Food - Enough for several days Water - Enough for several days Fuel - Scarce, perhaps enough for a few short journeys but nothing more Ammo - EXHAUSTED Meds - Scarce Scrap - Scarce
Equipment: Amaha: A two speed bike with a few modifications by Kalahan including an auxiliary fuel tank, overhauled exhaust, nitrous induction, and custom tuned suspension. Though it doesn’t have the same level of fuel efficiency as a 4 stroke, the sheer power of acceleration in a 2 stroke is why he hasn’t opted for a new motor. He cranks the throttle from a dead stop and Amaha doesn’t shoot off, she leaps, clearing the ground, and takes off.
One-Handed Crossbow: A handy little number he bought with blood. Though small in size, this crossbow packs enough punch to shatter a windshield.
Shivs: He pairs these handy little numbers with his crossbow to shatter the driver side window of an enemy vehicle, punch out the remaining glass, reach in, and plunge one of these into the driver’s chest. As they;re only a half step above shivs, they're often shoddily constructed and make piss poor combat knives in hand to hand and would quickly fall apart if used that way. These're meant for single use. He keeps around 3 of them strapped to his bike most of the time.
Gas Mask: Usually seen dangling from his neck, the filters are so old and clogged the only thing the mask is good for is keeping sand out of his nose in a storm.
Knuckle Duster Gloves: He may be a Road Warrior first, but that doesn’t mean he can’t handle himself in a scrap; better than most actually. He was deadly in hand to hand even before he put these gloves on. He fights to kill with a combination of vicious boxing and grappling all charged with brutal savagery.
Personality: A thrill rippin', rock rolling, death defiling, speed archdemon of a Road Warrior. He scours the wastes for scrap and other useful items (the latter often stolen from warlords) to sell to strongholds in exchange for guzzoline and food. He's gotten good at what he does and has even managed to afford a number of upgrades for his prized dirt bike. His skill makes him dangerous already but add a type of high octane flamin' crazy that puts a veteran War Dog on edge and you get one dangerous man. He seeks thrill and danger as others seek aqua cola, needs it like a V8 needs fuel, and gets it from the unlucky soldiers of any local tyrants who cross his path out in the wastes.
History: Kalahan was born far off in the wastes with a name only his father and he knew. Following the death of his mother in childbirth, his father set about teaching young Kalahan everything there was to know about how to how to survive as a Road Warrior. The secret, his father taught him, wasn’t finding the biggest or meanest car, it was to find the most nimble. Dance around the feet of giants and slit their ankles.
Once he came of age, he said goodbye to his father, thanked him for teaching him and set off to forge his own path. Soon after, he found his own machine: a 2-stroke beauty of a dirt bike he named “Amaha” after a rotted banner he found in the rubble next to it.
He sells his skills to strongholds and caravans in exchange for food, shelter, and precious guzzoline. Eventually, he always got bored and would move to another group, then another, and repeat. He’s seen and done more than people thrice his age... whatever that age is. He lives for life itself and though he’d rather avoid death, he’s not afraid of it. Everyone dies eventually and he plans to enjoy life his way until it’s his time. No masters, no kings, no gods, just a man and the wastes.
" And thus, The Great Hippo did verily decree to all Organic Mechanics the sacred vow: Do Know Harm"
Appearance Most wasters that encounter Sawbones assume that his clothes are in fact his skin. Sawbones typically wears a brown patch-work laboratory coat over a set of linen slacks, outfitted with leather hoops, belts and pockets to keep his vast collection of 'medical' knick-knacks on his person for easier accessibility during his work. His face is covered with a series of rags and a set of swimming goggles to keep him protected from the sun-light.
No one never knows what Sawbones true face looks like. Is it a bald man? Is it a woman pretending to be a man? Is it secretly a handsome warlord?
Role/Skills
Role: Blood-Boy (Organic Mechanic/War-Boy)
Path
Blue Path with a tiny sliver of Green when it's beneficial for him.
