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tag-the-degenerate · 1 month

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The Hide Scribe Part 1

Chapter 1 - Tag Devilish

While robbing passerby’s in Cleghorn, I happened upon the love of my life for the first time.

I wasn’t a hidescribe then, I was hardly yet even a person. I was just a young devious beastie all on my own. A classless thing, I was, without much on my mind neither.

See, in my culture a gal isn’t grown until she has wandered all around. A woman has gotta make her own way and have adventures, otherwise she’ll die a girl. Men and en’s do too I guess, but I wouldn’t know because I’m not one of ‘em. What it comes down to is makin’ and havin’ stories.

If you don’t have stories to tell and they ain’t good, it’s like you never even existed. My people call it “chasing your tale” like you go out into what’s left of the world and you sort of gather up pieces of who you’re gonna be and who you always were as you go. Once you think you have most of the pieces then you’ve caught it- your tale, your story and it’s like you’re finally real. It didn’t make sense to me when I first heard about it, maybe it doesn’t to you now either as you read it, but best I can describe it is- it’s a feeling. An awareness almost, a purpose like. You know when you’ve found it.

Anyway, that’s what I was doin’, wandering all around trying to figure myself out and my place in the ruins of the world and I was working as a highway woman. I didn’t have Baptise (my tattoo tool) yet, so it was just me and Eadrich.

Eadrich is my macuahuitl and before I picked up Baptise, he was my tool of the trade and my constant companion. A macuahuitl is a weapon what for bashin’ and guttin’ -and when you’re a girl all alone you need something that can do that y’know? It’s a funny spelled word macuahuitl, but you say it like “Mak-wa-wick.”

Around this side of the desert not a lot of folks have seen one or even really know what it is, but see my Daddy o’s people use them and they’re from way down north.

Daddy’ o’s folk, never took a liking to me. They’re people eaters down in the cradle land and we don’t speak the same tongue. I was raised with my mom’s camp until

It was time to wander, then I headed straight out to meet them first. Never met Daddy o, but I met his mom and the rest of the people eaters. They didn’t know what to do with me really, we didn’t talk the same, we didn’t look the same and I felt much the same way I did with my mom’s people- out of place.

I spent a bit with Daddy o’s people and overtime I came to understand them when they spoke, but they never embraced me. When I tried to talk to them in their tongue back they laughed ‘cause I didn’t say things proper enough. So I stopped talkin’ for awhile altogether when I was with them.

I wanted to fit in with them and I couldn’t figure out why. I never fit in with my mom’s folk, but they loved me easy anyway. I thought maybe the reason I didn’t fit in with them was because I was meant to fit in with the people eaters. But, the more I tried the less Daddy o’s folks seemed to care. They all used and made their own

macuahuitls so I made one too. But y’know, no one showed me how so Eadrich turned out different.

Like, when the people eaters made theirs they used wood and glass, but I didn’t have that so I made mine with a piece of scrap metal. Even though they said it wasn’t a real Macuahuitl because of that, I felt like that was ok. Because I wasn’t a real people eater to them either.

After I made Eadrich there was a raid. That day, I went with my group of people eaters to a gathering of their kind out in the old mining lands we call Black mountain. People eater families from all over get together there once a year and the young ones do a rite to celebrate coming into adulthood. I never got to do the rite, I wasn’t allowed because I was only half people eater and they wouldn’t let me, but I went with them to watch. The rite is called “the feast of the beast.” The young ones (around my age then) all go hungry a couple days and only drink water. Then on the feast day they eat a big portion of mushrooms the elders bring out.

The mushrooms are a big deal to the people eaters, trusted elders grow and keep them and no outsider is allowed to touch or even see them. They’re magick, real magick those things. When you eat them you’re supposed to meet the Psilocyren, the goddess of mad divinity. She’ll show you all the secrets of the world, make you face your greatest fears and whisper to you all the plans the world has for your soul.

I wanted to meet her so bad, I thought about stealing the mushrooms myself but I didn’t have a good plan- anyway that’s when the raid happened. It was the night before the feast and we were all camped and gathered. I heard their bikes first and it wasn’t until I tore out the tent that I heard the elders screaming. One of those bikes had a metallic ting in the engine, like something was jingling around inside. The raiders had snatched up the mushrooms- the whole leather bag of ‘em. One of ‘em took off with all of ‘em and was dusting up the desert already. The other ones were putting up a fight with the people eaters. They tried to set our tents ablaze and chop us down but we knew how to fight. two more escaped and went with their friend the thief and the other three we killed. Some of the young folks tried to go after them but they lost him when he went up the ridge. They said without bikes of their own they wouldn’t be able to get em and there was only one working bike among the ones we killed and no one was a good rider.

