Apocalyse World: After the Drop

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Basic Information

  • Name: Apocalypse World: After the Drop
  • Starting Date: TBA
  • Common Game Night: TBA

GM/Players

  • Cherem (GM)
  • DBN006
  • Maid Service
  • Rage

Setting

When the bombs fell, we thought it was the end of the world. From the men who pressed the button, to the children under their desks, to the crazies who stood outside to watch it happen, to the die-hard nuts who said they saw it coming, we all thought "Well, this is it then." If only we were so fortunate.

I don't know when folk started calling it "AtD", "After the Drop". Maybe it was right after the skies rained hell on us, or when the storms finally settled and sucked up all the water. Maybe it was when the rain started coming back, but it'd burn the shit out of your skin when it came down. Whatever the case, don't listen to nobody who says they know what year it is. It's day by day, and it'll be like that forever."

The Old World ended some odd years ago. Nobody is really keeping track anymore, save for the folk who just can't give up on how things "used" to be, as if they really knew. One day, life was as helter-skelter normal as any other, mom and apple pie, the city by the bay, the ever-mounting tensions of man against man against the clock to punch in and punch out. And then, when God looked down and was displeased by what he saw, he must've decided he promised somebody else salvation, somebody long gone.

Some people were ready for it. They saw the news, saw the signs, saw through the rest of the noise and saw the Full-stop at the end of the line, and thought, "Maybe for the rest, but not for me." They built dungeons of concrete and rebar to secret away the treasures of the old world, or perhaps they disappeared into the forests and hills, taking their closest and dearest along for the ride. These would be the ones to see the greatest return on their investments of paranoia, stepping from bunkers or mountain cabins to stare in awe at the bloody orange skies and milk-curdle clouds of smoke and dust.

The rest were put to rest. At least, a solid chunk of them. Sometimes records pop up, old signs that proudly proclaim "home to a hundred thousand" or "Home to a million" souls, but there's no way of knowing for sure how many of them were left. For those unfortunate enough to live to see what came after the bombs, they were greeted by the newly awoken psychic maelstrom, and then by the hellish weatherscape that awaited them.

The Maelstrom still defies catagorization, but memories of the first experiences with the new, strange powers that defied all logic and reason rest rawly within the imaginations and minds of those old enough to remember. It is ever present, like a white noise underlying all things, peaking and crackling into and through any hole in the 'verse it can fit through.

As if the yowling madness within wasn't enough, the outside world had changed, changed, warped into a sepia-hued, over-exposed parody of what once was. The old world's death knell was followed by a hellish snowscape, the world choked by year-round storms and lack of sunlight. The hardiest of plants eeked out a meager existance, but humans and animals suffered exponential losses from the death of so much plant life. As if to mock them, when the snowstorms disappeared they were replaced by the scortching, punishing sun, with just that much less atmosphere to protect them. Wildfires became commonplace, choking the air with smoke and dust. When the rain finally returned, it burned and sizzled, no less punishing than the sun.

The Powers That (Still) Be

Amongst this all, mankind struggled to regain the throne they had once held in an iron fist. As people fled inwards, away from the devestated coastlines, any semblance of public order collapsed into tribalism and warlordism. The strongest laid claim to the mandate of heaven, and to this day the descendants of refugees trade, mate and do battle with those who emerged from bunkers or the forests that were affected less by the fires. In the ruins of California and the west coast, there are two dominating powers: Cascadia, to the North, and the Central Valley Barons.

To the north, Cascadia's claim to power rises by might: founded by preppers and paranoids, they established themselves as a warrior state quickly, producing firearms and soldiers, laying claim "as far as our bullets can reach". This has been significantly enhanced by their motor pool, which allows them to work with other warlords for caravan purposes. However, Cascadia is concerned primarily with survival, and it's kings have easily cut an ally off from arms and fire support when an alliance became too inconvenient.

In the center, the Central Valley Barons are the descendents of those who survived the wildfires of the Sierra Nevadas, and the descendents of the original refugees (and the peoples who they forced out). To call the Barons united is to call a pack of hounds united, and old, bad blood runs deep between many of them. However, almost all of them bend the knee to the ancient seat of California's Power, the ruler of the Sacred Momento. From the namesake fortress, the Marquis of Sacred Momento rules with an ear to the north and an ear to the south, eyes firmly fixed on his squabbling subjects. The heir to the "Second Bear Republic", the Marquis is forever concerned with arms procurement, and it is grudgingly that he allows his subjects to trade their most vital resources, meat and leather from the cows that survived the aftermath, with Cascadia.

There are several other powers to mention. To the south, there are the Angels, a mongol-esque horde of bike-riders and runners who "rule" the southernmost areas of the state, and further south, El Ray de los Muertos, the King of Death. He is the descendent and re-uniter of the famed Mexican Cartels, who rules an ever-expanding empire built on the skulls of his enemies. While his forces only rarely pass north through the Angels, they are still an ever-present threat to the divided Central Valley Barons. Every other year an emissary is sent, demanding a warrior to fight for the honor of El Ray. Thus far, none have returned.

To the East, the Sierra Nevadas have done an excellent job of keeping foreign influence out. However, there are whispers of another empire ro the east, a theocracy built on the blood of martyrs and the soil of faith. Every so often, a preacher makes their way over the mountains and attempts to do a circuit, men draped in long, patched jackets and scarfs of indescribable quality. They promise the Holy Land, salvation from the hell of "The Fall" as they call it, but clearly not enough have answered the call, or they would not keep sending them.


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