Equipment
The Panacea is a rudimentary ring journal made out of stained brown paper that contains anatomical diagrams and medical notes accumulated during Sawbones journey through the wastes. Each note and diagram is painstakingly scrawled with a mixture of what's avaliable on-hand for Sawbones include plant pigments, ink, pencil lead and blood in order to conserve the small amount of paper that Sawbones has access to.
The Hippo's Chariot is a bastardised dune buggy scavenged from the remnants of a golf cart and the frame of an ambulance. It is outfitted with a small V6 Engine and its wheels had been modified for efficient travel across desert terrain. It is mainly used as a storage vessel for the vast amount of human body parts that Sawbones uses for his personal experiments.
In close quarters combat, Sawbones uses his vast array of jury-rigged scapels of sharpened scrap metal, human bone and petrified wood for both medical examination and disembowelment of the enemy.
Notwithstanding the issue of tetanus or rickets, syringes are an Organic Mechanic's best friend. Used to deliver a highly toxic chemical payload to his enemies or a highly questionable beneficial chemical payload to his allies.
Personality If a real doctor from before the Fall were to analyze Sawbones, several phrases would be used to describe him. "Medical malpractice", "quack" and "Human Rights Violation" are just the surface. Sawbones is a highly ardent believer and follower in the ways of the Great Hippo, a legendary god-like figure amongst all Organic Mechanics who believe the Great Hippo to be the patron saint of all Organic Mechanics in all of their 'medical' endeavors. Sawbones has a single-minded obsession with a badly butchered historical phrase from the questionable book compiled by various Organic Mechanics with the help of a History Man known as " The Hippo's Oath". This phrase is known as "Do Know Harm" which Sawbones believes to be divine permission from the Great Hippo as a means of expanding his 'medical knowledge' no matter the cost. Sawbones goes from enclave to enclave in the wastes, offering his services to war-lords for a period of time in exchange for a safe shelter with an access to a large supply of 'patients' to expand his glory in the name of the Great Hippo. Sawbones also regularly participates in war raids and parties for the purpose of testing his new experimental drugs as a means of worshipping the Great Hippo and to restock up on 'material'.
History Sawbones was once an ordinary nameless test subject born as part of an 'medical' experiment in pregnancy by a rovering group of Organic Mechanics known as " The Abattoir". The purpose of the experiment was to form a reliable method of pregnancy in the wastes in order to increase the survival rate of children in enclaves. An Organic Mechanic took pity on Sawbones and raised him in the ways of the Great Hippo. With nothing else to turn to, Sawbones earned his nick-name from his very apparent enthusiasm in the operating room with surgery.
When Sawbones accidentally injected himself with an unknown chemical composition one day, he claimed to have received an hallucinogenic vision of the Great Hippo, who had blessed him as his emissary and to go spread the good word of the Great Hippo to all other wasteland settlements. Sawbones immediately packed up whatever belongings he had and much to the complaints of the other Organic Mechanics, dissapeared without a trace.
Sawbones now wanders around the wastes to spread the good word of the Hippo to all heathens and unbelievers.
"I'm either a 'nice' person or a 'rude' person. Really just depends on what you think nice or rude is"
Role Gunsmith (Primary- Leadslinger, Secondary- Blackfinger)
Path Silver with a hint of Green He seeks fame and recognition through helping others, even if he dies in the process
Equipment
Life: A gun torn from the hands of a dead soul who happened about the Pass, named for the numerous times it's saved his Life. It's more dependable than a V8 and chews through ammo(and the unfortunate souls on the receiving end) like...Like..ok, insert your own idiom. Zer has maintained it heavily, and grown attached to it. The only downside is that 7.62mm is kinda hard to find....