Losing the mushrooms was mourned more

than the people who were killed that night and as the people eaters buried the dead, I stole that bike and took off to get those mushrooms back.

No one seemed to notice I left, but I knew

If I came back with the mushrooms they’d never overlook me again.

Chapter 2- Cervus

I left after the raiders and I wasn’t too good on the bike. It was in rough shape and ran outta guzzo half up a mountain pass up towards Vegas. The tracks the thieves left behind seemed to be going towards Cleghorn and it was the only settlement for miles I knew about. The way I bet it, they were looking to sell the mushrooms. Such a thing would surely fetch a big price among chem folk.

Along the way, I started robbin’ on the highways. I was around 17 then and I’d just crossed the canyon into Cleghorn.

Cleghorn is a little settlement where people come to trade up on the way through the Cajon pass. It’s tucked in the mountains where the water isn’t so radded out and a lot of people make camp there when they’re on their way to bigger places. I went there mainly so I could rob men and eat some food, which is all I really did back then. Sometimes I’d draw if I had time though.

The settlement had high walls made of big wood posts and if you wanted get in you had to talk to a doorman with a gun or two. I was in line to enter behind a caravan of traders that were eyeballin’ me some and after a slow march up they let me in. They asked if I had a gun and I showed them Eadrich instead. The main guard guy laughed and said he was the ugliest knife he’d ever seen. I told him he wasn’t a knife, he was a Macuahuitl and they laughed some more and let us through together.

I remember when I first went in I noticed a round tent in the courtyard that was surrounded by a crowd. I couldn’t see what was inside but I could hear them all laughing and hollering. I had never seen people laugh all together like that, I hadn’t ever seen that many people in one place where they weren’t fighting and it pretty well vexed me.

The whole place was a bazaar of things for trading-and I needed things- booths of supplies and trinkets and people offering up their services, but I passed it all by to join that crowd because I had to see what the fuss was all about.

As I got closer I squeezed through some of the big men standing in the back and saw that most of the people in the crowd were seated. It was the damnest thing! Some had even brought chairs and pillows but most were cross legged and sitting in the dirt all surrounding this one single guy talking in the center of the circle of listeners.

They were grown people, hard men looking like big warlords and killers and black thumbs and ladies too, lookin just as tough. Raider scum and biker nomads - and there were some little ones and young folks too- trader families and ol’ folk but they were all together and all of ‘em were sitting’ side by side and smiling like excited little kids listening to the guy talk- the story teller, tellin’ tales. Cervus.

I kept my distance at first, circling through the audience like a wild animal at the edge of a campfire. Then, slowly as he told story after story I crept closer each time, until I found myself sitting at Cervus’ feet like a pet tamed and waiting for a treat.

I can see him now, sitting in the center of that old rug, his bare legs crossed with layers of cloth bundled around his waist. His chest was also bare with a heavy fur mantle sitting upon his shoulders and his face- his beautiful face- obscured with a mask made from the skull cap of a great red deer with holes punched where his eyes sit- nothing but black pin pricks where the fire might glint if it caught just the right way.

I remember staring up at him, watching his thick pointed beard slightly bob from under the edge of the mask as he spoke. It was his voice I was first transfixed by. It was gentle and low and masculine, intimate and inviting. Like the soft rising smoke of a stick of incense.

When he was done, everyone raised their drinking cups and toasted to the moral of his final tale- which if I recall was “there is no moral, it’s just a thing that happened.” And everyone cheered “things happen!” And laughed. Cervus sat awhile while people came up to talk to him and give him trinkets and caps. I stayed and watched before he finally stood and parted.

It wasn’t until Cervus was gone that I crept upon the carpet he’d had sat upon and took a moment to sit. I took out my book of scribblings and penned a little drawing of him to commit the moment to memory. I didn’t draw back then as much as I do now. Now I draw every day, but back then I didn’t have the safety to stop and do so. I only had the one book too and I treated the pages real precious like. Paper was hard to come by so I only drew what I thought was important. I didn’t know precisely why at that moment, but I knew seeing that story teller was worth remembering.

