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[OOC] Fallout: Into the Storm Page 7
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Eviledd1984 Narn Liberator
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Alfhedil What do you see Kaneda?
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@Eviledd1984 Don't forget we got a discord server for the RP if you want to chat or have questions. It's usually the best way to shout in my direction about things :v
Dread On the sunny side / of the street
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It's usually the best way to shout in my direction about things :v
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Alfhedil What do you see Kaneda?
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Holla at me all you want, just know that I ain't no hollaback girl.
Eviledd1984 Narn Liberator
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Alfhedil What do you see Kaneda?
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Eviledd1984 Narn Liberator
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AHAB
"Hell has no fury as a woman’s scorn"
- General Characteristics -
{Full Name}
Ahab
{Nickname/Callsign}
Prisoner FE40536
{Age}
46
{Gender}
Male
{Face Claim}
None
{Dialogue Color}
White
{Appearance}
A large super mutant standing at around 7’4 and weighting about the same as a alpha deathclaw. His skin color a dark green with some dark brown spots all over his body. A rough looking faces with many scars all over his body. Shrunken in eyes with blue pupils and high cheekbones. A few crooked and even some missing back teeth in his mouth. A bald head of hair with only a few strands of hair that seemed to be in patches. Large ears and nose on his head with what looks like a red piercing on his left ear. And a square jaw with a small dimple.
Wearing a large fitted prison overalls. The outfit itself is dark blue in color. With the name of the prison in large yellow print. His prison number sewn into the left said of the upper part of the overalls. Wearing black combat boots that seemed quite worn but are useable for the mutant. His overalls worn as well and when he left he acquired a very large duster jacket that covers most of his body.
- Psychological Profile -
{Personality}
Ahab is kind person not much of the backstabber type and will let you know if he has a issue with you up front, A great reader of books and literature he loves reading and quoting certain lines form his favorite books. A thoughtful and empathetic mutant that does not mind helping out a person or people in need. Although his kindness is not usually returned which saddens him. Bringing him great pain when he is mistreated or shunned because of his kindness and even his mutation. He is kind and friendly to all whom listens or does not shoot him on sight. A mutant that loves to have deep thoughts about many subjects and is always looking for a person to stimulate his intellectual mind. Caring about animals and plant life. However if a animal was to try to take his life he defend himself if needed. The same can be said with human life. Being curious as well loving to tinker and creating weapons, ammunition, and even strange inventions.
{Fears/Limitations}
Ahab’s life was filled with losing people and companions. Filling him with the fear of losing his loved one or friends and being alone. Because of this he quite protective and at times clingy when it comes to people whom he considers “friend”. Another fear that came form his experiences in life was tight spaces. Because of him imprisoned he cannot be in small rooms and must be in larger rooms or open spaces. Some of his limitations include that he is not very fast or agile because he is a super mutant. He is unskilled in dealing with computers, bartering, and dealing with social interactions.
{Place of Origin}
He has no memory of his past, He hypothesize that he was a mechanic living in the Hells Kitchen area. Judging form a photo he presumed of himself and three other people in the area. Another clue was a name on the back of the photo. The name “Giovanni Jon Lanza” which he presumed to be his own name that he believes himself to be of Italian decent. However this was all here say and he has been searching for undeniable proof of his past.
{Background}
Ahab has no memory of his past. And only remembered waking up in a prison cell with tattered clothing. From what he could tell he was taken as a human and dipped into a FEV tank and mutated into a super mutant. While he was in the cell which was outfitted as quarter. The mutants invitingly activated the prison’s security system. Ahab having only a photo in his pocket of some humans whom he assumed was a group he was apart of. Assuming that he was the only survivor and seeing the dead mutants being dragged away to presumably be burnt and dispose of. For the next six years he was treated as a prisoner. His only solace was a friendly Mr.Handy named Herman. Herman gave Ahab books to read and even read to him. The robot giving the super mutant the name of “Ahab” form the mutant’s favorite book “Moby Dick”. Herman being different form the other robots was Ahab’s only friend and helped him with the mutant’s escape plan. Being given items for his escape he built make shift explosives hiding them form the robots as best he could.
On the day of his prison escape he set off the explosion and was desperately asking Herman to join him. However the robot could not leave as he did not want to be dismantled by the others for helping Ahab escape. Saddened by wanting to leave he escaped the prison in the dead of night taking a small but dense paperback copy of Moby Dick. For the next couple of years he explored the land making caps in the local towns that would accept him and let him work. Working by fixing things and helping build structures among other tasks. During this time he befriended two feral dogs naming one Ishmael and the other Queequeg. The two dogs were his companions and when Ishmael was killed during a fight against raiders he was heartbroken and angry. Killing the raiders by tearing them apart with his bare hands. Queequeg lived until dying of old age which Ahab was also sadden but glad the dog was given a full life. Now alone again he kept traveling east coast making a sort of home base in a abandoned house. Exploring to gather material, gain some caps and trying to figure out who he was and what his past was.
- Survival Characteristics -
{Non-Combat Skills}
Repairing/Tinkering: Ahab is skilled in fixing objects and also creating strange objects. This objects he sells on the side as “Art”. He uses his skills as well to fix whatever someone needs help with. He also loves working on small parts and how they work. As well as having a passion of working on cars and vehicles.
Gardening: Ahab as well loves gardening and planting crops. Using this to make his own food which he cooks thanks to a old cookbook he found.
{Possessions}
The photo of three humans.
Small hand held radio
5x Purified water
A small tool box
{Combat Skills}
Throwing: Ahab is skilled in throwing his harpoons and makeshift harpoons. He can also throw heavier objects like ruined cars among other things.
Long range aiming: Ahab knows how to shoot his harpoon gun that he could shoot a good few feet. He has his assault rife as a back up and is skilled with using that.
Hand to hand combat: Thanks to being a super mutant. He is strong enough to go toe to toe with a yao guai and come out with only few bruises.
Melee weapons: on top of hand to hand combat he has good amount t of knowledge on using his harpoons like spears or as a stabbing weapon.
{Gear}
Prison overalls
Duster jacket
Assault rifle
147x 5.56 mm round
Harpoon gun
30x harpoons
"Hell has no fury as a woman’s scorn"
- General Characteristics -
{Full Name}
Ahab
{Nickname/Callsign}
Prisoner FE40536
{Age}
46
{Gender}
Male
{Face Claim}
None
{Dialogue Color}
White
{Appearance}
A large super mutant standing at around 7’4 and weighting about the same as a alpha deathclaw. His skin color a dark green with some dark brown spots all over his body. A rough looking faces with many scars all over his body. Shrunken in eyes with blue pupils and high cheekbones. A few crooked and even some missing back teeth in his mouth. A bald head of hair with only a few strands of hair that seemed to be in patches. Large ears and nose on his head with what looks like a red piercing on his left ear. And a square jaw with a small dimple.
Wearing a large fitted prison overalls. The outfit itself is dark blue in color. With the name of the prison in large yellow print. His prison number sewn into the left said of the upper part of the overalls. Wearing black combat boots that seemed quite worn but are useable for the mutant. His overalls worn as well and when he left he acquired a very large duster jacket that covers most of his body.
- Psychological Profile -
{Personality}
Ahab is kind person not much of the backstabber type and will let you know if he has a issue with you up front, A great reader of books and literature he loves reading and quoting certain lines form his favorite books. A thoughtful and empathetic mutant that does not mind helping out a person or people in need. Although his kindness is not usually returned which saddens him. Bringing him great pain when he is mistreated or shunned because of his kindness and even his mutation. He is kind and friendly to all whom listens or does not shoot him on sight. A mutant that loves to have deep thoughts about many subjects and is always looking for a person to stimulate his intellectual mind. Caring about animals and plant life. However if a animal was to try to take his life he defend himself if needed. The same can be said with human life. Being curious as well loving to tinker and creating weapons, ammunition, and even strange inventions.
{Fears/Limitations}
Ahab’s life was filled with losing people and companions. Filling him with the fear of losing his loved one or friends and being alone. Because of this he quite protective and at times clingy when it comes to people whom he considers “friend”. Another fear that came form his experiences in life was tight spaces. Because of him imprisoned he cannot be in small rooms and must be in larger rooms or open spaces. Some of his limitations include that he is not very fast or agile because he is a super mutant. He is unskilled in dealing with computers, bartering, and dealing with social interactions.
{Place of Origin}
He has no memory of his past, He hypothesize that he was a mechanic living in the Hells Kitchen area. Judging form a photo he presumed of himself and three other people in the area. Another clue was a name on the back of the photo. The name “Giovanni Jon Lanza” which he presumed to be his own name that he believes himself to be of Italian decent. However this was all here say and he has been searching for undeniable proof of his past.
{Background}
Ahab has no memory of his past. And only remembered waking up in a prison cell with tattered clothing. From what he could tell he was taken as a human and dipped into a FEV tank and mutated into a super mutant. While he was in the cell which was outfitted as quarter. The mutants invitingly activated the prison’s security system. Ahab having only a photo in his pocket of some humans whom he assumed was a group he was apart of. Assuming that he was the only survivor and seeing the dead mutants being dragged away to presumably be burnt and dispose of. For the next six years he was treated as a prisoner. His only solace was a friendly Mr.Handy named Herman. Herman gave Ahab books to read and even read to him. The robot giving the super mutant the name of “Ahab” form the mutant’s favorite book “Moby Dick”. Herman being different form the other robots was Ahab’s only friend and helped him with the mutant’s escape plan. Being given items for his escape he built make shift explosives hiding them form the robots as best he could.
On the day of his prison escape he set off the explosion and was desperately asking Herman to join him. However the robot could not leave as he did not want to be dismantled by the others for helping Ahab escape. Saddened by wanting to leave he escaped the prison in the dead of night taking a small but dense paperback copy of Moby Dick. For the next couple of years he explored the land making caps in the local towns that would accept him and let him work. Working by fixing things and helping build structures among other tasks. During this time he befriended two feral dogs naming one Ishmael and the other Queequeg. The two dogs were his companions and when Ishmael was killed during a fight against raiders he was heartbroken and angry. Killing the raiders by tearing them apart with his bare hands. Queequeg lived until dying of old age which Ahab was also sadden but glad the dog was given a full life. Now alone again he kept traveling east coast making a sort of home base in a abandoned house. Exploring to gather material, gain some caps and trying to figure out who he was and what his past was.
- Survival Characteristics -
{Non-Combat Skills}
Repairing/Tinkering: Ahab is skilled in fixing objects and also creating strange objects. This objects he sells on the side as “Art”. He uses his skills as well to fix whatever someone needs help with. He also loves working on small parts and how they work. As well as having a passion of working on cars and vehicles.
Gardening: Ahab as well loves gardening and planting crops. Using this to make his own food which he cooks thanks to a old cookbook he found.
{Possessions}
The photo of three humans.
Small hand held radio
5x Purified water
A small tool box
{Combat Skills}
Throwing: Ahab is skilled in throwing his harpoons and makeshift harpoons. He can also throw heavier objects like ruined cars among other things.
Long range aiming: Ahab knows how to shoot his harpoon gun that he could shoot a good few feet. He has his assault rife as a back up and is skilled with using that.
Hand to hand combat: Thanks to being a super mutant. He is strong enough to go toe to toe with a yao guai and come out with only few bruises.
Melee weapons: on top of hand to hand combat he has good amount t of knowledge on using his harpoons like spears or as a stabbing weapon.
{Gear}
Prison overalls
Duster jacket
Assault rifle
147x 5.56 mm round
Harpoon gun
30x harpoons
darkwolf687
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3 mos ago
Red still dibsed by anyone or?
darkwolf687
Member
Seen
3 mos ago
Servius Curius Proculus
{ "Let us offer prayers to Mars for victory. And then let us arm ourselves to the teeth, just in case the gods aren't listening." }
- General Characteristics -
| Full Name |
Servius Curius Proculus
| Nickname/Callsign |
Agnomen: Vespillo
| Age |
33.
| Gender|
Male
| {Face Claim} |
Who are you using to portray your character?
| {Dialogue Color} |
Red
| Appearance |
A short and stout man with a powerfully built body covered in a thin layer of fat. His face is clean shaven and his golden hair is cut short. He has a prominent nose, keen grey eyes and a sharp angular chin. At his side hangs his gladius and 12.7 mm Sub Machine Gun, surprisingly well maintained despite his long trek across the continent. His armour is still constructed in the style of Caesars Legion, but much scavenged pieces of armour has been added to it over his time both with the legion and after it; metal plates have replaced the padding, hammered into shape with some difficulty. Part of a suit of brotherhood power armour has been scavenged, and he wears the pauldrons of one and the forearm of one on his left wrist.
- Psychological Profile -
| {Personality} |
{ "Domitus, he lied to us and made us into monsters. Perhaps he was right that the world needs monsters to protect people- but the monsters should have someone better than them holding their chain, keeping everything together. That why we have to do this." }
Service to the legion doesn't do well for ones personality and social skills. Being raised in it even less so. The boy grew to be diligent and brave, pushing through fear and pain like it was nothing as his physical and emotional scars hardened. Trust doesn't come easy, archaic beliefs are hard to weed out and morality is effectively whatever the superior officer says. It has left him with a confused and schizophrenic moral code, zigzagging across the spectrum.
For a time he was a model legionary, and he filled that role well; his bravery is noteworthy, having performed such zealous feats as fighting a deathclaw to rescue the contubernia's Vexillarius, barely escaping with their lives. His loyalty to those he considers his friends and brothers is unshakeable, and he frequently put his life at risk to save those of others - both legionary and dissolute - when another legionary might have left them for dead.
He ultimately just wants to do what's 'best for humanity', but that isn't always so clear and certainly doesn't make him easy to be around; the authoritarian viewpoint of Caesar's Legion still flows through his thinking there, and what is best for humanity is rarely pretty for individuals. Perhaps you can't make something without bashing some heads in; if so, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. The law must be sacrosanct and enforced harshly; crucifixion, decapitation and sacking are all legitimate tools of the law and he is absolutely merciless and unforgiving when dealing with his enemies. Still, he isn't personally sadistic; violence and brutality are tools used for the greater good, not personal pleasure - and some things can't ever be justified.
The legion falling apart naturally shook him deeply; already growing increasingly disillusioned, the failure of Caesar to build a state that survived his death drove the final nail in the coffin of the ideological attachment to Caesars way. Clearly, what Caesar had worked on some level - but it couldn't survive his death and couldn't ensure long term stability. It needed to be replaced.
Despite all that he has been through and seen, and despite his service in the legion, he is not particularly cold in conversation. While certainly awkward, he is curious and although somewhat guarded, willing to engage with others even if he is always somewhat paranoid of their true intentions. Often times he is surprisingly charitable and amicable even to strangers, a rare trait for someone who was raised in such a tight knit 'us vs them' group mentality. It is partly a pragmatic concern but also partly a moral one; he holds quite fervently to an ideal that was drilled into him from an earlier age; cooperation and aspiration to the higher purpose of putting the group - and by extension others - before oneself. He was more than willing to shoulder additional burdens himself rather than allow them to fall to his underlings, offering them the use of medical supplies and food before himself whenever such had become a concern. Such an ideal drives him to swiftly put aside any personal animosity or desires when it comes to working within the unit; his opinions become relevant only so far as they are useful to the group.
He was also deceptively intelligent with an excellent memory and sound logical ability - uneducated in many areas, certainly, but very intelligent all the same. Quick to learn and possessed of a thirst for knowledge, the only thing that would drive the zealous Servius to break the rules of the legion was his pursuit of knowledge - and such a rule was paramount in the legion. To paraphrase the words of the philosophers of old, the legion was his ally - but truth is a better one. Conversing with slaves, prisoners and even dissolute allowed Servius to slowly educate himself on the world.
To his mind, the Pariah having contacted Servius gave him the potential to fix everything that went wrong. To do his duty; whether its from what he finds in Necropolis or from whatever payment the Pariah will give, that is how he is going to stop the war. Perhaps a pretty jarring indication that after all this time he still thinks he 'lives to serve the greater good', itself a sign that he can't fully detach himself from his roots. What else is there if the legion is gone forever?
For a time he was a model legionary, and he filled that role well; his bravery is noteworthy, having performed such zealous feats as fighting a deathclaw to rescue the contubernia's Vexillarius, barely escaping with their lives. His loyalty to those he considers his friends and brothers is unshakeable, and he frequently put his life at risk to save those of others - both legionary and dissolute - when another legionary might have left them for dead.
He ultimately just wants to do what's 'best for humanity', but that isn't always so clear and certainly doesn't make him easy to be around; the authoritarian viewpoint of Caesar's Legion still flows through his thinking there, and what is best for humanity is rarely pretty for individuals. Perhaps you can't make something without bashing some heads in; if so, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. The law must be sacrosanct and enforced harshly; crucifixion, decapitation and sacking are all legitimate tools of the law and he is absolutely merciless and unforgiving when dealing with his enemies. Still, he isn't personally sadistic; violence and brutality are tools used for the greater good, not personal pleasure - and some things can't ever be justified.
The legion falling apart naturally shook him deeply; already growing increasingly disillusioned, the failure of Caesar to build a state that survived his death drove the final nail in the coffin of the ideological attachment to Caesars way. Clearly, what Caesar had worked on some level - but it couldn't survive his death and couldn't ensure long term stability. It needed to be replaced.
Despite all that he has been through and seen, and despite his service in the legion, he is not particularly cold in conversation. While certainly awkward, he is curious and although somewhat guarded, willing to engage with others even if he is always somewhat paranoid of their true intentions. Often times he is surprisingly charitable and amicable even to strangers, a rare trait for someone who was raised in such a tight knit 'us vs them' group mentality. It is partly a pragmatic concern but also partly a moral one; he holds quite fervently to an ideal that was drilled into him from an earlier age; cooperation and aspiration to the higher purpose of putting the group - and by extension others - before oneself. He was more than willing to shoulder additional burdens himself rather than allow them to fall to his underlings, offering them the use of medical supplies and food before himself whenever such had become a concern. Such an ideal drives him to swiftly put aside any personal animosity or desires when it comes to working within the unit; his opinions become relevant only so far as they are useful to the group.
He was also deceptively intelligent with an excellent memory and sound logical ability - uneducated in many areas, certainly, but very intelligent all the same. Quick to learn and possessed of a thirst for knowledge, the only thing that would drive the zealous Servius to break the rules of the legion was his pursuit of knowledge - and such a rule was paramount in the legion. To paraphrase the words of the philosophers of old, the legion was his ally - but truth is a better one. Conversing with slaves, prisoners and even dissolute allowed Servius to slowly educate himself on the world.
To his mind, the Pariah having contacted Servius gave him the potential to fix everything that went wrong. To do his duty; whether its from what he finds in Necropolis or from whatever payment the Pariah will give, that is how he is going to stop the war. Perhaps a pretty jarring indication that after all this time he still thinks he 'lives to serve the greater good', itself a sign that he can't fully detach himself from his roots. What else is there if the legion is gone forever?
| {Fears/Limitations} |
Failure: As ever for a legionary, his biggest fear is failing. Death itself is less of a fearful thing than failure, and since doing something well is now all he has left perhaps this has only become more prevalent in his mind rather than less so. He was raised only to be the best fighter and warrior he could be, and without that he's not left with much purpose.
Trust: After years of abuse in a life built on a lie, its no wonder he doesn't really come to trust other people so easily. The only allies he thought he had all started killing each and the world went crazy, it is hard to blame him for thinking that people are inherently deceptive and dangerous creatures.
Is there anything left to save?: Even a zealots devotion is not limitless. With his hopes for reforming the Legion lands dashed, and the legion tearing itself apart in civil war, undoing all the order and stability... It can be hard to see the point of fighting. And that niggling thought in his head is that maybe he lied to himself about why he came. Did he really do it to take the payment back and hire mercenaries? Or did he just want to run away, and this gave him as good an excuse as any? The question eats away his confidence and sense of purpose slowly... And without that, what is he left with?
Trust: After years of abuse in a life built on a lie, its no wonder he doesn't really come to trust other people so easily. The only allies he thought he had all started killing each and the world went crazy, it is hard to blame him for thinking that people are inherently deceptive and dangerous creatures.
