It was the third day. The sun was made bleak by the ashen blanket of smoke and soot. The main tower of The Citadel burned and burned as a great pyre. Joe Moore’s followers waited for days, wondering if they would ever see their fearless leader or comrades again. One after another, as the hours passed, they witnessed the hanging of their own men from the tower as it burned.

“It’s no good, we failed at war,” exclaimed one of his followers. They gave up on their cause, their war, their holy crusade to take the blessed place of water’s flow. But then, on the fringes of their retreat, a figure appeared amongst the flames. Joe Moore returned.

He walked out from the wretched tower, kissed by fire. “IMMORTAL MAN!” “IMMORTAL MAN!” “IMMORTAL MAN!” his followers bellowed! He stood above them, and they fell to their knees. “Praise him! Immortal Man! The Immortan Joe!”

The harshness of the world blurred the edges of reality. People worshipped Joe as a God. He reformed The Citadel and took all the resources of the land. He reclaimed the Oil Refinery up north to producer guzzoline for the armada. He dubbed it “Gas Town” and gave rule of it to one of his most loyal followers, the reckoner human calculator “The People Eater”. And he refurbished a lead mine, deemed it “The Bullet Farm” and handed it’s monarchy to Major Kalashnikov, “The Bullet Farmer”.

Myth and legend states that the Immortan will one day join us all in Valhalla. Ushered in by the wings of his own Valkyrie Queen.

Telling the legends of all Wanderers, Raiders, War Fodder, Tribes, and the rare Raggedy Man. People of the Wasteland is a page I created to celebrate the infinite creativity and storytelling that comes from my fellow Wastelanders and artists attending Wasteland Weekend. Being a 5 year veteran of the event, this latest year I decided to change up my photography game at the event, and came up with the idea for People of the Wasteland. My idea was to shoot every single character I could from at least two different angles, and then write a short story to accompany their persona. Some of the stories are inspired by the specific person’s own lore, and some I’ve written from scratch, but all is pure Wasteland.

This is an ongoing project.

She describes the voices as low hissed reptilian words being inhaled and exhaled from a lipless mouth. Sometimes spoken as if someone was standing next to her, other times the voices are thought-like. The voices can be critical, charismatic, or indifferent - giving commands, suggesting deviant behavior or engaging in conversation.

Now the reptiles of the Wasted World can freely speak with Raptor Legs! The liquified extinction-remains of the prehistoric apocalypse are revealed to her newfound scrying-sight! The secrets of reptilian energy at her command - Giganothermy like the dinos used! The secrets of Reptilia are just a maddening whisper away! Rad mutations shouldn’t be disregarded, they are tools to survive!

RaptorLegs is a co-owner of the Hog Camp© and the creator of the Historic Slag Races. She currently serves on the Slag Racing Commission - maintaining credible Slag Racer power sources with DINOCELL® Batteries by Raptor Energy™ - Developing Diverse Fuel, Slag Engineering, Vehicles of Locomotion, and Reptile Genenomes.

“Our Toes are Sharp!”

The ashes of a new holocaust sifted slowly to the ground. Ralph sprinted, his boots leaving lunar implants in the soot beneath him. “I don’t have much time,” he thought to himself, remembering his training and how long it took for radiation to seep into the body. His radio pack lit up, “30 seconds to ZQ seal.” They were going to lock the doors. He sprinted with all of his will until he burst into a clearing, just feet away from the underground entrance to Zeta Quadrant. He slipped through the doors just as they were closing.

He stayed in Zeta for years, running the communication tank and trying to make contact with other bunkers, to no avail. Eventually, radiation had breached the walls of Zeta and Ralph had to abandon it’s concrete dungeons. He took what he could of his equipment and fashioned it into a mobile communication array, powerful enough to let him scan channels and listen to as many as 8 transmissions simultaneously, powered by solar rays, which were hard to come by due to the dense fog of the ground zero he trekked through.

