The guardsmen stop talking, and raise their weapons at the intruder. Once it is clear he means no immediate harm, the lead guardsman mumbles a "Lo Siento" and continues the negotiations. Geraldo agrees to an exchange of goods, for the benefit of Cayo Mambi. Geraldo motions for one of his troops to guard the section of wall he was watching, and has his english-speaking interpreter take the RPD from Rade.
Geraldo leads you a short distance to a moderately sized shack, perhaps ten feet by twelve. It is built from roughly-nailed together bits of driftwood, and the smell of gun oil and salt water pervades your nostrils. The walls of the shack are filled with weapons, placed together amongst whatever sundry racks and shelves the town could produce. Two men sit on folding chairs in opposite corners of the room. One is fletching arrows, the other hard at work on a reloading press.
The guardsmen's stocks contain:
Six not-very-lethal bludgeons, an instrument carried by every guardsman. Two are old police batons, four are weighted bits of wood with duct tape for handles.
A baseball bat wrapped with barbed wire.
An entire crate of rusty machetes and knives lies against one corner, ever useful.
Along one wall lie twelve crossbows of varying size. All are painted in a brilliant orange color.
A Ruger Single Ten revolver, in almost perfect condition. The ammunition for it is as plentiful as ammunition comes these days, although even in it's days of glory it wasn't good for much other than squirrels and plinking.
Three 1911 pistols with the blueing worn off.
Eight Makarov models in varying condition. One boasts fading gilt among crumbling construction. It is a proud fool who would wield this weapon.
A trio of generic hunting rifles, all firing .22LR. Accurate and reliable, their ammunition pile is likely enough to last a lifetime. One has it's barrel replaced with a shining piece of stainless steel piping.
Four Mosin Nagants, their bolts weary with the passage of time.
A single SKS carbine, held together by little more than duct tape and a sense of duty.
A double barrel shotgun of unknown make. It is ravaged by time, but the classic design has endured. It seems to fire 12 gauge shells.
An AKM assault rifle. The fake wood grain has left the furniture of the rifle, leaving it an ugly, white color to contrast with the rifle's brown rusting steel.
A octagonal red stop sign welded to a crude handle. "PARE", chipped white paint proclaims to the world.
Two suits of padded armor, stitched together from gaudy bits of cloth. They would provide a degree of protection, and warmth. It is a shame they make the wearer look like Tuuti Frutti ice cream.
Several grey uniforms with matching caps, red cloth around the arms. One of them appears to possess a kevlar vest and has a red cap.
The stockhouse also possesses a small number of military rations, three ancient grenades, and sufficient ammunition for most of the weapons it contains.It would be well to remember that this is the armory for the town's entire pseudo-military, and most of the things here will be grudgingly relinquished if at all.
"We also have a small stable of horses, a few boats, and three battlecars, although you'll need considerably more if you wish to barter for those."
stubby wrote:omg noob, balrogs are maiars too, don't you know anything