Is there anything left to save?: Even a zealots devotion is not limitless. With his hopes for reforming the Legion lands dashed, and the legion tearing itself apart in civil war, undoing all the order and stability... It can be hard to see the point of fighting. And that niggling thought in his head is that maybe he lied to himself about why he came. Did he really do it to take the payment back and hire mercenaries? Or did he just want to run away, and this gave him as good an excuse as any? The question eats away his confidence and sense of purpose slowly... And without that, what is he left with?
| Place of Origin |
Flagstaff, Caesar's Legion Territory (Born Legionary)
| Background |
{ "Actus me invito factus non est meus actus. " }
{ "A Decanus is responsible for what is done by his contubernia. You will adhere to my standards. So I'll have none of this; We are Legionaries, not tribal raiders hammering down on townsfolk. We will act the part." }
{ "No. Even if we won absolutely and every tribe that was once part of the legion was it again- I will not be the leader of it. I shouldn't be. Neither should you. We cannot risk someone becoming the new Caesar or Lanius. If I did- I might take that power with the desire to good - but it'd twist me as much as it must have twisted him. No one man should hold absolute power, be the centre of everything. That thinking has led us here." }
"Mater!" The little boy cried out as the legionary kept a third grasp on his hand "I don't want to go away!"
"Be brave, Servius. This is what you were born to do." His mother said to him, giving him a rare smile. Why was she smiling? Was this a good thing? She had said he would go to the legion. But now it was here...
"Mater, mater! Please Mater." The seven year old begged through tears.
"Stop it. I taught you not to cry." His mother said in a sterner tone. She had. She'd told him never to cry. It was weak. He wasn't allowed to be weak. Yet right now, he could see tears welling in his mothers eyes too. He was confused. So confused.
"Mater..." He gasped.
"Stop it!" His mother said again, her tone more severe. And with a sniff, Servius fell silent and nodded.
"Come on, Marcus, move him quickly. Vale, Aelia." Servius was pulled away by the two legionaries again, lut through the door and onto the street in spite of his pleas.
"Be brave, Servius. This is what you were born to do." His mother said to him, giving him a rare smile. Why was she smiling? Was this a good thing? She had said he would go to the legion. But now it was here...
"Mater, mater! Please Mater." The seven year old begged through tears.
"Stop it. I taught you not to cry." His mother said in a sterner tone. She had. She'd told him never to cry. It was weak. He wasn't allowed to be weak. Yet right now, he could see tears welling in his mothers eyes too. He was confused. So confused.
"Mater..." He gasped.
"Stop it!" His mother said again, her tone more severe. And with a sniff, Servius fell silent and nodded.
"Come on, Marcus, move him quickly. Vale, Aelia." Servius was pulled away by the two legionaries again, lut through the door and onto the street in spite of his pleas.
Servius fiddled with the device in his lap, eyes narrowing as he tried to get it to work. He grunted in frustration as he hit the button on it - the tray burst open, revealing a chunk of orange plastic within. Servius' eyes widened and he recoiled in worry. Had he broken it?
"Bring it here." A voice came from his side. It was soft and feminine. Servius turned cautiously to see a slave girl sitting by the fire. She must have been just past twenty, messy black hair and slate gray eyes. She smiled at him weakly but warmly - Servius inched closer to her cautiously, then offered the machine to her. She pushed the tray back down and pointed to one of the buttons atop the device. "You want it to play, yeah? Here, it's this one."
There was a whirl of machinery before the holotape began to play; beautiful music rang forth from within the device, a woman singing in some language he couldn't understand. It sounded to be some bastard tribal language perhaps, but the composition and power with which it was delivered was beyond any tribal . It was powerful and beautiful.
"Its beautiful." Servius said, half to himself, with a smile growing across his lips. The Slave nodded
"Mozart's Magic Flute: The Queen of the Night Aria." She replied as she listened to it with him "The Queen is--she's furious. She wants Serasto, her rival, killed and puts her daughter up to it."
"Not quite so beautiful, perhaps."
"No, indeed. What's your name? And where did you get this?"
"Servius. The Instructor took us out alongside the Third Contubernia to give us some proper experience. We came upon the raiders to the North East and killed them. I found this tucked away with their loot."
"How... Old are you?" The Slave asked as she examined the boy curiously.
"13." Servius responded idly, still focused primarily on the music flowing from the device in his hands.
"Did you kill one?" The girls voice darkened. Servius looked up the her for a moment and nodded. "At thirteen?"
"She was a profligate who needed to die- and she was a women. Women are weak warriors. I had no trouble." Servius responded simply. The words were half forced out, in truth, to hide the tremor in his voice- he wasn't sure how he had felt when his blade and buried itself in her neck, when the horrible gurgling sound of the woman choking on her own blood filled the air. But- she would have shot Tullius. He had to do it. He had to.
"Weak warriors?" The slave replied with a cocked brow, then let out a sigh and shook her head.
"Yeah. They're stupid too." Servius murmured half heartedly as he listened to the music reach its peak, awed by it.
"Then how come you needed a woman to make your little toy there work?" Servius looked to the woman beside him as she gave him an accusatory look, but then he looked down to the device. He didn't really have an answer and wasn't about to make himself look foolish by presenting one, so deflected away instead.
"So who are you?"
"Me? I'm Erika. I'm -" The woman began to reply to him, but was cut off.
"Proculus! What are you doing with that slave?" The Instructors gruff voice came echoing towards him. Servius dashed to his feet and stopped the music playing with a click, sliding the device away into his pocket.
"Nothing, instructor."
"Ita? Then make yourself busy. You're not a legionary yet."
"Bring it here." A voice came from his side. It was soft and feminine. Servius turned cautiously to see a slave girl sitting by the fire. She must have been just past twenty, messy black hair and slate gray eyes. She smiled at him weakly but warmly - Servius inched closer to her cautiously, then offered the machine to her. She pushed the tray back down and pointed to one of the buttons atop the device. "You want it to play, yeah? Here, it's this one."
There was a whirl of machinery before the holotape began to play; beautiful music rang forth from within the device, a woman singing in some language he couldn't understand. It sounded to be some bastard tribal language perhaps, but the composition and power with which it was delivered was beyond any tribal . It was powerful and beautiful.
"Its beautiful." Servius said, half to himself, with a smile growing across his lips. The Slave nodded
"Mozart's Magic Flute: The Queen of the Night Aria." She replied as she listened to it with him "The Queen is--she's furious. She wants Serasto, her rival, killed and puts her daughter up to it."
"Not quite so beautiful, perhaps."
"No, indeed. What's your name? And where did you get this?"
"Servius. The Instructor took us out alongside the Third Contubernia to give us some proper experience. We came upon the raiders to the North East and killed them. I found this tucked away with their loot."
"How... Old are you?" The Slave asked as she examined the boy curiously.
"13." Servius responded idly, still focused primarily on the music flowing from the device in his hands.
"Did you kill one?" The girls voice darkened. Servius looked up the her for a moment and nodded. "At thirteen?"
"She was a profligate who needed to die- and she was a women. Women are weak warriors. I had no trouble." Servius responded simply. The words were half forced out, in truth, to hide the tremor in his voice- he wasn't sure how he had felt when his blade and buried itself in her neck, when the horrible gurgling sound of the woman choking on her own blood filled the air. But- she would have shot Tullius. He had to do it. He had to.
"Weak warriors?" The slave replied with a cocked brow, then let out a sigh and shook her head.
"Yeah. They're stupid too." Servius murmured half heartedly as he listened to the music reach its peak, awed by it.
"Then how come you needed a woman to make your little toy there work?" Servius looked to the woman beside him as she gave him an accusatory look, but then he looked down to the device. He didn't really have an answer and wasn't about to make himself look foolish by presenting one, so deflected away instead.
"So who are you?"
"Me? I'm Erika. I'm -" The woman began to reply to him, but was cut off.
"Proculus! What are you doing with that slave?" The Instructors gruff voice came echoing towards him. Servius dashed to his feet and stopped the music playing with a click, sliding the device away into his pocket.
"Nothing, instructor."
"Ita? Then make yourself busy. You're not a legionary yet."
The boys muscles ached as he scrambled to his feet from the dirt. He raised his head to look up, the rain washed over the 13 year old face, freezing his shivering skin cold. The figure which stood over him was a hulking monster of a man, a former veteran legionary turned instructor. Servius had snuck some of his own food to a slave girl after having been forbidden to do so. This was the price.
He felt another sharp stab of pain as the instructor struck him again, sending him back down to the floor. Again, he pulled himself up from the mud.
"Disobey my order again, and I'll have you strapped to a cross." The instructor barked at him, shoving him back into the dirt and launching a kick into the boys side.
Everything hurt. His entire body bruised and battered. And after that kick- it hurt to breath, a horrible, stabbing awful pain. He couldn't summon the will to stand again.
That made it worse. The instructor kicked him again, this time in the gut. He kicked and kicked and kicked - each blow caused the pain to flare up. When Servius finally forced himself to his feet to escape it, the Instructor finally relented in his attacks.
Servius laughed now, thinking back to it. It had hurt to breath for weeks after--the daily exercise had become a quagmire of pain and misery, and he would have swore it the worst pain possible at the time. How little he had known!
He felt another sharp stab of pain as the instructor struck him again, sending him back down to the floor. Again, he pulled himself up from the mud.
"Disobey my order again, and I'll have you strapped to a cross." The instructor barked at him, shoving him back into the dirt and launching a kick into the boys side.
Everything hurt. His entire body bruised and battered. And after that kick- it hurt to breath, a horrible, stabbing awful pain. He couldn't summon the will to stand again.
That made it worse. The instructor kicked him again, this time in the gut. He kicked and kicked and kicked - each blow caused the pain to flare up. When Servius finally forced himself to his feet to escape it, the Instructor finally relented in his attacks.
Servius laughed now, thinking back to it. It had hurt to breath for weeks after--the daily exercise had become a quagmire of pain and misery, and he would have swore it the worst pain possible at the time. How little he had known!
Servius landed on the hard, dusty ground of the tent with a thud. He spat out blood onto the floor and started to push himself up - only to collapse in pain again as a foot smashed into his side.
"Legionaries! What is the meaning of this!" A gruffer voice called out, and Servius heard the feet around him rush into formation. Decanus Brutus Aurelius. His Contubernia's Decanus. He wasn't anything like Tullius was, Brutus was a monster. Plain and simple. The rumours which went around about him told Servius enough, and Servius had taken precaution to never be alone with the man before.
"Servius cost us again, Decanus!" Varus spat, kicking the 14 year old Servius in the gut again. "Decanus Aetius saw him talking to that slave girl again. He cut our rations for the week!"
There was a few moments of silence, and he heard heavy footsteps coming towards him. He bought his gaze up slightly to see the Decanii's boots stomping towards him.
"Varus, Albus; fetch her. Bring her here." Decanus Brutus ordered, and the two recruit legionaries scurried off. Servius dared to look up to Brutus, and could see the darkness in his eyes. "You want the slave girls, Servius? You have to earn them."
"Decanus-" Servius began, only to be cut off by a fist to the face, sending him sprawling onto his back. He quickly rolled over and brought himself up to his knees again.
"Speak only when spoken to, degenerate." Brutus snarled. Servius spat out blood again and looked to his brothers in arms; The other recruits of the contubernia were conflicted and one went to leave, only for Brutus hard grip to stop him.
"You're going no where, Paulus. You won't want to." As he said that, Varus and Aetius dragged Erika into the tent, black hair falling over her face as she breathed heavily, glancing up to them all defiantly - then looking to Servius with confusion and concern; the two had spoken very frequently, and Servius bad learnt much from her. In exchange, he snuck her food and protected her as best a lowly recruit could from the worst the legionaries had to give.
"Its a simple choice Servius. You take her. Or I take you." Brutus chuckled darkly after saying that, although if were somehow funny. Servius heart skipped a beat as he heard that, leaping up into his throat and his gut twisting. He shook his head repeatedly, involuntarily. Take? Did he mean? He couldn't. Servius looked towards the slave girl in shock; Erika's eyes widened with horror and she struggled with her captors, but was quickly subdued again. "She is a pretty one, and strong too. I may as well be rewarding you with this..."
He did mean...
Servius remained motionless and silent for a few seconds, only breathing heavily as he stared on in shock and terror. Finally, he twisted his head and spat out the blood that was welling in his mouth again and looked up to Brutus defiantly
"I'm not touching her." He forced the words out of his mouth. It took all the courage and strength in his being to even speak, and the words came out weaker and shakier than he had intended. Brutus glared at him and spat in the recruits face, before giving him a sudden kick and sending him splaying back onto the ground again. He started to turn over but another kick sent him down into the ground.
"Legionarii, take the slave out. Lash her to a cross. Me and Servius are going to have some fun." And with that, Brutus laughed.
He laughed.
---
Brutus forced him out of the tent; blood was running from Servius mouth and ever step sent pain shooting through his body. He moaned and groaned, but in truth he barely comprehended what was happening. He was scared and confused, and wished Brutus had simply killed him and been done with it.
He could barely see through his teary vision, but he could make out the figure of other legionaries looking his way. He lowered his head in shame, biting his lip hard to prevent himself sobbing.
But then his head was jarred back by Brutus to look up at Erika in the cross, causing a wave of pain to shoot through his body. She looked to have been badly beaten, she'd clearly tried to put up a fight before being subdued.
"She won't last more than a few days... It will be slow, agonosing..." Brutus hissed quietly in his ear. Servius tried to look down again, but Brutus grip was like that of a vice. "Do it to her... And I'll let her live."
"Legionaries! What is the meaning of this!" A gruffer voice called out, and Servius heard the feet around him rush into formation. Decanus Brutus Aurelius. His Contubernia's Decanus. He wasn't anything like Tullius was, Brutus was a monster. Plain and simple. The rumours which went around about him told Servius enough, and Servius had taken precaution to never be alone with the man before.
"Servius cost us again, Decanus!" Varus spat, kicking the 14 year old Servius in the gut again. "Decanus Aetius saw him talking to that slave girl again. He cut our rations for the week!"
There was a few moments of silence, and he heard heavy footsteps coming towards him. He bought his gaze up slightly to see the Decanii's boots stomping towards him.
"Varus, Albus; fetch her. Bring her here." Decanus Brutus ordered, and the two recruit legionaries scurried off. Servius dared to look up to Brutus, and could see the darkness in his eyes. "You want the slave girls, Servius? You have to earn them."
"Decanus-" Servius began, only to be cut off by a fist to the face, sending him sprawling onto his back. He quickly rolled over and brought himself up to his knees again.
"Speak only when spoken to, degenerate." Brutus snarled. Servius spat out blood again and looked to his brothers in arms; The other recruits of the contubernia were conflicted and one went to leave, only for Brutus hard grip to stop him.
"You're going no where, Paulus. You won't want to." As he said that, Varus and Aetius dragged Erika into the tent, black hair falling over her face as she breathed heavily, glancing up to them all defiantly - then looking to Servius with confusion and concern; the two had spoken very frequently, and Servius bad learnt much from her. In exchange, he snuck her food and protected her as best a lowly recruit could from the worst the legionaries had to give.
"Its a simple choice Servius. You take her. Or I take you." Brutus chuckled darkly after saying that, although if were somehow funny. Servius heart skipped a beat as he heard that, leaping up into his throat and his gut twisting. He shook his head repeatedly, involuntarily. Take? Did he mean? He couldn't. Servius looked towards the slave girl in shock; Erika's eyes widened with horror and she struggled with her captors, but was quickly subdued again. "She is a pretty one, and strong too. I may as well be rewarding you with this..."
He did mean...
Servius remained motionless and silent for a few seconds, only breathing heavily as he stared on in shock and terror. Finally, he twisted his head and spat out the blood that was welling in his mouth again and looked up to Brutus defiantly
"I'm not touching her." He forced the words out of his mouth. It took all the courage and strength in his being to even speak, and the words came out weaker and shakier than he had intended. Brutus glared at him and spat in the recruits face, before giving him a sudden kick and sending him splaying back onto the ground again. He started to turn over but another kick sent him down into the ground.
"Legionarii, take the slave out. Lash her to a cross. Me and Servius are going to have some fun." And with that, Brutus laughed.
He laughed.
---
Brutus forced him out of the tent; blood was running from Servius mouth and ever step sent pain shooting through his body. He moaned and groaned, but in truth he barely comprehended what was happening. He was scared and confused, and wished Brutus had simply killed him and been done with it.
He could barely see through his teary vision, but he could make out the figure of other legionaries looking his way. He lowered his head in shame, biting his lip hard to prevent himself sobbing.
But then his head was jarred back by Brutus to look up at Erika in the cross, causing a wave of pain to shoot through his body. She looked to have been badly beaten, she'd clearly tried to put up a fight before being subdued.
"She won't last more than a few days... It will be slow, agonosing..." Brutus hissed quietly in his ear. Servius tried to look down again, but Brutus grip was like that of a vice. "Do it to her... And I'll let her live."
Servius felt a sudden force jerk him up to his feet, back into reality. He looked towards the angry face of Instructor Tullius
"I said, on your feet legionary! Are you going deaf on me, boy?!" Tullius screamed at him. Servius stared back for a moment and then burst out a whimpering sob.
"Minime - poenitet me -" Servius began, shaking his head to dispel his intrusive thoughts and biting down onto his lip, fighting back his tears.
"Stop babbling! You're not a child anymore. Children cry, not men! Not legionaries!" Tullius pulled Servius off to the side, dragging him behind the tents and the boy flinched, expecting to be brutalised for his weakness. But instead, his instructors voice lowered to a quiet and calm one, almost reassuring. He felt the instructors hand touch one of his many bruises and winced in pain. "Proculus- by Mars, what happened?"
Servius looked up towards his instructor, partly in confusion and partly grateful. He opened his mouth to speak but then shut it again; would Tullius even believe it? And even if he did, would he mock him for being weak? Tell everyone? Punish him for it?
And then if Tullius learnt that-
He pushed that out of his head as quickly as he could. And this was nothing. He was being weak. He was always weak and pathetic.
Servius shook his head violently, sniffing ans putting on a stoney poker face once again, as best he could "Mi- Minime, Instructor. Nothing. I'm fine. It just... Something has gotten into my eye. Hard training."
"I said, on your feet legionary! Are you going deaf on me, boy?!" Tullius screamed at him. Servius stared back for a moment and then burst out a whimpering sob.
"Minime - poenitet me -" Servius began, shaking his head to dispel his intrusive thoughts and biting down onto his lip, fighting back his tears.
"Stop babbling! You're not a child anymore. Children cry, not men! Not legionaries!" Tullius pulled Servius off to the side, dragging him behind the tents and the boy flinched, expecting to be brutalised for his weakness. But instead, his instructors voice lowered to a quiet and calm one, almost reassuring. He felt the instructors hand touch one of his many bruises and winced in pain. "Proculus- by Mars, what happened?"
Servius looked up towards his instructor, partly in confusion and partly grateful. He opened his mouth to speak but then shut it again; would Tullius even believe it? And even if he did, would he mock him for being weak? Tell everyone? Punish him for it?
And then if Tullius learnt that-
He pushed that out of his head as quickly as he could. And this was nothing. He was being weak. He was always weak and pathetic.
Servius shook his head violently, sniffing ans putting on a stoney poker face once again, as best he could "Mi- Minime, Instructor. Nothing. I'm fine. It just... Something has gotten into my eye. Hard training."
"Retribution!" Servius cried as he leapt up atop the wooden cart of the barricade, blade in hand - his eyes widened as he saw the rifle pointed towards him. These tribesmen weren't supposed to have guns -
His shoulder exploded into pain and the world went black as he fell off the barricade and into the dirt, rolling down the slope. Each moment felt like a lifetime, each breath was agony. And then he saw a light, and through the light a towering figure clad in golden armour. Ivory pillars arose all around them, and row after row of legionaries clad in shining armour stood behind this figure.
"Mars..." Servius murmured, gasping for breath. He reached a hand up towards the god of war, but Mars shook his head and pointed down towards him. Suddenly, with the sensation of falling, Servius was ripped away and back into the blackness, crying in confusion - but then he awoke. He turned his head slowly, in intense pain, to see some of his contubernia cowering behind the nearby rocks, under fire from the tribesmen who were now nearer to him, their backs to him.
Servius grunted and rolled over, pushing himself up to his knee and then stumbling to his feet. He looked towards the backs of the nearby tribesmen and gripped his machete tight. He stumbled a step forwards, and then broke into a run, screaming at the top of his lungs even though each word was agony
"Come with me, Amicii, for I cannot die! They tried to shoot me then but it did not do it!" He screamed as he hacked the machete into the neck of the tribesmen in front of him, yanking it out and splattering blood over the ground and rocks with a roar. The next one turned to face him, and Servius instantly recognised the young man who had shot him. The tribal dropped his rifle to the floor in sheer terror of the seemingly resurrected man, who came at him then before the third tribesmen could intervene. Yet even in this panic, the tribal swung up his leg and kicked Servius machete out of his hand, sending it flying into the distance...
