The New Adventures Of The Silver Shroud!

Chapter 2:

The Silver Shroud in: The Path Of The Venerator!

One 9mm SMG, 30 round capacity with 2 additional magazines, one 9mm pistol, 12 round capacity with 1 additional magazine, two fragmentation grenades, a rusty machete and 2 stimpaks encompassed the entirety of Marcussens' possessions. He didn't even have access to his Legionary armor as the added protection wouldn't do him any good if he was recognized as one of Caesar's men; so he ditched the armor only keeping some of the scraps of cloth to disguise himself as any other wastelander. Looking down at the now empty stash he takes a moment to muse on its purpose, for a long time now he had imagined his luck would run out and would need to make a quick get away, so despite the Legion's rules on personal property and acceptable weapons to be used in warfare, Marcussen buried this stash a little bit aways from camp as a last stitch effort for survival.

In addition to the contraband, was a single duster coat he'd kept hidden from the likes of Vulpes, the last remnant of his identity as a Road Reaver tribesman. It wasn't a grand duster like you'd imagine a gunslinger to have, it was worn to all hell and weathered so bad that the leather was frayed throughout the coat, something Marcussen thought impossible until it happened. The damage done to the coat had permanently recolored the garb to match the harsh unforgiving deserts of the wasteland, a wasteland Marcussen thought he would be leaving behind by joining the Legion. And yet… Here he is, preparing to walk it, one more time.

Setting off on his journey his only form of direction came from a compass which he hadn't used in the last 10 years. While the Legion had access to old world maps and much more decent navigational tools, none of it was spared to aid the ghoul as the munitions quartermasters knew they would not be getting them back. Nevertheless, Marcussen knew the price of failure and wasn't willing to pay it; he set off, hoping that the compass still pointed true as he headed toward the North-Western most point of Arizona.

The path to the border came with the usual hazards, radscorpions, cazadors and the occasional gecko, nothing Marcussen wasn't used to, these creatures didn't seem to care whether he was still human or a monster, they still tried to eat him all the same. There were however a few exceptions to the monotony of the creature roulette the wasteland offered, and they came in the form of other people. His first encounter came as he passed around a sand dune, in the distance he'd seen two vaguely human figures which were made wavy by the heat on the horizon. He considered for a moment ducking behind the dune, waiting for the two to pass his way in a few hours, but if he'd seen them there was a good chance they'd seen him too and even though his intentions were noble, there would be no way to rationalize the action as anything other than an ambush.

With no other option available to him, the ghoul started walking toward the figures trying his best to hold back the floodgates of intrusive thoughts about the pair's intentions. Every step closer to the figures reveals more about them and raises more questions, Marcussen does his best during this time to remain non-offensive to the potential menace in front of him all while gripping his sub-machine gun tightly with malicious intent. Getting closer now, he can make out that the pair have a stature that indicates a man on the right and a woman or child on the left, and undeniably they're fully aware of his own presence as well; a sudden movement from the man looking over his shoulder for potential danger sparks a dangerous flinch from Marcussen himself, nearly raising his firearm and praying for victory, but the ghoul catches himself before making a dire mistake. The feeling of claustrophobia is unbearable now despite the large expanse of the wasteland, both parties now close enough that they can smell each other, Marcussen feels a momentary distraction as he recognizes the scent of sulfur emanating from the woman. His attention is demanded again by the distinct sound of the clink of a chain, daring not to look directly at the pair, he relies on the info he can garner from the corner of his eye. Through the rags the woman was wearing and the occasional hand the seeks to alleviate the pain that seemed to stem from her neck, Marcussen came to realize that she may not have been with this man of her own will and the bond they share is only as strong as the chain connected to her slave collar.

