The British Commonwealth
Welcome to London, 2300, a city destroyed by the Great War over two centuries ago. Barely a shadow of its former self, the story of the city will unfold as its survivors define themselves, and in turn, the future of the land. From the supposedly civilized safety of the Commonwealth, the barbarity of Cathedral City, the military power of the Soviet Navel Ship, the allegedly legitimacy of the Monarchy, or the simple ruins and desolate planes of the wastes, death is a very real, daily reality. The Great War might be long since finished, but survival has only just begun.
War... War never changes.
Accepted Character List:
King Windsor III (After his father, Windsor II and his father, Windsor I).
26 – Born in the year 2274.
Windsor looks as one may imagine the self proclaimed King of the commonwealth to look, at least when he is ‘working’ that is. The crown that sits atop his brow is what remains of the actual crown passed down through his family. It initially was well looked after in the vault in which the royal family hid themselves, but since the crown re-emerged with Windsor’s great grandfather it has been through quite a bit, with an attempted re-forging and shaping by both his father and grandfather – seen as leaving their own marks on the crown. The once gleaming gems are now dulled and scratched, matching the once flawless metal which is also dull and shows the signs of its age. He also carries the Great Sword of State, another passed down royal artifact from his father – it shows the signs of age, though it has been slightly better maintained, the gilt handle has crosspieces representing the lion and unicorn and the scabbard is decorated with jewels in the shapes of the floral symbols of the old 'United Kingdom': the rose for 'England' and the thistle for 'Scotland', all faded however still more or less discernible. Royal artifacts aside Windsor looks like a more or less average gentleman, his build being slightly better than the average wastelander – no doubtedly an effect of actually eating a sufficient amount of food and living in relatively good conditions. He is in good health for the majority, a fact which gives him a much more fair appearance than most others. His hair is a rich brown, and is usually kept fairly short, though is often slightly longer – but never reaching his shoulders.
When out and about in the wasteland Windsor wears nothing which would establish him as the possible monarch, realizing to do so would most likely be completely disastrous and would result in his swift death. He attempts to blend in by wearing clothes of that of your average wastelander, wearing a hooded jacket that hides a layer of highly protective Kevlar (a material which was brought into the vault with the royal family, the few vests that they had didn’t stay in good condition for very long, and Windsor’s father ordered two of them to be tailored into a protective shirt for him and his heirs). Though aside from that his apparel differs depending primarily on his mood – seeing as he is probably one of the few individuals to have an extensive wardrobe of both pre-war and post-war clothing.
Simply put he is the King of the Commonwealth – at least according to him and his followers he is. Officially he is not recognised by the commonwealth or anyone else, his faction to small to take power for themselves, but one day he plans to officially be the King in the eyes of each and every living member of the old British Isles. A dream which is still a long way away.
Born in the year 2274, Windsor III was raised by his father Windsor II. During his childhood Windsor watched as his father announced to the wasteland the Monarch’s presence and the fact that they were the rightful rulers of the commonwealth. It was a drastic change from the policies of Windsor I, his grandfather who cared little about ruling anything outside of his own ‘court’.
The monarchy had survived the falling of the bombs by retreating into their own vault and sealing themselves in with all the resources and staff that would be required. All in all since the very first monarch that fled into the vaults there have been six subsequent rulers, there were two kings which ruled the vault with the third being responsible for opening the doors to the wasteland. The next king to be born was born outside of the vault (the technically he was actually born in the vault, as this still served as their base of operations up until Windsor III relocated them) and was named Windsor after the old surname used by the royal family – he was Windsor III’s grandfather and was responsible for practically sealing the monarchy off once more. He cared little for anything outside of his vault and lived an indulgent and relaxed lifestyle at the cost of many of the precious resources that they had protected for so long. On his 18th birthday Windsor II, angry at his father for squandering the resources which kept them safe and putting himself before all others, decided to kill him and take power – a move which very few objected to.
From there Windsor II set about regaining some of the resources that would be needed to help his faction survive and he began trading heavily with what little they had left, slowly but surely re-building the resources and power that they had lost. He taught his son, Windsor III, about the importance of having one ruler who was absolute in his power whilst still serving the people’s best interests. He spoke of the flawed methods of the Commonwealth and how they were leading the nation into inevitable disaster. He made sure that young Windsor III was groomed and ready for the commitment of leadership, and that he would be in a position to one day claim back their rightful places as the one and only leader. With the large amount of resources and a wealth of knowledge stored in the royal vault, it is likely that Windsor III is one of the most educated people alive in the commonwealth today (scientists aside).
When his father finally passed away a week before his 22nd birthday (at the age of 52) Windsor III swore on his father’s death bed that he would do everything within his power to seize control of the commonwealth one way or another. Soon after that he moved his faction’s base of operations away from the royal vault, sealing it and leaving it as a final stronghold and storage vault until it was needed, and set up in the ruins of Buckingham palace, fortifying and reinforcing it as necessary to make it into the fortress that it is today.
Windsor rules with authority and is considered a good leader by those members of his faction. He has gained the allegiance of many, from mercenaries to civilians – a small settlement forming around Buckingham Palace – Buck Town, as it has come to be known.