Chapter 3 - The Paw’Caso

That evening I took shelter in the shade of the settlement of wall and drew for a long time without looking up much. I figured I’d have a better chance finding the raiders that took the mushrooms at night when I could creep around and not be spotted. I’d look for their bikes first. The thing about Cleghorn is it’s basically just a big walled in camp in the middle of the high-land. It’s filled with lots of traders with booths and things but the only real building is in the middle and it cost a brass cas’ to get in. That building is the “common house” where they pour drinks and the bigger wigs do business at tables and chairs. I didn’t have a cas’ to spend so I couldn’t go in then and there. I just posted up next to it in the shade close by.

While I was sittin there a man passed over my light. He lingered awhile, his shadow cast over me and called my attention up. As soon as I got a look at ‘em I knew what he was— a Hidescribe. The first one I ever met. He was youthful, with big dark eyes that were narrow and sleepy most always. He had a handsome smooth skinned face with a little goatee and mustache and under his nose he wore a ring piercing. When he smiled- which he did a lot- his little canine teeth protruded as sharp and prominent as a cats. His earlobes were stretched and while he did have tattoos they were mostly visible on his bare legs. His arms and other things were unblemished back then. I knew he was a hidescribe though because of his kit. He had his poke tool hanging on a chain around his neck and his hand had the mark- the Black woad sigil. Only Hidescribes have that.

He asked if he could see what I was drawing and before I could say no he sat down beside me. He was wearing a dark blue cotton wrap as a shirt and It was the cleanest bit of clothing I’d even seen. His pants were short and equally impeccable. They were a little dusty and embellished with matching cobalt trim. His booths were laced tight and I could tell he maintained them well. His hair was cut and slicked back, I could tell he took care of his appearance in a way no highwayman would. He smelled clean like wealth.

He bumped my shoulder with his and I passed him over my book for him to thumb through.

“I don’t run into a lot of people that draw still.” He said, his voice was light and tinged with a slight people eater talk.

“Do you draw a lot?” I told him I did, but the truth was I didn’t get much chance.

“You’re really good.” He said and it felt generous. Not dishonest but certainly a kindness. He was complimenting my potential rather than my skill, I could tell.

“Are you a Hidescribe?” I asked him dumbly, looking at the mark on his hand. He lifted it to show me and smiled.

“I just finished my apprenticeship.” He said proudly.

“I came here to tattoo a big warlord -“ he nodded towards the common house.

“In there, the Wax man. You know him?”

I didn’t.

He told me his name was Paw’Caso and I shook his hand.

“Tag Devilish.” I said.

He tucked his hand into his pocket and pulled out a fancy but worn card- real paper. Then, using my book as a backing support he produced a lead piece and scribbled on the cards blank side before handing it to me. I hesitated to take it but he insisted. What a strange thing to give a stranger such a resource for nothing in return.

“Paw’Caso- Hidescribe.” The front said in fancy curly script

As I flipped it over to see the back he stood and said.

“The world needs more artists.” And with a nod of his head he left towards the common house.

On the back of the card appeared to be a little map stamped on it and he had hand drawn an X with some coordinates. I tucked it into my book and went to follow after him but he’d already disappeared inside.

When I turned to return back to my spot I heard the roar of an engine and a sputter with a metallic jingle. From around the back of the settlement, coming towards the common house was a little parade of bikes. A dozen of em’

Four raider scum on janky motor bikes with patched metal and furs for saddles all flanked one big fancy one in all chrome at the front. I recognized the bikes of the underlings- definitely the mushroom thieves-but the leader in the center, he hadn’t been there the night of the raid. Too dirty a deed I’d bet for such a shiny thing.

“Make way!” The raiders called. The one at the front with the jingling engine seemed to be the cryer for the group.

“Make way for Wax the Racer Eraser!”

As the procession came to a halt, the man on the shiny bike- the leader man stepped off. On his hip I saw the leather bag his men had stolen from us.

He spun around theatrically like a goon and shrugged his arms as he made his way backwards towards the common house. he was tall and wore armor made from bike tread and chain.

“Drinks on me boys!” He shouted and as he turned his body to enter the establishment he was met with a bat of nails right into his face.

There was an audible wet “Thwack!” And everyone went silent as his muscular body fell out of the doorway like a rag doll. It was so sudden his underlings were stunned into slack jawed disbelief.

From over Wax’s body a figure stepped. He strutted from the common house and stood over the corpse causally, letting out a single laugh through his nose. Then he whipped his bloodied bat like a fan behind him, sending the excess blood in a wet streak sprinkling the floor and splattering the wall and door way.