As Marcussen passed the pair, the thought crossed his mind to turn back and turn the slaver into food for the creatures that may end up eating him later, liberating the woman from her bonds standing triumphant as the hero he pretended to be as an actor. Just as quickly as the thought came it left him, as he remembered to whom he swore loyalty to, and the odds are more than likely that this occurrence and the place he'd just left had deeper connections than would be outwardly apparent. To grant liberation here would possibly bring condemnation upon himself later, but these excuses are an ill anodyne for his guilt and unyielding shame of inaction. He carried on, daring not to look back, knowing even curiosity might invoke a challenge from the slaver, and eventually the pair were as distant to him as he was to his own freedom.

Not all interactions on the road were so tense however, in his travels to the Legion territories' border he'd come across a traveling merchant complete with a Brahmin packed with wares. The closer he'd got to the trader the more he found himself astounded that there were no caravan guards, no securitrons, not even any cutthroat mercenaries accompanying the lone caravaneer. He only stopped approaching the trader about ten paces from him, still he'd gone unnoticed, though he suspected this was more due to the trader's naivete rather than his own clandestine skill. The trader, still with his back turned to the ghoul began to step backwards, seemingly trying to get a better look at the lockbox he was investigating, his drive to get more perspective on the object in question led him to back up until his large backpack made physical contact with the ghoul. The loud shriek produced by the merchant was uncharacteristic of any man, woman or even child capable of surviving the wasteland, and the bumbling trader spun around so fast that the momentum of his goods-stuffed backpack sent him hurdling to the ground. While the trader groaned about falling on his gun, Marcussen approached slowly while trying and failing to contain his laughter, when he'd reached a position standing over the downtrodden soul.

Suddenly the trader regained the sensation of fear and unholstered a sawed off shotgun to defend himself, but in the same motion he took to point it at the ghoul, Marcussen had already reached for it and snatched it from the trader effortlessly. After removing the ammunition from the weapon, Marcussen made assurances to the trader that he wouldn't do him any harm and picked him up off the ground before returning his firearm and ammunition. The trader apologized, claiming he'd thought he'd bumped into a dirty feral but now he knows that this ghoul before him is 'one of the good ones', a backhanded compliment which stung more than an insult would have. Trying his best not to take offense, Marcussen changed the subject, asking where the trader came from and where he was going, a question any decent self-respecting merchant wouldn't answer so naturally the trader spilled the beans. He said he came from Nevada, he'd heard a tip that the rates were better in Arizona so he made his way here, said the road was a lot more barren than he'd been expecting and only came across one town since he crossed the border, but the place reeked so bad he couldn't stay; Marcussen asked if he knew what the smell was or if he could relate it to something, but the trader said he didn't know.

When it came the traders' turn to ask things about Marcussen, he'd seemingly run out of things to say and the conversation quickly spiraled into mundane conversation about their mutual hatred of cazadors. Eventually the pair had decided to trade some merchandise as well as words, leaving Marcussen with a slightly outdated Map, a pair of sunglasses, and the trader with 5 caps. In his younger years the ghoul would have beaten the trader to a pulp with his own sawed off shotgun as to not waste any ammo, take what loot he could carry from the brahmin before slitting its throat and enjoying steak for the next few nights; but he wasn't a Road Reaver anymore, and his taste for ruthlessness had become as weathered as the duster on his back.

His travels had taken him so far he'd forgotten to count the miles he'd walked, concerning himself more so with procuring food, the distance is made more harrowing when it lacks the natural sound of edible critters. Many times throughout his journey he encountered long stretches of horrifying silence with only the growl of his stomach to keep him company. For a ghoul hunger works differently, eating food is the best way to stave off hunger, but Marcussen had heard tales of ghouls surviving for years without food instead surviving on the healing glow of toxic radiation. It was also his experience that increased radiation exposure is the second quickest way to turn feral right behind wonder-dreams and followed by starvation; he found it terribly ironic that sanity was reliant on a twisted balancing act of a proper diet of food, self-care and horrid radiation exposure.