Little known to his subjects, Windsor III often leaves the safety of his palace to travel into the commonwealth under the guise of a wasteland wanderer called Edward (a name he chose ironically as it was the most common name of British Monarchs according to his father’s teachings) with only his elite bodyguard at his side. He does this not only to learn of what is really happening, all to aware that a leader can easily become detached from his subjects and lose touch with their needs and desires, but also because “I am the king and I do what I please, safe or not” the words he spoke to his bodyguard upon their objection to putting himself in such danger.
Windsor’s father insisted that he learn as many skills as possible but focused primarily on education and managing the burden of leading as justly and fairly as possible, meaning that many of his primary skills lay within his mind. He has an almost comprehensive understanding of world history – the likes of which he has not seen outside of the royal vault (Being that there were several historians present when the bombs fell, along with the Royal Archives which were filled with practically more knowledge than a lifetime of learning could take) and an appreciation for the ‘bigger picture’.
Aside from this Windsor has made sure that he is more than capable of defending himself, practising with both firearms and the art of the sword. Realistically though he knows that he isn’t the best shot in the wasteland, though he may be one of the best sword duellists, practising regularly with his bodyguards and apparently having a degree of natural skill.
When he is under the guise of Edward he carries a .42 revolver loaded with hollow point ammunition – to pack a punch if needed. This was obtained recently and is of a very high quality considering the standard state of things in the wasteland, though Edward if asked about its origins would just say he looted it from some fancy pants traveller who met his end somewhere in the ruins of London.
He also carries a simple longsword, again as more of a defensive ‘worse case scenario’ weapon. Edward claims this was purchased in the north of the country by a trader who then swapped it for several cartons of cigarettes. Obviously this is also untrue, the blade being one of the many that were stored in the Royal Vault. The hilt has a faded royal seal on it however it is barely noticeable and if ever questioned about it Edward would just shrug and claim he has no idea of its meaning or origin.
Luckily for him, as the King he has access to all the resources he could need and as such the general items that he has in his possession are often purchased before hand for the specific use on whatever trip he is partaking by his bodyguard (who also gets to carry the majority of the supplies for the disguised King).
Windsor thinks mostly of the bigger picture and of ultimately seizing control. He is firm and somewhat strict in his leadership – not for any desire to be cruel, but rather because he knows anything less than a firm and absolute leader will be insufficient to lead the nation into a new age. He hates to have his word questioned and has absolutely no patience for those who think only of themselves – a trait passed to him by his own father.
He generally stays away from stims and other substances, knowing that they were responsible for the wasteful lifestyle of Windsor I and many other individuals during his ‘reign’. That being said Windsor III does smoke cigarettes on a fairly regular basis – because he is the King and can do what he wants.
His policies differ from those of the commonwealth – not banning the sale of weapons or any other substances, seeing that the gap created by their prohibition in the market would be a huge financial boom to his cause. He has a cabinet of ‘royal advisors’ who he has personally appointed due to their expertise in one field or another, relying occasionally on their knowledge and advise in certain matters.
Fimion – or “Skant” to everyone.
Fimion is a raider through and through. It clearly shows in his appearance and his behaviour – suffice to say he doesn’t look healthy. His skin is covered in a constant layer of grime and dirt, and his eyes are constantly blood-shot, complete with the dark bags under them from nights awake buzzed out of his face. His clothes include of a leather jacket with thin sheets of scrap metal stitched into it (obviously Fimion could never make such a garment, however to him caving another raider’s skull in for a jacket is completely acceptable). He has a pair of what were once baggy jeans, they now are little more than rags – but at least he has had the decency to now also wear a pair of stripy black and white leggings underneath them, however bizarre it may look. His hair is a simple short scraggly mess, with absolutely no maintenance routine aside from the occasional rain storm, the colour may be grey, black, brown – it’s quite difficult to tell to be truthful. His look is almost completed by the numerous track marks covering his arms and even his body, if you’re lucky enough to see it that is.
If you hadn’t guessed, Fimion is a raider. Perhaps what you’d call a true raider, or maybe a pure raider. He makes a living by taking what he needs from others. He has killed for everything from food to fun, choosing his moments when he is certain of victory. Sadly almost all of his profit goes towards chems, alcohol and the occasional whore, that is of course Fimion doesn’t just decide to exert his twisted sexual desires upon those unlucky few women in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Fimion was born the bastard child of rape, his father a raider and his mother a Commonwealth scientist, surprisingly. She was unlucky enough to be captured whilst on a field experiment with several colleagues. The men were killed on the spot and the women suffered a worse fate. His mother was the only one to survive the ordeal and for her troubles she became a slave to the raider chief – who just happened to be Fimion’s father. Once Fimion was born he was considered lower than low, and was treated as an equal with only the raider’s dogs. His mother was the only one to love him, and Fimion was terrified of everyone but her. When he was seven his father took a particularly savage mix of psycho, buffout and jet. Sadly his mother did not survive the experience. Left to his own devices Fimion begged, stole and even once killed another child to survive, food being the only incentive. Six years later and the now thirteen year old Fimion was a hardened killer, having killed men in their sleep amongst many other crimes. He committed his first rape at fifteen, and from there grew only more savage brutal, choosing the perfect moment to inflict the maximum pain. Chems and alcohol proved a welcome break from the troubles of his life and before he knew it he was an alcoholic with a major chem addiction. As he turned eighteen Fimion had become an experienced raider, working both alone and with other groups, though never really staying in one place for more than long. He has had a number of odd relationships throughout his life, mostly other raiders – and shockingly the only women he has ever been with he has killed. He isn’t quite sure why he does it, but he does – regardless of the victim, he just can’t help himself.
