Iron Wasteland

Chapter 1

It was an average day for the tavernkeep, watching and serving the many drifters that wandered through the town. Drinks, food, and cash were exchanged across the several hours of hard labor, adding up to a predicted nice total at the end of the day. The time was currently around noon, the sun high in the sky and baking the building in a slightly uncomfortable heat. Three other people were currently milling about, the air tense. The barkeep wasn't paying too much attention to them, as none had ordered anything yet and just seemed to be wasting time. Dutifully cleaning his glass, he looked up just as a new person stepped onto the premises.

The man wore a dirty blue long-sleeved shirt, and similar dirty blue jeans. Faded yellow boots clattered on the wooden floorboards, scuffed and scratched. A sewn-on patch on his left knee indicated its age, being a slightly lighter shade of blue. Over his left shoulder, a brown piece of cloth obscured his arm. Red zig-zags ran from one side to the other. Around his neck, a long blood-red scarf hung loosely. Atop his head, a brown hat that resembled a cowboy's hat, being a bit smaller than most. His skin was a dark gray, a similar color to the ancient asphalt roads that criss-crossed the wastes. His eyes were inky pools of black, with yellow dots floating in the void. His skin was a little roughed up, but that didn't seem to discourage his sharp-toothed smile. The man quickly crossed the room to the counter, limping a bit and tripping over a loose bit of the floorboard.

The man gave a knowing smile to the barkeep, adjusting his hat as he did. If he was embarrassed by the near-fall, he didn't show it. He sat heavily down on the barstool, his yellow boots scraping against the floor. The man smiled again, raising a hand.

"Heya, barkeep! Think I could get a cup of...plasma juice? The wastes were pretty rough here...pretty sure I swallowed a dune..." As if to emphasize the point, a small bit of sand poured from the side of the man's mouth, unnoticed.

The barkeep nodded, and quickly acquired the substance from a bottle under the counter.  As he poured it, he looked towards the stranger.

"Got a name?" The barkeep asked, sliding the drink across the table to the man. The man straightened, tipping his hat as he spoke.

"Call me Irons."

The man named Irons sipped from the cup, savoring the sweet yet slightly electric taste of the juice. He still felt bruised from the fall, but luckily he hadn't been seriously injured in any obvious way. As he drank, he carefully looked around the room, surveying the other patrons while disguised as a man interested in the décor.

Sitting at the table closest to the man, was another man dressed in ragged old clothes. He was wearing bits of metal strapped over his tattered attire, makeshift body armor that looked like it wouldn't do much in a fight. One looked suspiciously like a frying pan, bent over his left shoulder. His left leg was gone, replaced with a makeshift prosthetic.

In the corner of the room, currently throwing darts at a board, was another man. This one was dressed more flashily, sporting a nice tuxedo and pants. They were surprisingly well-kept, looking freshly laundered and pressed. He would've thought the man was a noble, or some sorta businessman if it wasn't for the bright red bandana tied around his face and the holstered gun around his waist.

The final person, and the one that worried Irons the most, was leaning against the back wall of the bar, right next to the entrance. They were wearing what looked like an oversized hoodie and jeans, a horrible choice out here in the desert. Along with that, the hoodie was a dull green color, reminding him of those fern trees he read about. The hood was up, face obscured with unnatural darkness. Probably magic, if he had to guess. Along with the hoodie, they wore a metal plate across their chest, strapped in place over their shoulders and across their waist. They wore similar metal knee pads and elbow pads, scratched with age. A long flowing cape hung close to the ground, affixed to the stranger's back. The end of it was jagged, like a piece of paper haphazardly torn in two.