After so much walking he was bound to come across civilization eventually, and that he did in the form of a distant town built into what he'd recognized as a mine. Marcussen was familiar with this place even though he'd never been himself, and while his rations were running thin, the character of the place as described by the trader and demonstrated by the slave girl were all the signs he needed to know he should steer clear. He continued on the path, not paying the town any more mind.

The border to Nevada was a pitiful sight even from a distance with only a single pillbox bunker and some barbed wire in a sloppy line to funnel in traffic. This outpost at the height of its efficacy housed 23 NCR troopers complete with a minigun and a more aggressive team on standby to be called in via radio, today the outpost is guarded by 5 NCR recruits who have more experience charging the sulfur caravans a "border tax" than actual combat experience. These 5 troopers represent the maximum amount of manpower the NCR can afford to spare on maximum alert, and for Marcussen are an indication of the greater NCR's attitude as a whole.

He wasn't hoping to sneak past the barricade, but he still found himself surprised at how close he'd gotten before the guards noticed his presence. A thin trooper with a service rifle slumped over his shoulder raises his hand to signal for an audience, to his right, a stout guard loosely brandishes a 9mm pistol and pretends to know how to properly clean the weapon. Marcussen obliges, approaching closer he sees a younger trooper fresh from training eye him closely from the entrance of the pillbox bunker, two other voices, one ghoul and one woman, can be heard enjoying a card game from inside the small bunker.

"Howdy mister." the thin guard says, giving a tip of the hat to Marcussen.

"Yep." Marcussen retorted plainly, looking away as to not show his disdain for the lackluster soldiers.

"Where you coming from, sir?" the thin guard asks,

When Marcussen turns to look at the guards in front of him, he fixates on the stout guard for a moment until the guard looks away. Pivoting his gaze back to the thin guard he says, "Where you think I come from?"

"S-Sulfur town?" the thin guard posited, completely unsure of the answer.

"That's right." Marcussen replied, effortlessly lying through his teeth.

"Of course he came from Sulfur town you ejiet!" the stout guard says, holstering his 9mm.

"Well he could have come from further East!" the thin guard replied.

A brief pause ensues, the stout guard taking a moment to collect himself, using his palm to reorganize his thoughts through his forehead.

"He's a ghoul!" the stout guard exclaimed, causing a seeming wash of realization through the thin guard's face.

"B-but he sounds like a normal person!" the thin guard said, thinking it explained his actions.

"I am so sorry sir for my colleagues ejieacy." the stout guard said, "We out here looking for Ceezars dogs."

"Hmm, catch any yet?" Marcussen asked.

"Naw, heard they was going fer the Hoover Dam" the stout guard replied before the thin guard instantly nudged him to stop revealing sensitive classified information.

"Well that's good to know we've got the NCR's finest protecting us…" Marcussen said with a sarcasm the troopers failed to pick up on.

"O-of course!" the thin guard said, "F-for a s-small fee of course…" he said hand outstretched.

Oh right… the border tax. He wondered how much of this would actually be going back to California as he forked over the absurd 20 caps they asked him for. He takes this moment to glance over to the newest recruit that was so green to this thing he was practically glowing. Marcussen has seen the type before, they think they're eager to get a taste for combat, but they're the ones who suffer the most trauma.

"Well gentleman, I must be on my way." Marcussen stated, attempting to circumvent the duo,

"Just a moment," the thin guard said, stopping the ghoul with a gentle hand, "there's just one more thing we gotta ask you."

The mood shifts as both troopers straighten up, looking almost as if they could make it as NCR rangers, and Marcussen himself can't help but feel tense.

The thin guard continues in a grave tone, "You wouldn't happen to have seen any Legion spies out here would you?"

Marcussen glared at the thin guard, letting out his own menacing response, "And if I was myself a Legion spy? What are you gonna do about it?"

The two guards step back, looking to each other for guidance, the stout guard says, "W-woah relax feller, we were just kidding!"