Now Fimion is established as a crazy motherfucker amongst raiders and the occasional traveller who has heard of him. Other raiders work with him but keep their distance, there is just something off about him.
Fimion has become an extremely skilled killer. He has spent many an evening prodding and poking at a prisoner of his, and has as such discovered the many weaknesses and vulnerable points on a human body. The destruction he can cause with a melee weapon is almost unbelievable – being able to cripple any limb with almost one strike. A second strike and your dead, that is unless he is feeling generous.
Fimion is extremely trigger happy when it comes to firearms, choosing a rapid rate of fire over accuracy every time. When combined with stims he isn’t half bad, but any other occasion and realistically he is inaccurate and wastes a fair amount of ammunition.
Aside from that Fimion is actually a fairly good chemist, at least if it’s in the context of making chems. He is an expert in getting high, being able to make something in practically any situation. Given the right ingredients he has been known to make some of the best shit out there.
Fimion carries a heavy metal pipe, it is quite long and at the end where the pipe has been torn away from its fixture there is a razor sharp jagged edge, which has served to kill or maim more than its fair share of people. He has become so practised with it he can strike with speed and efficiency, taking great pleasure in the process. When combined with chems he is quite the opponent.
He carries an old tatty messenger bag which is what he carries the majority of his possessions in. The majority of it is drug paraphernalia and assorted chemicals and ingredients. He also carries any trinkets or valuable objects in here. Fimion is in desperate need of cigarettes, having only two left from his last pack. He rarely has any caps in his possession, spending them almost immediately every time he acquires them.
His only other noteworthy possession is a bottle of Nuka-cola quantum, something which he found (on the dead body of a wanderer he had killed) for some reason Fimion is waiting for the perfect opportunity to drink this – not that he knows what that would be.
Benjamin "Ben" Hunt
Benjamin without his typical travel gear on. Benjamin clothed in his gear (minus the steam gauge on the back). Benjamin stands at about 6' 2" and weighs around 170 pounds. He is not a muscular giant but he is in pretty good shape from constant running, gunning, and travel. His family, prewar, was American but they can be traced back to European descent. Typically Benjamin wears his travel gear everywhere, minus the helmet, unless he is sleeping somewhere safe (like a settlement or a civilized area).
Benjamin is a gunslinger, a mercenary, a soldier without a nation. He has not gained a reputation for being a flashy gunfighter with a woman at one side and beer at the other. All that he is known for is success. Benjamin is not a bad guy, nor is he a good guy. He works for himself, money, and sometimes for friends. When work comes, he'll take it. It does not matter who the employer is, he has worked for the Soviets and the Commonwealth, as well as raiders before. If he fails, not many people know about it because he covers it up pretty well.
What kind of back ground has Benjamin had? One would expect some kind of dramatic story involving the death of his parents, a kidnapping, or some kind of traumatic act that sent him on the warpath. An act that would have created an insatiable blood lust that could only be sated by killing on a regular basis. Well one would be wrong. His life up to a certain point was normal, well as normal as it could be living in the Commonwealth. For years he grew up admiring his father, a man who started off with nothing and was, at the time, earning an amazing amount of money managing a bar. His mother was not a barmaid, she just lived upstairs and helped raise Benjamin. This normal life style made Benjamin a very docile child, and eventually, a very docile teenager. When he grew to adulthood, Benjamin went out with one of the bar's caravans. The task was simple. Escort it to a trading post about two miles south of the city, and then return. Their path was through The Underground, and a particularly dangerous part of it at that. For months before the caravan left, they heard stories of highwaymen robbing and assaulting the caravans and their staff, almost no murders though. This still resonated with Benjamin and made him decide to purchase a weapon. An old .44 Revolver capable of firing magnum rounds. He did not choose the weapon because of it's size, or the caliber. He bought the weapon because it was one of the cheaper ones and required the least amount of work to fix up. When he purchased the weapon, illegally, he was pointed to a local gunsmith and retired gunfighter that would aid him in fixing the weapon and learning to use it. They had seven months to fix the weapon, and he had seven to learn how to fire it. It was a relatively easy process, coming to Benjamin easier than he thought it would.