A transmission once told him of a rumored “Northern Sector.” A zone that is radiation free, if you’re willing to fight for the food and fend off the cannibals. Ralph set his sights North, constantly scanning the horizon, and every channel he can.

Hog Camp’s Slag Races have made it necessary to increase security and isolate the Slag Racers themselves from race tampering, doping, and private excursions. As an effort to advance this initiative for the sanctity of the Slag Race Games, Hog Camp’s Dr. Swine has made efforts to introduce a dedicated guardian. Initial results yielded little return and many the pyre. Dr. Swine then began testing with concentrated forms of radioactive isotopes, eventually finding the perfect mixture to make the weapon. Infusing a human with that of a bear, a pig, and radioactive isotopes, the Dr. was able to successfully culture Lamarr².

Lamarr² MBP guards Hog Camp with his tortured life, his body can survive environmental conditions that would kill normal wastelanders; extreme heat, freezing cold, and normal room temperature. The armor is 369 pounds and impervious to all conventional weapons.

Capabilities:
- High Accuracy
- Durability
- Excellent Hand-Eye Coordination

Drawbacks:
- Slow Rate of Fire
- Slow Movement Speed
- Bad Vision
- Constant Hunger

Before the world collapsed, he spent his days as a powerful manager in a large San Francisco company, a stressful job. He discovered the BDSM subculture as a relief for the work stress and sexual satisfaction that was missing from his decade of marriage. More an affiliate of pain than humiliation, he found a beautiful Dominatrix that fulfilled his carnal desires.

When the bombs fell, everything changed. Both his wife and his Dominatrix were swept away in the blast. Holed up in his second, secret, downtown apartment, he survived those first few months on canned food. A prepper through and through. His deviant desire for pain helped him to deal with the hunger, injury, heat, and radiation. He missed his Dom Samantha deeply and in the following months and mental fracturing, The Gimp constructed a head upon a pike, which he named, “Samantha”, a token of her.

His mask and suit became paramount to surviving the harsh conditions, second only to the pleasure he enjoyed from it. Every so often he wandered off into the desert with “Samantha”.

He grew to become completely non-verbal, never removed his masked, and was never seen without his beloved Samantha. His carnal desires for pain and sadism remain as he wanders the wastes.

Legend has it his name is Bruce.

One of Caesar’s Legion, Decanus Vulgarius (AKA, “Lil’ Treat”) was sent west with his motorized cohort named “Legio X” to establish contact with the Tribes at the great gathering in New California, and to fatally undermine the NCR. Recently, he ran afoul a group of cultists who were trying to convert Wastelanders into worshipping something called “Space Goose.” Decanus also wants you to know that he is in the market for a mate (all genders and mostly all mutations welcome).

Turn Ons:
- Long walks on the beach
- Roasting Brahmin steak over a camp flame
- Locking highly valuable rifles within safes
- Nailing profligates to the cross

Turn Offs:
- NCR
- Meatsacks
- Tumbleweeds
- Really judgmental people :(

From Tooth ’n’ Nail of Undertown, Fidget is one of the lovable drunks who fell in together and formed their tribe. She is a promoter of the annual “Pastapocalypse” event, a party which feeds all at the Great Meeting of the Tribes. A place where all can truly be one, and come together to celebrate in mutual drunkenness and pasta-party until the great sandstorms loom. Except for Road Rash, fuck you Road Rash.

I’M MEATSTICK, I LOVE CUDDLES AND HAVING FUN AND LONG WALKS IN RADIOACTIVE FOG. FOODIE (HUMAN) WITH A PASSION FOR PAIN.