The two through punches back and forth, Servius trying desperately to take down the man but being easily fended off with his only one good arm. Realising what was going on, Servius instead moved to draw out the fight and keep the man between him and the other tribals so they could not safely shoot him.
"Come Amicii! Retribution!" Another voice cried, with the remnants of Servius' contubernia closing to close combat quickly and fighting with the other tribals in the chaos.
After that battle, the Medicus has seen to his wound. He decreed it a miracle that Servius had survived, let alone stood up to keep fighting. From that day onwards, other Legionaries dubbed him with the agnomen "Vespillo".
That very night, the Prime Decanus had come to him and given him a new set of armour. No longer was he a Recruit.
His shoulder exploded into pain and the world went black as he fell off the barricade and into the dirt, rolling down the slope. Each moment felt like a lifetime, each breath was agony. And then he saw a light, and through the light a towering figure clad in golden armour. Ivory pillars arose all around them, and row after row of legionaries clad in shining armour stood behind this figure.
"Mars..." Servius murmured, gasping for breath. He reached a hand up towards the god of war, but Mars shook his head and pointed down towards him. Suddenly, with the sensation of falling, Servius was ripped away and back into the blackness, crying in confusion - but then he awoke. He turned his head slowly, in intense pain, to see some of his contubernia cowering behind the nearby rocks, under fire from the tribesmen who were now nearer to him, their backs to him.
Servius grunted and rolled over, pushing himself up to his knee and then stumbling to his feet. He looked towards the backs of the nearby tribesmen and gripped his machete tight. He stumbled a step forwards, and then broke into a run, screaming at the top of his lungs even though each word was agony
"Come with me, Amicii, for I cannot die! They tried to shoot me then but it did not do it!" He screamed as he hacked the machete into the neck of the tribesmen in front of him, yanking it out and splattering blood over the ground and rocks with a roar. The next one turned to face him, and Servius instantly recognised the young man who had shot him. The tribal dropped his rifle to the floor in sheer terror of the seemingly resurrected man, who came at him then before the third tribesmen could intervene. Yet even in this panic, the tribal swung up his leg and kicked Servius machete out of his hand, sending it flying into the distance...
The two through punches back and forth, Servius trying desperately to take down the man but being easily fended off with his only one good arm. Realising what was going on, Servius instead moved to draw out the fight and keep the man between him and the other tribals so they could not safely shoot him.
"Come Amicii! Retribution!" Another voice cried, with the remnants of Servius' contubernia closing to close combat quickly and fighting with the other tribals in the chaos.
After that battle, the Medicus has seen to his wound. He decreed it a miracle that Servius had survived, let alone stood up to keep fighting. From that day onwards, other Legionaries dubbed him with the agnomen "Vespillo".
That very night, the Prime Decanus had come to him and given him a new set of armour. No longer was he a Recruit.
Servius kept his 9mm SMG tight in his right hand, his left hand grasping the blade of his sword. He looked down the roe of legionaries beside him, then across to the others on the far side. He nodded to them and edged closer to the side of the rock, peering down into the road below.
There were perhaps two dozen of them, wearing leather armour and carrying a variety of weapons; smgs, a few combat rifles, a hunting rifle and even a laser pistol. Some seemed to be swaggering along, slightly drunk.
Fury welled within him and his blood ran hot. He brought his SMG to bare and nodded again. It was time to avenge Tullius, and all the other legionaries they had killed; It was time to wipe out these mercenaries once and for all.
"Retribution!" He cried out as the legionaries opened fire on the surprised men below. Many fell in the first volley, and as expected they began to flee towards the cover of the rocks behind them - where they were set upon by the other group of legionaries.
"Glory to the first man to die! Charge!" Servius cried out, quickly reloading his SMG as he clamoured to his feet and charged down the ridge, spraying one of the distracted soldiers down with his smg and slashing into the throat of another while he tried to unjam his weapon, spraying crimson blood over Servius' uniform.
It was a massacre. Having been taken off guard and suffering heavy casualties, the dragons broke ranks. Many tried to flee away, but few made it.
In the thick of the fighting, Servius sighted their leader attempting to climb up the ridge and rush away. Breaking through the fighting surrounding him, he gave speedy pursuit and before long had caught up to the man, tackling him to the ground.
The dragon tried to roll over to fight back, but Servius used his weight to pin the man down and with a swing of his blade hamstrung him.
Before long the battle was over, and Servius dragged the leader of the Dragons out in front of the rest of the legionaries. They let out a cheer, and Servius raised his arm into the air, bringing his blade down and chopping through the mans neck.
There were perhaps two dozen of them, wearing leather armour and carrying a variety of weapons; smgs, a few combat rifles, a hunting rifle and even a laser pistol. Some seemed to be swaggering along, slightly drunk.
Fury welled within him and his blood ran hot. He brought his SMG to bare and nodded again. It was time to avenge Tullius, and all the other legionaries they had killed; It was time to wipe out these mercenaries once and for all.
"Retribution!" He cried out as the legionaries opened fire on the surprised men below. Many fell in the first volley, and as expected they began to flee towards the cover of the rocks behind them - where they were set upon by the other group of legionaries.
"Glory to the first man to die! Charge!" Servius cried out, quickly reloading his SMG as he clamoured to his feet and charged down the ridge, spraying one of the distracted soldiers down with his smg and slashing into the throat of another while he tried to unjam his weapon, spraying crimson blood over Servius' uniform.
It was a massacre. Having been taken off guard and suffering heavy casualties, the dragons broke ranks. Many tried to flee away, but few made it.
In the thick of the fighting, Servius sighted their leader attempting to climb up the ridge and rush away. Breaking through the fighting surrounding him, he gave speedy pursuit and before long had caught up to the man, tackling him to the ground.
The dragon tried to roll over to fight back, but Servius used his weight to pin the man down and with a swing of his blade hamstrung him.
Before long the battle was over, and Servius dragged the leader of the Dragons out in front of the rest of the legionaries. They let out a cheer, and Servius raised his arm into the air, bringing his blade down and chopping through the mans neck.
{ "A Decanus is responsible for what is done by his contubernia. You will adhere to my standards. So I'll have none of this; We are Legionaries, not tribal raiders hammering down on townsfolk. We will act the part." }
A girls scream bought Servius attention away from the recruit legionaries he was lecturing, turning towards the tents near the slave pen. A recruit legionary was dragging a teenage girl across the camp. Servius could tell what was going to happen, and he didn't like it for a moment
Servius turned his back on the recruits, motioning for them to wait a moment while he crossed the dirt of the fort towards the two, summoning a passing legionary to accompany him.
"Vipsanius, what's this?" Servius demanded.
"Spoils of war, Decanus Proculus!" Vipsanius replied with a laugh, pulling the girl closer to him. "This one is quite beautiful."
"Ita? Everything is done then, I take it? Armours repaired, blade sharpened, rifle checked? And the roads finished, Domitus doesn't need any more assistance? The watchtower?" Servius inquired as he peered at the slave girl, who kept her gaze focused on the ground. He looked back up to the recruit legionary who was looking rather exasperated.
"Both are under construction, Decanus." Vipsanius replied cautiously, shifting in place and eyeing up the Decanus.
"I see. Cassus, take this slave down to help with the construction." Servius ordered, motioning to the prime legionary beside him.
"Ita, Decanus" Cassus responded, seizing the arm of the slave girl and pulling her away from Vipsanius towards the gate. Vipsanius glared at Cassus for a moment, scowling at Servius
"Vispanius, fetch the Pontiff. I need him to preach to the new recruits." Servius ordered off handedly, waving dismissively to Vipsanius.
"Decanus I really -" Vipsanius began to object, but was quickly cut off.
"Legionaries do not question orders!" Servius bellowed at the top of his lungs, clenching his fist tightly and advancing a step towards Vipsanius, who quickly backed away
"Ita Decanus, as you will it!" Vipsanius replied quickly, scurrying off like an insect or rat before a terrifying beast. Servius grunted, watching Crassus lead the slave out the gate before heading back fowards his trainees.
He'd include Vipsanius in the patrol he was taking to Denver's Dog town tomorrow.
Servius turned his back on the recruits, motioning for them to wait a moment while he crossed the dirt of the fort towards the two, summoning a passing legionary to accompany him.
"Vipsanius, what's this?" Servius demanded.
"Spoils of war, Decanus Proculus!" Vipsanius replied with a laugh, pulling the girl closer to him. "This one is quite beautiful."
"Ita? Everything is done then, I take it? Armours repaired, blade sharpened, rifle checked? And the roads finished, Domitus doesn't need any more assistance? The watchtower?" Servius inquired as he peered at the slave girl, who kept her gaze focused on the ground. He looked back up to the recruit legionary who was looking rather exasperated.
"Both are under construction, Decanus." Vipsanius replied cautiously, shifting in place and eyeing up the Decanus.
"I see. Cassus, take this slave down to help with the construction." Servius ordered, motioning to the prime legionary beside him.
"Ita, Decanus" Cassus responded, seizing the arm of the slave girl and pulling her away from Vipsanius towards the gate. Vipsanius glared at Cassus for a moment, scowling at Servius
"Vispanius, fetch the Pontiff. I need him to preach to the new recruits." Servius ordered off handedly, waving dismissively to Vipsanius.
"Decanus I really -" Vipsanius began to object, but was quickly cut off.
"Legionaries do not question orders!" Servius bellowed at the top of his lungs, clenching his fist tightly and advancing a step towards Vipsanius, who quickly backed away
"Ita Decanus, as you will it!" Vipsanius replied quickly, scurrying off like an insect or rat before a terrifying beast. Servius grunted, watching Crassus lead the slave out the gate before heading back fowards his trainees.
He'd include Vipsanius in the patrol he was taking to Denver's Dog town tomorrow.
"What is a Roman?" Servius asked himself again as he climbed up the hill, grunting lightly as the pain that passed through his injuries struck again. The legionary walking beside him cocked a brow.
"Does it matter, Decanus?" He asked with a sigh. Legionaries didn't question their superiors - but Servius had asked this before. Several times. The question had been on his mind since the word had been said to him on the rocks beside the Fort, many miles behind them.
"It does. She said it. I've heard profligates say it- that ghoul said it. Some sort of... Civilisation. Something everyone knows but us. Riddles in the dark." Servius shook his head furiously as of to dispel the notion, starting afresh with the picking if his mind. He had asked the slaves - None of them knew. He had asked the Pontiff. He did not know. He had asked the legionaries, they did not know. He wouldn't ask the Centurion. He valued his head.
"Who are the people who said it?" The exasperated Legionary asked, but the question fell on deaf ears as Servius remained lost in his own forts, clamouring up the road as he led his Contubernia on the march.
"Roman... Roman. Like a word echoing around in my head. The tribals don't know it. The profligates I cannot ask." Servius lulled it over within his mind. Roman. The word felt like something he should know somehow, and what little he heard made them seem so foreign and yet so familiar. Had he but world enough and time...
"Why not ask the ones who said it?" The Legionary asked with a glance to him. A pause. Servius furrowed his brow and looked out over the rocks below. Were it so easy.
"Legionary, if I master the art of speaking across a hundred miles , you shall be the first to learn." He sailed with a thin smile, glancing sideways to his underling. They were silent for a few moments, letting Servius continue his thinking unimpeded before a second legionary cut in
"Why dies it weigh on you so heavily, Decanus?" The Legion asked him, causing Servius to glance back over his shoulder with a look of amusement on his face.
"Because don't you see? It means there is something about us that is 'Roman', and that these Romans shaped the world before us enough to be known even now. They left a mark." Servius looked away again. Ita, these Romans must have been a great people to be so widely remembered. That glory should belong to the legion too, to him and his men who had given so much.
"Ita, and? Another profligate government. They rise and fall like the winds of the desert. It means nothing, minime?" The Legionary meant it as a rhetorical rebuttal, but Servius shook his head and replied all the same.
"A profligate government said to have its own Caesar, its own Latin? Mars take me, don't you see? Caesar may have came before... The son of Mars, guiding humanity throughout the ages."
Servius trailed off. Such an implication would have to be run by the Pontiff--but from what he understood from the warnings of his fellow legionaries, those who looked too deeply into this question were not looked on favourably by Caesar. Far from it, much like those who mentioned the burned man they found themselves on the receiving ends of his wrath.
But then, he was marching north to death anyway. Oh, cruel, devilish fate. To dangle a question - a hundred questions - before a man's eyes and drag him away before any could be answered.
He looked westward to the setting sun, and as the beams of light from it hit his eye, the beauty of the world overcame him. Lift thine eyes, and see thy god...
His thoughts wandered over hill and dale, across river and desert and mountain. He thought about how he had marked the world, how the legion had marked the world.
The sword he had crafted by his own hand-where was it now? Did it serve its owner rightful and true? Did she grasp the hilt and remember the one who forged it?
The blade of Tullius, did it still sit atop the mountains of Colorado, impaled through the eye socket of the dragon kings skull to nail it to the earth? Would someone come across the shrine near the cairn, and wonder why the skull was left there? Find the body buried beneath?
The blade that slew Knight Girdeux, did it still sleep with her skeleton at the bottom of the lake, buried deep within her neck where it had found its mark between the plates of her power armour and caused her to fall to the black waters below? Would in a hundred years someone find it at the bottom of the lake, and wonder who could have defeated a Brotherhood Knight with just a knife?
The road he had built through Phoenix, did it stand sound and safe, used by a thousand caravans bringing wealth and glory from far off lands?
The infrastructure he had built, was it all still sound, did the lights glimmer and the water flow? Would it be so in a decade, in a century?
The tower he had built in Denver, did it stand sentinel still over the land of dogs, a watchful eye to the east? Would men look upon the bullet holes in the stonework and be awed by stories of bravery and honour?
This was the mark he had made on the world. Not indelible nor clear but significant. Something to be proud of. Though he might disappear, the memory and the legion would remain and he would always be a part of it. It truly was a sort to immorality - a purpose decided for him from the start. A gift. Enviable by others. The power of Mars had forged him, protected him and guided him.
But- for a moment, he dared to think about the lands beyond the mountains and deserts. Of the Bear and their homes, their entertainment, their excess, their families and young.
Jealousy, envy, spite, disgust, hatred... All crept into his frame.
Why were they allowed such weaknesses? Why were they allowed to rest and sleep, to dance and sing, to have families and property, to settle and live and grow old? To have that sense of permenance? Why were they so blessed, when he must march the road away from everything he built and into danger and the unknown? Away from the lands that he secured, that the legion paid for in blood and sweat- that they built with slaves and aching hand, that he bore scars for, that he lost brothers to- lands that were never to be enjoyed by himself, or his blood.
Because, they were profligates, and it brought their civilisation down atop them. But Legionaries... They were born to serve the greater good. A thankless task to be a link in the legion line, to reforge the world. And to fight on to the very end.
Roman. He would find the meaning of the word before that end; that, he swore to himself silently.
"Does it matter, Decanus?" He asked with a sigh. Legionaries didn't question their superiors - but Servius had asked this before. Several times. The question had been on his mind since the word had been said to him on the rocks beside the Fort, many miles behind them.
"It does. She said it. I've heard profligates say it- that ghoul said it. Some sort of... Civilisation. Something everyone knows but us. Riddles in the dark." Servius shook his head furiously as of to dispel the notion, starting afresh with the picking if his mind. He had asked the slaves - None of them knew. He had asked the Pontiff. He did not know. He had asked the legionaries, they did not know. He wouldn't ask the Centurion. He valued his head.
"Who are the people who said it?" The exasperated Legionary asked, but the question fell on deaf ears as Servius remained lost in his own forts, clamouring up the road as he led his Contubernia on the march.
"Roman... Roman. Like a word echoing around in my head. The tribals don't know it. The profligates I cannot ask." Servius lulled it over within his mind. Roman. The word felt like something he should know somehow, and what little he heard made them seem so foreign and yet so familiar. Had he but world enough and time...
"Why not ask the ones who said it?" The Legionary asked with a glance to him. A pause. Servius furrowed his brow and looked out over the rocks below. Were it so easy.
"Legionary, if I master the art of speaking across a hundred miles , you shall be the first to learn." He sailed with a thin smile, glancing sideways to his underling. They were silent for a few moments, letting Servius continue his thinking unimpeded before a second legionary cut in
"Why dies it weigh on you so heavily, Decanus?" The Legion asked him, causing Servius to glance back over his shoulder with a look of amusement on his face.
"Because don't you see? It means there is something about us that is 'Roman', and that these Romans shaped the world before us enough to be known even now. They left a mark." Servius looked away again. Ita, these Romans must have been a great people to be so widely remembered. That glory should belong to the legion too, to him and his men who had given so much.
"Ita, and? Another profligate government. They rise and fall like the winds of the desert. It means nothing, minime?" The Legionary meant it as a rhetorical rebuttal, but Servius shook his head and replied all the same.
"A profligate government said to have its own Caesar, its own Latin? Mars take me, don't you see? Caesar may have came before... The son of Mars, guiding humanity throughout the ages."
Servius trailed off. Such an implication would have to be run by the Pontiff--but from what he understood from the warnings of his fellow legionaries, those who looked too deeply into this question were not looked on favourably by Caesar. Far from it, much like those who mentioned the burned man they found themselves on the receiving ends of his wrath.
But then, he was marching north to death anyway. Oh, cruel, devilish fate. To dangle a question - a hundred questions - before a man's eyes and drag him away before any could be answered.
He looked westward to the setting sun, and as the beams of light from it hit his eye, the beauty of the world overcame him. Lift thine eyes, and see thy god...
His thoughts wandered over hill and dale, across river and desert and mountain. He thought about how he had marked the world, how the legion had marked the world.
The sword he had crafted by his own hand-where was it now? Did it serve its owner rightful and true? Did she grasp the hilt and remember the one who forged it?
The blade of Tullius, did it still sit atop the mountains of Colorado, impaled through the eye socket of the dragon kings skull to nail it to the earth? Would someone come across the shrine near the cairn, and wonder why the skull was left there? Find the body buried beneath?
The blade that slew Knight Girdeux, did it still sleep with her skeleton at the bottom of the lake, buried deep within her neck where it had found its mark between the plates of her power armour and caused her to fall to the black waters below? Would in a hundred years someone find it at the bottom of the lake, and wonder who could have defeated a Brotherhood Knight with just a knife?
The road he had built through Phoenix, did it stand sound and safe, used by a thousand caravans bringing wealth and glory from far off lands?
The infrastructure he had built, was it all still sound, did the lights glimmer and the water flow? Would it be so in a decade, in a century?
The tower he had built in Denver, did it stand sentinel still over the land of dogs, a watchful eye to the east? Would men look upon the bullet holes in the stonework and be awed by stories of bravery and honour?
This was the mark he had made on the world. Not indelible nor clear but significant. Something to be proud of. Though he might disappear, the memory and the legion would remain and he would always be a part of it. It truly was a sort to immorality - a purpose decided for him from the start. A gift. Enviable by others. The power of Mars had forged him, protected him and guided him.
But- for a moment, he dared to think about the lands beyond the mountains and deserts. Of the Bear and their homes, their entertainment, their excess, their families and young.
Jealousy, envy, spite, disgust, hatred... All crept into his frame.
Why were they allowed such weaknesses? Why were they allowed to rest and sleep, to dance and sing, to have families and property, to settle and live and grow old? To have that sense of permenance? Why were they so blessed, when he must march the road away from everything he built and into danger and the unknown? Away from the lands that he secured, that the legion paid for in blood and sweat- that they built with slaves and aching hand, that he bore scars for, that he lost brothers to- lands that were never to be enjoyed by himself, or his blood.
Because, they were profligates, and it brought their civilisation down atop them. But Legionaries... They were born to serve the greater good. A thankless task to be a link in the legion line, to reforge the world. And to fight on to the very end.
Roman. He would find the meaning of the word before that end; that, he swore to himself silently.
Caesar was dead.
No warning, no alerts. No enemy activity, at least that anyone could tell.
Caesar had simply woken up dead.
Servius looked out over the camp.
Caesar was wrong.
It didn't matter now anyway. Lanius had already taken the soldiers to Hoover Dam. Victory was assured, right?