Before he knew it, the time had come. The task was upon him. He would have to leave the Commonwealth and head into the place he was so "prepared" for. Nothing could have prepared him mentally. They departed at the normal time, traveled through some ruins with ease, and arrived at the entrance to The Underground they would be using. Upon entry he knew something was wrong within seconds. There were no gunshots in the distance, no ghouls roaming around, no corpses. The thing that put his mind out of sync was the lack of other travelers. It took them about two hours to get into the darkest depths of their course. And when they arrived, the "shit hit the fan". Without warning they were under siege. Five men jumped from the darkness armed with bats, knives, even a sword of some sort. Benjamin went into fight or flight mode almost instantly. In the past he would have chosen flight, but this time he chose fight. One of the attackers charged at Benjamin. His reaction was immediate. The .44 on his waist flew from his holster, aimed, and discharged. Right on target. The round smashed into the mans chest and flung him onto the ground. Another man came from behind and tackled Benjamin to the ground. The man's knife was just inches from Benjamin's neck when the highwayman was shot in the back. It was not the .44, it was a 9mm. Benjamin looked up to see one of his fellow caravan guards nodding, and then take off into the tunnel, he disappeared within seconds. There were still one other attacker left and when he realized he would not be able to catch the other guard, he turned to Benjamin and began taunting him. "You'll be the first victim in months, too bad you lost yer' gun" he said. "Come on, shoot me... with your imaginary gun" he started laughing. Benjamin happily obliged him, drawing the .44 and firing. The man fell to the ground, motionless, blood spurting from the wound in his chest.
Shame, guilt, and sadness consumed the thoughts of Benjamin for weeks. So much so that he did not return home after the failed attempt at guarding a caravan. He wrote a letter home, left it on the caravan, and went his own way. His family received the letter days later. The fact that he had killed two men tore Benjamin apart on the inside. Sure they were going to kill him, but they were also human beings. Maybe they were robbing him to provide for a family, and maybe not. Eventually the depression subsided, with the help of Jet, and he began a new chapter of his life.
Benjamin took up residence in Cathedral City after a few months had passed, and he had gained a pair of "balls". He melted into the population of Cathedral City quite easily. There were many places in Cathedral City where Benjamin could take up residence, but he ended up finding a home in a brothel. Though the prostitutes and strippers of the establishment occasionally made a move on Benjamin, he never took them up on their offers. Instead he chose to work as protection for the establishment and it's workers. The money he earned was more than enough to feed his Jet addiction and live an easy, care-free, life. He did not become a gunslinger until one of the brothel's patrons offered him a job. Not security, instead it was bounty hunting. The man, Paul, had many of his chems stolen by a crazed addict and some of his pals. Paul did not want his chems back. He wanted revenge. This job led to a very prosperous career in the gunslinging business. He even dabbled in chem deals from time to time.
Now he finds himself traveling The Underground, making his way back to The Commonwealth to inquire about his family.
The most note-able skill of Benjamin is his refined marksmanship. He is able to fire more weapons than just his .44, but it takes a toll on his efficiency. Benjamin is most "productive" when using either his .44 or another pistol. As far as other skills go, he is a decently charismatic person. He is able to talk his way out of some situations, some. Most of the situations are petty arguments, and even some heavy ones. Gun battles and the such are not so easily bypassed with his words. If being a detective was an option for Benjamin, he'd be excellent at it. He is great at interrogations, "gathering clues", and the like. This skill was developed while he worked some bounty hunting assignments.
One of the major flaws in Benjamin's personality is the occasional guilt that he is wracked by. It only comes from time to time, once every few months. But when it does, it is almost debilitating. To combat his depression-like state, Benjamin takes Jet and other drugs on occasion.
The weapon Benjamin carries is the previously mentioned .44 Revolver. It is always with him no matter where he is. The clothing he wears was a very personal choice and took a few years to finish. In appearance, it looks like this. There is more to it than just cosmetics though. Beneath the clothing on his chest and back, he wears a modified version of pre-war police bulletproof vests. It is thinner and easier to move in. It can stop bullets and shrapnel to a point, Benjamin will still be bruised if shot. He did not weave this armor himself, he purchased it from a friend of a friend. His knees and elbows have pads on them but they are just typical athletic ones, a bullet will easily pass through them. These were just scavenged from some ruins.
The helmet was forged for him by the aforementioned friend of a friend. He used to wear a hockey mask but that became to uncomfortable. After the hockey mask, he switched over to a fabric mask, but that again got in the way. So this time, he paid for his perfect mask. It does nothing for stopping bullets, it can deflect some shrapnel. It is more for looks and versatility than anything. There are vents (non-mechanical ones) that allow for airflow in the mask. This keeps it from getting stuffy. Again, the mask was created more for looks than function. It can take the blow from melee weapons as well, but it will still cause some pain and headaches.
Benjamin is a chem addict. His chem of choice, Jet. It is attributed to his prowess as a gunslinger.
A fair-skinned individual. Charles has shaggy brown hair, with some gray strands here and there. He's nearly five feet and eight inches, pretty standard for a man his age. He wears a faded red t-shirt with a flight jacket over it. His black sweat pants are pretty much all torn at the ankle, and are covered in grime. He wears soviet-made commando boots with steel toes, which his father gave him.