Enjoys:
- Cuddles
- Lullabies
- Grenades
- Screaming at Infants
- Human Flesh

Dislikes:
- Infants
- Living humans
- Left forearm
- Chris
- Unseasoned Meat

“50 Caps,” Maverick demanded. “You’re asking for the head of the Khans. So, 50 caps.” The Rust Devil Broker retorted, “I don’t have enough to spare.” “Come on, don’t lie to me, slag,” replied Maverick, “You want me to walk away? Let the Khans run through your camp again tonight?” “No…” “Then 50 caps.” The broker lamented, handing over the tender, “You have until sundown!” “I’ll be back by noon,” boasted Maverick as he jogged away.

Maverick hopped in his archangel. An old shipping half-truck outfitted with enough armor to sink it clean through the sand but tires large enough to lift it into the sky. The engine roared and he set off for the badlands, just a few miles south of New Vegas. He parked at the mouth of a ravine and perched a frag grenade in the door. From a side panel he procured a cruel rifle, with an under-barrel launcher, and a tin can suppressor.

He climbed to the top of the ravine, gaining excellent vantage over the Great Khan camp below. He slid a long spiked device into the under-barrel of his rifle, and launched it into the rocky cliffside just behind one of the tents. The device let out a low and continuous beep and the target sauntered out to investigate. Maverick let ring a fatal shot, striking the Chieftain in the temple. The device, with a low thud, shot out a crude net, entrapping its victim.

He planted himself between two boulders above his kill, and used a rope and hook to retrieve the bounty. He dumped it in a cargo container on the underside of his vehicle and returned to the Rust Devil camp.

“You’re early, wanderer,” stated the broker. Maverick tossed the body into the dirt, “50 more caps.” “Is it clean?” asked the broker. Maverick nodded. “100 caps,” the broker answered and placed a pouch on the counter.

Those scumbag Slavers way over in Paradise Falls have one big ole bee on their bonnet. Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz! Gasp! But what's this? The bothersome bumblebee looks suspiciously like a certain kid, from a certain Vault... You heard it here first, faithful listeners. The Wanderer showed up at slaver central and bad guys started dropping left and right. Did they sell her/him a bum slave and then refuse the refund, or was it some elaborate rescue operation? But more importantly - does it even matter worth a damn? Slavers are dead, slaves are free. That's a win-win if you ask me, children.

The visions mostly come at night. Curious fixations and strange creatures wander out from the deep roots and overgrown paths heavily imbued with the soles of travelers past. They entangle my mind, whispering enchanting secrets and persuasive tithings in my ears. Sometimes I obey, I carry out their vile temptations and wretched orders, not thinking as I do, but more, being pulled to do it. I feel at times as if I don’t control my body, and am trapped in my mind, while a villainous puppet master maneuvers my limbs. I wake up, bathed in an unknown blood.

It’s been 3 months since my last vision. I’ve been staying in Wasteland City, long after the great meeting. I met a merchant known as Ellinthris, she fashioned me this mask and offered me company in exchange joining the Faceless of Outpost 364. Huh, turns out they accept applicants, who knew… Being with the Faceless has offered me peace and respite, in my safe nights of sleep the visions slowly dissipated. I no longer spoke with the beings and gave in to their whispers.

That is, until last night. I had another vision.

Cary, the Apothecary, the Apostate of the Shaman’s Prayer:

“All-Father, who art in radiation, hallowed be thy grave.
Thy blindess come, thy will be well done, in Valhalla as it is with Brahmin (steak).
Give us this lovely day our daily dead, and never forgive our sins, as we never forgive FUCKING GREG AND THOSE FUCKERS IN ROAD RASH FUCK YOU ROAD RASH. 

And lead us into every temptation, and deliver us every evil.

Hail Cary, smasher of face, the sword is with thee.
Blessed are thou amongst Shaman, and blessed is the fruit of thy BOOM.

Holy Cary, father of blood. Prey on us wastelanders, now until the hour of our death.”