No warning, no alerts. No enemy activity, at least that anyone could tell.
Caesar had simply woken up dead.
Servius looked out over the camp.
Caesar was wrong.
It didn't matter now anyway. Lanius had already taken the soldiers to Hoover Dam. Victory was assured, right?
Victory no longer felt like victory, wherever and whoever it was. With Caesars death, the legion had slowly sunken into infighting. Lanius had claimed the title of Caesar for himself and had set about purging those he had deemed disloyal.
Naturally, there was a power struggle brewing.
Servius sighed heavily, continuing to sharpen his blade. This wasn't what the Legion was meant to stand for, either. It was supposed to be stability.
"Decanus!" A voice called. Servius looked up to see his Centurion, and quickly stood and rushed over.
"Ita, Centurion?" Servius replies, pressing his hand to his chest in saluts and averting his eyes.
"Minime, I'm a Legatus now." His superior replied, removing his centurions plume from his helmet
"Forgive me, Legatus!"
"All is forgiven, Servius. This is your Centuria now. Lead it well." He haded the plume to the former Decanus with a weak smile "I need them ready by night fall."
"I-Ita Legatus! Thank you, Legatus, I shan't let you down." Servius stammered as he took the plume in his hands, examining it. Years ago, he'd have killed for this. Now?
Twice now the legion had failed to take Vegas. The second time they had lost Caesar, and without him the brewing storm was becoming more and more obvious by the day. The legion wasn't built to last anymore. It had to adapt or it would die.
Naturally, there was a power struggle brewing.
Servius sighed heavily, continuing to sharpen his blade. This wasn't what the Legion was meant to stand for, either. It was supposed to be stability.
"Decanus!" A voice called. Servius looked up to see his Centurion, and quickly stood and rushed over.
"Ita, Centurion?" Servius replies, pressing his hand to his chest in saluts and averting his eyes.
"Minime, I'm a Legatus now." His superior replied, removing his centurions plume from his helmet
"Forgive me, Legatus!"
"All is forgiven, Servius. This is your Centuria now. Lead it well." He haded the plume to the former Decanus with a weak smile "I need them ready by night fall."
"I-Ita Legatus! Thank you, Legatus, I shan't let you down." Servius stammered as he took the plume in his hands, examining it. Years ago, he'd have killed for this. Now?
Twice now the legion had failed to take Vegas. The second time they had lost Caesar, and without him the brewing storm was becoming more and more obvious by the day. The legion wasn't built to last anymore. It had to adapt or it would die.
{ "No. Even if we won absolutely and every tribe that was once part of the legion was it again- I will not be the leader of it. I shouldn't be. Neither should you. We cannot risk someone becoming the new Caesar or Lanius. If I did- I might take that power with the desire to good - but it'd twist me as much as it must have twisted him. No one man should hold absolute power, be the centre of everything. That thinking has led us here." }
Servius awoke and rolled over, pulling himself up to his knees. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air as he looked around the corpses surrounding him. Some six feet away lay his Vexillarius, the banner still handing from his back, torn and ridden with holes.
He looked around the remains of his soldiers, how many corpses were here? He made a quick count as best he could. So many dead, it had to be the majority of the soldiers he had; perhaps a handful had gotten away at best.
He reached down to touch the tattered banner one last time, running his fingers over the ruined fabric. A broken heirloom of justice, truth and honour. As tattered as the legion now was, as tattered as Caesar's Pax Per Bellum had ended up.
The voices nearby and a single shot of gunfire drew him back to the present. He glanced in their direction but for a moment before he quickly slipped away behind the rocks, waiting for them to pass.
And then he ran. And he ran. Until his legs could no longer run him any further away and he gave out, sending him collapsing down onto the rock and dirt, many dozens of miles away from where he had once been. He slumped down against a rock, peering off over the edge of the mountain path he had ended up on.
Years had passed since Caesars death. Years since Caliente, since he'd found the truth. And yet now, he was right back where he had started. No, worse than where he had started; the peace was ruined and all his efforts had been for nought.
"It survives in me." He declared, mostly to himself.
He looked around the remains of his soldiers, how many corpses were here? He made a quick count as best he could. So many dead, it had to be the majority of the soldiers he had; perhaps a handful had gotten away at best.
He reached down to touch the tattered banner one last time, running his fingers over the ruined fabric. A broken heirloom of justice, truth and honour. As tattered as the legion now was, as tattered as Caesar's Pax Per Bellum had ended up.
The voices nearby and a single shot of gunfire drew him back to the present. He glanced in their direction but for a moment before he quickly slipped away behind the rocks, waiting for them to pass.
And then he ran. And he ran. Until his legs could no longer run him any further away and he gave out, sending him collapsing down onto the rock and dirt, many dozens of miles away from where he had once been. He slumped down against a rock, peering off over the edge of the mountain path he had ended up on.
Years had passed since Caesars death. Years since Caliente, since he'd found the truth. And yet now, he was right back where he had started. No, worse than where he had started; the peace was ruined and all his efforts had been for nought.
"It survives in me." He declared, mostly to himself.
"Say you go. Do you make it? And if you make it, do you succeed? And then, do you make it back? If you stay here with us and fight, we might have a chance to regain support and strike."
"There's no chance at all. Alea iacta est. We've been decimated. If we try to fight in this state, we're finished."
"Servius, everything Caesar built is falling apart, everything we hoped to build is crumbling down around us. If you leave now- that chaos is going to continue. You haven't even told me what you're doing."
"Do not forget that we are part of what's causing that chaos; we are one of the fractious legion splinter cells."
"We had to. To restore the peace. Lanius was going to rip the legion apart - he did rip the legion apart. If the Bear goes for the kill, if the raiders see that we aren't enforcing order properly- it's gone. You told me that, you convinced me of that. No, we are doing what is right."
"That remains to be seen; certainly we can't press that cause with what we have here. I will return. And when I do, I'll return with money, weapons and soldiers. We shall fix this and put what's left of the Legion back together. Reunite the Eighty Seven. Until then- you must regroup what we have and regather what little strength we can muster. Remain quiet and calm, we do not yet have the strength to risk another direct confrontation."
"Let us assume this works how you want; You'll be gone for weeks. How do you even know they'll be a we to fix this?"
"There has to be, Domitus, for everyone's sake."
"There's no chance at all. Alea iacta est. We've been decimated. If we try to fight in this state, we're finished."
"Servius, everything Caesar built is falling apart, everything we hoped to build is crumbling down around us. If you leave now- that chaos is going to continue. You haven't even told me what you're doing."
"Do not forget that we are part of what's causing that chaos; we are one of the fractious legion splinter cells."
"We had to. To restore the peace. Lanius was going to rip the legion apart - he did rip the legion apart. If the Bear goes for the kill, if the raiders see that we aren't enforcing order properly- it's gone. You told me that, you convinced me of that. No, we are doing what is right."
"That remains to be seen; certainly we can't press that cause with what we have here. I will return. And when I do, I'll return with money, weapons and soldiers. We shall fix this and put what's left of the Legion back together. Reunite the Eighty Seven. Until then- you must regroup what we have and regather what little strength we can muster. Remain quiet and calm, we do not yet have the strength to risk another direct confrontation."
"Let us assume this works how you want; You'll be gone for weeks. How do you even know they'll be a we to fix this?"
"There has to be, Domitus, for everyone's sake."
Servius awoke in a cold sweat, his hand darting to his blade. He breathed heavily but slowly calmed as he came back to reality, his face contorting in silent agony. Then suddenly took on an expression of shock as he heard a voice
"You alright?" Alan asked from behind him. Servius took a moment to calm himself before replying
"I- Yes. Just bad memories." He murmured, rolling over to face his companion who was sitting some 16 feet away. Servius had been travelling with their caravan across what was formerly Kentucky. They'd met a lot of problems along the way - In fact, Servius had rescued them from a pack of ghouls and in exchange they'd brought him along with them and given him food and water. An alliance of convenience, at first. "Haunt my dreams sometimes, keep me awake."
"Heh, I hear that. Want to talk about it?" Alan said, shifting over away from his wife towards Servius. The old mans wrinkled face took on a kindly expression as he regarded the middle aged legionary
"There is nothing to talk about. It was many years ago." Servius responded reservedly. Biting his lip and shaking his head solemnly. Couldn't even beat his own dreams, what a joke he'd become. A useless, pathetic joke of a legionary.
"I lost my daughter many years ago. Still need to talk about. Seems you need to talk to." The old man handed Servius his canteen and the former legionary accepted it, opening it and taking a long swig from it.
"How did she pass?" Servius asked after he had gulped down some of the liquid, peering back over to the elderly Alan.
"Raiders." Alan replied, lowering his gaze to the ground for a moment and breathing in "It wasn't pretty. I- sent her out to gather xander root and broc flower for healing powder. My wife and my daughters husband, they were ill. I was coming down with it too so- I stayed back to look after them. Molly was tough, I thought she could handle herself. So I let her go out alone. When we found what they'd done to her, I just- It was inhuman. When she needed me most- I weren't there. Always told her I'd be there but- I wasn't."
Servius looked to Alan sadly, smiling weakly. It was a story he'd heard a couple of times since he'd gotten towards the west. It reminded him of= Why the legion had done everything to begin with. So old men would still have their kids.
"I'm sorry." Servius said quietly. He paused for a moment before continuing "It was not your fault, you didn't fail her. People are monsters."
"I tell myself that but... It don't change how I feel. I shouldn't have let her go out alone."
"Ita- I mean, yeah. I tell myself I couldn't have done anything but it doesn't make that feel true."
"And you? What shook you up this bad?"
"I can't say. Too much. We'd be here by morning if I started." Servius replied and then smirked slightly, shaking his head. Alan laughed a little with him and gave a small nod, taking back his canteen and taking a sip.
"Ain't that the truth these days." Alan paused for a moment "You sure you have to go tomorrow? We've grown used to having you around, you're a good man. You've more than earned your keep."
"I have to. I've a duty to do."
"Yeah - Well, I hope you find what you're looking for."
"You alright?" Alan asked from behind him. Servius took a moment to calm himself before replying
"I- Yes. Just bad memories." He murmured, rolling over to face his companion who was sitting some 16 feet away. Servius had been travelling with their caravan across what was formerly Kentucky. They'd met a lot of problems along the way - In fact, Servius had rescued them from a pack of ghouls and in exchange they'd brought him along with them and given him food and water. An alliance of convenience, at first. "Haunt my dreams sometimes, keep me awake."
"Heh, I hear that. Want to talk about it?" Alan said, shifting over away from his wife towards Servius. The old mans wrinkled face took on a kindly expression as he regarded the middle aged legionary
"There is nothing to talk about. It was many years ago." Servius responded reservedly. Biting his lip and shaking his head solemnly. Couldn't even beat his own dreams, what a joke he'd become. A useless, pathetic joke of a legionary.
"I lost my daughter many years ago. Still need to talk about. Seems you need to talk to." The old man handed Servius his canteen and the former legionary accepted it, opening it and taking a long swig from it.
"How did she pass?" Servius asked after he had gulped down some of the liquid, peering back over to the elderly Alan.
"Raiders." Alan replied, lowering his gaze to the ground for a moment and breathing in "It wasn't pretty. I- sent her out to gather xander root and broc flower for healing powder. My wife and my daughters husband, they were ill. I was coming down with it too so- I stayed back to look after them. Molly was tough, I thought she could handle herself. So I let her go out alone. When we found what they'd done to her, I just- It was inhuman. When she needed me most- I weren't there. Always told her I'd be there but- I wasn't."
Servius looked to Alan sadly, smiling weakly. It was a story he'd heard a couple of times since he'd gotten towards the west. It reminded him of= Why the legion had done everything to begin with. So old men would still have their kids.
"I'm sorry." Servius said quietly. He paused for a moment before continuing "It was not your fault, you didn't fail her. People are monsters."
"I tell myself that but... It don't change how I feel. I shouldn't have let her go out alone."
"Ita- I mean, yeah. I tell myself I couldn't have done anything but it doesn't make that feel true."
"And you? What shook you up this bad?"
"I can't say. Too much. We'd be here by morning if I started." Servius replied and then smirked slightly, shaking his head. Alan laughed a little with him and gave a small nod, taking back his canteen and taking a sip.
"Ain't that the truth these days." Alan paused for a moment "You sure you have to go tomorrow? We've grown used to having you around, you're a good man. You've more than earned your keep."
"I have to. I've a duty to do."
"Yeah - Well, I hope you find what you're looking for."
He moved with great haste despite the pain in his legs and the crushing tiredness that had accompanied him these weeks. So many long miles had passed, and he grew increasingly tired of wandering and increasingly tired of fighting off or evading the dangers around him.
When the weary traveller came over the hill and he saw necropolis, he fell to his knees and thanked Mars for his arrival. He had reached the great ocean!
He let out a small smile as the sun raised, catching the ocean and causing it to shimmer.
He paused... If he strutted up dressed like this, he'd have blown away one of the parameters he'd been given. He let out a weak sigh; this was never going to work, if the people he was dealing with really had a problem with the legion, they'd likely interacted with them enough to work out who he was quickly enough anyway. He wasn't exactly a good actor - nor good liar for that matter. Still, orders were orders.
He removed his helmet and ran his fingers over it before twisting out the plumage with a grunt of effort. He examined ot for a moment before opening his rucksack and sticking it into the section which kept his trophies in. He could pass if off, he suspected.
He placed helmet back onto his head, sighing and unfastening his cingulum militare, folding it over on itself and placing that too away with the plumes. The focale was next, then his pteruges. By the time he was done, he looked a fair deal closer to a mercenary who'd scavenged his armour over the years rather than a legionary; and consequently he felt very bare and foolish, naked without the symbols of his rank, the trappings of his life and - culture. There was no other word for it. It was who he was, and now he had to pretend it was not.
That, he thought, was harder than any fight. Enough, almost, to make him turn away again.
He wrapped his sagum around himself to fight the chill. "Alea Iacta Est." He repeated as he began to walk towards the city, as he had been instructed to do. Once this had been a powerful and prosperous city of the old world- and now it was just another relic of the hellfire that had rained down. Perhaps it was the fate of all things to be ripped apart by man.
Now it was time to get to work.
When the weary traveller came over the hill and he saw necropolis, he fell to his knees and thanked Mars for his arrival. He had reached the great ocean!
He let out a small smile as the sun raised, catching the ocean and causing it to shimmer.
He paused... If he strutted up dressed like this, he'd have blown away one of the parameters he'd been given. He let out a weak sigh; this was never going to work, if the people he was dealing with really had a problem with the legion, they'd likely interacted with them enough to work out who he was quickly enough anyway. He wasn't exactly a good actor - nor good liar for that matter. Still, orders were orders.
He removed his helmet and ran his fingers over it before twisting out the plumage with a grunt of effort. He examined ot for a moment before opening his rucksack and sticking it into the section which kept his trophies in. He could pass if off, he suspected.
He placed helmet back onto his head, sighing and unfastening his cingulum militare, folding it over on itself and placing that too away with the plumes. The focale was next, then his pteruges. By the time he was done, he looked a fair deal closer to a mercenary who'd scavenged his armour over the years rather than a legionary; and consequently he felt very bare and foolish, naked without the symbols of his rank, the trappings of his life and - culture. There was no other word for it. It was who he was, and now he had to pretend it was not.
That, he thought, was harder than any fight. Enough, almost, to make him turn away again.
He wrapped his sagum around himself to fight the chill. "Alea Iacta Est." He repeated as he began to walk towards the city, as he had been instructed to do. Once this had been a powerful and prosperous city of the old world- and now it was just another relic of the hellfire that had rained down. Perhaps it was the fate of all things to be ripped apart by man.
Now it was time to get to work.
- Survival Characteristics -
| {Non-Combat Skills} |
What is this blasted magic box?!: Don't let him try to hack the terminal. Just don't. He's used a terminal perhaps twice in his entire lifetime and nobody has taught him a thing about them.
Even unto death: Pushing fear away is what Servius has done his whole life. Little can shake this mans will.
Smithy: That said, while he's useless with electronics he has a decent amount of skill with repairing things and crafting weapons and armour. This has allowed him to maintain his weapons despite many years of use
Herbal Medicine: While any true medical ability has been seriously hamstrung by the legions views on chems, Servius knows how to make healing powder and bitter drink along with basic first aid. If a member of the Old Sedona Centuria was injured in combat, they wouldn't have been remiss in hoping Servius was nearby.
Historical Knowledge: Despite having been raised on misinformation and lies, Servius has long since shook off such falsehoods in pursuit of knowledge. Having developed a love of history and having treated himself to whatever books he could find during his time with the legion, Servius has a surprisingly sound understanding of history. In the end, he even found out about the Romans - this, combined with Caesars passing, finally shattered his belief in Caesar.
Even unto death: Pushing fear away is what Servius has done his whole life. Little can shake this mans will.
Smithy: That said, while he's useless with electronics he has a decent amount of skill with repairing things and crafting weapons and armour. This has allowed him to maintain his weapons despite many years of use
Herbal Medicine: While any true medical ability has been seriously hamstrung by the legions views on chems, Servius knows how to make healing powder and bitter drink along with basic first aid. If a member of the Old Sedona Centuria was injured in combat, they wouldn't have been remiss in hoping Servius was nearby.
Historical Knowledge: Despite having been raised on misinformation and lies, Servius has long since shook off such falsehoods in pursuit of knowledge. Having developed a love of history and having treated himself to whatever books he could find during his time with the legion, Servius has a surprisingly sound understanding of history. In the end, he even found out about the Romans - this, combined with Caesars passing, finally shattered his belief in Caesar.
| {Possessions} |
A small collection of Holotags, dogtags and feathers from Decanii headdresses. (His way of honouring worthy opponents, taking the time to remember their names)
Legion Centurion Helmet
Legion Centurion Armour
Backpack with some food, drink, camping gear etc.
Motar and pestle used for making healing powder.
An old pocket watch.
Holotape player
Flashlight
A Cross
Legion Centurion Helmet
Legion Centurion Armour
Backpack with some food, drink, camping gear etc.
Motar and pestle used for making healing powder.
An old pocket watch.
Holotape player
Flashlight
A Cross
| {Combat Skills} |
Warrior of Old Sedona: With blade, hammer or fist, Servius is an expert melee combatant. Trained with a machete since the day he was born and serving in the legion proper for some twenty years of his life, crossing blades with him is a dangerous act.
Aquila luscus: He used a gun from an early age too, and proved more able with it than a blade initially. As time drew on, Servius became better and better with the weapons he had scavenged from his fallen foes.
Soft as shadows: For a man who is built like a brick, its rather surprising how swiftly and quietly he can move when need be. While certainly not the best, his small stature and quiet step has allowed him to get the drop on many enemies in his time.
Legionary Conditioning: The Life of a Legionary is a hard life. As Colonel Cassandra Moore once said, even the lowliest of legionaries has received conditioning on par or better to those of the NCR Rangers. Servius never let his condition slip; he is both scarily strong and scarily fast, making him an extremely dangerous foe. Indeed, while short for a legionary he appears to have lost none of their speed or strength, bounding across the battlefield with shocking fluidity.
Aquila luscus: He used a gun from an early age too, and proved more able with it than a blade initially. As time drew on, Servius became better and better with the weapons he had scavenged from his fallen foes.
Soft as shadows: For a man who is built like a brick, its rather surprising how swiftly and quietly he can move when need be. While certainly not the best, his small stature and quiet step has allowed him to get the drop on many enemies in his time.
Legionary Conditioning: The Life of a Legionary is a hard life. As Colonel Cassandra Moore once said, even the lowliest of legionaries has received conditioning on par or better to those of the NCR Rangers. Servius never let his condition slip; he is both scarily strong and scarily fast, making him an extremely dangerous foe. Indeed, while short for a legionary he appears to have lost none of their speed or strength, bounding across the battlefield with shocking fluidity.
| {Gear} |
Tyrannus: Servius' sword, Tyrannus, was one of two twin blades he forged with his own hands many years ago in a fort in Legion territory. Having forged two blades, he imparted one to a local he had befriended before he left on campaign with the rest of his Centuria. Since then, Tyrannus has shed the lifeblood of many enemies. The blade is a far cry from the usual blades of the legion; rather than being a lawnmower blade crudely taped onto a handle, Tyrannus is a true sword that was forged with great care. It's end is sharpened to a point and both edges of the blade are kept sharp, designed to allow for thrusting and slashing rather than the hacking motions required of a legion machete.
