NAME
The Soldier
AGE
32
GENDER
Male
SPECIES
Human
HOMETOWN
Lafayette
FACTION
N/A

When looking at Soldier, one would see a person that had truly experienced the world and its cruelty. He stands a head taller than most, with broad shoulders, and thick muscle cording through him. He doesn't look like the sort that would jump out of the way of an incoming onslaught. No, he looks more like that type to fight it. He's strong-armed, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and has a healthy middle that shows that his past few years have taken to drinking. He wears a mixture of combat armor, it's shiny and steel, on his chest, forearms, and thighs. One can assume there's some on his back, but it's hidden by his large green jacket with fur trim around the collar. The other pieces that cover him are dark brown leather. He wears clunky combat boots that have mismatched laces from wear. A holster goes over his chest that holds his huge, customized sledgehammer. He also has an old Pre War revolver on his hip that seems to barely get any use.

The first thing one might notice about the man is the massive burn scar down the right side of his face. His ear no longer a prominent feature, he tries to keep it hidden with bandage and gauze when he can. Unfortunately, he can not camouflage his entire scaring. Yet, past his neck, he does hide it with bandages, gloves, and clothing. His blond hair is cut close to his head and usually disheveled. His brows are strong and offset his pale blue eyes. He has a strong nose that has probably been punched in a few too many times. Full lips are always twisted into a frown.

Soldier only ever crosses his arms or holds his weapon. He's not the sort to have a stance that isn't defensive. Ask him about something, and he'll roll his eyes. Try to talk to him, and you'll get a dismissive grunt. Actually, have to work next to him, and you'll find out how much he dislikes anything that isn't combat.

TYPE ESTP
SPECTATOR'S REACTION
He tries his best not to be very approachable. If anything, he might go out of his way to seem like that. It seems intentional and not a defense mechanism. When spoken too, he's insanely dismissive. Also, I believe he once punched a guy for touching his hammer. Yet, there's something about the way he stares at his surroundings and hte people around him that make me feel as if a fight broke out, he'd know what to do.

TRAIT
Bruiser: You're slow but you are powerful. Your punches can knock someone’s lights out. You won’t hit them fast, but you’ll hit them well. Hopefully, you have the Strength for that.
SKILLS
Combat Skill
Melee Weapons: Using non-ranged weapons in hand-to-hand, or melee, combat. Knives, sledgehammers, spears, clubs and so on.
Passive Skill(s)
Danger Sense: You’re aware that something is about to go down via body language or actual language. You have a jump all dangerous situations.
PERK
Brotherhood of Steel Training: Soldier has had years of military training under his belt and the knowledge that comes with the Brotherhood. He unfortunately also has their racism and idealism.

STRENGTHS

• Literal Strength: He's built himself up to the point that he's a practical juggernaut when it comes to strength-based combat.
• Resiliant: Soldier's going to have to take more than a few hits to go down.
• Looks Dumb, but Isn't: He has a deceptive intelligence hidden behind his eyes. People think he's an idiotic brute. Far from it.

WEAKNESSES

• Debilitating Injury: Soldier's right ear effectively doesn't work. He also can't touch or feel with the right side of his body. He has bad tinnitus that can sometimes keep him from hearing someone approach.
• Slow Moving: He's big, strong, and can take a punch. What he isn't about to do is avoid an attack. Or at least that's what he tells himself. It might because he's not very agile.
• Less Charismatic than a Supermutant: Soldier has a way with words, an assaulting way with them.

WEAPONS
Crushy McCrushface: A huge, modified sledgehammer. One side is blunt and made for crushing, and the other side has been curved into a nasty spike. It's also a lot heavier than other sledgehammers. It's been weighted so that when it's in motion, it's in motion.
Dad's Revolver: An old PreWar revolver. It has a sight on it, but it isn't an overly complicated one. Soldier uses it for when people think it's a great idea to run away from him.
ARMOR
Customized Combat Armor: Cannibalized pieces of Brotherhood armor along with basic combat armor, make up this amalgamation of protection. It's accented by a nice, green jacket with fur.
CHEMICALS

• 2 Stimpaks
• 3 Pyschos
• 1 Mentat
• 1 Water

MISCELLANEOUS
Silverfish Tooth Necklace: It's old and well worn. When Soldier doesn't think anyone is looking, he rubs it.

"You alright?" a voice erupted through the darkness. Soldier's head felt like someone had slid an icepick into it--more than once. His vision was blurred and shiny around the edges, and the light hurt when he tried to open his eyes. His hearing was broken up in the squealing of tinnitus.

"Who--uh--face?" he managed to groan out. Placing his hands on either side of him, he was aware with his left one, that he was on a cushioned piece of furniture. He tried to push himself upwards, but his muscles thought that was hilarious.

"No," a hand, soft and warm, pressed against his chest. "Lay down." There were sounds of them standing and rifling through something.

A soft sigh slid from their lips. "I don't know who you pissed off, but if you had not been a figher--they'd killed you."

He brought his hand to his chest and found himself without his shirt. While he may not have been able to piece the night together entirely, he knew that he'd at least been wearing his clothes. Curious, and not quite ready to open his eyes, he reached down. Oh good, he still had his pants on.

"I just treated the obvious injuries," the voice joked. "So, who did you fight?"

The memory came back like cap being forcefully inserted into his nostril. "Ghouls. Melty faced sons-of-bitches."

A dissenting 'tsk' left the voice's lips. "I was wondering what half that burnt off tattoo was. It makes sense now. Brotherhood?"

He waved his hand in the air. "Not anymore."

There was a soft tap of feet, and he felt the person lean in close. Their breath was warm. "I know why you left," they said in a sing-song voice. "Your humanity isn't as intact as you like to think it is. And that's perfect for us.."

Soldier opened his eyes, the glare of light gave him pause. He looked around the room. It was a run down doctor's office. His armor sat on the side of the bed, along with his weapons and belongings. Suddenly, a form was in the doorway. "Who left my door open?" the man asked, his voice not the one that Soldier heard before. "Oh good, you're up." He smiled. "Was someone in here?"

Soldier shook his head.

NAME
Roxanne 'Rocket' Cassom
AGE
24
GENDER
Female
SPECIES
Human
HOMETOWN
Magnolia Ranch
FACTION
Political Heirarchy

If "curious" had a sentient form it would be Roxanne Cassom. No matter where you are, or what you are doing, you'll see her tinkering with something, reading something, or generally annoying various people about their various curiosities. She's a short woman, but not lithe and dainty as her title might imply. While her strength isn't made for hitting, she can haul and lift and move. It's apparent that she's put more hours into finagling with equipment than into the finer graces. Not to say she doesn't have charisma, it's just of her own making.

Her hair is usually pulled up and sloppily placed atop her head, and her lips askew in a wild grin. She looks much younger than she is, which is unfortunate when she tries to get people to take her seriously. She has wide honey eyes and a face covered in freckles. Most of the time she also has a smudge or two from the mechanical things she enjoys working on. Much to her father's chagrin, she doesn't wear the finer things. She's prone to thick, long shirts that swallow her frame, hide pants, a large jacket with a hood, leather gloves, and boots. She also always has a pair of welder's goggles on her head. Of course, for the mission she's about to embark on, she's been clothed in the finest of combat armor--though don't tell her father, she still brought along her favorite red hoodie and her goggles.

One doesn't need an invitation to talk to Rocket. She'll probably start talking to them instead, or she'll entirely ignore them for something she's found more interesting than conversation. She's a bit of toggle like that.

TYPE ENFJ
SPECTATOR'S REACTION
It's hard to tell if Rocket actually likes someone or likes an aspect about them that makes them interesting. Her interest comes and goes like the tide. One moment, she's speaking rapidly about the interesting gun on your waist, and then the next she's done examining it and taken to doodling it down in her notebook. She's not rude, but she's not naive either. She wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, but she always curious and touching things. Sometimes, those things might be dangerous. In forced social situations, she's quite civil and practical. Someday, she might be a good leader.

TRAIT
Good Natured: You're a generally friendly person and are hesitant to employ violence to solve problems. Your help others. However, when your actions seem to harm others, specifically in combat, you often stand in your own way by doing less damage and racking less kills.
SKILLS
Active Skills
Repair: The fixing of broken equipment, machinery and electronics and also the reprogrammaning of robots.
Science: Covers a variety of hi-technology skills, such as computers, biology, physics and geology.
PERK
Fathers in High Places: As Governor Cassom's favorite child, Rocket has the wonderful gift of getting away with a lot just by her name and face alone. She also may have quite a bit of caps for bribery. It may be risky putting her up front, but it may pay off. Who knows who the governor has influenced.

STRENGTHS

• Curiosity Can't Kill: Rocket is always into something--everything. As such, she's an encyclopedia of both helpful and useless information. She's able to deduce things at a quicker pace than some, but she's far from a computer in that regard.
• Armored Cats: Rocket's expertise are robots. She loves them. If you run across a robot, expect her to run at it and then duck if it's hostile. She's pretty good at making them love her, though
• With Death Lasers: Being the brunt of her brothers' ire, made her quite good at getting out of tough situations by wriggling her way from their grasp or leaping out of a building or just running. So, oddly enough, that's a real life skill that'll definitely come in handy.