A moment of unrelenting tension passes as the trio stand at odds, broken when Marcussen grins and says, "Got ya."

Marcussen starts to chuckle, which infects the two troopers before him and very soon the trio began to erupt into laughter together.

"Boy! You had us good!" The thin man says,

"I did, didn't I?" Marcussen replies,

"We, didn't a know if yer serious!" The stout man says through heaving laughter,

"Yeah, should've pulled your weapons though." Marcussen says unveiling the 9mm SMG behind his coat,

The automatic weapon unloads it's payload quickly, in a single second ridling the thin guard with half of the magazines' content.

"H- holy sh-" the stout man yelled attempting to unholster his 9mm pistol,

It was too easy for Marcussen, as the stout guard began to point his weapon, the ghoul grabbed the weapon hands' wrist, directing the barrel of the gun away from himself as the stout guard fires 2 shots, he holds down the trigger of the SMG pointed at the stout guards chest until he hears the familiar click of an empty weapon.

Turning towards the bunker now as he sees the fear of death in the young guards' eyes, instantly forgetting his training in favor of survival, the kid turns to run back into the safety of the pillbox bunker. Marcussen drops the empty mag, shoving in a new one, and firing another half-mag at the retreating trooper, dinging him in the calf.

As he strides over to the bunker he hears muffled panicked voices inside as they try to quickly figure out what's happening. Arriving at the door he remembers hearing three voices in the direction of the bunker, but only hears two panicking, he registers the anomaly in a split second and ducks out of the way of the hellfire that can only be produced by a minigun. Ducking behind the blind spot of the bunkers' open slit, Marcussen checks himself for wounds, as he hears the gun cease fire he hears a woman's voice.

"GET OUT THERE YOU FUCKING PANSIES!" She booms at the other occupants of the bunker,

Using the moment of levity and not wanting the combatants to regroup, marcussen stands up and shouts,

"HEY ASSHOLES, YOU FORGOT YOUR GRATUITY!" Activating a fragmentation grenade and throwing it through the bunker slit, he's already turning to walk as he hears the panic sounds of denial coming from all denizens of the bunker up until a single loud burst renders silence dominant once more.

He wastes no time in rifling through the thin guards's possessions, recovering his 50 caps and taking from him a stimpak and his service rifle which seemingly was never fired. Pivoting over to the stout man, Marcussen starts to chuckle as he realizes the 9mm pistol had jammed after the second shot, some cleaning job. Going through the troopers' belongings he doesn't filch much, but does manage to find a weathered gold locket, probably taken as tax payment from one of the sulfur convoys. In this day and age it wasn't worth much but the ghoul might get a few caps from it.

Standing up and checking that all his accouterments were secured, he turned to continue into Nevada when he saw a shimmer in the distance, a flash that seemed to originate from the vestiges of a lone figure in a fine garb. He took a step closer in order to glean any more insight into the nature of this figure when a sharp scream originating from the bunker forced his attention. A brief bolt of shock takes over the ghoul and it lasts only a moment having come from surprise rather than fear, he is regrettably fully aware of the nature of the vocalization, as he recognizes it as the confused cries of a shell-shocked soldier.

Marcussen considered leaving in that moment, whomever was making those desperate cries would bleed out eventually and it wasn't really his problem to deal with, but as he'd attempted to leave the place behind, a force of conscience compelled him to turn back towards the bunker. As he got closer to the bunker it became very apparent that the voice in distress belonged to the youngest of these troopers, the realization almost made Marcussen relapse on the decision to approach, still he carried on. At the entryway of the bunker the reek of death had already began to manifest slowly overtaking the smell of burnt munitions, the ghoul dreaded what awaited him within, another bellow for help seemingly jolts Marcussen forward into the doorway and around the corner into the only room the pillbox bunker had. Gruesome does not begin to describe the sight of the various body parts, entrails and gore which now painted the room, in a wide open area a fragmentation grenade was an effective weapon, in this small enclosed area it was nothing short of an art brush.