Requies: Requies was the rifle Servius took from the Ranger he and the Veteran Decanus Severus captured. A powerful Brush Gun, Servius has kept it in good condition and uses it for taking down targets at range with an impressive degree of accuracy. He has since grown quite fond of it and has named it Requies. It's large calibre and accuracy has made it his preferred choice over his 12.7mm SMG save for in tighter confines.
12.7mm Sub Machine Gun
Bola
Net
Requies: Requies was the rifle Servius took from the Ranger he and the Veteran Decanus Severus captured. A powerful Brush Gun, Servius has kept it in good condition and uses it for taking down targets at range with an impressive degree of accuracy. He has since grown quite fond of it and has named it Requies. It's large calibre and accuracy has made it his preferred choice over his 12.7mm SMG save for in tighter confines.
12.7mm Sub Machine Gun
Bola
Net
Legion X51 Cap'n Fluff
Member
Seen
3 yrs ago
{ "Ready, comrade!" }
- General Characteristics -
| {Full Name} |
Kapitan-GB Natalya Viktorovna Alexeyevna Oshkina, Committee for State Security
| {Nickname/Callsign} |
N/A - Kapitan Oshkina is all she is known by.
| {Age} |
Biological Age - 29
Temporal Age - 238
| {Gender} |
Female.
| {Dialogue Color} |
Code ED145B.
| {Appearance} |
This is one of the areas where I like a bit of detail, as appearances of characters help greatly in imagining the scene and working posts. At the very least cover the basics such as body type, height, distinguishing features and anything else that would be relevant.
- Psychological Profile -
| {Personality} |
Again, an area where more is better in terms of detail. Include both positive features and negatives ones, everything that makes them who they are and how they think.
| {Fears/Limitations} |
What are they afraid of most? Where do they fall short? Many times it is here that most of what makes a character is found, in the flaws and imperfections.
| {Place of Origin} |
Arkhangelsk, Arkhangelsk Urban Okrug, Arkhangelsk Oblast, Russian SFSR, Soviet Union
| {Background} |
Last area where I'm actively looking for detail, since it's one of the big three. Use this to really tell the story of who your character is and how they got to the Necropolis.
- Survival Characteristics -
| {Non-Combat Skills} |
Here is where any skill your character may have proficiency in that is not directly combat related would go.
| {Possessions} |
Anything not directly related to combat, work on their person regularly or considered essential gear.
| {Combat Skills} |
| {Gear} |
All combat and survival gear, as well as anything that they would consistently wear on their person.
GM
Alfhedil What do you see Kaneda?
Member
Seen
22 hrs ago
@darkwolf687 You're good to shift Servius over to the Characters tab.
ONL Occasional Private Dick
Member
Seen
2 mos ago
Brian "Short-Fuse" Muller
{ "There's nothing a few words can't solve. Words and some good ol' plastic explosives!" }
- General Characteristics -
| {Full Name} |
Brian Muller
| {Nickname/Callsign} |
Short-Fuse
| {Age} |
35
| {Gender} |
Male
| {Face Claim} |
Clint Eastwood
| {Dialogue Color} |
Red
| {Appearance} |
For a man who's perhaps spent more time underground than on the surface, you might be surprised to see that Brian "Short-Fuse" looks more like a man and less like a mole. That however is mostly due to him having been more of a mercenary than a miner the past years. Brian can stand at 5'7" when fully stretched out, head up tall and chest out and all that, easily distinguised by the old military helmet on his head.
As for the rest of "Short-Fuse"'s appearance, his face bears the mark of hard labour, scars across his cheek and nose. His hair is usually dark blonde, though it is often mistaken for brown or black due to all the dirt, which isn't helped by its bushy nature and concealment under the helmet. His tired eyes are blue, his nose a little crooked after countless accidents. He sports what can be best explained as old military fatigues combined with satchels and bandoliers for ammunition, components and bombs.
As for the rest of "Short-Fuse"'s appearance, his face bears the mark of hard labour, scars across his cheek and nose. His hair is usually dark blonde, though it is often mistaken for brown or black due to all the dirt, which isn't helped by its bushy nature and concealment under the helmet. His tired eyes are blue, his nose a little crooked after countless accidents. He sports what can be best explained as old military fatigues combined with satchels and bandoliers for ammunition, components and bombs.
- Psychological Profile -
| {Personality} |
You might ask why Brian's nickname and most used name is "Short-Fuse" out of all things, and that indeed is a good question. He himself claims it is because of past events, but others will say it is because of less physical attributes. Brian has the tendency of getting overly-excited and overly-aggrevated in situations that might call for more cool-minded thinking, both overlapping each other. Don't be surprised if he'll throw up his arms to welcome some stranger, or throw a bundle of dynamite at a small critter. His mind rarely works in small doses, rarely.
Then again there is that wide smile on his face that shows the more desirable side of him. Even for his few loose bolts, he's deep down a friendly man who keeps his friends close, his best friends closer and his enemies caved in a deep cave. If you're on his good side, you've got a friend for life who'll do pretty much everything for you. A little unhinged and nutty friend, but in the Apocalypse one really can't be picky, right?
Then again there is that wide smile on his face that shows the more desirable side of him. Even for his few loose bolts, he's deep down a friendly man who keeps his friends close, his best friends closer and his enemies caved in a deep cave. If you're on his good side, you've got a friend for life who'll do pretty much everything for you. A little unhinged and nutty friend, but in the Apocalypse one really can't be picky, right?
| {Fears/Limitations} |
His happy face might give one the impression that there's nothing that can make this man distraught. On the contrary, that smile hides over the many scars that the other's can't see, but are deeply woven into him and his life. Scars of pain and sorrow that simple things can bring him to tears. Reminders of lost lives or horrible events that he won't speak of without serious persuasion. But what good would that do?
One such thing is water; not just your normal puddle of water, but when you can stand knee-deep in it. That scares him more than most things after having nearly drowned on several occations in various mines. The darkness, warped sounds and painful filling of his lungs has scared him for life of it happening again. Good thing they won't have to cross an ocean any time soon, right?
One might also add a fear from giant ants that frightened him as a child and attacked him as an adult, and he'll do anything to either get as far away as possible from one or blow any ant he sees from the face of the Earth!
One such thing is water; not just your normal puddle of water, but when you can stand knee-deep in it. That scares him more than most things after having nearly drowned on several occations in various mines. The darkness, warped sounds and painful filling of his lungs has scared him for life of it happening again. Good thing they won't have to cross an ocean any time soon, right?
One might also add a fear from giant ants that frightened him as a child and attacked him as an adult, and he'll do anything to either get as far away as possible from one or blow any ant he sees from the face of the Earth!
| {Place of Origin} |
Brian Short-Fuse used to have a place he called home. It was down in the deep south, what once used to be Texas to be exact in a small settlement located near an old mining complex. That was many years ago however, and since regaining his freedom from slavery he felt he was rootless, causing him to wander even more before he eventually joined Talon Company. It was a decent enough way of living, giving him food on the table and people to call friends. But more than that, they gave him a reason to blow shit up again.
| {Background} |
Where does the story of a bit nutty demolition expert start? Why is he in Necropolies? How did he end up there? Why is he so attached to explosives? To use the old cliché, we have to go back to the very beginning, when Brian still wasn't called Short-Fused. Well, not too long before that at least.
We have to begin in what used to be called the state of Texas in the southern United States. Well it is probably stilled called Texas now, it certainly was called that when Brian was born and grew up down there. He was born to a pair of average parents who owned a little outside of a town. The farm itself isn't what is interesting, but rather the town; Goldhill. Before there was a settlement to speak of, there was a large mining complex resting beside a hill, long abandoned. Brian was told that the mine layed untouched for many years after the Great War, but was eventually turned into a mining-town when it was discovered the mine still had coal in it. Now there wasn't any gold in it, contrary to what the name might suggest, but coal was still worth something.
Problem was that the mines were best suited for workers of small size, and that meant short adults and children were the largest share of the miners. That included Briad. From an early age, he can't remember for the life of him remember how old he was, Brian was sent to work in the coal mines of Goldhill. The labour was hard and dangerous, especially for the youngest ones. There were many a times when Brian was sure he wasn't going to make it out alive. One such incident involved him being sent down to one of the deepest layers of the mine to retrive a forgotten lamp. All went okay enough, only a few bruises and cuts, until he saw the lamp still lighting up the end of a tunnel. Running forth to grab the lamp and get out as quickly as possible. Brian didn't pay attention where his feet was going, or if there was a floor to land his feet at all, because suddenly he felt the world collaps underneath and envelope him in cold, dark water.
Brian survived the incident, but only because of a veteran miner happening to cross path with a child drowning in mining water. And Brian never trusted water like that ever again, but the old miner he found something he didn't think to find down in those dark mines; a friend. He became what one could call a guardian of sorts for Brian, keeping watch over him and teaching him all the tricks he knew. He even gave the young miner an old and dirtied book that he himself couldn't read, but hoped Brian would have more use for. Lucky for Brian he had been taught to read by his parents, one of the few in town. And even for lucky for him the book was about creating explosives. And he loved it.
Many years down the line Brian, now known by his nickname "Short-Fuse" after his initial trials with controlled explosions down in the mines, was one of the most experienced miners in Goldhill. He was respected too, although he had gotten a few loose screws after all those explosions a tad too close for comfort. At the age of 25 he had a good life in front of him, perhaps even a girlfriend he put up with his shenanigans. The future looked promising for all in Goldhill. And oh boy where they wrong.
It was at that time that their little town was attacked by raiders. Bad raiders, vicious and too many for the town guard to hold back. Brian himself was in the midst of the desperate defense of Goldhill, armed with his trusted shotgun and an seemingly endless supply of dynamite. Perhaps the raiders wanted to get a slow and painful revenge on the guy that blew their own guys to pieces, or maybe they already then knew that this guy was worth it? Regardless of their motivations, Brian was one of the few people who ended up being taken away as a slave. Most either got away from the slaughter or was thrown into it, but he and several others were taken away.
Short-Fuse, the only name he was called by now, was taken north to be sold and re-sold to various groups of slavers. And this was when Short-Fuse really began to live up to his name, growing a distinct divide between his good and bad side. Being a slave was not easy, that's for certain, but his roughened body and knowledge of mining and explosives made him a slave a few steps up the proverbial foodchain. He was even made to lead a small group of slaves in an old mine far north of Texas. That was a stupid idea on the slavers' part. Armed with no shotgun, but a enormous supply of explosives and hatred for those who wipped him, hit him, abused and used him. It was bloody, but after years in captiviy Short-Fuse...Brian was once again a free man.
But a free man does not a happy man; Brian was further away from what he had once called his home than he could imagine, and without any friends he ended up wandering for a while. To where he didn't know, but he did fear roaming south due to the slavers he hadn't brutally blown to tiny pieces still being alive there. That meant that north was the way to go. And so he did for many years until he decided to settle in with a group of mercenaries that welcomed him somewhat reluctantly at first. But once they learned that his explosive side could be used for their own good, he stuck with them. And he was happy to be with such company that allowed him explosives again, which will be interesting to see how he uses on their way to Necropolis.
We have to begin in what used to be called the state of Texas in the southern United States. Well it is probably stilled called Texas now, it certainly was called that when Brian was born and grew up down there. He was born to a pair of average parents who owned a little outside of a town. The farm itself isn't what is interesting, but rather the town; Goldhill. Before there was a settlement to speak of, there was a large mining complex resting beside a hill, long abandoned. Brian was told that the mine layed untouched for many years after the Great War, but was eventually turned into a mining-town when it was discovered the mine still had coal in it. Now there wasn't any gold in it, contrary to what the name might suggest, but coal was still worth something.
Problem was that the mines were best suited for workers of small size, and that meant short adults and children were the largest share of the miners. That included Briad. From an early age, he can't remember for the life of him remember how old he was, Brian was sent to work in the coal mines of Goldhill. The labour was hard and dangerous, especially for the youngest ones. There were many a times when Brian was sure he wasn't going to make it out alive. One such incident involved him being sent down to one of the deepest layers of the mine to retrive a forgotten lamp. All went okay enough, only a few bruises and cuts, until he saw the lamp still lighting up the end of a tunnel. Running forth to grab the lamp and get out as quickly as possible. Brian didn't pay attention where his feet was going, or if there was a floor to land his feet at all, because suddenly he felt the world collaps underneath and envelope him in cold, dark water.
Brian survived the incident, but only because of a veteran miner happening to cross path with a child drowning in mining water. And Brian never trusted water like that ever again, but the old miner he found something he didn't think to find down in those dark mines; a friend. He became what one could call a guardian of sorts for Brian, keeping watch over him and teaching him all the tricks he knew. He even gave the young miner an old and dirtied book that he himself couldn't read, but hoped Brian would have more use for. Lucky for Brian he had been taught to read by his parents, one of the few in town. And even for lucky for him the book was about creating explosives. And he loved it.
Many years down the line Brian, now known by his nickname "Short-Fuse" after his initial trials with controlled explosions down in the mines, was one of the most experienced miners in Goldhill. He was respected too, although he had gotten a few loose screws after all those explosions a tad too close for comfort. At the age of 25 he had a good life in front of him, perhaps even a girlfriend he put up with his shenanigans. The future looked promising for all in Goldhill. And oh boy where they wrong.
It was at that time that their little town was attacked by raiders. Bad raiders, vicious and too many for the town guard to hold back. Brian himself was in the midst of the desperate defense of Goldhill, armed with his trusted shotgun and an seemingly endless supply of dynamite. Perhaps the raiders wanted to get a slow and painful revenge on the guy that blew their own guys to pieces, or maybe they already then knew that this guy was worth it? Regardless of their motivations, Brian was one of the few people who ended up being taken away as a slave. Most either got away from the slaughter or was thrown into it, but he and several others were taken away.
Short-Fuse, the only name he was called by now, was taken north to be sold and re-sold to various groups of slavers. And this was when Short-Fuse really began to live up to his name, growing a distinct divide between his good and bad side. Being a slave was not easy, that's for certain, but his roughened body and knowledge of mining and explosives made him a slave a few steps up the proverbial foodchain. He was even made to lead a small group of slaves in an old mine far north of Texas. That was a stupid idea on the slavers' part. Armed with no shotgun, but a enormous supply of explosives and hatred for those who wipped him, hit him, abused and used him. It was bloody, but after years in captiviy Short-Fuse...Brian was once again a free man.
But a free man does not a happy man; Brian was further away from what he had once called his home than he could imagine, and without any friends he ended up wandering for a while. To where he didn't know, but he did fear roaming south due to the slavers he hadn't brutally blown to tiny pieces still being alive there. That meant that north was the way to go. And so he did for many years until he decided to settle in with a group of mercenaries that welcomed him somewhat reluctantly at first. But once they learned that his explosive side could be used for their own good, he stuck with them. And he was happy to be with such company that allowed him explosives again, which will be interesting to see how he uses on their way to Necropolis.
- Survival Characteristics -
| {Non-Combat Skills} |
Explosives expert: Short-Fuse has more or less mastered the art of making, using and disarming explosives over the years. Starting with guesstimating the right lengt of fuse on a stick of dynamite (Hence his nickname), he's evolved into being able to gather and make the needed ingrendients of many forms of explosives. That involves knowing how to use them efficiently and how to disarm them; Frag mines, grenades, dynamite, C4, makeshift IED's and small nuclear bombs, you name it. And of course this skill can be used outside of combat. You never know when you need to disarm an atomic bomb or blow up a bridge.
"I bet I can squeeze through that with ease. 5 caps, deal?": A combination of squeezing through confined spaces as a child and malnourishment as a slave, Brian has gotten good as getting into spaces that are too tight for most people. That includes the ability to climb in said tight-spots, and to bend his body more so that most people, which would certainly have given him a space in a pre-war circus.
"No, I'm sure it was this way. That rock is not shaped like brahmin-dung like the other, trust me.": Working in the confinements of the deep mines of Goldhill, Short-Fuse got good at navigation the tight and seemingly identical tunnels down there. He is able to notice small landmarks in order to remember where they have been before, and a somewhat good instinct on which direction they should go next.
"Sure I like explosives, but one should know when tools are important. To make more explosives of course!": Yes Brian knows how to use a wide variaty of tools, many of which he's come across over the years and some that he just guesses how to use. He prefers a good ol' stick of TNT, but knows when a hammer or screw driver is better.
"I bet I can squeeze through that with ease. 5 caps, deal?": A combination of squeezing through confined spaces as a child and malnourishment as a slave, Brian has gotten good as getting into spaces that are too tight for most people. That includes the ability to climb in said tight-spots, and to bend his body more so that most people, which would certainly have given him a space in a pre-war circus.
"No, I'm sure it was this way. That rock is not shaped like brahmin-dung like the other, trust me.": Working in the confinements of the deep mines of Goldhill, Short-Fuse got good at navigation the tight and seemingly identical tunnels down there. He is able to notice small landmarks in order to remember where they have been before, and a somewhat good instinct on which direction they should go next.
"Sure I like explosives, but one should know when tools are important. To make more explosives of course!": Yes Brian knows how to use a wide variaty of tools, many of which he's come across over the years and some that he just guesses how to use. He prefers a good ol' stick of TNT, but knows when a hammer or screw driver is better.
| {Possessions} |
- Cherry bombs, two lunch boxes, fuses, various miscellaneous items for creating bombs.
- Belt holding hammer, screwdriver, pliers, etc.
- Food and water
- Lighter
- Googles and thick gloves
- Flashlight
- Wire-cutting knife
- Spool of wire
- Detonator
| {Combat Skills} |
And here is where any skill your character may have that is either directly or indirectly related to combat would go.
Demolition Expert II: Now of course not using explosives in combat does have it advantages; less chance of blowing people to smithereens and bringing down the whole building on you. And Short-Fuse accknowledges that. But frankly he feels experienced enough to know what he's doing. If a shotgun doesn't work, why not use the rest of the arsenal? Besides if you don't run away from incoming grenades or a big bomb, you probably deserve to die in pieces.
Shotgun Bonanza!: There aren't many weapons Short-Fuse has used (besides explosives), but the one he knows every way in and out of his the shotgun. He's a crack shot with it, able to plant fairly accurate shots from the hip.
"Come on you pansy." Brian has felt pain before, quite a lot actually. Being a bit too close to explosions, falling debris in mines, fistfights with drunk miners or getting hit by his slave-owners, Brian has gotten used to more pain than most people would prefer. That's not to say he isn't physically affected by his injuries, but he'll more likely than not shrug it off and keep on fighting. He's had worse.
"Anticepate this, you gook!": Let us be honest about one thing; Short-Fuse is far from the most stable person in the room. And that's exactly why you really can't be ready for what he's going to do next. For all you know he'll give you a hug, shoot your legs off or blow up the whole room you're all in. Or he might do something completely different, who knows?
Fist-fighting: There was plenty of fist-fighting back in the Goldhill mines. The bar too...a lot of fists flying around in general to be honest. Perhaps that's why Brian knows how to throw a punch?
Demolition Expert II: Now of course not using explosives in combat does have it advantages; less chance of blowing people to smithereens and bringing down the whole building on you. And Short-Fuse accknowledges that. But frankly he feels experienced enough to know what he's doing. If a shotgun doesn't work, why not use the rest of the arsenal? Besides if you don't run away from incoming grenades or a big bomb, you probably deserve to die in pieces.
Shotgun Bonanza!: There aren't many weapons Short-Fuse has used (besides explosives), but the one he knows every way in and out of his the shotgun. He's a crack shot with it, able to plant fairly accurate shots from the hip.
"Come on you pansy." Brian has felt pain before, quite a lot actually. Being a bit too close to explosions, falling debris in mines, fistfights with drunk miners or getting hit by his slave-owners, Brian has gotten used to more pain than most people would prefer. That's not to say he isn't physically affected by his injuries, but he'll more likely than not shrug it off and keep on fighting. He's had worse.
"Anticepate this, you gook!": Let us be honest about one thing; Short-Fuse is far from the most stable person in the room. And that's exactly why you really can't be ready for what he's going to do next. For all you know he'll give you a hug, shoot your legs off or blow up the whole room you're all in. Or he might do something completely different, who knows?
Fist-fighting: There was plenty of fist-fighting back in the Goldhill mines. The bar too...a lot of fists flying around in general to be honest. Perhaps that's why Brian knows how to throw a punch?
| {Gear} |
All combat and survival gear, as well as anything that they would consistently wear on their person.
