Johnson's Island, a rare haven in the wastes for travellers of all stripes. Protected by a combination of firepower, trade agreements, and backroom deals, Johnson's island offers a place for almost anyone to rest their head for a night. But only for a night. The city watch looks unkindly on those who would overstay their welcome, those without money, and those who would disturb the peace. It's buildings are made from sturdy sheet metal, lashed together with ropes and cables, with bare bulbs strung along them, providing a well lit, and almost cozy scene, if such things could be said to exist anymore. Johnson's Island subsists on the Ethanol trade, brewing trade foods and plant roughage into fuel for generators and vehicles. The Marauders could take the Island, if they wanted to, but the threat of losing their oh so precious fuel supplies, as well as the formidable firepower of it's inhabitants.
There are many bars on the island, places where the weary traveler can come to drink away his issues. This one, the Golden Toad, is best know for it's amatuer mic night, hosting entertainment from a variety of performers hoping to win a meal, a drink, and a warm floor to rest their head on. The current act is simple, a girl and her guitar, but the music has a certain way about it that you haven't heard in a long, long time. A woman sits in a corner table, watching the performance intensely through her grimy goggles. A man of thin build sits at a table in the center of the room, the lamplight glinting off his hazel eyes. A Compound bow sits by his side. A heavyset man sits near the front, reclining in his chair and sipping something you assume is quite a bit stronger than the typical beer. A big, hevay handgun hangs menacingly from his waist. His leather jacket has some fur around the collar. Finaly, a woman stands relaxed against the door, her hair the same flaming colour as her eyes. A pair of knives glint from their sheaths.
So, what do you do?