Valuable Commodities [Trading Post]

[Mathias Torbjørn]

Trading Post

On the edge of the Wastes lies a sprawling encampment of scraggly shanties and windblown tents where each day, hundreds gather for the purpose of exchange and trade. Laid out on blankets and old towels, soggy boxes are filled to the brim with items found while scavenging the great unknown; canned food, old magazines and news papers, toys, clothes, and, if you know where to look and who to talk to, weapons and ammunition, all of it assured to be grade 'A' and in perfect working condition. Between the dented consumables and sturdy combustibles, you're sure to have plenty to look at.

But the most valuable commodity available is, by far, information.

Shady salesmen who deal in the whispering of rumors keep heavy stacks of charred passports and birth certificates, photos and dog tags, all easily available to you. For a trade, of course. Information comes at a hefty price, but if you can afford it, you might be able to track down a scrap of someone important or, if you're really lucky and have enough on you, you might just be able to find out if that someone is alive or dead. Chose your dealer with care, however. You never know who has the real intelligence and who is simply trying to swindle you out of that lovely antique wedding ring you're carrying.

But it's not just the dealers that you must be wary of. The patrons of this dusty market are as shifty and untrustworthy as the cashiers who take their money and there isn't a single one who would hesitate to stab you in the back if it meant that they got that last can of tomato soup before you do. Violence is common and fights break out by every stall over ever reason imaginable. The people here are desperate and, as they say, desperate times call for desperate measures, which, now and then, means bashing in the head of a complete stranger.

But don't let that scare you away. Who knows? If you can make it through the gates with a dollar in your pocket, you might just find what you need.

Welcome to the trading post.

[Mathias Torbjørn]

If Mathias were to choose one place in this forsaken wasteland that he hated the most, it would be the trading post.

Not because the deals are shady or because the salesmen are slimy, or even the scorching heat that always beats down through the dust and pollution. He can put up with the heat and the jostling of harried, stinking customers. He's been putting up with it for years now. It's the desperation that gets him. Every time he comes back to the stuffy ring of tents and shacks, all it does is remind him of how pathetically low humanity has sunk, watching passively as men beat each other to death over tent poles and sunhats and children fight and scratch at each other when one manages to grasp a box of melted crayons just a little quicker than the other.

Is sickens him.

But for as much as he hates this place, he needs it. He relies on the traders on the East end for bullets and candles and the filters for his mask, but he only needs to replenish those once every two weeks or more. It's the shaded tents on the South end that bring him back several times a week. The men in those tents have information and keep tabs on thousands of people within the Wastes and for an exchange of goods, will always have a new spot to mark on his map where they may have heard a rumor or two regarding the people he's looking for. Most of the time, he knows it's a load of garbage, but beyond aimless wandering, it's the best thing he's got to keep himself motivated.

He's already made his trades for the day; a rusty kerosene stove for a new pair of boots in a size too small and handful of silver jewelry for two new circles on his map. He drops himself down on one of the few benches that still has four legs and pulls his mask down enough to wipe the sweat off of his chin while he carefully unfolds the map. The first mark is about a days worth of travel away while the other will take at least a week. He sighs, frustrated, and starts to tuck it back away, but a hot gust of wind suddenly bursts through the stalls, ripping it out of his hands and sending it flitting into the crowds.

"Shit...!" He bolts from the bench and begins to chase after it, pushing people out of his way.

He can't lose that map.

[Nils Larssen]

Though getting the comadaties was certainly a major part of a trader's life, actually trading and making money was even more important. Though there were no trading posts in the long abandoned Norway, a bit further south was a rather large trading post, the center of trade in Northern Europe, really. Though their newest slave had yet to awaken, or even stirr, the raiders were quiet certain the boy would fetch a good price. They'd been certain to keep him clean, keep him as pale and free of contamination as they had found him. Everyone wanted something clean these days.

They entered the trading post, now pulling Nils on a cart. They'd left the sleigh in the snow a ways back. A few other slaves were nestled in the cart along side him. They huddled together and paid no mind to the sleeping young man. Nils wasn't going ot help them escape, and as such was no use to any of them.

As the raiders headed for the slave trading area, a strange piece of paper difted by them....

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