5: The name changes with how many times it breaks down..anywho, its a nifty lil' kart that he..borrowed from a caravan, that may or may not have fired upon him once noticing it was gone. As with all things in the Wasteland, it's mottled with rust and a real surprise that it manages to start..well..most of the time. The kart initially sported 250cc, but he's since lower to an 125cc cylinders, as to increase fuel efficiency. Aside from the that, the kart also features user tuned suspension and sports light sheet metal plates as crude armor. It's a go-kart modified for Crosskart racing, which is perfect for the sand.
You FOOL!!
The thing he'll brain you with: A short club of sorts, with heavy-duty screws at the top to act as weight to a swing and make it way easier to break things. No official name, just something to crack skulls and the occasional windshield.
Personality Zer is a rare sight in the wastes, a collected individual, atypical from the erratic(at best) and bat-shit crazy (at worst) who inhabit the land. He’s a heavy collector of Pre-Fall artifacts, mainly weaponry and such, and enjoys modifying cars, guns, armor, anything with moving parts really. However, placing a gun in his hands shows a different side to the survivalist. Unlike raiders and the ‘spray n pray’ tactics, he makes every bullet count, semi-auto, one shot=one kill, and he actually enjoys killing people. Though one can't see it, he'll have the widest grin imaginable when mowing down enemies, and maybe the occasional giggle of malice. Yeah, maybe a lot some screws loose up there.
History Zer was born..well..and that's the thing. He was born, thats for certain but (And this is what he thinks happened) was abandoned in the wastes. That's usually where the story would end but luckily, a wandering caravan happened upon the crying infant. Through heated arguments and careful deliberation, he was taken in but as soon as he became able, would begin to pull his own weight. That age is best guessed(by him) at around 7, in which he began to work as the others did. He bled, sweated, killed(yes killed), and looted until finally coming of age to decide his own path. So what did he do? He stole a kart from the caravan who raised him and drove like a madman. Why? To this day not even he knows, he wants to blame teenage(?) ignorance but that doesn't make the situation any better.
Using his teachings from the caravan, he established himself as an able survivalist, only traveling to major strongholds for trading bits and bobbles for the 3 essentials; guzzoline, food, water. During his first years on the road, he witnessed unimaginable horrors that people did to one another and had a reckoning of sorts. If so many bad people existed in the world, why not be one of the good ones? With that, he set out with one goal in mind: Eliminate, serving as the wastes' vigilante so to speak. Again, you're definition of 'good' and 'bad' differs from his, as he murders who HE deems bad. His moral compass may or may not be broken
If you manage to find him today, say hello and pray like hell he's out of ammo.
It's hard to say what Dog Bob really looks like, given all people have to go by is the hair that reaches out from his hessian mask, and the single 'looksee' he leaves exposed to the world; a chocolate pool of animalistic curiosity and peculiarity. Instead, people are left to make assumptions based on his apparel. Wearing clothes appropriate for the intense heat of the World Left Behind, the crazed Blackfinger ensures each item of clothing that adorns his body is riddled with pockets and pouches, so as to store the various scrap he finds.
RASH— Dog Bob's trusty buggy, Rash has been with him all over the wastes. Once a husk of a vehicle, the Australian found it in the sand one day and took it in, gradually building it up to a working state. After that, he plated the frame with crude armour; months spent finding sheets of metal and carving it into adequate pieces to be attached to his vehicular bastion. Since those tiring times, Rash has carried the Blackfinger all across the land, carrying the parts he repurposes from corpses long gone and keeping his feet off the coal-hot sands. Even now, Dog Bob cares for it, improving it whenever he has the chance. Soon, Rash will become the most feared buggy in the World Left Behind! Any day now...
NIPPER— Screwing and hammering a bunch of scrap metal sheets onto a frame is nothing compared to this piece of work. Years in the making, Nipper was crafted using only the trustworthiest materials that Dog Bob could find, though not even his self-professed god-like craftsmanship could make gold out of copper. It's capable of firing and not exploding, yes, but the trigger is eccentric at best and nips at his skin. He doesn't like that. Nonetheless, the man copes, though he uses Nipper very sparingly.