WEAKNESSES

• But Curiosity Can Kill: On the other side of that coin, Rocket can and has gotten herself into trouble by being too inquisitive. She can run into situations unprepared or insult someone who could kill her quickly and efficiently.
• a Sheltered Woman: Rocket is not naive. She knows she hasn't seen the world for what it is. But at the same time, she hasn't seen the world for what it is. She doesn't know how a lot of things work, and as such, she's bound to make mistakes others could easily avoid.
• With no Combat Skills: Rocket can't attack anyone, and she can't defend herself.

WEAPONS
Top of the Line Laser Gun: Her Father gave her a laser gun with a sight on it and a few modifications to make it fire quick and fast. Someone should probably take it away from her.
ARMOR
Top of the Line Combat Armor: Thick, green armor that's over the top of her "adventure wear", nicer clothing that her father thought might help her make friends. Over that, though, she still wears her red hoodie and has attached her welding goggles to her helmet.
CHEMICALS

• 3 Stimpaks
• 2 Nukacoloa (to share with a new friend if she makes one)
• 1 Radaway

MISCELLANEOUS
A Switch to the Bomb: *waggles finger* Not going to find out what that looks like.
Handy Dandy Unbreakable Lockpick: Of her own design, may actually be breakable.

Rocket tossed her brother's, Sampson, underwear halfway across the room as she rummaged through his things. "Ew, Sam, seriously." She was looking for her homemade lockpick. Her brother thought it might be amusing, the night before she was to leave on her big mission, to steal and hide several things that she needed. The last of these things was her lockpick. Older than her, Sampson shouldn't have even been attempting these childish things. He was currently courting some politician's daughter and was looking into purchasing a house of his own. Yet, here he was, tormenting her one last time before she left.

Exasperated, she just pulled the drawer out and tipped it onto the floor. There was a metallic clack against the wood flooring that told her she'd found it. Upon pocketing the lockpick, she heard voices. Oh no. She'd looted the room too heavily to hide what she'd done, and so she needed to get out of there--fast. Unhinging the windows, she jumped through them, landing on the balcony outside. She slowly shut them, hoping that her brother wouldn't notice they were unlocked.

The door opened. "I can't believe he'd trust her over me. I'm the eldest," Sampson said, probably to their other sibling, George."What the hell. Ugh! Roxanne must have figured out I stole her shit. She didn't have to leave my room like this." Oh, yes she did. She smirked.

"Calm down," George said, the youngest. "She'll be out of our hair tomorrow, and you can continue your plans on being the next Governor."

Rocket rolled her eyes. He'd pry that position from her cold, dead fingers. She was about to sneak away when Sam started talking again. "Do you believe the rumors?"

"What rumors?" George asked, his voice getting louder. Rocket pressed herself against the side of the house so hopefully, he wouldn't see her.

"About what's in the caravan." There was a noisy thump of Sam plopping down on the bed.

"Dad's had that on lockdown."

"I know, but I used some of Roxanne's gadgets to hack one of this Mister Handys." Oh, he sounded so assured of himself. He'd never been able to do that without her tech. "Whatever is in there... is alive."

That caught Rocket's attention. She straightened up only to hit her head on the windowsill. It made a low, but obvious noise. SHe heard Sam stand up, and George rush to the window. She quickly got away from the window and lept to the next balcony over. It was for their grandmother. She'd apologize later.

Rocket laid flat on the balcony as both her brothers stuck their heads out and looked around. She didn't make a sound. She didn't even try to breathe--which was easy considering what she'd just heard. Even with her face flat on the balcony's floor, she could still see the silhouette of the caravan in the pale moonlight. What was in there...

NAME
Vix Blackwater
AGE
30
GENDER
Female
SPECIES
Human
HOMETOWN
Alexandria - She thinks.
FACTION
Swamp Dogs - Formerly.

With a glint in her eye and palms on hips perpetually stained with soot and swamp muck, Vix is the afforded representation of a fatale with the lack of a fairer facet. She's all dark with hole-punched skin and razor smiles, leather cinched fists and loose in all the furnishings of a bad-mouthed Raider on a good day. Fed a persistent cardio on the daily and the preference for a volatile cocktail of Mentats, Physchos, Jets and the occasional abuse of the nearest whiskey neck on hand begets to a waif figure corded with sinew liken to rigid scar tissue, and the incredible magnetism of bygone morality. She exhibits most stereotypes of her less inclined brethren; foul mouthed and crude exteriors with aggressive penchants perpendicular to Super Mutant brutality - albeit, not as mindless. There's shoddy penmanship scrawled permanently across ecru skin, golden dusted and dirt smudged, marks eternally displayed by her wears of low ridden trousers, always black, and cinched, cropped blouses criss-crossed with leather and chain edged bindings that make up some trend of archaic armor.

Vix heralds confidence and oozes such with an almost arrogant fanfare, she's got alpha complexes in spades, compounded by her notched up chin and sneer that exposes nicotine shaded teeth and a tongue bathed in corroded silver to match her chafing wit and blunt repertoire. Aside from her rather commanding display, there's a visible weight in her dark eyes and across those whip-marked shoulders, a sort of droop that depresses in solidarity, the experiences honed into needle points that drag across her spine covered by long, and some uneven, pieces of dull, black hair. Years of smoke abused lungs has risen to a slight husk within her annunciation, her voice often catering to whispers.

TYPE ENTJ
SPECTATOR'S REACTION
She's kind of, well, a bitch. The foot-stomping, hip swaying, laughing kind of bitchiness that demands others to follow in her footsteps or ignore her bolster; Vix is demanding and severe, if nothing else. It's like watching a train wreck rampant with Ghouls or Deathclaws. She scoffs in the face of challenges and rises to any that would go against her own agenda with her willpower wielded like a properly thorn embedded fist. You better come equipped with your own sense of confidence and power if you're going to tackle this former Raider down.

TRAIT
One Hander - You have a specialization in using your dominant hand. Single hand weapons (small weapons) receive a bonus. But if you ever try something in your other hand, well, good luck there soldier.

SKILLS
Combat Skill
Throwing - The skill of muscle-propelled ranged weapons. Throwing knives, spears and grenades.
Active Skill(s)
Survival - You’ve lived in enough hostile environments to know when you might die or when you might make use of your situation.

PERK
And The Kitchen Sink: You have advantage with throwing items. And people that throw things against you, you can dodge out of their way quicker.

STRENGTHS

• Wasteland Charm: There's something about Vix's demeanor, that rough edge and imperfect illusion of being on the wrong side, that attracts others to her person, sober or not. People will listen well enough and be seduced by that sometimes dominant perplexity, or insanity, until she's over exhausted her charms.
• Perception: Having been on both sides of the fence, as it were, Raider and non, selfish and yet not. She's got a keen eye and a quick tongue; always sharp.
• Command & Demand: While not entirely a leader, and by no means should be one, Vix has a penchant for taking control through various situations. Her dominance applies onto individuals as well, even against their will.

WEAKNESSES

• Personal Space: Vix thrusts her way too often and too quick into the presence of others, almost always abrasively. Sometimes she doesn't know when to just not be and leave some people well enough alone. Personal space? No such thing.
• Nicotine Addict: She's got an over bearing attitude even with a smoke betwixt that smile, without one, she goes on the offensive. Coupled by years of addiction, it has slighted in Endurance.
• Raider Reps: Being marked by their ink and being a former mutt has got her on the ropes about her reputation, despite all the charm and whims of sex appeal, she's still got that shadow riding on her skin - literally.

WEAPONS
Throwing Knives: Totaled to six, at least the last time she counted, these sharp projectiles are ritually maintained and span the length of her hand from palm to finger tip, and then some. Usually wielded with her dominant hand: left.

Molotov Cocktail: Vix tends to keep two, or three on her person, simply for the sake of keeping enemies at a distance. She's not a close range fighter in the least.

Handmade Rifle: Because you never bring just a knife to a gun fight.
ARMOR
Fortified Leather Segments: Being a creature of bare minimum clothing on the normal routine, Vix has segments of leather customized to the fit around her torso, usually across her bust at an angle and swung around her hips with small chain pieces worn onto them. These pieces can also be worn across her arms if she so desires, her wardrobe can sometimes change on a, sometimes, practical whim.
CHEMICALS

• Stimpaks - 2
• Psycho - 1
• Water - 3

MISCELLANEOUS
Crumbled Smokes: She's got maybe a handful of smokes left, that's going to be a problem.

"What's a Raider doing up here in the Port?"

It was one of those a dime for a dozen inquiries, brought on by the insignia's branded onto her skin, tell-tale brandishing of darker times and deeds done under a film of Jet and Psychos. Leather slapped over skin, nails curling inwards to impale against the looping scrawl of "Charlie's Mutt" curling along her shoulder blade and peeking from beneath her blouse. Vix turned a careful glance over her shoulder, oblique gazes through a fringe of soot lashes turning a shade of crimson with near shame.

