After the bombs fell upon the world, and Earth was bathed in Atomic fire, the Arizona National Guardsmen at Prescott fled from the city, running with the civilians who survived the nuclear blasts and the resulting aftermath. To contain the dreadful situation, they set up a quarantine zone around the City, allowing what few civilians still alive to pass through, but allowing nothing to re-enter. Some of the Guardsmen deserted their posts, fleeing into the desert and were never seen again.

The rest stuck to their oath, holding out hope for relief. That hope turned to commitment, to containing the mess that they had inadvertently unleashed upon Prescott. They had seen, right before the bombs fell upon the Earth, what horrible wrath God had put down upon them - wrath fashioned from their own weapons. The commitment turned to duty, and that duty turned into a quasi-religious dogma, to hold the line around the city at all costs.

The Circle, as they came to be called by the wastelanders who found their way heading towards Prescott - named after the simple fact that they literally occupied a circle around the entombed city, were divided into two castes. The Citizenry are the normal civilians - men, women, and children - who are much like the normal wastelanders of Post-War America. They prospect in the ruins along the Route 82, farm with what little they can along their bank of the Willow Creek Reservoir, and eek out their existence. However, the Circle has become known for the Protectors, who carry on the tradition of the Arizona National Guard as best they can. Wearing cobbled-together old kit from their forefathers, sometimes adding in new bits and pieces salvaged, they stand watch along the Circle and on the roads leading into Prescott, to contain the horrors inside, and to prevent travelers from meeting their certain doom in the city.

Caravans coming from Yuma, Phoenix, and Flagstaff are rerouted to paths outside of the city, escorted by the Protectors to ensure that they do not enter the City. Occasionally, an adventurous prospector will try to force his way through the Protectors. They enter the City without much struggle, but they are never seen again. Rumors of the untouched city began to spread through Arizona, attracting more attention and more scavengers. Most of them were turned away by the presence of the Protectors, but the ones that enter never return.

When the Legion came to Prescott, they came in the form of a Frumentarius. The Protectors attempted to stop him from entering, but when the Frumentarius threatened reprisal, they simply allowed him to pass by. He was never seen again. Caesar, his wrath incurred, sent an entire cohort to the Circle. Advanced scouts, spotting the oncoming troops, evacuated the Citizenry and the cohort entered the city - never marching back out. Finally, just before the First Battle of Hoover Dam, a century led by Centurion Lucius Ignius was sent to investigate and to report back. They, too, marched in and never returned. Caesar was planning to send an entire Legio to the City, but was thwarted by the NCR's victory at Hoover Dam, forcing him to allocate more forces along the Colorado. So went the rest of the Legion's reign, not disrupting the City further.

But, as the Legion disintegrates by the day, the Circle feels the rumbling of the City. They feel its gears turning, spinning alive.

They know Prescott is awakening.

When Edward Sallow - Caesar - burned his way through Arizona like a wildfire, whole communities were set alight in the fires of unholy baptism. Some passed the sick test, and earned their way into the ranks of the Slaver Army. Others, however, were forever burned; cursed by the Legion and by the World they once inhabited.

The Forsaken is the remnants of these forever-burned. Once, these ghouls had lived in the communities throughout Arizona. Most in the ranks of the Forsaken are Pre-War ghouls, born in the fires of the original Atomic Horror. Some, the unfortunate of them, were given the curse of Atom after the initial fires stopped. Whatever the case of their ghoulification, they picked up the pieces of their broken lives as best they could, even while facing tremendous hatred from the 'smoothskin normals' who cursed them under their breaths with every deal made.

But when the Legion came, everything changed. The ghouls, hearing of "Legion Justice," fled into the deserts. These wandering groups of ghouls soon found one another, and formed a larger pack with every addition. They soon became something of a folk tale within Legion Arizona; a group of nomadic ghouls traveling from place to place to avoid the Legionaries. The name they are known by was not given to them, but rather by these spinners of legend. They soon adopted it themselves, as it described them aptly. Forsaken by Man, forsaken by God, forsaken by all but themselves.

When the Legion collapsed under its own weight, the ghouls decided to move to place where they could call their own. Hearing the stories of the untouched city of Prescott, they headed in its direction, hoping that the legend of the City would ensure that no one would bring harm to them. When they reached the City, however, the Circle turned them away. They told them to avoid the city at all costs, but kindly suggested settling in the ruins of the surrounding towns.