He quietly surveyed the scene trying to identify any of the occupants, he was sure there was a woman who took a couple shots at him, but the absolute carnage of the situation denies any ideas of this bunker ever being habitable. Taking his first step inside the bloody mess he feels a droplet hit his shoulder and splatter over his face, quickly stepping aside he looks up to see the remnants of a blonde haired scalp attached to the ceiling, confirming in his mind that it was indeed a woman who shot at him. As his senses start to return to him he hears the whimpers from the far wall, even with this being the only sound aside from the infrequent dripping he has trouble making out the source of the sound amidst the portrait of gore. He locates the source instantly as a specific section moves with a snapping sound akin to bark being torn off a tree, a melted torso is seemingly pried off of the wall revealing the young trooper terrified and confused, trying to make sense of the situation.

Marcussen looks over the sight of the two bodies glued to the wall, from what it looks like the owner of the ghoulish voice he'd heard earlier dove in front of the boy shielding him from the blast and saving his life, this did very little however for the boy's legs, which had become indistinguishable from ground beef. He takes a moment to stare at what remained of the ghoul and felt overcome with a variety of emotion both condemning and venerating the actions of the carcass, but more than anything he reflected on the pointlessness of it all. The boy finally noticed Marcussen and let out a howl of shock at the dark figure standing before him, thinking him to be some sort of dark specter or the reaper come for him. The sudden movement of the boy revealed the wounds he suffered were much more grievous than initially thought, he'd lost an arm below the elbow and his back seemed to be seared into the wall.

Kneeling now, Marcussen attempted to comfort the boy in his final moments but seeing what he's become he couldn't bear to look at him, furthermore with most of his wounds being cauterized it would be an incredibly slow and painful death. With this in mind, Marcussen elected to hasten the boy's death and began to draw his 10mm pistol; he stopped when the boy saw him do this and screamed out for mercy, he then reached out to cover the boy's eyes with one hand and attempted the procedure again, hovering the muzzle of the gun over the trooper's chest cavity.

"Go in peace." Marcussen said as he pulled the trigger.

Click.

The gun refused to fire, the weeks he'd spent on the road with the hard conditions and sandstorms had taken its toll on his weaponry, and the same criticisms he'd judged the NCR for had come back to bite him. Hearing the false discharge, the boy began to struggle forcing Marcussen to step back and drop the gun, in a panic he draws his machete and plunges it into the boy's chest all the while whispering worthless excuses to himself. He tries to look away as the light leaves the boy's eyes but he can't; when the light does fully fade and the corpse sits inanimate, Marcussen stands up and attempts to step back, stepping on a loose limb and causing him to fall onto his back.

Covered in gore, the ghoul begins to panic, rising to his feet he stumbles out of the bunker falling to his hands and knees and emptying his stomach on the ground outside the bunker. He spends a minute heaving into the ground before remembering that he'd forgotten his 10mm and his machete inside the bunker. On his feet again he turns to face the bunker, looking on with horror into the abyss of the scene his courage fails him and he refuses to enter again. He carried on the path, leaving his weapons as tribute to the carnage.

The mess that the ghoul left behind was not a mindless act of thuggery, to cause such chaos here would attract NCR attention to the region and divert it from elsewhere, specifically from areas where the Legion actually was. For most combatants this may have been a poor idea and would only succeed in drawing more attention to themselves, but the NCR seemingly has the idea that a ghoul couldn't possibly be aligned with the Legion, and it was this exact line of thinking that allowed Marcussen to walk through Nevada unfettered.

Marcussen prided himself on his scouting ability, throughout his time traveling through the sporadic towns that littered Northern Nevada he'd only been seen when he wished to be and only revealed himself to trade food to settlers who had gotten far too comfortable in contrast to what is coming to their lands. He found it unsurprising that many of these towns he visited had not too grand an opinion of the NCR which governed the region, they didn't care much for the laws they had made and the taxation… don't get a brahmin rancher started on his feelings about taxation.