"Former Raider friend, swear on Mike."

"You're - ?!"

"Kidding!" Vix barked, laughter spreading through the back ditch alley way of the bar where she had retreated to under the glares of drunken patrons. She'd only been through the city for maybe a week, and none could mistake her candor, Vix was nearly incapable of blending in, no matter where she was or who she was with. "I'm not into worshiping pyromaniac dogs. But, I'm not kidding about the Raider part, I'm not into that either."

It took a drunken second for him to catch on, the haze over that washed out stare, tinged blue, shuttered by rapid blinks and a quirk of whiskey spotted lips. "... You expect me to believe that?"

"You've no reason not to, I haven't been marking my territory around here; no fires and all that." Internally, Vix berated her choice of words, each syllable that slid past her lips only seemed to agitate her sudden interrogator. She turned, angling her profile just so to shield the view of further ink markings across her spine, allowing only the ones across her mid drift and peeking amidst her hips to be seen, his gaze drooping low with her angled shift. Her chapped lips curled like a Cheshire feline, all fatales of this simper knew when they had a skittering rodent within their claws, and he was entirely rapt with the faded black etched onto her hip.

"Speaking of territory though, looked like your boys in there earlier were about to mark theirs. Sure you should be out here with little ole' me?" Vix canted her head, perplexity donning over her features with lilting tones coating over her hoarse voice, teasing, almost playful. He rapidly blinked, his former suspicions ebbing away with the increase of her tantalizing display, only to be displayed with an entirely new degree of interrogation.

"They - I mean. We're celebrating! Got a whiff of a new job out with the Governor, 1000 caps you know."

Vix's eyes lit up, dark pools panning wide at the mention of caps, sinful greed turning that smile almost carnivorous. This was the tip she'd been waiting for, running low on caps and means was running her ragged; a dog almost at her ends without the support of her former pack.

"Yeah? Sounds too good to be true almost."

"It's all legit, we're heading out in the morning." He almost seemed pleased with himself, with Vix's angled profile rippling, coy tilts of her head and smile, so he began to step forward, inviting in all the wrong ways until pain blossomed through his palm. His roar was sudden, lifting high into a wail until another sharp lance landed through his opposite gesture, his arms trembling with the intensity of agony that flamed from his hands uselessly dangling at his sides. With knives sheered through flesh and tendons, there was little he could do but just stare after Vix donned with shadow and mirth.

"I don't think you'll make it babe, but that's okay. I'll take your spot. Momma' has got to eat after all." She fanned her fingers in a wave, genuinely grateful with her swagger out from the alley way before she snapped, and pistol-shot her fingers back over her marked shoulder originally responsible.

"Think your boys could cover my tab? Thanks!"

NAME
Frahnswa “Franz” Furrman XVI
AGE
38 years old
GENDER
Male
SPECIES
Human
HOMETOWN
St. Jack City
- A settlement in the far north, situated near a river that attracts many Radstags and other wildlife. It is also home to the Furmann Trade Company, the merchant group that Franz belongs too.

FACTION
Furrman Trade Company
- Both Franz’s family and employers, the Furrman Trade Company are merchants that produce and deal in various goods throughout the northeastern seaboard, most notably specializing in handmade leatherwork products. The company obeys the directions of the head merchant, bearing the name of their ancestor whose exploits are passed down through oral tradition – Frahnswa Furrman the First. The heir of the current "Frahnswa" is always their eldest capable child, baptizing them in the St. Jack City river when they become of age. However, before they can fully inherit the position, they must complete a pilgrimage and map out new trade routes. The prosperity of the new routes is regarded as a sign as to how their rule will unfold.

Franz looks much older than he actually is. Years on the open hostile roads has stressed out the wily trader’s skin, resulting in it being as tough as the leather he sells. Luckily, he has a well-groomed beard to protect the rest of his jerky-like face from the elements, complemented by his red bandana. To protect the rest of his body, he wears the finest works that he had skinned and sewed himself which include a jacket, boots and set of pants made out of buckskin and fur. Indeed, being well-dressed will strike a good first impression on to anyone while his confident smile secures the rest. However, he is missing a front tooth and has a hunched-back. Along with his small stature, his body certainly sets back his rare good intentions.

This doesn't stop from trying though. Every person he meets is a potential customer, and such he greets them with the air of confidence that only someone that's looking to gain something from you would have, personal space be damned when he gets to pitch you a sale. He then leads with wild theatrics including hand movements to illustrate the prestige of his products and exaggerated emoting that only his clay-composed head could achieve. Once his business is done however or he realizes you're simply not buying, Franz becomes much more composed and less of a caricature, exposing the fact that he is wiser than a weasel. Very few will see this part of him because he simply doesn't stick around long enough with people that don't have the caps worth his time.

TYPE ESTP
SPECTATOR'S REACTION
Franz comes off strong if he wants something from anyone, specially strangers that he will most likely never meet again. While it might seem that he is agreeable and kind, he will push his agenda to best benefit himself and it’s usually hidden underneath that veil of diplomacy. Others might call this sociopathy but he calls it business acumen.

TRAIT
Hoarder: You love things, and so you can carry more things. A lot more things. Add extra to your starting equipment, and later you’ll have more equipment to use. That being said, you’ll be slower than others and a bit neurotic about your equipment.
SKILLS
Passive Skill(s)
Barter: Trading and trade-related tasks. The ability to get better prices for items you sell, and lower prices for items you buy.

Speech: The ability to communicate in a practical and efficient manner. The skill of convincing others that your position is correct. The ability to lie and not get caught.

PERK
The Best Salesman this Side of the Missippi: You have an advantage on all Charisma/Barter checks. You know far more than any salesman or traveling merchant. You're the best of the best, and you let them know.

STRENGTHS

• Old Rambler: Franz’s well-travelled life allows him to spin a long tale to those who dare to listen that is somehow both enticing enough for them to pay attention yet boring to the point where they fall to a brief lull.
• As Advertised or Your Caps Back ⚜️: His word is backed by the honor that his family has long built with their customers; a betrayal of their trust cannot be allowed by any that bear the Furrman name. So when he sells you a service, expect it to be met.
• Blabbermouth: He looks harmless and he knows it but he can taunt the best of them. Luckily, he knows when to shut up.

WEAKNESSES

• Mister Miser: Unless you’re important and dying, you’re not getting anything of his items.
• No Facts, Just Interpretations: His lies got too convoluted even for him to follow, so he just gave up trying to remember years ago.
• Scavenger: ”Looting gets you free recycled products to support our markets and ecosystems! How is this an ethical problem?”

WEAPONS
Skinner’s Pocket Knife: A small, sharp switchblade that can be easily hidden underneath one’s sleeve. This tool is strong enough to pierce most hides but would probably break against metal or rock.
Snub Nose Pipe Pistol: This small homemade handgun has protected Franz from bandits throughout his travels. Usually hidden underneath his jacket’s inner breast pocket.
ARMOR
Furmann Leather Set: Prettier than most leather garb and just as effective. Protective anti-ballistic material is embedded between the layers of animal skin that comprise it.
CHEMICALS

• 3 Stimpacks
• 2 Whiskeys
• 1 Vodka
• 2 Radaways
• 1 Fixer

MISCELLANEOUS
Oak Hiking Stick: A smoothed out piece of wood that supports his weight while walking. He believes it makes him look wise and sage-like

”Ah, please stay awhile and look at my wares!” shouted the man behind the makeshift stand at a pair of passersby. “For the larger gentleman, may I present this fine authentic albino Radstag jacket! Surely, a man of your taste can see himself attracting all the finest company with this on his person.” He handed the jacket for the sure-to-be customer to inspect, but soon a spray can of white paint dropped from its pockets. Before a word could be uttered, the merchant took back the jacket. “Y-you see, albino is the name of the hue of coating. So, technically, what I said was true.” He then held up his open right palm towards the buyer’s face.

“For most, this jacket would be five hundred caps! But for you, my friend, the crown price of three hundred sounds more than fair, yeah?” he would state, bringing his thumb and pinky finger to a close. However, the pair simply gave each other a quizzical look before beginning to turn their backs to him. “Wait! I see that such apparel might not be for your palate, considering the humidity. However, perhaps this fine Yaoguai cap might interest you! You see, the animal that this was made from is a hardy predator whose skin is resistant to the elem-“ Again, the pair had lost interest and were ready to depart. It seems they were in a hurry.

“Stop!” the merchant shouted, slamming his hands on the table before climbing on top of it. “I see you think that I don’t have anything to offer like the rest of these schmucks in the bazar. But I am Frahnswa Furrman, and I will make my first transaction in Louisiana today! Behold!” The loud, brazen Franz would pull a map made out of animal skin and inked with plant dyes. At a cursory glance, it seemed that it was the Northern Province and the lands beyond its borders, with a few inaccuracies that only natives would notice. “This is the safe route that I have taken to arrive here at Shreve’s Port, following the Mississippi trade stream. Didn’t need a caravan or guards, and certainly didn’t run into bandits. Personally mapped out by yours truly. Now, trade secrets come at a high price but a thousand caps is surely worth it for the opportunity, right?”