Fear and mystery surround The Faceless. A small tribe of those indigenous to the Plains of Silence. No one knows whether they live here, or if it's just the direction they come from. A tribe of Merchants, their wares are high in value and vary in risk. One thing is for sure, no one, raider nor waster alike know what one looks like under the mask. Some say they truly do have no face, others say it's a way for the exiled to hide their true nature, another says it's birthright ritual for them to be dragged behind the wheels of a Plainsailer before their facelifting ceremony. They speak none but understand all, masters of language and gesture alike. If their response to you is rigid, you need to provide more caps.

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Function Armed.
Happy boom day, Memory.

I had been stuck at that damn camp since my parents had sold me there; hope they enjoyed the fucking "beef steak" (it wasn't beef). Sure my hands were all right turning the cranks on the hand generator and fixing all the small problems the raiders didn't want to, but I really just didn't like the environ. Too many orders, not enough choices, and if your friends slacked you either got to eat them or starve. One grunt that was not so good with his hands had found a couple abandoned accordions in a hauler; he wanted to own less shit, I wanted to use my hands, we figured something out.

I learned to play and folks started giving me extra rations they didn't want; maybe the rations were someone they knew, but it was fat on my belly.

After a particularly banal day tending the cactus at the edge of camp, everyone had settled and only the guard was awake. I sauntered up nonchalant with my nice wheeled cart and my accordion boxes on top.

I had learned several of his favorite tunes from him humming them away and me making up shit to fill in the gaps left by years without them presented to the ears. The guard slowly, but surely, slumped in his chair as confidence and relaxation enveloped him. I pulled the well-oiled wheels on my dolly of life away from that camp and never looked back.

I have made several homes since, but I will never be stuck again. I am the peddler of escapism. It feels good, when I can feel. I feel like I have left bits of my soul across the waste; maybe I have found some too. I find myself playing songs I don't know where are from, where are going, I don't know their story before you do. Let's listen to the lost stories of those that are snacks and rib armor on our backs.

Hey you! Want to fight in the Thunderdome but too much of a PUSSY to do it?! Well do we have the solution for you! Introducing Pez! Brother of Wez! Simply hire this fancy looking fuckstick to fight for you within the metal confines of the Thunderdome! Pez comes preloaded with weapons too! Like the fantastic and Patent-Pending “Drilldo”, a large phallic drill used to corkscrew straight through your foe and make a parfait of their intestines on the other side! Buy Pez now and fight your way to victory in the Thunderdome!

Victory is not guaranteed all money must be paid up front with a bonus delivered upon each successful win Pez reserves the right to decline your purchase at any time or also kill you in your sleep should you possibly disappoint him surcharges apply see bartertown store for more details.

This message was paid for (in blood) by Outpost 8 (they’re running late).

Nothing is known of “Church Boy”. Other than his name.

A bonafide Wasteland Legend.

A drop of thick, red, mucus splashes onto the mossy rock. Strands of blood obscure the diffused sun, dripping from the nose of Muse. She kneels, defeated. Her muddied hair dangles and sticks to her skin. In front of her stands an armored guard, his cold mask as brisk as the surrounding air. Thick steam escapes from the gas filters in his jaw. Against her he holds a device, it emits dancing rays of heat which scan her scalp. Another guard stands behind her, rifle trained on her back.

She kneels in front of the entrance gate to the City of Eden, one of the last habitable safe zones on the continent, residing in the remains of the pacific northwest. More armored guards walk the top of the wall. The doors are within the confines of a plastic quarantine tunnel. The encroaching woods surround the compound. On the edge of the clearing stand a number of spinning spires, creating a barrier to the irradiated air and protecting those inside.

The guard reads his scanner. The small CTV screen displays a wealth of information, the largest of which reads “53% - UNWORTHY”. The guards all train their guns toward her. She jumps up, “Please! Don’t. I made a mistake, I’ll leave, just let me go.” A Geiger Counter starts to crackle. The guard stares at her. “Please… I didn’t know,” she pleads. The guard replies;

“Run.”

She jumps up, grabbing her effects and sprinting to the edge of the clearing, the guards never letting go of their aim. As she reaches the respiratory fans on the edge of the woods she throws on her gas mask before slipping into the thick.