- 12 Gauge Hunting Shotgun
- 12 gauge shell-boxes
- Military helmet
- Combat armour
- 15 sticks of dynamite
- 5 fragmentation grenades
- One bottlecap mine
- 5 fragmentation mines
- Gas Mask with filters
- 5 Stimpaks
- 5 Rad-X
- 4 Rad-a-way
GM
Alfhedil What do you see Kaneda?
Member
Seen
22 hrs ago
Apollosarcher Knight with the Rowan Shield
Member
Seen
3 days ago
Finn Cassidy
{ "You need a scout? You need someone who ain't a delicate scribe to do field work? I'm your huckleberry." }
- General Characteristics -
|Phineas Holiday Cassidy |
| "Finn" "Cass" and always popular "Kid."|
| 24 |
| Male |
| Found Online |
| Gray |
Gray
| {Appearance} |
Finn is a young man, broad-shouldered and well-muscled thanks to his work with Brahmin, as a child of vault dweller and being partially raised in a vault he's rather pale for a wastelander and much healthier than most. With shaggy auburn hair and a pair of welders goggles, stockily built with strong legs and a charming face. Sea green eyes that can and have made hearts melt when he turns on the charm, his face usually has some oil or grease from tinkering on something. Phineas does have a few small scars on his chest and arms from the occasional tussle. He also sports burn scars on his hands from the occasional cooking incident and his work repairing and tinkering with objects he finds.
Dressed in brotherhood recon armor worn under a thick leather duster, a holster at his left hip. A heavy traveling bag crossing from his left shoulder to his right hip. A rancher’s stetson sat upon his head with a gauss rifle slung across his back and in his arms, an old battle rifle.
Dressed in brotherhood recon armor worn under a thick leather duster, a holster at his left hip. A heavy traveling bag crossing from his left shoulder to his right hip. A rancher’s stetson sat upon his head with a gauss rifle slung across his back and in his arms, an old battle rifle.
- Psychological Profile -
| {Personality} |
Phineas is a kind soul and one whose prone to act of compassion and mercy, but he also strongly believes in justice and to get that in the wasteland you need to be willing to put a bullet in someone. As such Phineas finish while trusting is always quick on the draw, with lies and betrayal being the order of the day in the wasteland. Having grown up herding Brahmin and working the land around the vault his parents were born in he's far smarter than he seems and with manners to boot he is probably one of the last Southern gentlemen in existence. Phineas has always had a strong moral compass, more importantly, he has always stuck by it even when it's gotten it him into trouble. The first time he found people who were willing to stand up to raiders and threats of the wastes it was the Brotherhood of Steel, while many were fearful when they appeared in the Broken Banks of the Carolina's Finn stepped up. Helping the Brotherhood find places to scavenge and places to avoid he was given a place among them as a guide, hearing stories of Elder Lyons and started to believe in his vision for a better wasteland.
| {Fears/Limitations} |
Water, growing up living further inland on the vault controlled dairy he never learned how to swim and when he did finally attempt to learn after reaching the sound of Pamlico near New Bern he asked local fishermen for a lesson on swimming. Awhile latter at a small freshwater stream leading into the sound he went for a swim... Only to be greeted by his first ever Mirelurk, outrunning the massive crab alongside his teachers he vowed he was never going in the water again. He will sail with great hesitance but he will never swim and detests large bodies.
Finn also has an obsession with finding whatever passes for a horse in the new world they live in, he's taken to chasing rumors and having at one point even built his own upscaled version of the giddyup buttercup to help with his work herding Brahmin. As such he's prone to chasing tales of wild horses and before joining the brotherhood joined several grouping trying to scout the Broken Banks for a rumored island of purebred horses. He's never had any luck but it doesn't stop from wanting to follow every lead he can get about finding real-life horses, no matter the trouble he gets into.
| {Place of Origin} |
Vault 55, Carolina Creamery: Buried under the hills of the Piedmont region deep under a modern dairy farm Vault 55 opened 80 years after the Great War. When the vault opened they found a small village of caravaners trying to take advantage of the dairy farms herbs for hauling items. Now known as Creamery 55 the vault dwellers helped restore much of the old dairy and keep it running they have even found ways to cleanse Brahmin milk of rads and cool it the Creamery has helped keep the people of the Carolina's from drinking dirty water.
| {Background} |
Vault fifty-five located in South Lee County North Carolina was the vault of the people it accepted carpenters, engineers, small business owners, teachers, and farmers. Middle-class educators and workers, the vault also hosted an election system and all entertainment was based off the Wild West Americana. The Vault’s experiment was to see if instilling the idea of taming a wild and uncivilized world would help the populace expand and rebuild faster. Vault fifty-five opened after eighty years and began trading with the outside world, rebuilding the dairy farm with traders who were attempting to figure out why so many Brahmin lived in this area.
Born in Vault 55, Phineas did not spend his life underground instead his parents joined the vault residents who had begun living outside working the farms. His mother was part of maintenance while his father a natural born speaker joined up with the caravans that left to trade milk for caps. Phineas even as a young boy would slip away from the daycare and head right off to watch his mother work no matter what they tried the young man wanted to see how his mother took apart machines and put them back together in a way that made them work. It was as mesmerizing to watch and eventually they gave up trying to stop him. Soon each day with little Finn in tow she would teach him about what she was fixing.
Yet, Phineas, it seemed inherited his father's natural charm eventually convincing one of the caravaneers his father worked with to teach him how to shoot. With an old varmint rifle and a handful of bullets, Finn took to the guns the same way he took to other old world machines, with careful practice he learned to clean, repair, and care for rifles. His father fought to keep him away from violence but the wasteland never liked the innocent and eventually. Finn would lose his one day and his mother knew it would be better to teach him to fight than let him live without the skills to survive. Soon Finn and his mother began to practice shooting together and as the young boy grew into a teenager his father knew he would need a better rifle. Upon his next trip out Finn's old man bargained for an older model battle rifle and soon Phineas had his first real rifle and he'd need it soon.
Just after Phineas's seventeenth birthday after all of the milk caravans had left and the town was quiet, the stillness of an autumn day in the wasteland. They heard screams of war a mob of raiders rushed towards the gates with cobbled together weapons and hateful words. The townsfolk of the Carolina Creamery were a mix of traders and settlers from outside and well-armed vault residence. The raiders had expected a town of brahmin herding simpletons, what they met was a fortified town with an understanding of just exactly how to deal with bands of raiders. Phineas manned the walls alongside many others, picking off targets trying to rush towards the gates with improvised explosives. Soon corpses littered the fields around the diary groans of the dying were met with the echoes of pistol fire the people of the village executing the would-be conquerors and stripping them of loot.
It was after this Phineas began to join his father of trips away from the village and it was during this period in his life he met the Brotherhood of Steel.
Yet, Phineas, it seemed inherited his father's natural charm eventually convincing one of the caravaneers his father worked with to teach him how to shoot. With an old varmint rifle and a handful of bullets, Finn took to the guns the same way he took to other old world machines, with careful practice he learned to clean, repair, and care for rifles. His father fought to keep him away from violence but the wasteland never liked the innocent and eventually. Finn would lose his one day and his mother knew it would be better to teach him to fight than let him live without the skills to survive. Soon Finn and his mother began to practice shooting together and as the young boy grew into a teenager his father knew he would need a better rifle. Upon his next trip out Finn's old man bargained for an older model battle rifle and soon Phineas had his first real rifle and he'd need it soon.
Just after Phineas's seventeenth birthday after all of the milk caravans had left and the town was quiet, the stillness of an autumn day in the wasteland. They heard screams of war a mob of raiders rushed towards the gates with cobbled together weapons and hateful words. The townsfolk of the Carolina Creamery were a mix of traders and settlers from outside and well-armed vault residence. The raiders had expected a town of brahmin herding simpletons, what they met was a fortified town with an understanding of just exactly how to deal with bands of raiders. Phineas manned the walls alongside many others, picking off targets trying to rush towards the gates with improvised explosives. Soon corpses littered the fields around the diary groans of the dying were met with the echoes of pistol fire the people of the village executing the would-be conquerors and stripping them of loot.
It was after this Phineas began to join his father of trips away from the village and it was during this period in his life he met the Brotherhood of Steel.
A Brotherhood detachment arrived in North Carolina to search for tech and learn about what the locals were doing perhaps even establish an outpost here. Many were fearful of the men in power armor yet Phineas ever the tinker walked right up and began to ask about the features and what they had gotten working on the armor. Phineas himself had been trying to restore a weather-battered suit of T-45 his father had bargained for believing it to still work. While the tight-lipped brothers didn’t say much at first upon discovering he hailed from a Vault that had built its own community they decided to investigate.
Bringing the Brotherhood to the Carolina Creamery built above Vault fifty-five, he introduced them around and showed them what they had managed to get working. Even demonstrating a few people tinkering with the idea of getting motorcycles or ramshackle cars built to make milk runs easier. However, according to the lead, the greatest discovery of the entire mission was that the Vault dwellers had a working freezing and knew how to make ice cream. Watching a bunch of power armored knights and normally stuffy scribes line up to taste ice cream and groan with joy couldn’t help but make Finn smile.
After this introduction, the Brotherhood decided to set up with the friendly and easy to trade with locals of the dairy. Phineas became the go-to person and began to travel with the knights who opened more and more over time. Phineas heard tales of the Capital Wasteland and other places the Brotherhood had been, how they had helped people under Elder Lyons and done so much good even purifying water in Potomac. When a group had to return home to join up with the others, Phineas was invited to come with them. During his time with the group, he’d proven a capable combatant and knowledgeable about old world tech and culture in ways on Vault dwellers could be. He was brought into the Brotherhood as Initiate and awarded the rank of Knight for selfless acts in defense of his brothers.
His promotion ceremony occurred under Lyons, awarded the rank of Knight he wore it proudly just like he did his first suit of power armor. He couldn’t have been happier protecting people, building bonds of friendship, and getting to work with the tech he could only read about before. Yet while he loved his work, the Brotherhood would soon change into something he could not approve of. Sarah Lyons passed away and Maxson stepped forward named the new Elder due to his bloodline, he seemed more focused on tech than caring for people as Lyons had. Phineas never the silent type pointed out that should be honoring the Lyons family and continuing the work... He was acknowledged by the upper brass before he given a mission to scout the area around New York City and “The Necropolis.”
Bringing the Brotherhood to the Carolina Creamery built above Vault fifty-five, he introduced them around and showed them what they had managed to get working. Even demonstrating a few people tinkering with the idea of getting motorcycles or ramshackle cars built to make milk runs easier. However, according to the lead, the greatest discovery of the entire mission was that the Vault dwellers had a working freezing and knew how to make ice cream. Watching a bunch of power armored knights and normally stuffy scribes line up to taste ice cream and groan with joy couldn’t help but make Finn smile.
After this introduction, the Brotherhood decided to set up with the friendly and easy to trade with locals of the dairy. Phineas became the go-to person and began to travel with the knights who opened more and more over time. Phineas heard tales of the Capital Wasteland and other places the Brotherhood had been, how they had helped people under Elder Lyons and done so much good even purifying water in Potomac. When a group had to return home to join up with the others, Phineas was invited to come with them. During his time with the group, he’d proven a capable combatant and knowledgeable about old world tech and culture in ways on Vault dwellers could be. He was brought into the Brotherhood as Initiate and awarded the rank of Knight for selfless acts in defense of his brothers.
His promotion ceremony occurred under Lyons, awarded the rank of Knight he wore it proudly just like he did his first suit of power armor. He couldn’t have been happier protecting people, building bonds of friendship, and getting to work with the tech he could only read about before. Yet while he loved his work, the Brotherhood would soon change into something he could not approve of. Sarah Lyons passed away and Maxson stepped forward named the new Elder due to his bloodline, he seemed more focused on tech than caring for people as Lyons had. Phineas never the silent type pointed out that should be honoring the Lyons family and continuing the work... He was acknowledged by the upper brass before he given a mission to scout the area around New York City and “The Necropolis.”
Joining with a caravan Phineas took months to arrive at his destination where he used what little info they had to find a small bunker and secure it. Phineas usually wore his recon armor under a duster and cowboy hat, he kept his weapons with him as he did his best to learn all he could know it could be of use to his brothers and sisters when they finally came to begin properly exploring.
He bargained some collecting himself a few odds and in and trying to learn the history of this Northern area, the large structure made him feel uncomfortable. He was used to open plains and quiet hills, it reminded him of the capital wasteland but a hundred times worse, he couldn't understand why anyone would want to live a big metal city like this.
Eventually, the rest of the team arrived and they began to explore together throughout the Necropolis they wandered. Finn did his best to keep his spirit but as it grew worse he could only hope they would survive the mission. He began to understand that this was more of a death sentence than an exile, that the Brotherhood had sent them too it willingly.
He bargained some collecting himself a few odds and in and trying to learn the history of this Northern area, the large structure made him feel uncomfortable. He was used to open plains and quiet hills, it reminded him of the capital wasteland but a hundred times worse, he couldn't understand why anyone would want to live a big metal city like this.
Eventually, the rest of the team arrived and they began to explore together throughout the Necropolis they wandered. Finn did his best to keep his spirit but as it grew worse he could only hope they would survive the mission. He began to understand that this was more of a death sentence than an exile, that the Brotherhood had sent them too it willingly.
- Survival Characteristics -
| {Non-Combat Skills} |
Old World Machinist: While he lacks computer skills most Scribes have Finn is one hell of a grease monkey from guns to motors, even good old fashion generators Phineas can repair them all, even laser and plasma weapons he understands how to replace, repair, or upgrade. That said he is not a miracle worker don’t expect him to be able to magically slap an elevator and it kicks in. Given time he can decipher most any machine, computers, however, is not his strong suit.
Pickin and grinnin: While not the most common talents it is one Phineas wishes he got to put to better use, he is capable of reading sheet music and playing three instruments. Banjo, guitar, and his personal favorite the fiddle which he will argue into the ground is the proper name for the instrument. He adores playing music and has plenty of copies of songs from his vault saved on his pipboy.
Southern Charm: Phineas Holiday Cassidy is a smooth talker even if he doesn’t know it, he has a way with words and way with people. Finn is good at getting people to talk and very open to hearing about others, people get a sense he is always listening and trying to really care for the others around him. Some perceive this as naive to others it refreshing and reassuring to have someone so willing to listen and care about the problems others face in the wasteland and be willing to try and offer some comfort or help. Naturally, Finn will always try to talk his way through a problem with others before resorting to a lead spitting competition.
Comfort Food: Phineas has knife skills, in the kitchen or on the road his home in the Carolina’s found ways to continue cooking good old fashion southern comfort food even after the end of the world. Just about every Cassidy since Finn’s vault opened has learned to make everything from sweets to biscuits with gravy. If you need someone to turn an unappetizing caravan lunch into something tasty Finn’s got a spice or a method.
| {Possessions} |
Acoustic Guitar with case
Harmonica
Ice cream recipe
Brotherhood Holo-tags
Canteen of purified water
Assorted fresh vegetables
Collection of half full booze bottles
Rucksack
Pipboy
Music holotapes
| {Combat Skills} |
Silent, Vigilant, Deadly: “A sniper is like a genius - it’s not enough to be one, you have to be one at something.” Finn is a marksman and a damn good one, able to pick off an enemy commander with a gauss rifle just outside of what should be the weapons maximum range. While not quick to jump to violence if it required he just needs a line of sight, preferring bullets and guns to energy weapons, for the most part, the Gauss rifle he carries is his personal method for dealing with some of the more nasty creatures that exist in the wasteland.
East Coast Cowboy: With a pistol at his side and a steady hand, Finn can draw and fire with astounding speed, combined with his natural precision he is a deadly duelist and good at reacting to an ambush. Even with his favored battle rifle, he is a well practiced and disciplined shooter staying calm even when bullets are raining down and wasteland critters start closing in. He can reload and clear a jammed weapon quickly thanks to practice and care, well versed in practical weapons he knows just how to use to his advantage.
Power Armor Training: Thanks to the Brotherhood Phineas can operate power armor and fight just as encased in it as he can outside.
Discretion and Valor: When not in power armor Phineas can blend with a crowd or slip into the wastes like a ghost, preferring this method when a straight-up fight is not needed he also knows how to hide a weapon on his person or slip past a patrol of guards to lay a landmine in the path of the patrol. His sneaking skills make him a great choice as a scout, he mastered the skill early on poking around old military bases along the east coast.
Big (Guns) Damn Hero: When his brothers and sisters are on the line when people are in danger, or if it seems like it what needs doing you can bet Phineas will be the first one in line. Phineas is part of the Brotherhood of Steel and he’s well versed in their assault tactics usually playing but he’s also been known to pick up a minigun and charge into the fray to try and protect his friends and family in the Brotherhood. His love of machines extends to some of the bigger weapons in the wastes as well and while he might prefer picking off target it doesn’t mean he won’t be right beside the people he wants to protect if that is what has to be done.
| {Gear} |
.45-70 Gov’t Revolver “Smoke Wagon”
Battle Rifle “Quigley”
Gauss Rifle “Newton”
Brotherhood Recon Armor
T-51b Power Armor
Ammo bags
Bandolier with .308 rounds.
Box of .45-70 rounds
Ammo box for spare rounds.
A case of 2mm EC
GM
Alfhedil What do you see Kaneda?
Member
Seen
22 hrs ago
@Apollosarcher Dropping a mention here on guild as well in case you miss the Discord ping, but you are clear to ship Finn over to the CS tab.
Lord Wyron Reclusive Giant Lord
Member
Seen
29 min ago
Paladin Maine
{ ". . ." }
- General Characteristics -
| {Full Name} |
David Oliver Maine
| {Nickname/Callsign} |
Mutant-Slayer, Paladin Ripper, The Big Guy
| {Age} |
34
| {Gender} |
Male
| {Face Claim} |
Image found online
| {Dialogue Color} |
DarkOliveGreen - #556B2F
| {Appearance} |
A warrior both in body and spirit, David Maine is a physical powerhouse of a man, standing six-foot-three and weighing 245 pounds. Broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and built like an ox, Maine's burly physique, corded with thick muscle, gives testament to his brute strength and power.
Though rarely seen outside his imposing suit of Power Armor, Maine's build is rugged and powerful, owing to a lifetime spent either outside or in the field of battle. His body is covered in various scars and war-wounds, damage even his Power Armor was unable to completely absorb. Oddly enough, Maine seems to take pride in his injuries, equating them to his years of service not only to the Brotherhood, but to the people of the Wasteland.
Taking a utilitarian approach to his personal appearance, Maine considers his features average and unremarkable: keeping both his hair and face shaved for practical purposes. Possessing only minimal facial scarring, Maine's distinguishing physical characteristics are few: consisting of the Brotherhood of Steel symbol tattooed on the back-left side of his head, and his ocean-blue eyes, intense and full of wrath.
Clothing-wise, Maine's garb underneath his Power Armor consists of a standard-issue BoS Uniform. Civilian wear, while exceptionally rare to see, is an assortment of plain t-shirts and wife-beaters worn with cargo pants and combat boots.
Though rarely seen outside his imposing suit of Power Armor, Maine's build is rugged and powerful, owing to a lifetime spent either outside or in the field of battle. His body is covered in various scars and war-wounds, damage even his Power Armor was unable to completely absorb. Oddly enough, Maine seems to take pride in his injuries, equating them to his years of service not only to the Brotherhood, but to the people of the Wasteland.
Taking a utilitarian approach to his personal appearance, Maine considers his features average and unremarkable: keeping both his hair and face shaved for practical purposes. Possessing only minimal facial scarring, Maine's distinguishing physical characteristics are few: consisting of the Brotherhood of Steel symbol tattooed on the back-left side of his head, and his ocean-blue eyes, intense and full of wrath.
Clothing-wise, Maine's garb underneath his Power Armor consists of a standard-issue BoS Uniform. Civilian wear, while exceptionally rare to see, is an assortment of plain t-shirts and wife-beaters worn with cargo pants and combat boots.
- Psychological Profile -
| {Personality} |
Paladin Maine is a man of contrasts, two contradicting sides that coalesce into a single individual. To the Super Mutants and Raiders of the Wasteland, he is a brute: strong, unrelenting, fearless, fueled by bloodlust and aggression. Extremely violent when angered; stories have been told of Maine single-handedly wiping out entire Super Mutant camps, fighting with the force and intensity of ten men. A stoic man of few words, Maine prefers to let his actions speak for him. Proud of his power, and not above taunting enemies with his strength, Maine's almost-vicious nature is complemented by an aggressive, overpowering fighting style that often involves engaging enemies hand-to-hand, only further showcasing his ferocity. It is telling that, despite his quiet nature, Maine's actions when engaging enemy forces seem to be brimming with trembling, barely-restrained fury.