SHREDDAH— Shreddah is a peculiar weapon of choice, proving that tools can be weapons, too! While not as much of a heavy task as Nipper, the saw-machete hybrid still required some tinkering to become as versatile as it is. Overall, the build quality is solid, with a sturdy structure and even a rudimentary guard on the haft. None of the pieces are cosmetic, each of them serving to improve the effectiveness of the Shreddah or ensure it won't fall out of place during combat.
MEDIOCRE— What kind o' whacka doesn't carry a backup? One of the few things in his arsenal not hand-crafted by him, Mediocre is a rusty curved knife used only in the most dire of situations. This stolen blade got its name after Dog Bob was first forced to use it, discovering it was more likely to kill his enemies with tetanus than a stab through the throat. He carries it with him regardless, knowing that a piece of scrap is better than nothing at all.
Role: Assault Driver - Leadslinger, Road Warrior Alone in the wastelands it takes a bit of everything to survive: vehicles need maintaining, wounds need bandaging, goods need bartering and fistfights need winning. When everyone wants to kill you, shooting first and flooring it second is among the most important. Time and no shortage of luck has honed his evasive driving and sharpshooter skills.
Path:Repressed Green, leaning blue
Equipment: Bolt Rifle: Once an antique no doubt, an old bolt-action rifle modified by a previous owner with a straight-locking bolt is now his regular carry. It holds five rounds loaded into an integral magazine and has modified iron sights.
Repeater: A nondescript semi-automatic pistol scavenged from a corpse. It holds an unhealthy amount of ammo (20 rounds) but is otherwise uninteresting and inefficient.
Hardy Davidson: A motorcycle with decent power, handling, fuel tankage, and a pair of saddle bags (not pictured) for carrying supplies. Currently a stand-in for a more preferable four-wheeled vehicle, the last of which he was in posession of was since destroyed.
Personality: If there is a shred of civility left in the wastelands, it hasn't shown itself to him. Every time he has tried to give a damn about another person, it has exploded in his face, sometimes quite literally. While he wants to be less of a scumbag human than those he runs into, he is consistently reminded that the only safety comes from putting himself first, and last. He is of few words and has grown slow to trust, but he remains a reliable ally to have.
History: He doesn't say. He has traveled the wastes mostly alone for a significant period of time, as clearly seen by the preparation of his vehicle and supplies. Being still alive somehow, he must be halfway decent at it.
Equipment- Razar likes to keep himself light, wearing black cargo pants, with red patches sewn at his knees, and his signature bandana which is always wrapped around his face. He also wears a pair of hard knuckle engineer gloves and straps across his chest for two holsters at his back. This is for his precious weapons, Senor Slice and Mr Cleave. The axes are made with metal plumbing pipes for the handles and buzzsaws that have been cut in half for the axe heads.
There's also his new bike that he found just after meeting with the group which he calls "Reaver." He doesn't know why it's familiar to him but the name stuck.
Personality- There are no better combination of two words to describe 'Razar the Choppa' than "Fucking" and "Crazy". He talks to his axes, who he considers personal friends, and is always looking for the next glorious fight. However, as much as some of the lesser estranged survivors would like to admit, Razar does have a method to his madness. While he's violent, it's towards those who deserve it. Anyone or anything that dare to harm the crew he's running with will be met with the blood curdling war cry, taunts and screams of Razar before meeting the bloodied edge of his axes. He was once seen attacking the same dead bodies for three days before someone managed to snap him out of it.
