#the Longstump and Foothills Wastelanders have elements loosely inspired by the HZD Nora and Banuk

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Snippet Monday

Some weeks ago, @sparguscityangel and I were discussing the world map in Jak 2, and it occurred to me that at least one character refers to the northeastern area of the main continent as The Wasteland as well as the island to the west. And in the Jak and Daxter franchise, plot holes are just writer worldbuilding opportunities. So we started tossing around the idea of there being two or three separate communities of Wastelanders, all in different environments, because "wasteland" doesn't automatically mean "desert". And we thought "maybe they're all loosely affiliated and the leaders of the clans meet up every once in a while". For context, my idea of the other clans was Longstump Clan, down where the swamp used to be in TPL, and Foothills Clan, which lives around what used to be the Spider Caves and the base of Snowy Mountain. All this then got incorporated into Adopted Dadmas au with a pinch of Spy Tess. (That bit comes tomorrow)

"Fine young gun you've got there, Wolf."

The chief of the Longstump settlement took a drag on his intricately carved pipe and nodded to where Jak was climbing up one of the old pillars to watch for Marauder activity below. The old man snorted as the boy turned an unnecessarily elaborate flip to make it to the top.

"What is he now, eighteen? Nineteen?"

"Sixteen, by count of his last physical," Damas answered, sparing the boy a glance. A faint smile tugged at his cheek. "Sixteen, impudent, and always climbing, that one."

Sal puffed out a smoky chuckle. "No wonder the Foothills band likes him."

He leaned back and shook out the soft hide vest and tunic common to the inland Wastelanders, rattling with wooden beads and Precursor metal. His hands were wrinkled, and his face creased; Sal was old enough to be Damas’s father, but his hair was the same deep teak it was in his youth, tied back in neat plaits.

"At the rate he's going, he'll have no trouble when it's time for his Proving," Sal observed.

"Hm."

The Proving. That was what the Wastelanders of Longstump called the trials to usher newcomers into their ranks: a three day test of strength against metalheads in the basin, with an amulet awarded for each day survived.

The Foothill Wastelanders called their test Running the Spire. Young warriors or outsiders wishing to join had to race up a dangerous trail on the border of the Marauder homelands, without being caught by Marauders or dangerous wildlife, and infiltrate Snowy Mountain to bring back a piece of Marauder armor.

By comparison, the Arena was a far more controlled environment, with more rules. There was a strange irony in that.

Damas couldn't have said why the swell of pride he felt was so overwhelmingly strong, but he didn't bother to hide it.

"Jak has already passed the first two trials of his Proving," he corrected the Longstump chief with a full smile.

"I predict that before winter, he will join the warriors' councils as an equal."

Sal took another puff of his pipe and shook his head in wonder. "Two amulets and he's sixteen. Shee-oo! You dune-wolves don't do anything by halves, do you? You must be so proud."

Damas looked up. "I am," he murmured, smiling.

From the top of the pillar, Jak seemed to feel his stare. He looked down and made a questioning face. Damas snorted and signed up at him, "No moncaw-business! I'm not stealing light eco from the temple if you fall down and break both your arms!"

Sal laughed out loud beside him. "Ah! I remember telling my daughters that all the time!"

Yvelle, matriarch of the Foothills Clan finally looked up from the trade agreements the three had been exchanging. "Sometimes you just have to let them learn the hard way," she offered.

Damas made a face. "Can't. He convinced an Oracle in Haven city to teach him how to battle-shift -- like the Sages used to in the history books -- and now half the time he just regenerates whatever damage he's done to himself. I tell you, if my hair wasn't already white..."

"Your boy is a War Sage?" Sal sputtered, choking on smoke.

Yvelle's eyes glittered with interest. "No wonder he's half done with his Proving already. Hey, if you need a break, just send him up to the Caves. We'll tire him out."

"In your dreams, Yvelle," Damas scoffed. "Get your own kid: Jak's mine!"

"Worth a shot," the woman joked. "But seriously, my Lurker Wastelanders are asking about taking back their ancestral city in Frosthold. Loooooot of Marauders up there. We could use a War Sage."

Damas leaned back and searched the sky for a moment before his eyes landed on the Day-Star. He frowned. "Let's deal with subverting the apocalypse first. Then we'll see how far I'm willing to let my boy travel unaccompanied."

Of course, Jak would likely have all three amulets by then, and thus be considered old enough to go where he wanted. But Damas wasn't fond of the idea. He'd lost one son, why tempt fate by letting another wander far from home without supervision?