He was a big man with the skull of a large predatory cat over his face and a cascade of long black hair. He wore football pads adorned with dried bones. On his right shoulder was the severed head of an alligator and even above his shit kicking boots he had shin gaurds with pieces of spinal column tied to the front.

“What kind of asshole with a bounty on their head announces themselves with a fucking town crier?” He roared with laughter . Behind him blond man in a worn apron peered out with an exasperated look on his face.

“God dammit…” the blond grumbled and rubbed his nose bridge with distress. Another man pushed past and came to the armored ones side with a grin. He was handsome with heart shaped glasses and a heavy coat with a fur lined collar. He laughed hard.

“I’ll still take a drink if he’s buyin’” he said.

The underlings lost it and dropped their bikes to swarm him, I took my chance and while he swatted them all away like splatting insects I dashed in and snatched the leather waist bag.

“Fuck!” I heard the armored man call. “You little shit! That bag is mine! I’ll skin you alive!” But it was too late, I was off while he was occupied with the angry mob of raiders.

Chapter 4- 3-Death

I ran until I was out of sight and out of breath before I took refuge among the nomadic camps set up beyond the bazaar.

Once the adrenaline faded I opened the bag. Inside I found some brass cas’, meaningless trinkets and a worn piece of canvas advertising a burlesque show by someone called “The Hemptress.” The mushrooms were gone. No sign of them. I pocketed the bullshit loot and just as I shoved the canvas addy in my vest pocket I felt a hard tug on my collar.

The settlment guard had nabbed me. Before I knew it they’d dragged me back into the bazaar and I was labeled a thief- my pack taken and I was tossed into a cell behind their barracks. Turns out, they didn’t give a damn what happened out on the road but you can’t go robbin’ while inside Cleghorn’s walls.

Imagine my surprise when I found myself locked up right beside the big armored man in the cat skull and his blonde friend.

He waited until the last guard walked off then spoke to me through our shared wall, leaning over with his forearms rested through the bars, hands dangling.

“The bag,” he said “what did you do with it?”

I told him the lawmen had taken it along with my backpack and he hung his head.

“But,” I decided to venture further

“The mushrooms weren’t in it. Just a bunch of junk.” He looked back up at me with sudden interest.

“You know about the mushrooms?” He asked.

“I was there at the gathering when they were stolen.” I said. “I came here looking to get them back. You were out to do the same?”

He suddenly looked distant, I suppose he was gauging how much information to safely share with a stranger.

“Something like that.”

The blonde stood up from his seat on the floor and dusted himself off.

“Well, that settles that. The bastard probably ate all of them.” He said.

“No,” the cat skull man said with certainty.

“They’re too valuable. He definitely knew what he had and offloaded them somewhere.”

I emptied my pockets on the floor for them both to see.

“This is all he had.” I told them.

The cat skull man pointed at the folded canvas ad.

“Let me see that.” He demanded and I obliged.

“The Hemptress is a big time Chem dealer, if she’s in town I bet he sold them to her.”

The blonde man looked over his friends shoulder and reached for the ad.

“Well we DEFINITELY better pay her a visit.” He said playfully with a grin.

I introduced myself.

“3 Death.” The big man said extending his hand. I shook it and he locked eyes with me a moment.

“And I am Master chef.” the blonde said theatrically “the full menu alchemist.” He flourished his long apron and flashed me a white toothy smile.

“Where’s your other friend?” I asked.

“The one with the heart glasses.”

“That’s love Machine.” 3 death told me.

“He’s slippery, he never gets caught. Should be busting us out any minute now.”

“How?” I asked looking around at the solid bars and iron walls penning us in.

“He has his ways.” Master chef said and the two looked at each other with knowing amusement.

Chapter 5 - Love machine

We sat in those cells a couple hours and all the while we talked. It turned out 3 death also had trouble fitting in with the people eaters and they had also denied him his rite of passage. The night of the raid he set off to retake the mushrooms but rather than return them, he wanted them for his own so he could do the rite he’d been denied and meet the psilocyren on his own terms among his friends.

Master chief was a little older than us and he had lived a tough life on the road. He used to be a mercenary caught up in a far off tribal war for most of his youth. All he wanted there after was a peaceful life with lady friends and no more starving. He wanted to settle down, get supplies and cook, maybe one day get a solid camp going and make a home with a trusted group. 3 death and Love Machine were his people and they stuck together for safety and companionship. Family.