While Charles makes most of his living by helping his parents and sister scavenge, he will occasionally take on intel contracts. These contracts range from finding places with high numbers of animals to hunt, to the movements of raider hit squads. Most of these contracts come from the bigwigs at the Commonwealth, and the rest come from small junk towns and outposts.
Charles is the son of a rogue Soviet spy and a British common-woman. His father, Grigori Invanov, was sent to gather intel on the new Commonwealth, along with documents detailing trade routes and weapon caches. After a year of sucking-up to the bigwigs, he was, unfortunately, caught rummaging through classified documents. He was able to escape, but his failure had already been brought to his comrades. They exiled him from the Union for his failure. With no where to go, Grigori settled down in a small town called Duringham, which had been set up not too long ago. He worked as a mechanic and hunter under the name Daniel Edison. People questioned his accent and origins, but he was such a help to the town that nobody really pried. He then met a woman named Claudia Petrova. When he heard the name Petrova, Grigori thought she was a Soviet, just like him, somebody he could connect to. But, much to Grigori's disappointment, when he finally met her, he found out that the woman's name was no more than a novelty. Some sort of sick joke by her parents to frighten their neighbors. Nonetheless, Claudia was very open with Grigori, and they began talking. At first, it was no more than her visiting him at the workshop and greeting him when he came back from a hunt, but it grew from there. Grigori had helped Claudia many times before, and apparently he was something even he didn't know he was: A romantic. He wrote her poems, gave her gifts....well, it's safe to say things went to the next level. When they became an item, Grigori revealed his real name. It shocked her, obviously. He begged her not to panic, and she accused him of being a spy...and he admitted it, but he also had her know that he was exiled, and was trying to live a new life. Hence the name Daniel Edison. Thankfully, Vault propaganda passed down through Claudia's family had not sunk deep enough into her for her to demonize Grigori, and they lived a life like any other couple.
Then, Charles was born. A year after Grigori and Claudia became an item, Claudia bore a baby boy. Needless to say, they were ecstatic. Grigori had finally achieved the family life he had always dreamed of. He had a wife, a son, friends, and a steady life. Several years passed, with Charles learning something new every day. Picking up skills from the other people in the village, and receiving combat lessons from his father. He was always out doing something, be it scavenging, helping repair something, or just moving things around for people. The small town life humbled him, making him cherish what he had. Grigori, who had just recently revealed his true name to the town, told Charles stories of life on the Soviet tubs, and what he and his comrades did. Of course, some were downright fabrications, such as him and his comrades shooting a whale the size of a battle cruiser with their ship guns, but Charles didn't know that, it was just good entertainment to him. Let more years pass, to when Charles was in his early twenties, with his parents reaching their fifties, they adopted a small child. They had found her on the side of the road, crying for her mother. She was only ten years old, and she had just been left there. She said her name was Sammie Wilson. Claudia and Grigori didn't waste a minute to take her in as part of the family. She took on her new last name, Ivanova, and became acquainted with the people in Duringham. She would have episodes of crying and nightmares, but she got over her grief. She liked being around Charles, who she thought was simply amazing, and would try to learn from his actions. While she wasn't very good with her hands, she tried all she could to mimic Charles. To this day, they are simply inseparable.
Fast forward three years, Charles came back from a contract and some scavenging. He brought home one hundred caps and some spare parts. He had dropped off the scrap at the workshop, said hello to some of the townspeople, and came home to relax and undoubtedly tell Sammie all about what he did in the field. He had caught wind of raiders becoming more prominent in the area, but they seemed to keep clear of Charles. Even so, he keeps his hunting rifle loaded by the front door of his family's home at all times...
Charles is a jack of all trades. He learned how to fight from his dad, and developed the ability to prioritize scavenged materials on his own. His dad was a Soviet spy, and he knew all sorts of dirty hand-to-hand moves and how to use a gun. Unfortunately, with Charles trying to learn everything at once, he wasn't able to get it all to sink in. He's able to hold his own, but he's no war-hardened veteran. Charles prefers to stick to long-ranged combat, as he tends to panic when he's up close and personal. Although, when things DO get "personal", while Charles can't hit very hard, he's fast, and can disarm an opponent if he's able to focus. Charles is also somewhat knowledgeable about prices and the rarity of some components and parts. He prioritizes based on value. If he finds, say, a car engine, but it's too heavy, he'll sacrifice some lower-value items such as cans and empty ammo magazines so he can bring it with him.
For long ranged combat, Charles sticks to his tried and true hunting rifle. While the old girl is in need of repairs, it still hits hard enough to ward away most troubles. When things get close, he either uses hand-to-hand, or a knife he keeps tucked away under his jacket sleeve. He carries a frayed brahmin-leather side-pack, which can hold quite a bit. Charles also keeps around a small repair kit, which holds a hammer, some bolts nuts and screws, duct tape, and bits of scrap metal.
"Scot", Most who don't know him might identify him as a drifter, or wanderer.