Of course not everyone has to agree with these ideas as long as they can be enforced by a strong government, unfortunately the NCR is not strong and unified enough to properly accommodate them.

Still, the hidden ghoul found it odd how similar the general populaces' attitudes are compared to those of the Legion; of course the morals are completely different but both sides strive for the security that comes with sacrifice. Through his very brief encounters with the locals that enjoyed the presence of the NCR, the amount some were willing to give to support their government could rival the conviction needed to attain the rank of Centurion. Much like kinks in an armor however, those that reject the NCR ensure they will never truly reign supreme in these parts.

Marcussen had traveled fast, his years spent wandering had turned him into a man who cared little for fleeting comfort and was more than capable of recognizing the danger that follows the moment one allows that comfort in. He skirted across the wasteland, making sure to keep the Mojave firmly Southwest of him, to venture too far into that territory is to provoke needless hardship and if the winds move faster than anticipated he might find himself neck deep in a damn warzone.

He knew that the path ahead would need a bit of strategic planning, Route 127 is by far the fastest way to get from Nevada to California, but it was no option to Marcussen. Strange reports he read before undertaking the journey suggested that a community he'd known of long ago named The Divide had suffered some kind of… event; storms which could have proved deadly to the unprepared now raged as if spurned by Dark Gods, winds so violent that they flay men in seconds, ground which refuses to submit to man instead it cracks and twists and hates. There is no path ahead through The New Divide, Marcussen would need to travel North from here cut directly to Verdant Farms and from there navigate to Oregon and finish this.

The Ghoul enters into what once was a gas station, earlier in his life he found it amusing what crazy theories other wastelanders would say these facilities were used for, after sleeping in more of these than he can count he no longer finds the same amusement. He awakens with a blade to his throat, a masked figure stands above him shrouded in darkness, the level of skill necessary to sneak up on a Frumentarius speaks volumes to the clandestine talents of the man in possession of Marcussen's life now.

The two men lay silent for several seconds, eye contact remaining unbroken, groveling wasn't in his set of skills so Marcussen awaited any demands patiently. Quite unfortunately the figure was equally as patient, holding the blade with a stillness indicative of an intimate veterancy. In the darkness of the burnt out station, it was tough to make out much of the details of the man before him, but the very few bits he could see were extremely telling.

A rebreather, this caught the Ghoul's attention more than anything, they were exceptionally rare in the wasteland and exceptionally useful in the harsh sandstorms Nevada is known for; whoever this person was they were either extremely lucky or a scavenger of unprecedented skill, by the look of the age of the man's coat, Marcussen was inclined to believe the latter.

The man, through subtle movements repositions both himself and his hostage to a standing position, unintentionally stepping between the Ghoul and the open door, revealing his silhouette for a split moment and the most crucial detail about himself yet. To the average waster it may have been something to notice and disregard, but for Marcussen's kind of people it was like looking at a ghost… no… a ghost story, one that can only be heard in the whispering of whispers, so far removed from public memory that he's surprised he remembered it at all.

Twisted Hairs.

"No flag on your back, but you come from Utah." The stranger spoke in a hushed graveled tone.

"What makes you so sure?" Marcussen replied,

"Been watching you a few nights, you walk a courier's path, no communities this way, not anymore."

"Not your way, no."

Another moment of silence, then the man lowers the blade. Marcussen's suspicions are confirmed as he catches a glimpse of the weapon, it was a gladius, albeit in very poor condition but a weapon of the Legion none-the-less. The stranger steps back a few paces before exiting the station, the shadows he casts from the light source indicated he'd already lit a campfire and was now sitting near it. Despite the rude awakening it was clear to Marcussen that at the very least the stranger wasn't the slightest bit threatened by the Ghoul, in turn he'd figured he might as well join him in the firelight.