A moment silence passed, with both parties cautiously staring at each other. This awkward pause would only be broken by the same quizzical look shared between the customers before but this time it ended with a nod and a smile. The large man Franz tried to sell the jacket to would produce his own piece of parchment.

Soon, Franz shared their smile. “… So, when do we start?”

NAME
Felix Bordelon
AGE
23
GENDER
Male
SPECIES
Human
HOMETOWN
Shreve’s Port
FACTION
The Forsaken Idealists (Formerly)
The Forsaken Idealists was a name given to a group of human supremacists with a core belief that all sapient non-humans were abandoned to suffer a pitiful, false, and meaningless existence by God. It was their 'God given responsibility' to 'ease their suffering or give purpose to the poor souls' by enslaving any they would encounter and killing those who would resist.

N/A (Current)

Felix stands around 1.8 meters tall and has an athletic build under his clothing, albeit a little undernourished. Underneath the hood and mask, he has short dark brown hair styled to a crew cut and has a slightly good-looking but weather beaten face with forest green eyes. He wears a hand modified hooded field jacket and olive cargo pants. He also wears a well worn pair of trekking boots and red general purpose working gloves but the most striking feature in his appearance is the crimson face mask with lines of white string to resemble a smile, mainly used to prevent breathing in insects and other small foreign objects. The red cloth on his back is water resistant and is used to keep items easily damaged by water dry. Underneath his clothes, Felix wears light segmented armor he had salvaged over the years. While it will not save him from any caliber higher than a 5.56, the armor does not hinder his movements and does not significantly weigh him down. He has a specialized bag he keeps on his waist that is both highly durable and spacious enough for him to carry a good number of items.

While his appearance may seem to be rather intimidating at first, once his mask is off, Felix is actually rather friendly and approachable individual once you get to know him. He smiles often and his green eyes still glimmer with youthful vitality and idealism. He is cooperative most times and does not discriminate much on who he works with and even tries to befriend them, given they share similar ideals and principles. Though generally Felix is friendly and warm; his demeanor changes drastically once he dons his mask. His eyes become dull, cold, and almost empty...its as if a switch flipped off inside of him.

TYPE INFJ-A (The Advocate)
SPECTATOR'S REACTION
I only knew the kid for a while but I can say that his heart is in the right place, selfless too...I think. I mean the guy helps others because, and I quote, "I can." He may be soft spoken but he isn't afraid to speak his mind, may his statement earn him respect or a beating, he stands firm on it. I tell you, if there were more people in the wastes like him, the wastes wouldn't be such a rotting crap hole. Felix is a good person, I swear. Its...Its just that he scares people sometimes when he wears that mask of his; I know that he won't hurt anyone without a good reason but that look in his eyes...its unnatural.

TRAIT
Trigger Discipline: You’re a sharpshooter of sorts. You know your way around a gun and you know how to make the shot count. That being said, you’re slower to shoot than your friends, and you usually lean towards rifles.
SKILLS
Combat Skill
Energy Weapons: The care and feeding of energy-based weapons. How to arm and operate weapons that use laser or plasma technology.
Active Skill(s)
Sneak: Quiet movement, and the ability to remain unnoticed. If successful, you will be much harder to locate. You cannot run and sneak at the same time.

PERK
Hero of the Swampland: You're the first to fire even when presented with quicker-than-possible enemies. Your years of training altruism has led you to this.

STRENGTHS

• Sharp Eyed Felix is significantly more perceptive than the rest.
• Agile Felix is more nimble and has faster reaction times than others.
• Slightly More Durable Felix can take some more hits compared to normal folk.

WEAKNESSES

• Does not Favor Melee Not completely helpless in melee but would rather avoid it.
• Intimidating Appearance It makes interacting with new folk rather difficult.
• Slightly Below Average Strength He cannot carry as much as compared to others.

WEAPONS

Felix's Laser Rifle: The favored weapon of Felix is a modified Wattz 2000 he had bought from a merchant years ago. The rifle sacrifices its barrel length and scope to be more lightweight and not hinder movements when slung over the shoulder.

Felix's .45 Pistol: The secondary weapon of Felix, not often used by him but has been tried and tested to be more than reliable as a fallback weapon.

ARMOR
Customized Light Segmented Armor: The segmented plates of armor hidden beneath the his clothes. The armor itself is made from salvaged parts from combat armor pieces to protect vital parts and pieces of riot gear to protect but not hinder movement in key areas.
CHEMICALS

• Stimpack x 2
• Rad-away x 2
• Whiskey x 1
• Water x 3
• Fixer x 2

MISCELLANEOUS
Worn Bronze Ring: The lone thing Felix has to remember his family. Will refuse take it off his person no matter what and will become violent if item is removed from him unwillingly.

The quiet and placidity of the night is broken by the sounds of footsteps on dirt.

"You...you sure the governor's men don't have patrols here right?" asked a frail and lanky man wielding a what seems to be a home made rifle. "Cause if they do, were in deep shit. I-I can't be related to this kind of things. I'm just a farmer for Chrissake!"

"Shuddup!" Another man, quite portly and carrying a burlap sack over his shoulder and a 10mm pistol, whispers harshly to the lanky man causing him to recoil slightly away from the portly man.
"As far as I know, they don't got any patrols that go this far off but they might. So. stay. quiet. We just need to get the little brat to the buyers and we'll be swimming in caps." He ends with a soft laugh that the lanky man somewhat reluctantly joins.

Even before the two stop quietly laughing, a bolt of crimson light blasts the portly man's head to kingdom come. The sudden death of his companion evidently stresses the remaining man severely as he opts to drop his weapon and fall to his knees screaming in terror. Staring at the stump of a head his formerly living companion now has. Those few moments to him, felt like hours as he screamed his throat raw.

"You do know that slavery is a really big problem, right?" came an unknown voice seemingly out of nowhere.

The lanky man's screaming suddenly stops. Not daring even to look at the general direction where the voice originated. To him this was the end of his life. To be killed in some unknown path on his way to sell a child to slavery. What a fool he was to even consider the offer. Tears begin to flow down his face as he clasped his hands so tightly it bled, begging to God to give him another chance; swearing to him that he would never do this again and live an honest life.

The footfalls come closer and closer. To the man, the sounds might as well have been a dirge. One step closer. Then two. The man, so fervently begging to God, realizes that the man had walked past him and to the corpse of his companion.

"An honest worker like yourself shouldn't be dabbling in these sort of things." The man pauses as he carries the burlap sack carrying the child. "Ahh...good. She still breathing, lucky you." He then walks in-front of the kneeling man. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

The man, still on his knees, finally dared to look up. There he saw the man towering before him. The moonlight shone on his face, revealing a crimson mask with a sadistic looking smile sown on it covering his face. To the kneeling man the devil himself could have shown a kinder face compared to the visage he saw.

"I believe that you won't be ever doing this again?" The kneeling man nodded so forcefully it wouldn't surprise the man if his head fell off. "That's good to hear." The masked man then quietly nodded in approval before walking back to the direction of town. The kneeling man then promptly fainted as the adrenaline keeping him awake for the whole ordeal subsided.

To this day, that farmer works harder than anyone else on his farm, not wanting to squander the second life so generously given to him.

NAME
Designation T-36, or "T"
AGE
"Mid 20's"
GENDER
Male
SPECIES
Synth
HOMETOWN
New York City
FACTION
N/A

On first look, T appears to be an ordinary man. White, 6 feet tall, slightly above average build, with short, disheveled brown hair and hard, hazel eyes. On closer inspection, however, you'll notice some slight differences. His expression somewhere between serious and blank. He stands tall, without a hunch. No rising and falling of the chest, no sound of inhale or exhale. A few years ago, you'd have noticed that he didn't even blink at all. If you were to put your ear to his chest and listen close enough, you wouldn't hear a heartbeat: instead, a faint hum. If you were to go one step further and see his bare chest, you'd be met with a large, torn gash in his skin, revealing he's merely composed of many parts of a very elaborate machine... Nothing more than a hollow impersonation.

When he moves, though loose and smooth like a normal man, it looks like he's already planned, counter-planned, and visualized what he'll do with every motion. His eyes, though hard and unwavering, will sometimes become vacant and soft. His average frame is deceptive, built to be extremely durable while appearing indifferent, so much so that the unenlightened man attempting to attack head-on will realize too late they're trying to harm a wall.

TYPE ISTJ-A
SPECTATOR'S REACTION
If you were to approach T with the intent of starting a meaningful conversation, you'd be disappointed. He's not much for idle talk. Sure, he's not entirely "robotic" in the way he speaks, but he is fairly bland. He seems more interested in studying you than talking to you. Sure, he'll respond to you, but he seems to prefer to stick to facts as opposed to personal opinions. On some matters, though, he has powerful thoughts. So maybe he's not so bland after all...