A true warrior at heart, Maine lives for battle, a mindset that has put him at odds many times with his superiors in the Brotherhood, who see his personal vendetta against the Super Mutants and other irradiated horrors of the Wasteland as paramount to their own goal of preserving Pre-War technology. While his loyalty to the Brotherhood has never been questioned, Maine is nevertheless often forced to the sidelines during sweep-and-retrieve missions, barring cases that might require his more...direct approach.
But there is a second side to Maine's character, exclusively seen either by his brothers and sisters, or the innocent settlers of the Wasteland: a man devoted to defending those who cannot defend themselves. Having joined the Brotherhood in response to a Mutant raid on his family's farm years ago, Maine's first and foremost objective is to keep the people of the Wasteland safe; an objective he believes he fulfills by slaughtering Raiders, Super Mutants, and Feral Ghouls by the score. Those who show a callous disregard for human life, especially under the pretense of the "greater good" very quickly find themselves on Maine's bad side, a position with indisputably fatal results.
A man of honor, Maine is willing to risk his life for his companions without a moment's hesitation, trusting his Power Armor to keep him alive as it has many times before. Whether this is a result of genuine self-sacrificing behavior, or simply another outlet for his violent aggression remains unknown; though Field Scribes and Squires paired with Maine in the past have noted his tendency to step in front of them at the first sign of danger, hinting at a more heroic motivation.
While not sharing the majority of the Brotherhood's lust for technology, Maine is nevertheless driven by a desire to increase his own power through Power Armor upgrades and enhancements, hoarding any software or blueprints he finds until they can be properly implemented into his armor. While this desire nowhere near matches some of the Brotherhood's zealousness for technology, it pushes Maine to explore Pre-War military bases, facilities, and other old, dangerous locations, constantly searching for more and more upgrades.
A true warrior at heart, Maine lives for battle, a mindset that has put him at odds many times with his superiors in the Brotherhood, who see his personal vendetta against the Super Mutants and other irradiated horrors of the Wasteland as paramount to their own goal of preserving Pre-War technology. While his loyalty to the Brotherhood has never been questioned, Maine is nevertheless often forced to the sidelines during sweep-and-retrieve missions, barring cases that might require his more...direct approach.
But there is a second side to Maine's character, exclusively seen either by his brothers and sisters, or the innocent settlers of the Wasteland: a man devoted to defending those who cannot defend themselves. Having joined the Brotherhood in response to a Mutant raid on his family's farm years ago, Maine's first and foremost objective is to keep the people of the Wasteland safe; an objective he believes he fulfills by slaughtering Raiders, Super Mutants, and Feral Ghouls by the score. Those who show a callous disregard for human life, especially under the pretense of the "greater good" very quickly find themselves on Maine's bad side, a position with indisputably fatal results.
A man of honor, Maine is willing to risk his life for his companions without a moment's hesitation, trusting his Power Armor to keep him alive as it has many times before. Whether this is a result of genuine self-sacrificing behavior, or simply another outlet for his violent aggression remains unknown; though Field Scribes and Squires paired with Maine in the past have noted his tendency to step in front of them at the first sign of danger, hinting at a more heroic motivation.
While not sharing the majority of the Brotherhood's lust for technology, Maine is nevertheless driven by a desire to increase his own power through Power Armor upgrades and enhancements, hoarding any software or blueprints he finds until they can be properly implemented into his armor. While this desire nowhere near matches some of the Brotherhood's zealousness for technology, it pushes Maine to explore Pre-War military bases, facilities, and other old, dangerous locations, constantly searching for more and more upgrades.
| {Fears/Limitations} |
A determined and indomitable warrior, Maine fears little and is feared by many. Devoting the entirety of his adult life to the glory of battle, Maine is a nigh-unparalleled combatant, with years of experience and training -- but little else to speak of. In a way, he is trapped by his own power, lacking the varied skill-set or wide range of abilities that other Paladins boast. He is not charismatic, prudent, technologically adept, quick, agile, or incredibly resourceful, making him a poor choice for almost any job that doesn't involve shooting or beating something into a bloody pulp.
Maine's greatest physical weakness, ironically, lies in his fighting style. Relying solely on power, brute strength, and basic wrestling moves, Maine's combat form is unrefined and sloppy; not an issue when facing Super Mutants or Raiders, but against more skilled fighters, Maine is at a disadvantage, unable to surpass skill with strength alone. Nevertheless, he is not a foe to be underestimated, as landing so much as a single hit while in his Power Armor is usually more than enough to end any close-ranged encounter.
Though not an unintelligent man by any means, possessing both warrior instincts and keen battlefield awareness, Maine prioritizes physical might and power over intellectual pursuits. While he has enough common sense to avoid being a liability to himself or his team, Maine, by his own admission, does not have a mind for logistics, strategy, or politics. He is straightforward and direct, preferring an upfront approach both in battle and social interaction. While this does not make him necessarily easy to manipulate, Maine will follow nearly any order given to him by a superior unless that order directly contradicts his personal moral code.
But perhaps Maine's biggest weakness is his inability to let go. Consumed by the fires of vengeance, it's clear to everyone but Maine, himself that his mission was completed a long time ago. His personal crusade, once bearing the honor of protecting the people of the Wasteland, has devolved into a genocidal rampage, motivated by savagery, not altruism. Though Maine remains blissfully unaware of this, he is unfortunately just as much a victim as anything else. To him, there is a day, far off in the distance, where he can lay down his weapons and retire back to farm life on a peaceful Wasteland. But the sad truth is that no matter what he may think, he is unable to give up the rage that sustains him. Forever the Mutant-Slayer.
Maine's greatest physical weakness, ironically, lies in his fighting style. Relying solely on power, brute strength, and basic wrestling moves, Maine's combat form is unrefined and sloppy; not an issue when facing Super Mutants or Raiders, but against more skilled fighters, Maine is at a disadvantage, unable to surpass skill with strength alone. Nevertheless, he is not a foe to be underestimated, as landing so much as a single hit while in his Power Armor is usually more than enough to end any close-ranged encounter.
Though not an unintelligent man by any means, possessing both warrior instincts and keen battlefield awareness, Maine prioritizes physical might and power over intellectual pursuits. While he has enough common sense to avoid being a liability to himself or his team, Maine, by his own admission, does not have a mind for logistics, strategy, or politics. He is straightforward and direct, preferring an upfront approach both in battle and social interaction. While this does not make him necessarily easy to manipulate, Maine will follow nearly any order given to him by a superior unless that order directly contradicts his personal moral code.
But perhaps Maine's biggest weakness is his inability to let go. Consumed by the fires of vengeance, it's clear to everyone but Maine, himself that his mission was completed a long time ago. His personal crusade, once bearing the honor of protecting the people of the Wasteland, has devolved into a genocidal rampage, motivated by savagery, not altruism. Though Maine remains blissfully unaware of this, he is unfortunately just as much a victim as anything else. To him, there is a day, far off in the distance, where he can lay down his weapons and retire back to farm life on a peaceful Wasteland. But the sad truth is that no matter what he may think, he is unable to give up the rage that sustains him. Forever the Mutant-Slayer.
| {Place of Origin} |
Unlike many in the Brotherhood of Steel, Paladin Maine did not have the privilege of being born in their ranks. His childhood and teen years were spent in ambiguity, working day-in and day-out at his family's farm, which he was expected to inherit at his father's passing. A Super Mutant raid at the age of 20 changed all that, and Maine was given first witness to just what true horrors inhabited the Wastes, preying on near-helpless settlers like himself and his family. Saved by the timely rescue of a Brotherhood patrol, the head Paladin saw a fire in the young man's eyes: resolve, determination...aggression. Feeling that was exactly what the Brotherhood could use, Maine was given the opportunity to join them at the Citadel, where he could hone that aggression through training, a common goal: Brotherhood..
| {Background} |
David Maine never spoke about the farm, his childhood. What was there to be said? When the Brotherhood found him, he was but a young man, snarling like a rabid animal, clutching an old NCR Service Rifle in his arms. Everything around him was on fire: the old ramshackle barn, the house, even the crop fields.
He was surrounded by corpses: his parents', the Brahmin, even three of the Mutant abominations laid dead at his feet. From that fateful day forward: David Maine was a member of the Brotherhood of Steel. Having lost one family and gained another, Maine acquired focus where none existed; ambition where there was once only survival; conquest where there was subjugation. He'd never forget the sight of his parents' mangled bodies missing chunks of flesh, rotten Mutant teeth grinning red in the firelight. But it was that very image that gave him the strength to persevere.
From his earliest days as an Initiate-in-training, Maine's physical prowess made itself known. Whatever the other Initiates could lift, Maine could lift twice that, and carry it just as far. He was a domineering presence, standing at least a head above the others and already showing a penchant for aggression. Sparring matches often ended with broken bones and internal bruising. To Maine, there was no distinction between training and fighting. It was all an outlet for his rage, his grief. And he would let the world know.
Naturally, this behavior troubled his overseers in the Brotherhood, who soon began to see Maine as an untamed dog, held on a thin leash. Still, they saw a use for him, a way for him to let out that aggression. Suited up in Brotherhood-painted Combat Armor and given a laser rifle, Maine was sent on his first mission in the field, part of a small squadron of Initiates led by Paladin Ishmael Isaac. It was here that Maine saw combat firsthand, in all its glory, and all its horror...and he was inspired. The unstoppable force Paladin Isaac represented, his strength and endurance and power. Maine desired it, desired that strength.
From that day on, he threw himself at his training, evolving from a rabid hound to a controllable weapon of the Brotherhood, their warrior at the front lines. He pointed himself at the Super Mutants that still plagued the Wasteland, committed to nothing less than their total extermination. Beginning a one-man crusade, Maine rose through the Brotherhood's ranks, his passion and vicious determination quickly garnering a reputation of awe and fear among his contemporaries. Some viewed Maine with respect: seeing him as a loyal Brotherhood soldier, willing to do whatever it took to accomplish a mission. Still, others saw him as little more than a mindless brute, indulging in the violence and brutality he inflicted on the Brotherhood's foes.
Maine continued to mold himself as a weapon for the Brotherhood, used almost exclusively for combat operations. Calling in "The Big Guy" was often all it took to turn the tide of a losing battle. It was obvious that even after all these years, Maine's rage had not been sated, but merely kept at bay. Though reveling in war, there was no peace to be found, and that left him confused and uncertain.
While most of the Brotherhood saw him as a dull animal driven by vengeance, those close to Maine could see there was more to him than that. The loss of his home, his family, filled him not only with rage, but a desire to prevent a similar incident from ever occurring. Having come from the lowest dregs of the Wastes, Maine sympathized with their plight in a way few within the Brotherhood could hope to match. He saw it as the Brotherhood's duty to protect the farmers and settlers who were simply trying to survive. While such an aspect of his character made him a perfect fit under the Lyons' leadership, its popularity faltered after Sarah Lyons' death left the Brotherhood in a state of flux.
With their motive gradually shifting back to the original mission of preserving Pre-War technology, Lyons loyalists were seen as undesirables standing in the way of the Brotherhood's return to glory. This finally culminated a year ago, where a squadron 'coincidentally' consisting of Lyons supporters, Maine included, were chosen to foray into the Necropolis, seeking long-lost technology in the New York nuclear hell. Mere weeks after entering, the squad was deemed MIA, and Maine thought for dead, another ghost of the Brotherhood's past.
He was surrounded by corpses: his parents', the Brahmin, even three of the Mutant abominations laid dead at his feet. From that fateful day forward: David Maine was a member of the Brotherhood of Steel. Having lost one family and gained another, Maine acquired focus where none existed; ambition where there was once only survival; conquest where there was subjugation. He'd never forget the sight of his parents' mangled bodies missing chunks of flesh, rotten Mutant teeth grinning red in the firelight. But it was that very image that gave him the strength to persevere.
From his earliest days as an Initiate-in-training, Maine's physical prowess made itself known. Whatever the other Initiates could lift, Maine could lift twice that, and carry it just as far. He was a domineering presence, standing at least a head above the others and already showing a penchant for aggression. Sparring matches often ended with broken bones and internal bruising. To Maine, there was no distinction between training and fighting. It was all an outlet for his rage, his grief. And he would let the world know.
Naturally, this behavior troubled his overseers in the Brotherhood, who soon began to see Maine as an untamed dog, held on a thin leash. Still, they saw a use for him, a way for him to let out that aggression. Suited up in Brotherhood-painted Combat Armor and given a laser rifle, Maine was sent on his first mission in the field, part of a small squadron of Initiates led by Paladin Ishmael Isaac. It was here that Maine saw combat firsthand, in all its glory, and all its horror...and he was inspired. The unstoppable force Paladin Isaac represented, his strength and endurance and power. Maine desired it, desired that strength.
From that day on, he threw himself at his training, evolving from a rabid hound to a controllable weapon of the Brotherhood, their warrior at the front lines. He pointed himself at the Super Mutants that still plagued the Wasteland, committed to nothing less than their total extermination. Beginning a one-man crusade, Maine rose through the Brotherhood's ranks, his passion and vicious determination quickly garnering a reputation of awe and fear among his contemporaries. Some viewed Maine with respect: seeing him as a loyal Brotherhood soldier, willing to do whatever it took to accomplish a mission. Still, others saw him as little more than a mindless brute, indulging in the violence and brutality he inflicted on the Brotherhood's foes.
Maine continued to mold himself as a weapon for the Brotherhood, used almost exclusively for combat operations. Calling in "The Big Guy" was often all it took to turn the tide of a losing battle. It was obvious that even after all these years, Maine's rage had not been sated, but merely kept at bay. Though reveling in war, there was no peace to be found, and that left him confused and uncertain.
While most of the Brotherhood saw him as a dull animal driven by vengeance, those close to Maine could see there was more to him than that. The loss of his home, his family, filled him not only with rage, but a desire to prevent a similar incident from ever occurring. Having come from the lowest dregs of the Wastes, Maine sympathized with their plight in a way few within the Brotherhood could hope to match. He saw it as the Brotherhood's duty to protect the farmers and settlers who were simply trying to survive. While such an aspect of his character made him a perfect fit under the Lyons' leadership, its popularity faltered after Sarah Lyons' death left the Brotherhood in a state of flux.
With their motive gradually shifting back to the original mission of preserving Pre-War technology, Lyons loyalists were seen as undesirables standing in the way of the Brotherhood's return to glory. This finally culminated a year ago, where a squadron 'coincidentally' consisting of Lyons supporters, Maine included, were chosen to foray into the Necropolis, seeking long-lost technology in the New York nuclear hell. Mere weeks after entering, the squad was deemed MIA, and Maine thought for dead, another ghost of the Brotherhood's past.
- Survival Characteristics -
| {Non-Combat Skills} |
Intimidation: Incredibly big and incredibly strong, with a well-earned reputation for violence and brutality, what Maine lacks in charisma he more than makes up for with fear. Inadvertently cultivating an image for himself as an emotionless weapon of vengeance, Maine expresses his intentions not through boastful threats or vivid speeches, but through simple, poignant gestures. Even those in the Brotherhood know that what makes Maine the most terrifying isn't what he's capable of doing, but what he's done already, and his willingness to do again.
Farming: Though Maine had long ago traded a pitchfork for a laser rifle, he hasn't forgotten the first twenty years of his life spent tilling the fields back home. He is a skilled amateur farmer, capable of planting, watering, tending, and harvesting various crops; ranging from tatos and mutfruit to corn and razorgrain.
Field Survival: A useful skill honed over years of in-the-field experience, Maine is talented simply at surviving. In a world as dangerous as it is, full of equally-dangerous creatures and people, Maine has survived countless situations against increasingly-impossible odds. Using his own resolve and instincts, he can quickly find shelter, food and water sources, ammunition, and spare components, making him an invaluable ally even on supposed suicide missions.
Determination: Maine's greatest advantage, even beyond his physical capabilities, is his sheer level of determination and willpower. More a force of nature than a man, Maine will not stop until his mission is complete, no matter the odds or the obstacles. This resolve is what has allowed him to power through dozens of combat missions not only relatively unharmed, but further motivated to achieve his goal. It is this aspect of his character that the Super Mutants (and, to an extent, the Brotherhood) hate and fear most about him.
Farming: Though Maine had long ago traded a pitchfork for a laser rifle, he hasn't forgotten the first twenty years of his life spent tilling the fields back home. He is a skilled amateur farmer, capable of planting, watering, tending, and harvesting various crops; ranging from tatos and mutfruit to corn and razorgrain.
Field Survival: A useful skill honed over years of in-the-field experience, Maine is talented simply at surviving. In a world as dangerous as it is, full of equally-dangerous creatures and people, Maine has survived countless situations against increasingly-impossible odds. Using his own resolve and instincts, he can quickly find shelter, food and water sources, ammunition, and spare components, making him an invaluable ally even on supposed suicide missions.
Determination: Maine's greatest advantage, even beyond his physical capabilities, is his sheer level of determination and willpower. More a force of nature than a man, Maine will not stop until his mission is complete, no matter the odds or the obstacles. This resolve is what has allowed him to power through dozens of combat missions not only relatively unharmed, but further motivated to achieve his goal. It is this aspect of his character that the Super Mutants (and, to an extent, the Brotherhood) hate and fear most about him.
| {Possessions} |
- Gray-and-green MOLLE bag with BoS insignia patch
- Personal Holotags
- Faded BoS Holotags, belonging to one "Ishmael Isaac"
- Brahmin horn
- Severed Sentry Bot and Assaultron head
- Mister Gutsy eye stalk
- Three Inactive Distress Pulsers
| {Combat Skills} |
Physical Strength & Endurance: A monster both on and off the battlefield, Maine is infamous for his immense brute strength and durability. Combining his own powerful physique with the enhanced strength of his Power Armor, Maine is capable of tearing through walls, doors -- and people -- with terrifying ease. Able to go toe-to-toe with Super Mutants and even fully-grown Yao Guai, Maine's incredible strength is matched only by his endurance. All-but-immune to small-arms fire and capable of absorbing up to a direct hit from a missile launcher before showing noticeable damage, Maine's Power Armor makes him a formidable front-line tank, shrugging off all but the most devastating firepower without so much as flinching; unafraid to use his own body as a shield should the need call for it.
Heavy Gunner: Befitting his brutish, aggressive nature, Maine shows a penchant for wielding the biggest guns he can get his hands on. Preferring the devastating firepower of the Minigun or Gatling Laser, Maine's great strength allows him to effortlessly handle such weapons the same way a lesser man would hold a rifle.
Close-Quarters Combat: An area where he can let his sheer physical might shine, Maine is a terrifying close-quarters combatant: barraging opponents with powerful, crushing blows, or simply ripping them to pieces with his bare hands. Relying on a heavy-handed, heavy-footed fighting style that revolves around carnage, Maine is brutal and result-oriented: crushing skulls and rib cages; stomping on shins, knees, necks, and collarbones; ripping heads off; or tearing fists through chests to pull out spinal columns.
Power Armor Training: A necessary skill for any Paladin in the field, Maine has undergone extensive Power Armor training since his earliest days as an Initiate. With a fascination that soon devolved into outright obsession, Maine fell in love with the enhanced strength and nigh-invulnerability that his armor granted him; ransacking Pre-War military bases, laboratories, and testing facilities for any upgrades he could find. Even now, while using the comparatively-inferior T-51 model, Maine's enhancements and modifications make it just as, if not more effective than the standard-issue T-60.
Heavy Gunner: Befitting his brutish, aggressive nature, Maine shows a penchant for wielding the biggest guns he can get his hands on. Preferring the devastating firepower of the Minigun or Gatling Laser, Maine's great strength allows him to effortlessly handle such weapons the same way a lesser man would hold a rifle.
Close-Quarters Combat: An area where he can let his sheer physical might shine, Maine is a terrifying close-quarters combatant: barraging opponents with powerful, crushing blows, or simply ripping them to pieces with his bare hands. Relying on a heavy-handed, heavy-footed fighting style that revolves around carnage, Maine is brutal and result-oriented: crushing skulls and rib cages; stomping on shins, knees, necks, and collarbones; ripping heads off; or tearing fists through chests to pull out spinal columns.
