Virgil had never really liked the wastelands, although- as his father before him, and his father's father, and the fathers of old who he had only heard in legends of his own clan... He continued onward as well as he could. The man was a stocky sort, his skin marred with harsh, contrasting color- tattoos of a sort, that layered under his rather thick coat. The entirety of his body was; mostly, wrapped. His eyes showed through the network of scarves and bandannas, his hands were gloved; and the heavy coverings seemed to move with a weight to them that belied their looks. Virgil, it seemed; stood out. Which was good, as it was; he was guiding some sort of beast along with him; and upon the beast? A cart. The cart was obviously meant for trade, as he was- unfortunately, a trader. Not in the flesh of men, or the weapons of many, but in furs. A hunter he was, a survivor of the wastes that truly did his own work in the seclusion of the wilds. And, indeed- even with the evolution of beasts that hunted men for sport. There were those that hunted the hunters. And he did so.<br/><br/>Like most men who traveled the roads, who's very profession was the hunt- he had a weapon. He had an ax, and a knife true. But, there was something that set him apart from many. It was crude, it was rusted and obviously repaired with supplies on hand. Wood carved into loving reliefs with primitive and done by a less than skilled artisan, tin plating that was bubbled from repeated explosive use, metal that wasn't the best for it's construction but did it's job reasonably well. But; he had a gun. Not a powerful rifle by any means, but; the musket itself had been passed from his father's father's father's father to him. As his sire grew weak, and he strong; it was only natural to bequeeth the ancestral weapon to the young man. Who was taught to care for it; to chant and pray to the spirits of the very metals within it for  guidance of his aim. And how to replace parts that deteriorated- how to keep the barrel clean. And, most importantly.<br/><br/>How to craft the mystical black powder to insure that his weapon could fire it's deadly projectiles. This skill alone, with the most holy elements of Salt Peter, Sulfur, and Rust; was an item of utmost importance to his life, his liberty, and most of all. His job.<br/><br/>And he was, for better or worse; one of many men who did such things, hunting; killing... Selling of skins.<br/><br/>But, even as he continued down the road, his beast of burden stopped; snorting loudly as it raised the gnarled, befanged head up from staring at the ground; snorting and pawing with it's rather mishappen forelimbs at the ground. A keening whine was heard as it pawwed and pawwed; digging ruts into the ground. The hunter himself moved around and slowly embraced the blind-beast's head, cooing and coddling it as he stroked the mostly hairless body. The sounds of reassurance and the smell of it's owner calmed the gnashing teeth of the beast itself, the keening whine turning into worried chirps as it was soothed from whatever had spooked it. He only turned toward the bushes; and, not hearing anything- knew that there was a smell that his beast- for that was what it was; it would be best to avoid the conflict. So, with that, he continued on; his hand guiding the beast away from anything that might attack; although- anyone noticing; he was still behind his beast. Relying on a predator to attack his creature first. A good tactic, for those who survived in the wilds.<br/><br/>However, he was already drawing toward the settlement- he, noticed a man. Well, that being said there were plenty of men, but, he noticed a specific man. Steve, had been noticed by the stout, rag and leather covered tradesman hunter, and so; he got a loud greeting from the smallish man, "<b>Hail my friend!</b>", well, it seemed- at least. Virgil was friendly.<br/><br/>He was a Tradesman first and foremost after all, he had to be friendly!<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>