TRAIT
Built to Destroy
You fire off your gun like there is no tomorrow. You’ll hit your target more often, but you’ll waste your gun in the process.
SKILLS
Active Skill(s)
Repair
The fixing of broken equipment, machinery and electronics and also the reprogramming of robots.

Science
Covers a variety of hi-technology skills, such as computers, biology, physics and geology.
PERK
I Can't Do that Dave: Despite being a synth, most people believe you to be a person. That being said, your affinity is with machines. You have advantage when dealing with robots and mechanics.

STRENGTHS

• Pain Inhibited: T cannot feel pain. He used to, but realized it wasn't a real feeling. He turned it off long ago, and hasn't reactivated it since.
• Heads Up: T's normal vision is accompanied by a basic HUD, including a targeting reticle and a technical readout of already gathered information on a person (Name/Bio, likes, dislikes, possible weaknesses, etc.) or object (general information, blueprint, composition, etc.).
• Self-Sufficient: T doesn't need to eat, sleep, breathe, or perform other normal human functions to survive.

WEAKNESSES

• Numb: On the same premise on pain, T understood that none of his sensations were real, just mere simulations. He can't feel anything.
• Off-Putting: T's "uncanny valley" presence makes most people uncomfortable. He really needs to work on his normalcy subroutines...
• Flashback: Certain triggers or subtle cues may cause T to remember, in vivid detail, a previous life long since past. This can happen at any time upon seeing a trigger, and the memory can take T away from the present.

WEAPONS
Sawed-Off Lever Action Shotgun: Shoot, Flip, Repeat.
5.56mm Pistol: Highly accurate, extremely deadly, and it looks pretty cool to boot . What's not to like?
ARMOR
T's outfit: Simple shirt, jeans, and boots, with the added protection of a hardened leather duster and kneepads, along with a red scarf.
CHEMICALS

• 3 Repair Kits. Synths can't use drugs!

MISCELLANEOUS
Photo of... Them: A picture of a happy family.
Pocket Toolset: For routine maintenance on T himself, and other delicate works.

It was a cold night in Shreve's Port.

Well, not because T felt cold. He noticed the breath coming from others was visible. His HUD read it as 40 Degrees Fahrenheit. Being considerate, he pulled his scarf over his nose to hide the fact that he didn't need to breathe. People tend to freak out.

He was running low on cash to continue living his lavish lifestyle of wandering the wasteland in search of knowledge. Problem is, The Brotherhood of Steel took a lot of it in their 'crusade', and the rest is either well hidden or somewhere dangerous. T mostly found the latter, and replacement parts for a Synth are hard to come by. Cost a fortune if in the hands of the right merchant.

T entered the bar. Bars and Taverns tended to be a good place to find paying work. Judging from the fact he could still see breath from others, he decided to keep his scarf on. He approached the bar and took a seat, greeted by the bartender.

"What can I get you, stranger?" the bartender said, cleaning a glass. T's HUD pulled up information on her: Obvious things, like hair color, approximate age, etc., but T noticed that she had a slight limp in her left leg, which his HUD highlighted as a possible weakpoint. He disabled his HUD for now.

"I am looking for work." He said, plainly. "I was hoping you would know of any leads."

She looked at him for a moment, and T knew he was being judged. She shook her head.

"Can't say that I have." The bartender replied. "Now, are you going to order a drink, or-"

She was interrupted by the sound of a man kicking in the door of her establishment. He was big, loud, and angry. The other patrons looked at him enter, and then went back to their business. He approached the bar.

"Hey, buddy, you're in my seat." The man said to T. "Get lost."

"Rand, I already told you that you ain't allowed back here." The bartender said. "You drink my beer, break my furniture, and scare away my customers. You're not welcome here."

"I'm a paying man, aren't I? I always pay for my drink. Not my fault folks get me pissed when I'm thirsty, and I'm feeling mighty parched right about now." The man, Rand, replies. "Not gonna ask again, friend. Move outta my seat."

T continued to sit. He'd already gathered enough data on Rand, and was pretty confident on what would happen next.

"Are you deaf, boy? I've got half a mind to-" Rand started saying as he gripped T's shoulder. T got up as soon as he was touched, pulling down his scarf.

"What? You have half a mind to what?" T replied, his stance unmoving. "Or do you just have half a mind in general?"

Rand was surprised at first, but started grinning. "You just made my day, pal." He said, punching T in the face. But T didn't move. Rand, again surprised, punched again, with all his might, hitting T in the face. T didn't even flinch. "What in the hell...?"

"Is that all you can give?" T said, his expression still unchanged. "I am honestly disappointed."

Rand, frustrated, tries to punch T in the chest. He's shocked when his fist goes deeper than it should, wrist-deep in T's body, his shirt bending at an impossible angle. T takes the liberty of grabbing Rand by the shoulder with one hand and grabbing his elbow with the other, pressing hard into his skin with his thumbs. Rand screamed in pain, and every patron watches the show.

"You had a broken arm fairly recently... I want to say maybe a month or so ago." T said, gripping the man. "Judging by your demeanor, either you do not accept help or nobody wants to help you. Either way, you used a stimpak or two on this arm to fix it, did you not?"

T grips the man's joints deeper, and the man reacts with pain. T has a bittersweet relationship with the feeling.

"Normally, the arm would have healed properly, almost back to normal. But let me guess: You didn't limit circulation to the rest of your body when you injected yourself, hm? A waste. Your arm's only half healed." T said, pressing hard on the man's joints, causing Rand to fall to a knee. "You will not return."

He releases Rand, and the man quickly runs out of the bar. T returns to his seat, and the patrons return to what their own regards. The bartender is stunned for the moment, but smiles.

"... You know... something just came to mind..." She said to T in a low voice, leaning in. "... There's Someone you'd ought to meet with."

NAME
Joseph 'Joe' Sawyer
AGE
38
GENDER
Male
SPECIES
Human
HOMETOWN
The Big Easy, Great Orleans
FACTION
N/A

Joe is a behemoth, standing at around six and half feet and weighing in the high 200s range. His face is craggy and covered in scars, each one telling a different story; like the time he pissed off a Brotherhood Knight and got grazed by a hot laser or the time he got into a bar brawl and took a broken bottle to the neck and nearly died. Then there's his flattened nose, which has been broken far too many times to count but at least they all make for a hell of a story. His torso is likewise covered in scars and his chest and shoulders are broad and blocky, indicative of his inhuman strength.

His eyes are big and brown, more fitting for a puppy than a large bruiser, and dart around often in search or danger, something Joe does almost absent-mindedly now. His light brown hair is in a flat top cut, for the purpose of practicality. The man has a penchant for trenchcoats, often commenting on other people's coats if they're wearing one. One might compare his style under the trenchcoat to that of a greaser from days long past: leather jacket, jeans, wife beater. Say what you will about the guy's looks, but he's got good style.

TYPE ISFJ (Defender)
SPECTATOR'S REACTION
Most people would think Joe is crazy. Really, I think he just had the rotten luck of being born in the wrong century; he would've been right at home on some ancient battlefield swinging an axe into some poor sumbitch's face. When you talk to him he doesn't seem like too bad of a guy, and he treats even the most serious of discussions like they were casual chats over a brew, tossing a joke or three out every other minute. One thing that sticks out about him is that he has a soft spot for women, and I've seen him throw caution to the wind to help out a dame in trouble every so often. He seems like the kind of guy that'd buy you a beer if he saw you were looking down, and after that if he ever saw you in trouble he'd rush in to help you out.

TRAIT
Bloody Mess - You have no idea what “chill” is. Everything that you destroy ends up being far bloodier and nastier than intended. You need a good Endurance for that.
SKILLS
Combat Skill
Unarmed - A combination of martial arts, boxing and other hand-to-hand martial arts. Combat with your hands and feet.
Active Skill
Survival - You’ve lived in enough hostile environments to know when you might die or when you might make use of your situation.
PERK
Ugly but Strong: Once a day, Joe can forget about pain, problems, and consequences, and have a boost of a Strength of 10. That being said, the next day he'll feel all the wounds two-fold and his SPECIAL is halfed.

STRENGTHS

• Powerhouse: Joe is strong enough to nearly put a super mutant to shame; he can lift anywhere up to 250 pounds without breaking a sweat, and go even higher if he pushes himself. His punches are like having fifty pounds of bricks smash you in the face.
• Practically Bulletproof: To compliment his strength, Joe is tough as nails. It's as though his skin is naturally hardened, and he can take a bunch of hits or even bullets before going down.
• Sharp Eyes: Though not as perceptive as some people, Joe has keen eyesight, allowing him to spot any threats. After all, spend any amount of time outside (or, sometimes, even inside) of a settlement and you make sure to look out for danger.

