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Description
‘Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.’ The man grumbled as he walked up the winding path.
The signs said it all, depicting horrible but cartoonish versions of humans being decapitated, devoured, or impaled on giant claws. There were also a smattering of written ones too: ‘Keep out!’ ‘Stay Back!’ ‘Warning: Deathclaws!’ and such.

Still, he had yet to see any of these mythical beasts, terrors to behold taller than any man, capable of taking the head off a ranger in full power armor. And almost as fowl tempered as Sirse, if half the rumors were true.

Hoping the fox was watching, he turned to the distant horizon and stabbed his index finger into the air.

‘Stupid.’ The man grumbled, as he rounded the final corner, coming across the dwelling at the end of the line. It was a rundown hobble of banged together scrap metal, rusted and patched a hundred times over just like all the other structures out here in the wasteland.

Approaching, he loosed the sequoia in its holster. Taking stock of the shack, two oddities jumped out immediately, the first, the oversized front door that did little to settle his nerves. And second, the small bell ringer that had been placed on a pedestal with great care residing in the center of the path.

For a long time he simply stared at the bell.

‘Stupid.’ He muttered, raising his bandaged hand. ‘Really, really stupid.’

He gave it a tap, sending a sharp tinging sound that seemed to echo around the rocks.

Then the front door exploded outwards. A monstrous head, flanked with curving horns, and a mouth full of fangs protruded outwards. Hands bigger with claws like spears spilled out coming to rest on the lower lip as the beast’s eyes narrowed to slits.

‘Go away.’ The monster grumbled. ‘Cant you read the sign?’

‘…’

‘What are you deaf?’ The deathclaw growled, the very air reverberating around it. ‘Clearly you are not blind – so you can: Read. The. Sign.’

Jabbing a claw to a tiny white placard that hung on the door:

Business hours:

Monday – Friday: 9:00 -5:00

Saturday By Appointment Only

No Admission on Sunday – though it out!

Managing to find his voice, the man retrieved his hat, brushed the dust off of it, and returned it to his head.

‘Mr. Shark, I have a three o’clock appointment.’

The deathclaw’s eyes narrowed, before it grunted, blowing out a long exasperated breath. ‘Your early.’

And muttering something about not enough caps in the Mojave the creature retreated, flicking the door open with a casual smack of its tail.

C.S. Notes: Fun little fact, for those of you who played the original Fallout game, you can find in Vault 13 a group of Talking Deathclaws, that are not only sentient, but very well spoken. Demonstrating cognitive abilities that rival that of a human. And what better calling for a deathclaw than to be a wasteland psychologist.

Description
‘Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.’ The man grumbled as he walked up the winding path.
The signs said it all, depicting horrible but cartoonish versions of humans being decapitated, devoured, or impaled on giant claws. There were also a smattering of written ones too: ‘Keep out!’ ‘Stay Back!’ ‘Warning: Deathclaws!’ and such.

Still, he had yet to see any of these mythical beasts, terrors to behold taller than any man, capable of taking the head off a ranger in full power armor. And almost as fowl tempered as Sirse, if half the rumors were true.

Hoping the fox was watching, he turned to the distant horizon and stabbed his index finger into the air.

‘Stupid.’ The man grumbled, as he rounded the final corner, coming across the dwelling at the end of the line. It was a rundown hobble of banged together scrap metal, rusted and patched a hundred times over just like all the other structures out here in the wasteland.

Approaching, he loosed the sequoia in its holster. Taking stock of the shack, two oddities jumped out immediately, the first, the oversized front door that did little to settle his nerves. And second, the small bell ringer that had been placed on a pedestal with great care residing in the center of the path.

For a long time he simply stared at the bell.

‘Stupid.’ He muttered, raising his bandaged hand. ‘Really, really stupid.’

He gave it a tap, sending a sharp tinging sound that seemed to echo around the rocks.

Then the front door exploded outwards. A monstrous head, flanked with curving horns, and a mouth full of fangs protruded outwards. Hands bigger with claws like spears spilled out coming to rest on the lower lip as the beast’s eyes narrowed to slits.

‘Go away.’ The monster grumbled. ‘Cant you read the sign?’

‘…’

‘What are you deaf?’ The deathclaw growled, the very air reverberating around it. ‘Clearly you are not blind – so you can: Read. The. Sign.’

Jabbing a claw to a tiny white placard that hung on the door:

Business hours:

Monday – Friday: 9:00 -5:00

Saturday By Appointment Only

No Admission on Sunday – though it out!

Managing to find his voice, the man retrieved his hat, brushed the dust off of it, and returned it to his head.

‘Mr. Shark, I have a three o’clock appointment.’

The deathclaw’s eyes narrowed, before it grunted, blowing out a long exasperated breath. ‘Your early.’

And muttering something about not enough caps in the Mojave the creature retreated, flicking the door open with a casual smack of its tail.

C.S. Notes: Fun little fact, for those of you who played the original Fallout game, you can find in Vault 13 a group of Talking Deathclaws, that are not only sentient, but very well spoken. Demonstrating cognitive abilities that rival that of a human. And what better calling for a deathclaw than to be a wasteland psychologist.