As he'd gotten outside, he saw the stranger in all of his glory, staring into the fire as if he'd seen a piece of himself in it. The light of the campfire made the dark night all the darker, clouds must have been out all around for there weren't nothing but blackness coming from up above. Next to the stranger was a peculiar weapon jammed into the ground, a wooden spear with a golden bird on top, when the realization hit Marcussen he nearly audibly gasped.

It was a flagpole, the very same type of flagpole he had himself outside of his own home in Boston, the same as his neighbors and just about every single household in the 13 states. The memories of the old world came to him as painful jolts to his head, and he soon found himself unable to stand, he quickly took a seat on the ground across from the stranger and remained in a pained state for several minutes. As the murmurs subside, he glances up at the stranger who appears to be the picture of patience.

"So, you're a real Twisted Hair?" Marcussen asked,

The stranger broke eye contact with the crackling flame to turn his eyes toward the Ghoul.

"Shadow of The Bull then, strange, most choose The Bear." The stranger replied,

"Choice is in short supply these days." Marcussen said glumly,

"Seems we walk the same path still."

"You said, 'not anymore', what happened to The Divide?"

"America sleeps in The Divide, giants in the earth, cracked the landscape into ash, storms and wind. Bear and Bull came to fight, now in radiation's shadow as equals." The stranger explained,

"North then, too much glow muddles the mind in my experience." Marcussen stated,

"Most die quick from the bombs, but you were spared no mercy, you saw the old world as it was, you know the why of it."

"No, not me, I was a raider before this, I must be about 70 or 80 now."

"Maybe it doesn't matter, a shadow from the past, not history but maybe a past deeper."

"What are you talking about?"

"History once saved me, this flag on my back, maybe you also can be saved by your history."

"Frankly I'd just like to forget, you should forget that flag too, it's not what you think it is."

"It's not just a flag it's an idea, a symbol." The stranger retorted,

"No, you've got it wrong…" Marcussen said quietly,

"You wouldn't understand, you weren't there."

"No you don't understand, you weren't there, I was there! You think America was some fairy wonderland? An ideal to look up to? It was a rotting carcass I wouldn't wish on the Radroaches!"

Marcussen was standing now, 200 years of fury spilling onto the floor in such passion that he'd forgotten his own cover story.

"It only took 300 years for our country to ruin the world, thousands or years of human history wiped out in an instant for pride, and ego! We paid tax to our leaders to keep us safe and they gave us Limit 115, illegal imprisonment and famine! It wasn't a model it was a damn scarecrow, and you- (cough)... you- should-"

The Ghoul begins to hack and cough, his yelling tirade causes him to start going dizzy as his voice starts to go bad, the stranger sits motionless as he stares at the madman stagger and then drop in an instant.

"Different view, same madness."

Marcussen awakens in daylight, the smoke from the campfire dying out in its final moments, he rises quickly fearing that he may have been drugged or otherwise exploited, but after a few minutes and checking his gear thoroughly, he concludes that he must have imagined the encounter with the stranger.

He quickly packed his gear to leave and upon exiting the station he found a note, a gun and a gladius where the stranger was sitting the night before, it read:

"Every holster needs a weapon just as every man needs his history, take this one with you and keep your history."

Marcussen looks around the area for a brief moment before surmising that the stranger is long gone from this place, and the interaction though vivid was indeed real. He takes the gun, a Single Action Army revolver, been a looong while since he's held one of these, but he hasn't forgotten how to use it, he backspin holsters the revolver with ease. The gladius was the same one the stranger held to his throat last night, it was the identity of the legionnaire who held it and this one had no name carved into the handle. Knowing he may need this where he's going he takes it as well, carving the name "Ahenobalbus" into the handle with a rock. His business settled here, nothing stood between the Ghoul and Verdant Farms.