WEAKNESSES

• Face Only A Mother Could Love: I'm not going to pussyfoot around this; Joe is an ugly bastard. With a flattened nose from having it broken so many times, to a naturally craggy face, and all the scars that adorn it, Joe isn't going to be able to sweet talk anybody. His personality is the only thing that keeps him from being a completely charmless bastard.
• Unlucky: Joe's luck ran out the day he was born. He's prone to getting into a lot of trouble, having his gun jam on him at the worst moments, or somehow managing to hit an ally despite the fact that the ally was nowhere near his target.
• Dimwitted: Joe isn't exactly an idiot when it comes to how to survive, but when it comes to booksmarts he's not the brightest laser on the battlefield. While not illiterate, he does have some problem reading, and comprehending big words, and gets confused by any technobabble.
• Graceless: Due to his large and bulky frame, Joe isn't the most agile or dexterous of sorts. Sneaking around is not an option for him, and most guns are too small for his large hands, making it hard to use them efficiently.

WEAPONS
Spiked Knuckles: Knuckles dusters with a cold, metallic tone to them and spikes on the end that allow the user to cut or slash their opponent.
9MM Pistol: A pre-war pistol that looks downright tiny in Joe's massive hands. But if he's in a bind and can't punch his way out, he uses it.
ARMOR
Leather Armor: A leather jacket and blue jeans armored with bits of scrap metal. Won't stop an energy weapon, hell, it'll barely stop a bullet, but it's good enough for Joe. Over it, Joe wears a brown duster.
CHEMICALS

• Two Stimpaks
• One Psycho

MISCELLANEOUS
Broken Pip-Boy: It belonged to a friend. Joe's hoping to get it fixed up.

The night was hot and humid as hell in Shreve's Port, people seeking shelter from the intense heat and wearing as few layers as possible. But one crazy bastard, a big lug who had been coming in and out of town every so often over the course of the last twelve years, was still wearing a longcoat and a leather jacket and wife beater under it. He must've been sweating like crazy, so many people must've thought, but really he was wondering why it wasn't any hotter. He liked the heat, made him tougher he thought.

Some run down saloon, peeling sign reading Eddie's. This was his favorite watering hole in town, sure there were better places, cleaner places, places where you didn't have to question whether the beer was watered down or not, but they weren't as seedy as this. Seedy was just how Joe liked his bars. He wouldn't feel bad if some lowlife started shit with him there, because he knew they didn't have anything to live for anyway.

Eddie knew his order by now. Every time he came in he ordered the same thing, but still Eddie asked, "What'll it be, Joe?"

"Shot and a brew, Ed," the bruiser grunted, easing his large frame onto a bar stool. Not a minute later Ed served him his drinks, and Joe tossed him fifteen caps. Another benefit of the bar: drinks were cheap and service was good. But then came the downside.

A bunch of no good bums, harassing one of the bar maids. It always got Joe's goat when guys roughed up girls, and this time was no exception. He stood up to intervene, Eddie grabbing his shoulder in a vain attempt to stop him. "Joe, don't be dumb about this."

"Let go of my coat, Ed," Joe replied, shaking off the man's hand and heading up to the bastards.

One of them was wearing a longcoat, not unlike Joe's own. He groped at the bar maid. "C'mon, sugarpie, y'know you wanna know what a real man is like..." he tried to say seductively, but in his intoxicated state it sounded more like he was constipated.

"In your dreams, creep," the bar maid spat.

"Oh don't sass me, sweetie. I've had a rough day, I'm a little on edge right no-"

The bar maid cut him off, "More like over the edge. You don't need a woman, you need a good night's sleep. You couldn't handle a woman."

His buddies laughed, before one of them said, "Hear that, Jackie Boy? She's saying you ain't got what it takes. You gonna let the little bitch talk down to you like that?"

In response, the longcoat-wearing thug, Jackie Boy it seemed, got up and slapped the girl something fierce. She fell to the ground, clutching her bleeding mouth.

Enter Joe.

"What do you want, dickhead?" Jackie Boy asked, sneering at Joe. Joe just looked him up and down.

"Y'know, that's a damn fine coat you're wearing." His own was tattered. He'd need a new one.

He took Jackie Boy's head and slammed it hard into the table, breaking the flimsy wooden thing. Jackie Boy's friends jumped up, each pulling out a weapon; one with a broken piece of pipe, another with a switchblade, but the other one had a .38. Joe would have to take out that last one first.

He slid on his knuckle dusters. Cracked his neck.

"C'mon, you pansies," Joe said, "I ain't got all night."

The goons with the melee weapons went first, the pistol wielding one holding back in case they got taken down. And taken down they did, as Joe punched one right in the kisser, damn near ripping off his upper lip with the spikes. He fell down. The one with the pipe swung at him, hitting Joe right in the back of the head, but he just shrugged it off and yanked the pipe out of his hands.

"That the best you can do, boy?" The pipe hit the young tough right in the face, blood flying out of his nose as it broke horribly. Joe began to wail one him with the pipe, kicking the one with the knife in the back of the head when he tried to get up.

A bullet hit him right in the shoulder. Stupid, stupid, he forgot all about the other bastard because he was having so much fun.

He stood up, and turned around slowly. The guy with the pistol was shaking, damn near pissing his pants. Joe wordlessly threw the pipe right into his face, knocking him out. He turned to the bar maid, offering her a hand up. "You alright, miss?"

She took his hand and he helped her back up, her laughing slightly, "I've been roughed up worse."

The rest of the night was a blur, all Joe knew was that he ended up having another drink and then it was now in some back alley, his head pounding, his cap pouch empty, and a group of guys dead at his feet. Four of them were the bums he took out at the bar. Jackie Boy was there, his skull caved in, but his coat, his damn fine coat, was still intact. He was just a bit smaller than Joe, but that coat was a size too big. It'd fit him fine.

And it did. He took off his old coat and slid Jackie Boy's on, wondering how he got here. He vaguely remembered Jackie Boy stumbling out with his pals after they got their asses handed to them, and jumping him when he left with a couple of other guys. He killed them all with his bare hands, but one got him good and knocked him out. Looks like that's where his caps went. Why the hell didn't the guy just kill him? That, he didn't know.

He stumbled out of the alley. He was approached by some guy in a nice suit.

"I see you've had yourself a fun night, Mr. Sawyer," the dandy said, looking the blood-soaked man up and down.

"How the hell do you know my name?" Joe asked, gripping his aching head.

"That doesn't matter. I take it you're out of caps?"

"... Yeah."

"And I take it you'd want more?"

"... What are you getting at here?"

"I'm here to offer you a job. Would you be interested?"

The big brawler paused for a moment, then grinned. "Hell yeah I would."

"Good. I'll give you the details on the way. Come," the suit gestured for Joe to follow, and he did.

"I'm with my two fists of iron but I'm goin' nowhere..."

Sorry, couldn't resist, song fits the character too much.

⚜️

NAME
Sylvia Bailey
AGE
32
GENDER
Female
SPECIES
Human
HOMETOWN
Shreve's Port
FACTION
N/A

Quick to laugh and easy to smile, Sylvia carries herself with a constant energy. She often wears her blonde hair in a ponytail. Due to the hot, humid weather of post-nuclear Louisiana, she usually wears a cropped shirt and somewhat tattered jeans to let her skin breathe. Things like combat armor's too heavy, slows her down, and it doesn't seem to do people much good against a Silverfish. Some people seem to think leather armor will do anything against anything, but those people are dead. Might as well just be comfortable at that point. She has an authentic northern Louisiana accent, with twangs and soft letters. She's mostly unscarred besides a knife scar on her right arm, but don't let that fool you. She's seen firefights and killed some folks- she's just lucky, and a little skilled.

While friendly enough most of the time, her behavior can get strange when she hasn't had a dose of Jet recently. She's most pleasant when she's her normal self- the twilight between when her most recent dose is fading off, but not before she begins to crave again. When she's on Jet, she says odd things and can be cruel, but without it she becomes more unstable and quick to anger. Overall, she's always trying to be upbeat and charismatic, but it takes different subtexts depending on how high she is.

TYPE ESFP
SPECTATOR'S REACTION
She could learn to stay out of people's business, or let things alone sometimes. It's not like she's crazy or anything- she's genuine enough, but sometimes she laughs at things that don't seem funny. I think the Jet gets the best of her sometimes. Sylvia also could really use someone who can reign her in because it seems like she's a little easy to piss off, and she gets herself into situations in which one party or another may be slightly hostile. I mean, it's not like she's bi-polar or something, but it's just odd sometimes. I guess that's just how she copes with the wasteland.

TRAIT
Chem Reliant: You've taken chems all your life. You manage to make them last twice as long, but you're addicted as hell. You're a far better soldier on drugs then not.
SKILLS
Combat Skill
Small Guns: The use, care, and general knowledge of small firearms. Pistols, SMGs and Rifles.
Active Skill(s)
Steal: The ability to make those of others, your own. Can be used to steal from people or places.

PERK
A True Chemist: You are capable of discerning if the drugs/medicine/etc has been poisoned/tampered/made better. Your years with drugs have led you to know when you're being fooled or whether it's the real thing. This is also applicable to drugs you don't use, but with a bit more time inspecting it.

STRENGTHS

• Agility: Sylvia is quick, flexible and nimble. Hard to pin down and able to fit into tight spaces.
• Pickpocket: Sylvia has learned to dip her hand quickly into someone else's pants pocket to steal away their caps, ammo, or Jet. She's also good at shoplifting.
• Combat Drugs: Her body had adapted to Jet over the years, it enhances her abilities greatly without immediate drawbacks.