Being the strong silent type, The Tank doesn’t offer much information about his past. Rumor is, due to his massive physique and fighting style, some think he was a professional wrestler or prize fighter. His militaristic demeanor also leads some to believe he was ANZAC (Australia New Zealand Army Corps). But perhaps the most accurate rumor of all is that he was former MFP; A Captain of the Hall in the Sun City area more specifically.

There is also much speculation as to the relationship The Tank has with the infamous, masked warlord Humungus. Though it is ill advised to inquire on this matter as the response one gets could prove rather painful.

What is known, for sure, of The Tank, is that he prefers the intimate brutality of bludgeoning melee weapons over the sleek efficiency of bladed or ranged weapons. He is close with his fellow Bartertown guard, “Gunz”, and one might notice that they tend to prefer bringing up the rear on foot patrol to ensure they have the backs of all their fellow guards.

Born to the wretched in the shadow of The Citadel, she was raised in the dirt and dust to be tough and discerning. As a child she aspired to emulate The Immortan’s Warboys as she watched them thunder out on raids. Following her mother’s plan, at 8 years old, still small enough to pass as a war pup, her mother hugged her fiercely and hoisted her aboard the Citadel elevator.

The child’s ferocity and enthusiasm made her an ideal war pup and promised great glory if she were to advance to be a real Warboy. As she grew, it became clear to the Imperators and Warboys that they had been duped. They had a Wargirl. There had been only a few cases of female war spawn: invariably legendary, usually tragic. The organic deemed her unfit to reproduce due to both physical composition and temperment; rumor has it that before he could even check her teeth, she snarled and lunged for his grizzled throat. No, the life of a Warboy would suit her just fine.

A loyal and fanatic follower of the the Cult of the V8, she imagined that perhaps if she cried war with enough conviction, the gates to Valhalla would open up and the God of Combustion would carry her to glory. The other Warboys either accepted her fervent vocality or avoided her entirely. And so, by her raging screams and unhinged tenacity, they named her Throttle.

AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHH!!!!! AAAAAAAÁAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

Formerly a Rock Rider, Khaos now runs with a small gang of riders just outside of Wasteland City. Generally neutral, but they can be flipped into a violent force at a moment’s notice.

From the seat of a bike Khaos is fear to be reckoned. His excellent balance and handling skills give him the ability to fire and reload his signature crossbow without ever letting go of the guz. Wildly unpredictable, it’s recommended you get on his good side fast, though it may be hard to determine which side that is…

Some say he is covered in the ashes of his fallen tribe, others say he was born in a volcano. When asked, Bone Eater’s only reply is, “Bone Powder”.

He doesn’t consider himself a cannibal, but if he has to feast upon the bones of his fellow species, he will do so without hesitation. The Bone Eater’s righteous “Sawstick” is his weapon of choice, using it to skewer and puree his foes, and then remove the meat from their flesh shortly thereafter.

A traveling Blackfinger once said of the feral warrior, “he will grant you mercy if you offer a limb”. It is my best recommendation not to test this theory and to avoid Bone Eater at all costs. If you happen to see him, or his skull studded bike, kick it to reverse and fang it.

The morning light shutters in through the barn’s upper rafters. A young girl, no older than 6, sits in the hayloft. She steadies a paper airplane in her hand, and sends it on its maiden flight. The pepekura craft lands softly on the nose of a Boing P-12, a replica of the 2nd World War.

“I was obsessed with the sky for as long as I could remember. I dreamed of floating among the clouds, miles above Earth, light years away from people. The wind in my hair and thin air calmed me, empowered me.”

The aircraft shook as it glided just dozens of feet above the vast fields of corn. The young girl, now nearly in her teens, gritted her teeth. A sudden white blast of light ignited the atmosphere, she stared out toward it, the menacing cloud exploded into the sky above the city. .
Her wing struck the tree first, sending the aircraft into a vicious tumble through the field.