A man in his mid twenties, Scot looks to be a bit younger for his age. His skin is still rather patchy from many days spent disheveled and unshaved. His eyes are a radiant green, and is one of his first notable features. His facial hair is roughly four inches sprouting from his face as a rough beard. Like his long, braided and slick ponytail, his hair is a light brown hue. Standing roughly 6'2, he stands tall over quite a few men. He is usually seen wearing brown cloaks or blankets over his leather patched, fur-reinforced armor which at times are accompanied by metal plates, anything from street signs to license plates. He tends to try and clean or replace what few robes or blankets he can find to best conceal his identity out in the wasteland.
Wandering the wastes and scavenging or hiding out somewhere is a pastime. He spends most of the week either traveling to or staying in settlements he's come to be familiar with. He makes a living through doing shady jobs from contacts he's made in several settlements. No one except the "contractors", as they've come to be called, and Scot know what the jobs really are. In fact few people are even aware of him and his presence throughout the waste.
Due to his not so well known name, and his accent, it's assumed he travelled from Scotland, though exactly where is unknown. He was first sighted by members of the Soviet faction in London. His only known contact in the Commonwealth reported him missing for nearly three months, already presumed dead after one. When he returned, it was in Cathedral City roughly six years ago. He was rumored to have been beaten relentlessly for three hours by raiders and the general scum of the city until they welcomed him into the cesspit as one of their own. He made two contacts here, a so called mafia leader of "professional" crime in London, Don Freud. His other contact is jokingly nicknamed "Anon" for his insisting of not having a name of his own. From here he once again linked up with the Commonwealth.
They attempted to find any sort of bodily mutations, electronic enhancements, anything the Soviets could have done to him. They found nothing but scars dressing his abdomen, temples, and chest. He claimed they implanted microscopic data chips inside of him to monitor his every move, his every word. As another anatomical search took place, only one was found inside his ear drum and was deemed an auditory data chip of some kind. When played, it projected every sound Scot proved to have heard. Many conversations had, some self ramblings as he walked alone, the roaring screams and scuffling of fights with beasts, shots fired, and so on. As they stitched him back up he showed great dissapointment in the Commonwealth's inability to locate all the data chips inside of him. He continued to wander for another three years, befriending few trusted contacts in various settlements in London and its outskirts.
One year exactly before today's date, he was confronted by several odd men in wealthy fur coats and fur hats, they were accompanied by even more mysteriously armed figures. Defenseless, Scot was forced to accept a briefcase and an envelope before being mercilessly beaten into submission and captured, still handcuffed to the briefcase. "Anon" reportedly made contact with him on the graveyard behind Cathedral City, still clinging to life with the briefcase in hand and envelope forced into his mouth, crumpled. After getting the handcuffs off, Anon wanted to know what was in the briefcase. He was shown and swore never to tell a soul what he bore witness to. The envelopes contents were never given up, however. Scot made his way to the Commonwealth once more and gave half of the briefcases content to his contact there, a well known scientist within the society, proficient in much of the old war technology. He than severed all tied between him and his contact.
Still concealing the briefcase within his backpack, securely locked, he wanders to this day across the London Wasteland doing who-knows-what.
As far as firearms go, Scot never had the time to practice his aim with a scope, therefore making him only accurate with iron-sights. Shotguns and semi- automatic pistols are his speciality, but he's known to don rifles with just as much prowess as his shotgun and pistols.
He claims that whatever the Soviets implanted in his abdomen linked up to all his nerves, making him more tolerant to pain, though additionally stating it did not make him any stronger or tougher. Another side effect includes slowed reaction time and overall perception when not focused on his immediate surroundings, making it easy to catch him off guard if he is distracted.
He also claims that one of the two still residing in his brain repaired his vision, restoring it to twenty-twenty so that he had no need for glasses or contacts anymore. His heightened sense of sight has aided him and others tremendously.
In a physical fight, he reportedly doesn't put up much resistance, but can still take a lot more pain than his opponent. For this reason, it makes physical encounters just as lethal the more drawn out the fights are, essentially getting dealt permanent damage at times.
His endurance is his most notable skill, having wandered so long he can walk or run for quite a while before getting tired. Tacked on with carrying heavy luggage for such long distances, he can haul a bit more than the usual wanderer.
Socially, Scot can be awkward around those he either just met or doesn't like unless he can relate to them or generally have a lot to talk about to said person. Once he does get to know someone, however, it doesn't take long for him to be in good standing with said person or group.
- A Saiga-12 Hunting-Configurated Shotgun given to him by the Soviets for on-field protection.
- (75) 12 Guage shells.
- A 1971 Makarov handgun with four clips of ammunition. Another gift from the Soviets along with...
- A Walther PPS acquired by the Commonwealth, ten clips of ammunition.
- A rather size able pack filled with water bottles, various foodstuffs gained from hunting, at times kindling or firewood, several lighters, bandages and alcohol, some few surgical equipment, a pair of dirty and chipped binoculars, clothes, and at times psilocybin mushrooms native to the outskirts, tobacco and rolling papers, or literally any psychedelic plant matter he can get his hands on. Tending to stay away from chems, they are a last resort option during times of severe depression. He tries to keep his carry weight under a hundred pounds if possible.