WEAKNESSES

• Fragile: Easy to break.
• Combat Drugs: She's addicted to Jet. Without her fix she becomes irritable, distracted, clumsy and forgetful. While she's on jet she can be cruel and abrasive.
• Not Terribly Clever Hacking, lockpicking, reading an enemy, reading a book, are difficult or boring. She's also unaware of her addiction, or at least unwilling to acknolwedge it.

Sylvia Bailey was jogging. Her loose shirt bounced up and down with her stride as she jogged down the mostly empty street. Around her hip was a leather belt with a 10mm pistol tucked into a holster, a sheathed knife, and a small satchel filled with a few snacks. Or Jet. Mostly Jet. She had taken some earlier to get some boring delivery work done and was still riding the buzz. So she was working off the excess energy with a jog. It kept her fit and seeing the city was fun. Not really paying attention, she jogged out of public attention and into more hidden area's of her hometown.

An older woman dressed in rags sat against a wall to the left of the entrance to an alleyway. As the entranced jogger passed, the woman thrust out a hand. "Spare a cap for an old woman?" Sylvia paused her jog. Sylvia wondered how it was possible an old woman beggar could even exist.

"Eh, sorry, no." She began to continue her jog. Two burly masculine figures suddenly stepped out of the alley way.

"How about a cap for us-" They began their intimidating spiel, but Sylvia, startled and high, began her dirty work. Immediately the handgun was out. She thrust it into the belly of the man on the right, interrupting his speech with a gunshot. The wounded man gasped and shot off his own gun that richochetted against the pavement. The second man produced a crowbar and prepared to swing, but Sylvia scrambled out of the way and raised the barrel of her gun towards As he swung again Sylvia shot him in the chest, sending the swing wide. Still, the crowbar slammed into the side of her torso and Sylvia's vision purpled in pain, but she still managed to get a second bullet off and the man stumbled backwards, angry and dead. The first man gurgled next to her as Sylvia glanced towards the old crone.

"Wait-" She also began, but a bullet found her chest and she wheezed, head drooping.

"First impressions, people." Sylvia said shakily, heart pounding, a bruise forming where the club struck her. She tensely giggled as the first man ceased her gurgling and stared vacantly at the sky. Her shirt was cropped, so one could see the bottom half of the bludgeoning wound. It began to turn a vivd purple. Sylvia giggled before doubling over, falling to her hands and knees, one hand on her damaged skin, coughing.

"I feel awake now!" She shouted to no one in particular. "All that energy's been worked outta me, that's for damn sure." People began to investigate the four gun shots, wandering in the general direction of the noise, safe behind a few security officers who lead the charge.

"Why would anyone do drugs when they could just kill people for the same buzz?" Sylvia wheezed out a laugh as she continued her jog away from the scene of the triple homicide in self-defense. How many times can you defend yourself before you start to be the one in the wrong? Sylvia wondered this to herself, already forgetting that she murdered the old woman in cold blood, the fact vanishing into the haze of adrenaline, pain, and Jet.

NAME
Frankie 'The Friendly Super Mutant'
AGE
25 (He randomly picked the number, not really sure how old he is himself)
GENDER
Male
SPECIES
Super Mutant
HOMETOWN
Jamortown, formerly Camden Arkansas.
FACTION
Current: N/A

Formerly: Jamor's Warband- A Super Mutant group hellbent on eradicating all inferior races and conquering the southern half of Arkansas. Eradicated by the BoS years ago.

Standing at a hulking 10ft 8in (3.25m) tall (straight backed), with muscles that would put the most dedicated of body builders to shame, and a face that scares small children, Frankie looks terrifying to all but the more seasoned adventurers and soldiers. It isn't until someone gets closer that they see how hunched over he keeps himself(bringing his height down to around seven feet), as if ashamed of himself, how his hands are constantly fiddling with something, and how he can't quite bring himself to meet your eyes (his own pale white ones darting away), as if he's afraid of what he might see in them. As if he needed more help being off-putting, he can often be found muttering to himself or into his personal recorder, talking about notes and theories.

He puts effort into making himself look as non-threatening and quiet as possible, with his back hunched and shoulders slumped. His eyes are almost constantly darting around, studying one thing and the other. They light up like beacons when something interesting or exciting catches his attention. He moves with great care and gentleness, even when excitedly hurrying towards something, careful not to accidentally break or hurt something. His dark green skin usually has peach colored paint on it, carefully applied to cover as much of the characteristic green as possible, giving him an odd and distinctive appearance. On the rare occasion he is without his armor, he wears a kilt made from leather and nothing else. It is simply for everyone else's decency and propriety, and has little to no protection value.

TYPE INTJ-A (Architect)
SPECTATOR'S REACTION If he wasn't a super mutant, Frankie would be a perfect researcher. He certainly demonstrates all the traits of a stereotypical absentminded scientist or doctor. He gets lost in his thoughts, he seems completely oblivious of all social cues and norms, and will singlemindedly pursue his goals to an almost obsessive degree. Due to his condition, however, interesting quirks have appeared. In spite of, or perhaps because of, what he is Frankie genuinely seeks to make connections with everyone he meets. He seems to crave even the most basic of politeness, even from people who make it clear they'd rather kill him than understand him. On the subject of mental illness, the mere idea terrifies him. He's desperate to prevent himself from losing his mind like so many other super mutants, to a degree that he hinders himself excessively, restraining his natural urges and power.

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TRAIT
Wild Swampland
You’ve somehow managed to summon the weird around you. Things will get odd quicker than they get normal.

SKILLS

Active Skill(s)

First Aid
General healing skill. Used to heal small cuts, abrasions and other minor ills. Can’t handle surgery, bone fixing, or paralysis/coma.

Science
Covers a variety of hi-technology skills, such as computers, biology, physics and geology.

PERK
I'm SPECIAL: Sacrifice a point or more of INTELLIGENCE for an equivalent boost of STRENGTH. This is permanent until the next day when it resets.

STRENGTHS

• Strong Like Bull: Due to his Super Mutant biology, Frankie is immensely strong, capable of feats of strength far beyond natural human capabilities.
• Tough as Steel: Once again due to his biology, Frankie is ridiculously tough to take down. He's immune to the effects of radiation and diseases, his skin and bones can take an immense amount of punishment, and he possesses an enhanced regenerative factor that allows him to heal from wounds faster than normal.
• Obsessive Learner: Frankie is obsessed with knowledge. He believes that learning and complex problems keep his mind sharp, keeping him from descending into the frothing madness his brothers live in. He regularly explores or breaks into libraries and read all of the information he can find, particularly on anatomy and the healing arts. He has become an excellent doctor and medic, provided you trust and allow him to work on you. Frankie has always possessed a talent for retaining and understanding information, and almost never has trouble remembering what he has learned. As such he's got a huge amount of information stored away, sorted and organized neatly in his mind.

WEAKNESSES

• Almost Pacifist: Frankie doesn't like to fight and kill. Mostly because it gets his blood up, and encourages him to act like his brothers. He's spent a long enough time on the Wasteland, however, to know that it is inevitable. If he absolutely must fight (when refusing to fight will result in either his death or the death of someone else), Frankie attempts to use his great strength and resilience to neutralize whatever is attacking, non-lethally if he can. He's also constantly holding himself back, keeping his urges and power in check. This results in him seemingly being weaker than he should be, and seems like he's unused to a fight the vast majority of the time. Should he ever be pushed to the (very far) point to give into his urges, Frankie is more than capable of demonstrating why his species is feared across the wastes.
• Oblivious: Frankie isn't really the most aware person, of himself or his surroundings. Being a Super Mutant, he has never really needed to be concerned with or aware of dangers. He regularly just wanders into incredibly dangerous areas without a care in the world, and seems to be completely ignorant of the fact that his stature, appearance, and manner of speaking all make it all but impossible for him to convince anybody to do anything.
• Nimble as A Falling Brick: Frankie isn't agile or nimble. If he dodges something its because he had way to much time too, or pure luck.

WEAPONS
None
ARMOR
Frankie's custom Armor: A conglomeration of thick pieces of metal, rubber tires, and bits and pieces of junk Frankie has attached to himself in a typical Super Mutant fashion. Metal beat into, surprisingly careful, shape covers his torso, arms, and legs. The shoulders are large pieces of tire, likely stripped from an old tractor or semi-truck. Chains serve to keep the armor on his body, and for a helmet Frankie has a piece of steel shaped like a welding mask without the glass. The helmet has a yellow smiley faced painted over it, and his armor has peach colored paint slathered all over it.
CHEMICALS
3 Stimpaks (Not for himself)
MISCELLANEOUS
Frankie's Bag: A large travel bag that Frankie uses to store his various boxes and knickknacks.

Frankie's Box of Mind Challengers: Frankie has a large box that is filled with puzzles and books of logic or math problems. The puzzles are typically small things that can be easily held in the hands, designed to distract and challenge the mind.

