MadImpetuousThing97

    At the edge of South Gotham, well-hidden by a lush thicket of emerald, lays the crumbling ruins of a Colonial-era fortress which once dominated the space now known as Robinson Park. Most of the elaborate stone constructs have busted to bits, and the roof vanished long ago, but even in it's current state beyond the point of repair there's still someone that calls it home. Where the black leather boots of colonists and minutemen previously marched now treads a single set of bare feet, whose soles are stained by the browns and greens of nature itself. Muskets hanging from rifle racks no longer adorn what remains of the broken walls, replaced by creeping vines slithering from between the smallest of fractures in the cobblestone. The furnishings of the old barracks were taken away generations ago, but the latest group of residents don't seem to mind, dreaming without a care or complaint in large pods of amber firmly rooted in the Earth. Right now, they're c