History- Razar doesn't know much about his early life, and even if he did, he wouldn't think of telling you anyways. One thing has always stuck in his mind for as long as he can remember. How to fight. He actually started off as a War Boy under a faction called the "Skull Reavers". It was there he was taught how to fight and how he learnt to become brutally and efficiently vicious in combat. However, it was in a raid that he was torn away from the group. A storm blew straight into the party on the way back. Fortunately, the vehicle he was riding in was only on the edge of the storm. It wasn't enough for it to be thrown across the desert like a toy, but it was enough to stop it being sucked into the maelstrom.
He was the only survivor from the crash, and with no direction to go, he just walked. There was nothing else for him to do so he walked. No matter who he came across, he wouldn't stop trekking across the sand. He only ever stopped when he had to, or if someone tried to challenge him. One time he saw a couple of scavengers about to kill an unarmed woman and child. His scream ripped through the air and he charged straight at them, screaming taunts and obscenities throughout the entire fight before laughing as he walked off, the blood and viscera dripping down his axe and dripping into the golden sand.
The endless loop of wandering and fighting like that and warped his mind even more, and it wasn't until he came across this new group that he found a family. He proved himself to them, and proving that he was adequate enough to help himself and others, Razar had a new purpose. His mind wouldn't recover, but he didn't care anymore. He now had people to run with, fight with and ride with now that he's finally found a bike.
Equipment: Using his rusty old dirtbike as a mode of transporation, Ransom doesn't have the ability to travel with much. He has a traveler's backpack which contains basic supplies such as cloth, a source of flame, a pipe, cutting tools, etc. The man's only weapon seems to be a blunting machete that is sheathed at his side. He always has a bandanna tied around his neck which he can pull up to cover most of his face. A gas mask hangs at his side as well.
Personality: Ransom seems to be constantly analyzing his surroundings with a scrutinizing gaze, as if he were trying to manipulate the world around him. Although he may seem on edge by watching his body movement, that all changes when he opens his mouth to speak. The words come out elegantly and deliberate, never becoming sharp or hoarse. His ability to hide his true nature, that of a manipulative wallflower, is to be reckoned with.
His vanity and narcissism may be the death of him some day.
History: Using his cunning nature in the wastes has earned Ransom many opportunities, usually gaining the trust of other survivors and putting that to his advantage, usually luring them into traps or stacking them against overwhelming odds and leaving with their gear. If it weren't for the pseudonyms that he often labeled himself as, it would be likely that his reputation would precede him in most encounters, warning those ahead of time.
It was a day like any other when Ransom decided he was capable of more. He wandered off in search of others with a like mind, willing to do more than just survive, but instead to thrive. He could foresee it, a tribe that enveloped the weak. A tribe unlike an the wasteland has yet to see.
Gear: He's got a 'bike. He'd prefer a car. Something with some space to stretch out, make a home, store the goods. But this'll do. Last fella owned it doesn't need it no more. It's decent fast, and nothin' too precious that he wouldn't trade its life for a mark in the 'W' column. He carries a piece at his side. Holds more bullets than he's ever seen in one place (currently he has four. One more that he's not completely sure about.) Bit 'o tin keeps the flash from the muzzle to a minimum. Bit 'o bodge traps the spent brass. Bit 'o this 'n that keeps the grips from falling apart. For when the bullets don't speak yelly enough, he's got a shotty, too. Used ta be a flare gun, back in the before. But it was sleeved to accept a single breech-loaded 12 gauge shot shell. (he currently has three, but they may, or may not be any good...) Nobody worth the salt walks the wastes without a blade. He carries a knife always. Can't count on the boomers. Last bit of business is the bat. That's usually slung behind his back. (but shhhh.... don't tell anyone I said so.)
Personality: Rig's not much for wordstuff. Never seems to do him much good. Most don't take kindly to it when you're an outlander. Come to think of it, Rig's not much for people. For the talkings, or otherwise. Too much trouble. Leads to the snuffing. Which he doesn't appreciate either. Folks'd be best off if they steered clear, seems to be.
History: Been across the wastes, long ways. Seen a lot, done enough to see through two half-lifes. What more is there to say?