Frankie's Recorder: A recorder that plays and copies onto holodisks, Frankie uses it for taking notes when studying something.

First aid box: A box filled with medicine, poultices, bandages, alcohol, and other general first aid supplies.

Mysterious Vial: A vial of grey liquid, carefully wrapped and hidden in Frankie's bag. He is extremely protective of it.

"Excuse me, but I have heard that the Governor is looking for adventurers for a mission. Can you point me in the right direction to him?" Frankie spoke softly, or as softly as his massive frame and rough voice could, his hands held in the air. He had taken to doing that while approaching unknown humans, as it at the very least confused them long enough for him to explain himself so they didn't shoot him on sight. The man looked up at the rough voice and jumped back from the wall he had been leaning against with a shout of alarm, hand reaching for his pistol. Frankie took a step back, hands lifted higher. "I mean you no harm. My name is Frankie. I am looking to be in the Governor's employ." He hoped that what was coming across was soothing, rather than menacing. He had trouble sending across the proper messages at times.

The man paused, looking over Frankie's peach colored armor and skin, squinting. "Are you that 'Friendly Super Mutant' wandering around trying to help people?" Frankie nodded eagerly, stopping himself from smiling. That scared people. "That's me. Could you please point me in the direction of the Governor? I'd like to offer my services to him." The man paused, clearly thinking over the wisdom of leading a super mutant to the Governor of the Northern Province, Friendly or no. Frankie didn't blame him. He wouldn't have trusted himself in the man's shoes either. "I suppose the Governor could use someone like yourself on his special job. Wait here. I'll bring the Governor's men. Frankie nodded, saying his thanks, and settled down to wait as the man walked off. He hoped that a posse wasn't being rounded up to kill him again. It would be bothersome to run away and walk back in later, and he might miss his chance to explore the rest of the state in relative safety. The man came back with a dozen of the Governor's men, all armed and wary. Frankie didn't blame them. A super mutant was dangerous, especially if it wanted to meet the Governor. What happened next was a tense interrogation. Well, tense on the part of the Governor's men. Frankie himself was rather relaxed, sure he could escape these men if they tried to kill him. It was all the usual questions. No, he wasn't interested in hurting the governor. Yes, he really was just interested in helping. Yes, he really did detest violence. Yes, he could actually help. No, he didn't have any super mutant friends waiting outside of the city. Yes, he would obey all commands. No, he didn't have any weapons.

Finally, satisfied that Frankie at least didn't plan to murder them immediately, the leader waved a hand."At the very least you would be a good distraction in the event of an attack. Lets go, we'll see if the Governor even wants to see you." Frankie nodded eagerly again, passing his last cap to the man who had helped him "Thank you, friend. May the rest of your days be blessed." The man watched as the towering Super Mutant walked away, shaking his head in wonder and pocketing the cap. A strange incident. One that he hoped he never repeated.

NAME
Sully
AGE
30
GENDER
Male
SPECIES
Human
HOMETOWN
Dump Town - A small settlement located in a former rubbish dump. The mountains of waste provide solid protection to the inhabitants with a large metal gate used as an entrace on one side. Located several miles from Shreve's Port in The Northern Province.
FACTION
The Hunters - A group of mercernaries who, as the name suggests, excel at hunting. Whether it is finding an individual or a creature in the post apocalyptic world, The Hunters are capable enough to hunt what they are paid to.

While Sully wears a gas mask out in the wilds, when in a settlement he removes it. His resting face is aggressive and stern, accentuated by his sharp facial features. A long nose and pointed chin, coupled with a furrowed brow can make people around him nervous, often to his detriment. His hair is thick and black, often standing up due to the gas mask pushing it upward. His right eye is a deep blue and has an intensity amplified by his face. He has a scar running from his forehead down over his left eye, resting just above the corner of his mouth. The wound that resulted in the scar damaged his eye and it now has a pale, milky colouration to it. It is totally useless.

He stands at 6'1" and walks with purpose and confidence, his back straight and shoulders wide. Beneath his clothing lies a scarred body, close encounters with humans and muntants alike leaving their mark. He has no shame in his scars and instead uses each as a reminder that any moment could be his last.

His voice is gruff, as if waking up after a heavy night of alcohol and smoking. This combined with his appearance makes it difficult to get close to anyone who isn't a bandit or lowlife. As such Sully does play into the character that people assume him to be. For those who get close enough they can see that he truly is a good person at heart, but his profession often makes him do things that put him at the other end of the scale.

TYPE ISTJ
SPECTATOR'S REACTION
Sully is a planner and uses whatever information he has available, avoiding making assumptions. When people assume they often make mistakes and that is why he makes sure he has all the facts that he can before going into a situation. He is someone who has no issue taking the lead if required and tries to give clear, concise instructions. Once decisions have been made he has a preference to get right into the action rather than continually debating a topic. His thought process tends to focus heavily on logic with very little room for fantastical ideas or dreams.

TRAIT
Trigger Discipline: You’re a sharpshooter of sorts. You know your way around a gun and you know how to make the shot count. That being said, you’re slower to shoot than your friends, and you usually lean towards rifles.
SKILLS
Combat Skill
Small Guns: The use, care and general knowledge of small firearms. Pistols, SMGs and rifles.
Active Skill(s)
Sneak: Quiet movement, and the ability to remain unnoticed. If successful, you will be much harder to locate. You cannot run and sneak at the same time.
PERK
Master Hunter: You have advantage against inhuman creatures.

STRENGTHS

• Pin Point Accurate: After years of practise, Sully could shoot the nose off a molerat at full speed. He actually did it.
• Human Shadow: As a hunter of humans and all things scary, Sully excels in the art of sneaking and hiding. Why is there a tree in the middle of the road?
• Blur: Sully is able to move quickly and has quick reflexes, making him rather difficult to hit.

WEAKNESSES

• Mr Angry: Sully's demeanour makes it almost impossible for him to charm the normal and functioning members of society. He never gets a discount.
• God Damn Molerats!: Some people hate logical things, Sully hates molerats. He will actively try and kill any molerat on sight. He once killed a childs pet molerat and then returned two weeks later to kill the replacement.
• One Good Eye: Sully's close call with a Yao Guai left him with a permanent scar over his left eye and the eye itself is now useless. The deep blue colouring of the eye has long since faded to leave a milky white, leaving him without vision out of his left eye. Good job he shoots using his right.

WEAPONS
Widowmaker: A custom built sniper rifle that fires a .50 calibre round. It features an extended magazine, bipod, long range scope and a silencer. The gun itself is wrapped in various coloured strips of cloth to help camouflage.
Head Splitter: Another custom built weapon, Head Splitter is a revolver that fires .44 calibre rounds. It features glowing ironsights and a forward facing, curved blade that comes out of the grip.
ARMOR
Crafted Leather Armour: Leather armour crafted from the carcass of a Yao Guai Sully killed. It was fashioned into a coat and features a fur coating around the collar. In addition he has a gas mask that provides minor protection again toxic fumes.
CHEMICALS

• 2 Stimpaks
• 3 Water
• 2 Radaway

MISCELLANEOUS
Pre War Dollar Coin: A silver coin dating back to before the bombs fell. It is in pristine condition and was given to him by his father.
Flint Striker: Nothing quite like a campfire under a starfilled sky.

"I'll take a beer." The barman stared worringly at Sully, his eyes converying a strong sense of fear. In his experience bar staff of the wasteland tended to be hardy folk, but this yokel was basically pissing in his boots. Sully glared back at the barman with a look of total dissatisfaction, he liked his barstaff hardy and ready for trouble.

"I'm not here to take your money. I just want a damn beer." The barman stumbled backwards towards the counter behind him, reaching under it with his long and gangly arms. He re-emerged with a brown bottle, the label long since faded leaving a stone white square. "See that wasn't so hard. Thanks alot." Sully did his best to smile as the barman handed him the bottle but it did nothing other than petrify him further. Turning away Sully rolled his eyes and made for a table in the corner of the room.

A well used candle that had dripped wax all over the table top was the only source of lighting. Sully couldn't work out whether it was a mood thing or just a lack of electricity, either way it was relaxing and he needed to unwind. He had just finished a two week long hunt that had driven him to the edge of insanity. Who wouldn't go insane having to find a stolen albino brahmin.

A farmer outside Shreve's Port claimed a gang of bandits had stolen it and were trying to sell it off. Unfortunately for Sully after tracking down the bandits and doing away with them, he returned to the farmer to find the albino brahmin back in the field. Suffice to say the farmer wouldn't be breathing through his nose for a while. It didn't matter though, Sully helped himself to the caps promised and that was when he headed for Shreve's Port.

As Sully drank his beer he overhead a conversation on a table nearby. Two young men spoke about a job directly from the Governor of The Northern Province himself. That in itself didn't matter, it was when one of the men said the amount he was willing to pay...over 1000 caps. Sully gulped the rest of his beer and made for the door, pushing chairs and people alike aside. Outside his mind began kicking into overdrive, I can't miss out on that sort of money...where is the Governers residence?