of town, the Residential, so that would be in the opposite direction. But for the sake of consistency (and because I hadn't bothered with this aspect of Rip's mythology) I imagine that the rumor mill WOULD have traveled to the Inn.
"Ace High!" The man chuckled to himself, and reached for the money pile at the center of the table. A hand slammed down onto his, stopping him.
"Are you fuckin' dumb? 'Ace High?' That shit's worthless!"
"Look, that's not how you win at Poker, ya idjit. You need a PAIR of cards, or a streak. Not some damn Ace..."
A series of boisterous taunts and jeers bounced back and forth around the table. Laughter seemed to uncharacteristically fill the somewhat empty room at the inn. This was the "Old End" of Broken Hills, the residential side of town, comprised largely by its aging and increasingly senile mutant and ghoul population. The occasional traveler or new-hire caravan guard that had no place in town, and some of the off destitutes would also migrate to this end of town, and spend as many nights as they could afford at the makeshift Inn. But Broken Hills wasn't a sightseeing stop, nor was it a trading hub sort of community. Miners, men building trades off of miners, and the families didn't leave much room for a budding travel trade. As such, the Inn wasn't known for being lively, or full, at any given time. But tonight made for a particularly rare exception; likely the result of certain characters who'd previously moseyed into the town. Characters with a reputation shrouded in more myth than fact, and that resulted in a congregation of the town's residents gathering to share their stories they had heard.
"You see the man that went into Phil's not an hour ago?"
"No, but I heard about him. I mean, heard about the man... Not sure if it's HIM, a'course."
"Who?" A man not-in-the-know inquired.
"That man who walked in. Sort of a big guy- not tall, just... big -walks around covered from head to toe in jackets and armor."
"And guns all laced with bullet belts too?" someone interrupted.
"Would you shut up? I'M tellin the story, ya fuckin nitwit." The hushed man slid into his seat, and the speaker continued. "No, no guns. Never any guns. Just lot'sa..... clothes."
"So what about him?" A somewhat drunk man inquired.
"Well he sounds like a famous Merc I heard of... Man name o' Rip, they call him. Supposed to be one mean sunabitch, too..." He cracked a grin after his comment, likely in response to his cards, not his tale. Men with poker faces these were not.
"Mean ain't bout to cover it! I heard he came out from East, and single-handed settled all the faction wars out there. All them raider, beasties, and techno-crazies... Was all HIM who took care of 'em!"
"Na, I heard that was just some war. Men with the best guns and armor won- that's that! But this Rip fella... Way I heard it, he's one of them scary fellas. The ones survived that blast... Uh, what they called again?"
"Enclave?" The hiding man threw out.
"Yeah, them! I hear that Rip Merc's a survivor of the Enclave- and I'm not talkin' some guy who just abandons one of their mainland bases... I mean he was IN the big ol' send-off AND LIVED!!!"
"Buuuuullshiiiiiiit..."
"I'm telling you, it's the truth! He survived that nuclear bang, and that's what's all the armor for. He grew up wearin them towerin, hulkin sets o' mechanized armor, and he can't live without it!"
"Na, that really is a piece of brahmin, genuine, good-for-nothing-but-shoveling, shit. I mean, reputation aside, did you actually ever HEAR about the stuff he's done? Lotta contract killing, yeah, but he's rescued his fair share of damsels, if I recall. But the stories of them Enclave are all nightmares. Nothing but the most evil of men, who see all of us as mutant filth fit for extinction. Quite the opposite of our little community, basically!" A couple blank stares and the man attempted to summarize his point, "What I'm saying is, there's NO WAY a man like that ever came from the Enclave."
"Well sure. That's cause he's Brotherhood!" A round of sighs and lamented grumbles passed through the room at the word. "Now, hear me out! I know most people's tired of hearin about them..."
"Good, so you know you should shut up!"
"I mean it, though. THAT'S why you only hear about him, because he knows not to talk about himself! He knows people ain't the most fond of Brotherhood, so he keeps quiet about it!"
A momentary silence filled the room briefly. Perhaps the stories had to pause to give their tellers a chance to digest the latest revelation. Some men nodded in response, considering it a definite possibility, while others merely twisted their faces in disagreement the more they pondered the idea. Despite the standing of full citizenship of the New California Republic, the Brotherhood of Steel was a bizarre organization whose reputation earned them much disdain from outsiders. Within the Republic, they were an accepted branch, but outside of it they were largely met with wary glances at best and absolute antipathy on the other end of the spectrum.
"Or..." Someone finally broke the silence, and opined, "You only ever 'hear about' him because YOU never MET him!" Once more the Inn was flush with laughter.
"The way I've heard it, you're all wrong. He's not Brotherhood, or Enclave, or Tribal, or magical, or NCR. He's a ghoul!"
"Oh shut it, Sammy!"
"Man'll try to find ANY excuse to say someone's a ghoul..."
"Hey, how's the wife, Sammy? You like em squishy?"
"Actually, he's got a point. And my wife ain't a ghoul, so I'm not just saying this. But I heard that Rip guy really IS a ghoul, which makes a lotta sense. I mean, just think about it! We know many ghouls here in town, right?" The empty 'No shit' stares answering the obvious, the man went on. "Well there's 2 kinds of ghouls, the way I see it. There's the ones that are slowly going mad in the head. Old age getting to them, I suppose. And the rest are major badasses, cause they'd lived through hundreds of years and they know how to survive! Makes sense if that Rip guy's a ghoul. I mean, why else would he be covering himself up? So he could escape all the prejudice when he enters less-tolerant towns than ours! How else have we been hearing so much about him, all these years? Cause he's been alive for so long!"
"Only problem I see with your theory... is where do half the ghouls here in Broken Hills fit into your '2 kinds'? We got some aging ones, sure. But what about Phil? Or Brian? Shit, even Eric? They ain't exactly badasses, but they aren't losin it in the head, neither!"
"I'll do you one better." A quiet man offered, who until now gave no tales of his own and merely heard all the rest. "How do you KNOW these rumors have been around for years? How long have you known about him? Talked about him? Do you even remember?"
Contemplative silence once more filled the room. For as pervasive as the enigmatic Rip's stories were, no one ever really recalled the first they'd heard of his exploits. Just like deja vu, the feeling that he had existed in their memories for so many years could have been just that, a feeling, a wayward memory, and nothing more. Yet the man surely existed, and whether they were one and the same, someone who fit his description exactly had certainly just come and gone from the bar down the street. A few dozen caravan guards with sore arms and bruised egos could testify to that fact. Where did the mystery end and the truth begin?
"Ace and King high!"
The Inn once more erupted in mocking laughter, until a distinct figure stepped through the door, his limp ever thinly disguised, and it quieted down completely.