“In that moment, I was struck from the sky. God had cast me out from the Heavens. Scourging me, forbidding me to ever enter the clouds again. I had become grounded for the rest of my life.

Some days I sit and watch. So pure and blue, unable to be as contaminated as the ground. The sky calls for me, and yet I must pass an unbreachable chasm to return to her.”

The fumes of a blacksmith’s kiln dance across the horizon. 5ive lifts up a shred of metal plating, likely torn from an old world law enforcement vehicle, it glows red hot. He places the armor on his anvil and, before grabbing his hammer, takes a prolonged puff of Jet, allowing the substance to course through his veins.

Throw after throw he hammers through the slab, molding it into a viable shape. Quenching it and torching it appropriately. As he nails the final blow, he holds the piece high to admire his handiwork, a perfectly shaped piece of chest armor.

“N-n-no! NOOOOO!” 5ive steps into a side room littered with cages, filled with skampy fawn. One of them screams in denial. “That’s a good pig,” 5ive mutters. He grabs the emaciated man from his cage and throws it out into the open. “Put it on,” he commands as he tosses the armor at its feet. “W-w-wretched skid, m-m-murder baron,” the more-creature-than-man shudders to itself as it dons the armor. 5ive procures a shotgun from his shop, and paints the shape of a target on the armor with dry dirt.

“C-cruel smith,” BANG!

The blast tears through the armor, ripping the lost soul to shreds. “Perfect,” declares 5ive. He sets back to work, patching the hole in the piece. He carries it out to his storefront and hands it to the patient customer, “500 caps.” “You’re sure this will do the trick?” the customer asks. “All that and more. This is premium steel, it will stop a shotgun at point blank.”

The caravan woman’s cries rang out. “Good trick,” one of her motorcycle bound tribe mates exclaimed, as they watched upon the ransacked caravan Pinball had lured into letting their guard down. The woman kneeled there, over the arrow-laden corpse of her lover.

The other members of her tribe circled the caravan, picking up scrap and valuables. Pinball watched on, soaking in the effervescent smell of burning guzzoline. The woman stood up, wailing, and approached her. Pinball sat backwards on her bike, unmoved. “You are the mad rad who ruined the world,” the woman shakily muttered, before procuring a handgun from her dress and training it on Pinball. She looked at the woman for a brief moment, then hit her clutch and gas, spewing sand into the wretched soul. The woman fell to the ground. Pinball stood over her, raised her crossbow, and smiled.

Meaty Petey’s Lullaby 🎵
“Chop chop, start with the skin,
Chop chop, peel to the end,
Chop chop, on your toes,
Chop chop, remove the nose,
Chop chop, off with yer’ cock!
Chop chop, cook till it’s hot!” 🎶

As a child, in a fit of rage, Angelus abandoned his family and his tribe. Years later, he discovered that they had all been wiped out after the nuclear winter. Feeling an overwhelming cloud of shame and regret, Angelus vowed to keep alive the vibrant spark of his culture. A spiritual native warrior, he spends his days honoring his heritage and fulfilling his passion for battle to prove his worth. He is one of the toughest contenders in the Thunderdome. An undefeated champion, Angelus lives in Bartertown and spends his nights cleaning the blood from the bars of the cage, immersing himself completely within the ritual of battle. Yearly, he makes the long journey west to the great gathering of the tribes to participate in the brutal sport of Jugger. Each win brings him closer and closer to redemption.

ACDC (Pronounced AKDIK) Grew up in a hole on the side of a crater made by a dormant nuclear bomb. A spark junkie, he spends his time working with and collecting tech of the old world. He is the worst tech engineer ever, and the radiation of his home has done nothing but fracture his brain. He is incapable of focusing for more than 7 seconds and will often break out into song and dance. Do not let him experiment on you and don’t “place your finger here”.