Scot's ultimate mission in life is to see the Soviets destroyed. Not only for reasons of personal revenge, but of the atrocities he witnessed upon other captured outsiders. While he knows the quest is a bit of a long shot, he feels through unity and alliances, if the London Wastes where to ban together for just one moment of peace. For just one small gap in time, if they were to fight against the Soviet menace they would see a relative increase in the restoration and peace of the Wasteland.
Xaz is a ghoul, this is hardly seen through his armour but he is definitely a ghoul. His plated armour is reminiscent of the Enclave known to inhabit the American Wasteland, although it appears to not match most armour records. He also wears a gas respirator across his mouth and a bandana tied round his head, reaching as far down as to nearly shield his eyes from view.
As far as exterior concerns, Xaz could well be a burnt human, as he hides his ghoul-appearance with his heavy armour, as well as having a near clear voice, compared to the usual, gutteral voice of a ghoul.
The only relevant logo appears to be some sort of clan marking, across the chest where a BoS or a Enclave logo would be, is replaced by a hastily painted on pure white smiley face.
Xaz hires himself out to take care of others dirty work, he views it not only as a way to make money, but also to kill time, and 'smoothskins'
Xaz began work under the name 'Charles Smith'. He roamed London soon after the radiation had cleared in some areas, leaving his vault, not before slaughtering everyone in the semi-damaged vault for the torture he had endured from them ostracising him. As he left he burnt the vault, Vault 2-EE inside out, leaving nothing but the cogwork door to it. And a narrow maze of pathways, which he now uses as a hideout.
He has been hired by The Monarchy as a sort of contract Judicator, deeming whether criminals against The Monarchy deserve death or imprisonment, Xaz however, prefers death. But as his contracts rolled up and he invested more money into gear and knowledge he became acquainted with a beautiful girl named Rosaline. A guard who served the Monarchy, she talked to him, and not in the way he was accustomed to, in a polite, kind way, he was thankful she couldn't see his ghoul body underneath all of his clothing 'fortress'. One night, he decided it was time to show her, and he removed his respirator and headband in front of her, and to his surprise, she did not recoil, her fair, smooth hair didn't stand on end, and her beautiful eyes kept smiling at him, she said she had to get her rifle from the hallway as it was a danger risk, and she never came back. Xaz, after this incident, is now harbouring bitter hatred for everything, where he accepts missions which could mean death for him, which he would prefer rather than a life knowing Rosaline disappeared hating him for what he was. But for all he knows, Rosaline is dead...but is she?
Xaz is extremely proficient with Revolvers.
Xaz is fairly proficient in CQC, using adaptive environment and situational tactics, such as improvised weapons, improvised cover and unorthodox tactics.
Xaz is adept with most forms of bolt action rifles, capable of having a rather long effective range, even under fire.
Xaz is nicknamed by some of the Monarchy as 'Angel of Death' due to the fact he does not care if he should die, not returning to cover under a hail of bullets, he has next to no fear.
Xaz is scared of fire, due to it being part of the reason he turned 'ghoulish'.
Xaz appears to have very low stamina when it comes to running, or escaping danger.
Unknown Type Power Armour
This armour appears to have the same strength and resilience as the T51-D, but still, it remains unknown where he obtained the armour.
This armour has an in built tactical surveillance system, but Xaz has yet to design a helmet to store all of this data and present it.
Two .44 Magnums
Each of these revolvers has been customised immensely, having blast chambers to increase penetration, a seventh bullet chamber, non-slip grip as well as a slightly wider trigger guard, allowing him to spin them easier.
A M1 Garand with a 5x scope
This rifle, known as 'Tooth' to Xaz, is a highly accurate customised rifle, used to dispatch from long to medium range, its iron sights have been modified incredibly to allow for dead aim, on the front there is even a singular bipod attachment, as he has modified it to either take a standard .30-06 springfield magazine, or with its modification, a bolt-action lever has been added, to provide the means to fire a single .44 cal shot.
Xaz appears to have paranoia a woman is following him.
Name: Ryan Fox
Appearance: Standing at 6' 4" and the armor adding an inch or two he stands above most people. He is well built with muscle. He has short, buzzed brown hair and brown eyes. He has bushy eyebrows, thin lips, and a strong defined jaw. He keeps well shaven.
Red paint has been used to mark streaks all over the armor. Any marking associated with the BoS have been painted over with the same red paint. The left shoulder pad as been severely shot and has several large bullet holes in it. No pip-boy and instead a full glove and gauntlet as on the right arm.
Occupation: He is new to the Commonwealth and has little idea of what he will do. Perhaps scavenge for supplies, or become a mercenary.
Background: Most in the Commonwealth would not be able to place his accent as they have probably never heard it before. He is an "American" in a foreign world.
He was born and raised in a bunker controlled by the Brotherhood of Steel. When he came of age he started his training to become a Knight. As he trained, he found that he liked combustion weapons more that any energy weapon he had ever fired. His unit was able to oblige and supply him with an American assault rifle. When he finally became a knight, he made a decision he would very much regret. He "borrowed" a high yield bomb. He used it to destroy a local band of raiders that made finding new technology difficult. Although he had the best in mind that sort of subordination would not be tolerated.