And the Forsaken did exactly that.

They wandered for a little bit, before settling down in the ruins of Williamson. Picked clean by centuries of the Circle prospecting over its ruins, it wasn't an ideal spot - but it would have to do. The ghouls set about retilling the long-untouched farms, building a small community there. Even some smoothskins, prospectors who hedged their life savings on the trip to Prescott only to be turned around, settled with them and became something of the community's guardians. They thrive off of trade, on commerce, and take solace in the fact that they now have somewhere they can call their own.

For now.

When the Legion disintegrated, that didn't mean the Legionaries turned to sand. And not all Legionaries believed in the cause enough to join the warlords of the Cult of Mars, nor did they feel inclined to turn to raiding. Some, simply, wanted to restart their lives - as if the whole Legion business never happened.

The news of Caesar's death and the defeat of the army at Hoover Dam came to Camp Prefect Gaius Decimus, stationed at a road outpost just outside the Tonto Forests and tasked with spying on the Circle and Prescott, it shook him to the core. He and his men had endured so much heartache, so much struggle in their service with the Legion. They had fought so hard for Caesar, so hard for the ideal of Nova Roma, that it all seemed worthless. Like sands in the desert. He called in his subordinates as soon as he heard the news, and demanded a vote.

Should they fight on? Or should they fade away, abandon the path that they had walked for so long, and start over?

They, to a man, voted to disband.

And so, with little other option left to him, Gaius addressed his men. He told them that Caesar was dead, that the Battle for Vegas had been lost, and that the dream of Nova Roma was over. He said that they were now free of their oaths to him, to Caesar, and to Legion. That they could choose their own path, and that he would curse no man who left the camp now. But, no matter their oaths, they had fought beside Gaius at Phoenix, at Denver, and at Dry Wells. Not a single man left.

Gaius led his men, numbering about twenty, out of the camp, leaving the fires burning behind them as they marched out with their kit, leaving behind only the old standards of the Legion and the Imperial Signifier of Caesar. The band of Legionaries wandered from town to town, gradually abandoning their old armor for leather and metal gear. They began to even change their names, reverting back to their old tribal names - before the Legion stole them away. Gaius Decimus was no more, and in his place was Skin-of-Stars.

They traveled towards Prescott as they knew it to be untouched. But like so many travelers before them, the Circle - as polite as they could be - turned them away. Disheartened, Skin-of-Stars headed towards another object that he had seen so many times through his field glasses: An old wind farm.

They arrived a day later, and found the place occupied by a sizable number of tribals without even a name for their group. Refugees from the Legion's wrath. They took it upon themselves to mix with these people, helping them learn the Legion's martial ways while they in turn taught the former Legionaries how to till the Earth, and what to grow, and more importantly: how to reconnect with their roots. Out of this symbiosis, a new tribe was born: The Wind-Makers.

The Wind-Makers are now working hard to restore the wind farms to order, hoping - perhaps in vain - to connect with the Free State of the Mojave and offer their Courier-King the gift of wind-power.

Born around the middle of the 23rd century Nathaniel Fox was in a fairly prestigious position, his family Brahmin ranchers that would ascend to become true Brahmin Barons with the passage of time.

His many siblings were given various roles in the family to help solidify the influence across the NCR, and as the youngest (and hence most disposable) they rather coldly assigned him to join the army. Though he loathed the condition under which they did so, he proudly became a soldier for the NCR.

However, his boyish dreams of the glory of soldiers wouldn’t be. His NCO was a corrupt man, and it didn’t take long for him to influence the teen. Though as his pay increased with his rises in rank, he couldn’t shift the habit in entirety and a visit with his family to celebrate the inauguration of President Kimball exacerbated this.

Swiftly rising through the ranks of the NCR army the man’s corruption grew from a small nuisance to truly harmful on the tactical scale to frontline units. But there was a small halt in this as he met a woman for himself as most men do. But he didn’t get a happily ever after, for after Hoover Dam’s battle he found her murdered by Legionnaires. This convinced him that in this world naught mattered but your own immediate prospects, and what positive influences she had on him disintegrated in seconds.