Power Armor Training: A necessary skill for any Paladin in the field, Maine has undergone extensive Power Armor training since his earliest days as an Initiate. With a fascination that soon devolved into outright obsession, Maine fell in love with the enhanced strength and nigh-invulnerability that his armor granted him; ransacking Pre-War military bases, laboratories, and testing facilities for any upgrades he could find. Even now, while using the comparatively-inferior T-51 model, Maine's enhancements and modifications make it just as, if not more effective than the standard-issue T-60.
| {Gear} |
- Field First Aid Kit containing scavenged: Stimpak(s), Dirty Water, Rad-X, RadAway, Med-X, and Bandage(s)
- Spare Fusion Core
- Case of Microfusion Cells
- T-51b Power Armor - Having worn the same suit of Power Armor since he was first trained as an Initiate, Maine's personalized T-51 may as well be an inseparable part of him. Scarred from years of hard use, Maine's armor is adorned with neither sigil nor ornament, retaining its original military gray-and-green paint scheme. In spite of its humble appearance, Maine's armor has been heavily modified and enhanced to increase its offensive capabilities. Equipped with rad scrubbers, motion-assist and overdrive servos, hydraulic bracers, and titanium plating, Maine's armor upgrades cater directly to his relentless, overwhelming fighting style, increasing his strength and durability even beyond the normal bounds of Power Armor.
- Gatling Laser [DECOMMISSIONED] - Maine's preferred go-to weapon, and one he's used almost exclusively for many years, Maine's Gatling Laser was an invaluable asset during the first few weeks of the Necropolis mission. However, as time dragged on and resources grew short, Maine was forced to retire the weapon indefinitely to salvage as many Fusion Cores as possible, leaving it little more than a glorified paperweight.
- Minigun [DECOMMISSIONED] - Ripped straight off the mount of a crashed Vertibird, Maine turned to the Minigun after decommissioning his Gatling Laser. Though quickly falling in love with the weapon's incredible rate of fire and destructive capabilities, its tendency to chew up ammo at an alarming rate forced Maine to keep its uses few-and-far-between. For now, it sits patiently in his bunker, with Maine stockpiling over 500 rounds of 5mm ammunition for a rainy day.
- Tri-Beam Laser Rifle - Maine's now-primary weapon in the Necropolis, this sawed-off AER9 laser rifle is loud, hits hard, and borders on impractical outside of very specific situations - which suits Maine just fine. Though lacking the effective range and accuracy of a standard laser rifle, the tri-beam's devastating firepower when shoved directly into an enemy's face complements Maine's straightforward approach perfectly. Due to consuming microfusion cells much faster than other energy weapons, Maine carries at least a spare case on him at all times when away from the bunker.
- Laser Pistol - No Paladin would be caught dead in the field without carrying a sidearm, and Maine is no exception. There's not much here to be said: the AEP7 pistol is accurate, resilient to heavy use, has a generous battery size, and does fairly decent damage.
- Chainsaw - For those occasions where punching something to death just isn't enough. During one of Maine's supply runs, he came across a chainsaw found in an abandoned hardware store. Feeling what could only be approximated as love at first sight, Maine adopted the chainsaw as his personal melee weapon to use against enemies who needed more than an armored fist to the face. Despite toeing the line of impracticality, the terror felt upon seeing a vengeful seven-foot-tall colossus in Power Armor holding a running chainsaw is nearly as effective as the weapon itself. However, Maine's personal love of the chainsaw does little to justify its tremendous drawbacks. Heavy fuel consumption, sensitive components, and constantly-needed repairs make it unreliable at best, and thus Maine limits its use.
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Member
Seen
6 yrs ago
No Luck Chuck
{ "Everybody wants to be a hero when it matters most, I know that. But if you had to choose between your life and someone else's, well, we both know who you'd choose." }
- General Characteristics -
| {Full Name} |
Chuck Lee Smith .
| {Nickname/Callsign} |
'No Luck Chuck'
| {Age} |
53
| {Gender} |
Male
| {Face Claim} |
N/A
| {Dialogue Color} |
Blue
| {Appearance} |
Tall and muscular, around 6'11", weighing in at a hefty 253 lbs. His dirty brown hair has many flecks of gray, his face covered in a semi tattered beard maybe a centimeter long in length, also turning color with age, though much more noticeably. His forehead, eyes and about his mouth are covered in deep stress lines or wrinkles to further show his worn down and old look. His body, face included is also visibly scarred. Minor burns line his forehead down to the bridge of his nose, and several slashes are slapped across his chin. His eyes are a brilliantly faded shade of blue. Looking directly at his face you may get the idea he's mad, or deeply saddened. Despite his figure, he is rarely ever stood straight up, often hunched unless he is actively doing something that requires his full size.
To wear he has very little in the way of style, wearing the cleanest clothes he can find, only keeping a couple things over the years. That being a now tattered sweatshirt, an incredibly worn Bee patch sewn onto it, though it is clearly trying to come off. Alongside that, he wears a pristine monocle over his left eye he spent a fair share of caps having produced in order to help with building poor eyesight.
To wear he has very little in the way of style, wearing the cleanest clothes he can find, only keeping a couple things over the years. That being a now tattered sweatshirt, an incredibly worn Bee patch sewn onto it, though it is clearly trying to come off. Alongside that, he wears a pristine monocle over his left eye he spent a fair share of caps having produced in order to help with building poor eyesight.
- Psychological Profile -
| {Personality} |
Though once bright and full of joy, the effects of the wasteland have worn down on him, and his past especially has eaten at him something fierce. As such, he is often gruff, blunt, to the point. He is also very quiet in situations where his input is unnecessary. While he has been compassionate and caring in the past, all that he has had the time to love has met with a bitter end, and those he has befriended, though few and far between, rarely stick around. Sooner or later something bad is going to happen, and he sincerely hopes that anybody who talks themselves up as the heroic type finds a swift end before they can ruin their outlook, as anything else might lead them down Chuck's own path. He has a strong love for simple people, and will at all times maintain that he is an average person, despite any past he has, knowing full well anybody in the wastelands could lose a loved one, and that he's no different from any other. Overall, Chuck is simple, often likes the simple things in life, and the simple people, but strongly, though silently dislikes people who boast or brag about themselves.
| {Fears/Limitations} |
Above all else he is afraid of dying, despite his long life by wasteland standards. His ability to put other people's lives over his own is basically nothing. If he deems something as a death mission then he's completely off, and has absolutely no interest in it any longer, detaching himself from those he knows will die by going through with it. He also finds it incredibly hard to focus when people around him are moving around, believing that there's a time for frantically jumping around and a time for calm, meditation of sorts. He also sincerely believes that alcohol and a majority of drugs are vices that are simply unacceptable, as he still lightly holds on to the belief in the ideal American. As such, he will not consume alcohol or addictive drugs under any circumstances.
| {Place of Origin} |
Born originally off the coast of San Francisco on a somewhat familiar Oil Rig, becoming just another piece in the Enclave's machine.
| {Background} |
[.hr]| {Background} |
He was only 6 when he and his family left the infamous oil rig to New California, in order join more of the Enclave. Three years later his old home was destroyed by some 'backwards tribe' as his mother described, though he never learned more than that. Mere weeks after the destruction of the Oil Rig, under leadership of Senior Autumns, Chuck would be transported far east, growing up in the Capital Wasteland, learning about the glories of America, becoming a soldier for the Enclave, having it drilled into his very being that dying for his country was truly the highest honor, and for much of his life he believed it. He also believed fully in himself, working hard to become a bastion of athleticism, his size only growing to match his strength, and for a time he believed himself to be the poster child for good hard working American. But, as there tends to be when considering the Enclave and any plans it or it's people have ever lain, things took a turn for the worse.
At the age of thirty-four his streak of narrowly avoiding certain doom in his younger days was cut short, when he and a small squad of other Enclave soldiers were sent on patrols from Raven Rock. Despite their superior technology, an unreasonably large force of raiders caught them off guard and panic quickly washed over the group. Knowing full well that dying in the line of duty would serve his family well, that being his mother and father as he was unmarried at the time, he was one of the first to take up arms against the massive threat, but upon watching a member of his squad push Chuck aside only to be hit squarely by a rocket, killing him and disorienting Chuck alongside the rest of the squad, his will was shattered. It took him no time at all to call a retreat, push past the line of raiders, and for several hours he and the dwindling group of Enclave soldiers fled from an ever encroaching force of D.C.'s most vile. When he and his group came upon an empty Super Duper Mart, he lead the remaining two survivors inside, and then to the building's back exit. Telling them to stand guard and watch the entrance he quickly relieved himself of his suit of power armor, dropped several plasma grenades and the majority of his weaponry and anything that might slow him down beyond a knife, and fled, the ensuing explosion either killed or injured the remainder of his squad, but he escaped with his life.
His life was, to a degree, over from that point on, at least his old one. His mental conditioning for all his life had ultimately failed when it counted most. Not only that, but he could no longer return to the Enclave, as he was no good at lying, and there was no doubt they'd find out what had happened eventually. At that point all he had was his gear, which he quickly went about changing as soon as he picked up clothes, even tattered remains of what could have been clothes to avoid attracting any unwanted attention, his dogtags, and a tri-fold american flag his parents gave him for good luck every time he left on a patrol. Though mentally he was no longer the Enclave soldier he once was, he was still trained, and went about traveling North-East ever slowly, every now and then settling down for a few years, picking up mercenary work, primarily as a bodyguard because of his frame, experience, and prior training.
He finally found himself not far from Philadelphia, living in a somewhat average town in a shack he bought with what savings he could make up over the years, now forty-two. After some time he married, continued to work as a hired guard and frequently left town with a detail of people escorting somebody who figured he needed escorting. It took some time, but he married at forty-four to a woman only a tad older than he. When he was home he'd go out with his wife and play cards around local bars, eventually earning the nickname 'Good Luck Chuck' from his wife. Tragedy did strike however, and as his wife didn't stop playing cards when he was away, he came home after a month long trip to find that his wife had been brutally stabbed by a man who had just finished losing five caps over a game of go-fish just days after he had left. He soon became a sunken version of himself, still working to survive, and in his off time retracting into his shack, conditioning himself physically. Over time his nickname shifted to Bad Luck Chuck, and then eventually to No Luck Chuck as it seemed absolutely nothing went his way, when he was the sole survivor of another incident, this time as a guard traveling only to the town over, in which again, when all things went wrong he fled, leaving his temporary colleagues and boss to die. This, obviously, killed any chance he had at finding work, and only furthered his reasons for leaving town and moving further North-East, drawn by the allure of the Necropolis but was cut short in 2278 when news finally reached him about the destruction of Raven Rock, and as such, what he knew of as a family. For nine years then he roamed, scavenging what he could among the rubble of what was once a thriving city, the dreams of apple pie and baseball still lingering in his mind as he recounted his days in the Enclave.
Of course however, the Pariah's call eventually made it's way to him, no doubt the man needing more muscle for his meat grinder, and he was sure to take it, though, it would be a long while for him to arrive, it gave him time to brush up on abilities he'd learned during his times both as a soldier, mercenary, and scavenger.
At the age of thirty-four his streak of narrowly avoiding certain doom in his younger days was cut short, when he and a small squad of other Enclave soldiers were sent on patrols from Raven Rock. Despite their superior technology, an unreasonably large force of raiders caught them off guard and panic quickly washed over the group. Knowing full well that dying in the line of duty would serve his family well, that being his mother and father as he was unmarried at the time, he was one of the first to take up arms against the massive threat, but upon watching a member of his squad push Chuck aside only to be hit squarely by a rocket, killing him and disorienting Chuck alongside the rest of the squad, his will was shattered. It took him no time at all to call a retreat, push past the line of raiders, and for several hours he and the dwindling group of Enclave soldiers fled from an ever encroaching force of D.C.'s most vile. When he and his group came upon an empty Super Duper Mart, he lead the remaining two survivors inside, and then to the building's back exit. Telling them to stand guard and watch the entrance he quickly relieved himself of his suit of power armor, dropped several plasma grenades and the majority of his weaponry and anything that might slow him down beyond a knife, and fled, the ensuing explosion either killed or injured the remainder of his squad, but he escaped with his life.
His life was, to a degree, over from that point on, at least his old one. His mental conditioning for all his life had ultimately failed when it counted most. Not only that, but he could no longer return to the Enclave, as he was no good at lying, and there was no doubt they'd find out what had happened eventually. At that point all he had was his gear, which he quickly went about changing as soon as he picked up clothes, even tattered remains of what could have been clothes to avoid attracting any unwanted attention, his dogtags, and a tri-fold american flag his parents gave him for good luck every time he left on a patrol. Though mentally he was no longer the Enclave soldier he once was, he was still trained, and went about traveling North-East ever slowly, every now and then settling down for a few years, picking up mercenary work, primarily as a bodyguard because of his frame, experience, and prior training.
He finally found himself not far from Philadelphia, living in a somewhat average town in a shack he bought with what savings he could make up over the years, now forty-two. After some time he married, continued to work as a hired guard and frequently left town with a detail of people escorting somebody who figured he needed escorting. It took some time, but he married at forty-four to a woman only a tad older than he. When he was home he'd go out with his wife and play cards around local bars, eventually earning the nickname 'Good Luck Chuck' from his wife. Tragedy did strike however, and as his wife didn't stop playing cards when he was away, he came home after a month long trip to find that his wife had been brutally stabbed by a man who had just finished losing five caps over a game of go-fish just days after he had left. He soon became a sunken version of himself, still working to survive, and in his off time retracting into his shack, conditioning himself physically. Over time his nickname shifted to Bad Luck Chuck, and then eventually to No Luck Chuck as it seemed absolutely nothing went his way, when he was the sole survivor of another incident, this time as a guard traveling only to the town over, in which again, when all things went wrong he fled, leaving his temporary colleagues and boss to die. This, obviously, killed any chance he had at finding work, and only furthered his reasons for leaving town and moving further North-East, drawn by the allure of the Necropolis but was cut short in 2278 when news finally reached him about the destruction of Raven Rock, and as such, what he knew of as a family. For nine years then he roamed, scavenging what he could among the rubble of what was once a thriving city, the dreams of apple pie and baseball still lingering in his mind as he recounted his days in the Enclave.
Of course however, the Pariah's call eventually made it's way to him, no doubt the man needing more muscle for his meat grinder, and he was sure to take it, though, it would be a long while for him to arrive, it gave him time to brush up on abilities he'd learned during his times both as a soldier, mercenary, and scavenger.
- Survival Characteristics -
| {Non-Combat Skills} |
Metalworking - During his time in the enclave he went through several jobs, though one he always enjoyed was repairing armor and putting together defenses, barricades, or even just beds for the barracks. He renewed his love for the craft during his time as a scavenger, making all manner of sculpture and random objects of steel, though his greatest work came in the form of a large two handed hammer he uses as his primary form of defense.
Map Making - During his time as a scavenger he tended to stick to one area for long periods of time, mapping out large areas over the course of his stay on blocks of wood, sheets of metal, or in very rare cases, paper. He then often sold his maps to anybody without a pip-boy, netting him a few caps every now and then when he was short.
Cooking - Having been so adapted to life with the Enclave, and as such, a much nicer, tastier diet than that of the average wastelander, during his time far away from the Enclave he stopped to make sure he got the little things right, such as properly cooking a good squirrel stew, taking care to season that Iguana-on-a-stick before mindlessly stuffing it down his throat, though despite this has become somewhat picky when it comes to eating.
Map Making - During his time as a scavenger he tended to stick to one area for long periods of time, mapping out large areas over the course of his stay on blocks of wood, sheets of metal, or in very rare cases, paper. He then often sold his maps to anybody without a pip-boy, netting him a few caps every now and then when he was short.
Cooking - Having been so adapted to life with the Enclave, and as such, a much nicer, tastier diet than that of the average wastelander, during his time far away from the Enclave he stopped to make sure he got the little things right, such as properly cooking a good squirrel stew, taking care to season that Iguana-on-a-stick before mindlessly stuffing it down his throat, though despite this has become somewhat picky when it comes to eating.
| {Possessions} |
Sack, using two ropes as straps
Small jars of common spices
-Salt
-Pepper
-Oregano
-Thyme
-Cumin
- Each only a third of the way full, and relatively small.
Tri-fold American flag
Dogtags
A sealed tin of beef broth
Matches
Dried Meat 8x
Carrot 1x
Small Pot 1x
Half-Pound Raw Brahmin Meat
Rad-X 1x
Stimpak 1x
Gauze Wrap
Box 20 of Regular Size Band-Aids
Old Pre-War Vault-Tec Brand Band-Aid 1x
Small jars of common spices
-Salt
-Pepper
-Oregano
-Thyme
-Cumin
- Each only a third of the way full, and relatively small.
Tri-fold American flag
Dogtags
A sealed tin of beef broth
Matches
Dried Meat 8x
Carrot 1x
Small Pot 1x
Half-Pound Raw Brahmin Meat
Rad-X 1x
Stimpak 1x
Gauze Wrap
Box 20 of Regular Size Band-Aids
Old Pre-War Vault-Tec Brand Band-Aid 1x
| {Combat Skills} |
Master of Close-Quarters fighting - Having grown up learning to fight until he was eighteen, and then actively fighting with creatures of the wastes until his mid forties, his grasp on fighting anything, whether with his fists or a weapon, is beyond what most would call normal. Though his skills are no doubt beginning to fade due to the limitations of his body, his grasp on fighting somebody at close range might be better than his grasp on the English language.
General Knowledge of Energy Weapons - Having served in the Enclave most his life, he has a firm grasp on energy weapons, though, a lack of exposure since his departure has heavily rusted his skills with them.
Extreme Athleticism - Having been an incredibly athletic person during his time in the enclave, and out, even as old age knocks on his door he makes certain he has the strength to knock back twice as hard.
Power Armor Training - Being apart of the Enclave he was given formal training and plenty of time with power armor, though he's not used the armor in quite some time.
General Knowledge of Energy Weapons - Having served in the Enclave most his life, he has a firm grasp on energy weapons, though, a lack of exposure since his departure has heavily rusted his skills with them.
Extreme Athleticism - Having been an incredibly athletic person during his time in the enclave, and out, even as old age knocks on his door he makes certain he has the strength to knock back twice as hard.
Power Armor Training - Being apart of the Enclave he was given formal training and plenty of time with power armor, though he's not used the armor in quite some time.
| {Gear} |
Reinforced Combat Armor
Gas Mask
Flat Cap
Dirty Black Sweater
Left Eye Monocle
Weather Resistant Boots
Jeans and Flannel Shirt.
10mm Pistol
10mm Pistol Magazine 1x
Unlucky - Having spent plenty of time messing around with metals, when the opportunity presented itself to make something Chuck could truly keep forever, he took it. Using what he had he set about crafting a long hammer, as to play the role of a smaller Super Mutant Behemoth. After some months of work he finally created a hammer, whose pole was as tall as he, and head even larger than his own, squared off on both ends. Despite loving his creation at first, he did realize that a metal staff did a number on his arms anytime he swung it at something, so with some work and a large amount of searching, he lined the long pole with several patched together clothes and padding. Finally, he dubbed it 'Unlucky' inscribing it on either side of the head, after his unfortunate nickname, and to remind himself of all that he has been through
Gas Mask
Flat Cap
Dirty Black Sweater
Left Eye Monocle
Weather Resistant Boots
Jeans and Flannel Shirt.
10mm Pistol
10mm Pistol Magazine 1x
Unlucky - Having spent plenty of time messing around with metals, when the opportunity presented itself to make something Chuck could truly keep forever, he took it. Using what he had he set about crafting a long hammer, as to play the role of a smaller Super Mutant Behemoth. After some months of work he finally created a hammer, whose pole was as tall as he, and head even larger than his own, squared off on both ends. Despite loving his creation at first, he did realize that a metal staff did a number on his arms anytime he swung it at something, so with some work and a large amount of searching, he lined the long pole with several patched together clothes and padding. Finally, he dubbed it 'Unlucky' inscribing it on either side of the head, after his unfortunate nickname, and to remind himself of all that he has been through
After about 5 hours and no sleep I think I've finally come up with something I like. Hope you enjoy, and hope I get in, but if not I'll gladly try again.
GM
Alfhedil What do you see Kaneda?
Member
Seen
22 hrs ago
@Denied Yesterday was a bit busier than intended, but I did see your message on the Discord. If you do find the time to give this a go, do let me know and we can have that talk about your character.
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