“If we can sell a few of those mushrooms” he looked at 3 death with a preemptive tone of diplomacy

“-not ALL of them, just a little, we can get supplies maybe even open a tavern or a pit stop. They’re worth a fortune to the right people.”

3 death was losing his patience and had begun to pace. When night fell and before long-true to the assumption- Love machine came strolling in like he owned the place, keys in hand.

“There’s our boy!” Master chef whooped.

“We’ll have to go out the back,” love machine said, unlocking their cell with no sense of urgency.

“Orgy started in the barracks and I don’t want them to notice I slipped away.”

3 death nodded in my direction and said

“She’s coming with us. Her name’s Tag.”

Without questioning it Love Machine unlocked my cell. I thanked him gratefully and followed after the trio with haste and sudden unquestioning loyalty.

Sure enough, sounds of ecstasy and moans of rapture could be heard from the barracks and we slipped away and back into town unnoticed.

“How did you manage that?” I whispered to Love machine with grim curiosity.

“I’m Love Machine .” He shrugged

Chapter 6- The Hemptress

The Hemptress’ den was easy to find. In the darkness her flowing netted tent glowed with the warmth of hundreds of candles and it drew wandering passersby like lonely moths.

As we stepped into the tent the smell of herbs was heavy in the air. Small clouds of chems floated above us like contented ghosts and there was an overall feeling of safety and comfort. The ground was carpeted and lush and strewn about were lounging strangers, smoking from grand brass pipes and whisper-talking amongst themselves over cups flowing with dark wine.

Seated on a large plush floor pillow towards the back of the den was the Hemptress herself, a snake draped upon her shoulders and a small entourage of attractive heathens surrounding her like a little audience.

“Hemptress,” 3 death spoke on the group’s behalf.

“We have business.”

She turned her large catlike eyes upon our group with curiosity and let a stream of smoke trail out from past her lips. I could see that her teeth appeared to be painted, shiny and black. She split the smoke with a forked tongue and motioned to her hangers-on to depart for a moment. they took their leave without question.

“…and how might I be of service?” She asked in a youthful relaxed voice.

We all took a cross legged seat on the carpet and she pushed an ornate but worn plate of fruit towards us. Her hands were dark with tattoos and her long hair draped over her shoulders in thick black locks tinged green. She had bangs cut short just above her eyebrows and thick black eyelashes.

“ We’re looking for some stolen loot we think might have passed hands around here.” 3 Death said, reaching for a plump grape apprehensively.

“Chems?” The Hemptress asked, leaning back and making herself more comfortable.

“Mushrooms.” I chimed in.

“They were stolen from the people eaters and brought here.”

She sat back up more alert.

“Psilocyren mushrooms.” She said knowingly.

“Here?”

“We think so.” 3 death continued.

By his side Master chef reached for a handful of fruit gleefully.

“They were taken by Wax the raider war lord-“

“That guys a prick.” The Hemptress chuckled.

“He came around the other night and made a mess, he’s not welcome here.” She said.

“Well, he won’t be bothering you anymore.” love machine said with amusement.

“Fuck,” 3 death said, “so he didn’t offload any of them here huh?”

“Oh no,” replied the Hemptress.

“Although he did make a donation to the King. He sent it with the caravan that left yesterday.”

3 Death and I both looked at one another.

“What king?”

“The commander.” She explained with a bit of surprise.

“… King of Brycelandia. He owed him a debt from what I understand. Paid it off with a bag of things left on the donation wagon- it’s here every month and then it heads off with the Junktown folk to the kingdom.”

3 death began to stand with urgency.

“We have to catch up to them-“

“They have a days ride ahead of you.” The Hemptress said.

“It’ll be dangerous on the road this late. You can travel with us tomorrow.” She gestured for him to sit again.

“There’s no time for that.” 3 death spat.

“ If the mushies are on their way to Brycelandia they won’t be eaten until the feast in three days time.” Hemptress explained.

“We’ll be on our way there tomorrow for that and you’re welcome to join us. It’s the time of the fallen- they’ll be celebrating.”

Master Chef lit up.

“A feast?!” He exclaimed excitedly.

“Oh we’re, going!” He proclaimed, tugging 3 death’s by the arm and back into a sitting position.

“No way are we missing that! You guys need cooks?”

“I’m sure the king wouldn’t turn down the help-“ Hemptress said.