A life well lived. Sort of.

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A life well lived. Sort of.

It begins with dogmen, and ends with dogmen.

It's a rocky start, carrying meager possessions in a plastic bag. Subsisting on saltines, gummy bears, and fetid swamp water. Poisoning and diarrhea and near starvation and dehydration come and go, but somehow one manages. The first cleaver leads to two backpacks and a shopping cart full of loot. A hideout next door to the junk market. Layer upon layer of rattlecan triplines. Several sleeping bags and not a few tarp shelters. Every day begins with a banquet of mushrooms and squirrels and boiled river water. Every day ends with a cart full of the apocalypse's largess and a new rifle slung across the back destined for the junk market. But the true fortune is made in shoes.

So many shoes.

Access to the megacity. Real food. The luxury of a sedative addiction. True exploration, to the north, without worry of starvation or exposure. A lake cabin filled with corpses and a strange man's urn, simply for the experience, and shoes found along the way.

The second adventure sees a shopping cart full of bottled water and every supply major and minor to chart the upper reaches of the wasteland. More of the same. Looters, robbers, cabins, apartments, marshes. New shoes.

A man's only true companion in the world, a shopping cart, breaks. Tragedy.

Dogmen. Running provides the chance to staunch the wounds and bandage the cuts, but the water and shoes remain in the broken shopping cart. The first dogman is overcome with a headbutt and subdued with kicks about the head and chest while stunned, and finished with a cleaver to the head. Weak, weary with bloodloss, shredding shirts to make quick bandages, hoping for time to collect precious bottled water and shoes before making camp in the woods.

More dogmen. Another comes from nowhere. The dark cannot be truly overcome, not even with nightvision. From all sides they come. Running is the only option, but there are so many.

Another. Another. Another.


The count ends at six before the world is reduced to fur and claws.

Seriously, though, where did all the fucking dogmen come from?

Poetic accounts of a scavenger's demise...

If I followed your accounts correctly, the dogmen were encountered during your final push to the north. As of the last build, monsters have been regionalized, so dogmen tend to appear in the north, humans in the south (mostly looters near DMC, and balance to the SW).

In the far north, dogmen actually are encountered in packs, not just solo. And they'll band together under a common alpha if they see a stronger one.

So I think it's working as designed. Though, it sounds a bit rough up there. I won't change it immediately, since players aren't forced to go up there yet. I'd like to see how things feel after adding more items and/or creatures, in case they temper things.

For now, only the well-prepared, or suicidal, go that far north :)

Dan Fedor - Founder, Blue Bottle Games