He was banished. His armor was painted over in the same manner as other outcasts. While wandering the D.C area alone, he found a group claiming to be from the Commonwealth. They spoke of an ever lasting war between two factions Ryan had only read about in holotapes. He was curious. He stole an Enclave vertibird that had landed for some repairs on some superficial damage and flew off with nothing but a compass bearing to tell him where to go. Fortunately the vertibird had enough fuel to make it across the Pacific, barely.
He ran out of fuel in the outer country and crash landed the craft in a field. After salvagin what he could, he blew the aircraft with an explosive charge and headed into the city.
Skills: Extremely skilled with combustion rifles at medium and close range. Has been able to take long shots at targets with his rifle with some success. He is also proficient with energy weapons.
Has a large amount of knowledge on how both energy and combustion weapons work. He know more about combustion weapons.
He is in peak physical condition and has become used to wearing the bulky power armor.
Gear: Standard pre-war American assault rifle. Fires 5.56x54mm rounds broken into thirty round magazines. His suit of T-51b armor. Small amount of food and water rations.
Other: He is a massive smart-ass. He is witty and quick. He can easily underestimate others. He can be very cocky and even a little rude.
Character Name: Charlie "Kitten" Lowne
Kitten is a small caucasian girl with a thin, petite body and messy short-mid length dirty blonde hair and green eyes. She has a cute face when it isn't covered in dirt, grime and whatever else she manages to get covered in out in the wasteland. Her clothing is a frankensteined combination of leather and pre-war clothing with other scrap metal additions to provide some small measure of protection. Around her neck she wears a non-functioning slave collar. While the transmitter is broken and the explosive has long since been removed, Kitten has not been able to remove the collar itself.
Raider (Former Slave)
Kitten's mother was captured by Slavers and and sold into slavery when she was pregnant with her. Her mother was permitted to raise Kitten for the first few years of her life before she was big enough to work and she became a slave herself. After years of slavery, being sold and bought multiple times, she was sold to a travelling merchant who treated her like a pack mule, beat her every day and would starve her for days if she dropped so much as a single item that he forced her to carry. One day, while travelling between settlements, they were set upon by a party of Raiders. The merchant surrendered to them without a fight in the hope that they would just take what they wanted and leave. Kitten saw her chance for revenge against her tormenter and attacked the moment he dropped his gun. She clawed at her master's eyes and wrapped her small hands around his neck, strangling him to death, much to the watching Raider's surprise and amusement. The leader of the Raiders took a liking to her and took her into their gang. He gave her the nickname Kitten, as in "This Kitten's got claws!". Kitten florished as a Raider and after a few years running with that group, would eventually set off on her own after their leader was killed during a raid.
Kitten is fast and agile and has been taught or learned, through trial and error, how to kill people, even people larger and stronger than her. She's also a master of manipulation, capable of using her harmless appearance to her advantage.
Kitten has a battle scarred, but still sharp, machete, taken from the stock of the travelling merchant as a trophy of her first kill. It's not very big, the blade is roughly the length of her forearm, but she uses it to deadly effect.
To carry anything she might find during her travels, she has an old, worn book satchel. The strap had been lost at some point before she found it, but she was able to use an old bicycle chain as a replacement strap.
Other: Almost all of Kitten's back is covered in hundreds of small criss-crossing scars, the result of a lifetime of whippings.
Character Name:Jack McMillan
His hair borders between ginger and brown and he has dark blue eyes. Standing tall at 6'3 he has a big build that makes him look intimidating and gives him the edge in close combat.
Jack was born in Scotland his parents claiming to be children of vault dwellers, however there were so many survivors due to the rough highlands and the ability for anyone to make a bunker that it is hard to prove whether someone came form a vault or not. He spent most of his time growing up as an assistant to his father who was the towns blacksmith. He spent most of his time trying to keep the few old fashioned diesel powered vehicles running.
One day raiders from a nearby village came in and wrecked most of the town and taking most of the produce. His father sent him away in one of the few running cars that were available and sent him away to get help. As the town lay in the borders between England and Scotland he decided that it would be faster going to a city within England. He passed through Carlisle and found a team of mercenaries willing to help him. However when they returned to the village they discovered that almost everyone had been killed. While the mercenaries stayed to help despite the pleas of the surviving farmers Jack left, seeing nothing left for him he decided to travel south in search for work. He scavenged throughout the country never finding somewhere to settle. He travelled further south until he found himself in London. He turned to work in the underground working in a small sub station community working on one of the tram carts in order to try and get some of them running again. He gathered attention from those who knew the underground networks and continued to work in a small chop shop that he had established. It was the first place he felt he fit in after his village had been attacked all those years ago.
Close quarter combat.
Terrible at anything long range.
Not very patient.
Old Notepad pen and pencil.
Old .42 calibre revolver.
Hand crafted sword.
Can change the background if you want.
You can derp him again if you want Pie but I'll start him the same as last time, in the underground being a mechanic.[/QUOTE]