He served on as a viscous scoundrel defiling the very word Officer. He sold weapons, uniforms, food, and medicine all that could have saved many lives. His men were almost as if a private army, taking caps in exchange for a great amount of firepower being at the disposal of the highest bidder with the attack written off as “defence of Republican logistics.” But with the Second Battle of Hoover Dam Major Fox knew that his lucrative gig was over. He and those previously on board knew that the NCR held nothing for them with the great danger of accounting discovering what they were doing. So he assembled the men that he knew were of one kind with him, and loading up the best supplies they could get onto Brahmins turning their back on the Republic. Thus in independent new Vegas the mercenary corps known as the Blackjacks were officially formed. They were a mercenary concern that did any work you paid them for with more or less no scruples; they were more than happy to take in anyone with experience regardless of their background and took any job provided the caps were sufficient. At times they almost descended to being lowly raiders, preying on beggars and prostitutes in Freeside to sell as slaves elsewhere. But no matter what the Blackjacks were always distinguished by unparalleled professionalism, their tanned grey combat armour & uniforms, and snazzy tuned firearms accompanied by all sorts of tactical equipment. Their reputation would be mixed. Any town they showed up in they would spend a lot of money in. They always paid their tabs in full, helping old ladies carry produce and they would be generally courteous, never causing trouble to locals and indeed not asking any pay for particularly minor tasks like cutting up some molerats. At the same time rumour would spread that the Blackjacks do nasty things. Tales would spread of how they would hunt former Legion tribals not sparing women, children or elderly. They’d take hits from criminal enterprises upon people, and many a person could claim a tale of suffering to be the result of the Blackjacks’ work.

Hearing of the frontier opening up, Nathaniel saw a once in a lifetime opportunity. The market for mercenaries would be grand with all the trouble there, not to speak of the fact many tribals and settlers with military experience be it in the NCR, Brotherhood or Legion would be good hires for the Blackjacks. Perhaps on the frontier they could grow to the point of Nathaniel even being able to lead a peaceful life himself, managing the company from afar.

[left]Born in the young 2250s to a family of fairly successful Brahmin ranchers, he was integrated in the soft luxury of proto Brahmin barons. He had education and nutrition many a wastelander would envy, and unbeknownst to his infant self he would come to have a name much of California would respect. Just a few years before his birth President Tandi had died, and with that a golden age had ended. But with her death opportunity was presented as her far weaker successor became the target of the bourgeoisie’s scheming. Just as little Nathaniel’s first words were uttered, the beginning of the NCR’s true prospects in the Mojave came with the new business-supported President Peterson.

While Nathan matured into a youth, his family sent off his numerous brothers and sisters to integrate into all of the NCR's power structures; from finding work in the Crimson Caravan and the Gun Runners to studying with the Followers or even getting positions in the banks of the NCR. The Fox family had to do this out of necessity, for without great networking they would be relegated to being lesser barons and possibly even having to fall in line with those far more wealthy at the onset of the loosening business restrictions. As the youth transitioned to a young man, the fact he was the youngest child of his parents made him the one with the least to give, and the most disposable. Thus, his parents rather coldly pushed him into a military career, even suggesting he lie about his age to get started earlier. Though initially he did this gladly, the realization that they were indulging his boyish dreams of heroism just to use him as a tool came quickly, and began the slow process of bittering a happy boy into a hollow bastard.

Young Nathaniel tried his best to cut his ties with his family, wanting to make his own way up the ranks starting as a simple private. Though they cut off his finances as punishment for his insolence, the Fox clan nevertheless used their influence to give the boy considerable privileges during hks service be it more comfortable deployments to a nudge sent by mail to commanding officers to consider him for a promotion or medal.

As great supporters of the military industrial complex and the president, his family was all too excited when once more true combat actions opened up, for the lad would get to say he participated in the campaign to pacify the Sierra Nevadas. As a result of his family's meddling he never did participate in any major assaults but his Sergeant Major ensured he got more than his fair share of violence. Sergeant Major Doyle was a corrupt man, and perhaps one of the most pivotal influences to moulding the Major Fox of today. He took his little Privates for what he called detours in the patrols of already occupied territory. With the threat of being accused of some random crime by an officer, the enlisted Nathan was forced to harass locals and shake them down for whatever they had, and looting the corpses of any real opposition he came across. It disgusted him, but to preserve a semblance of sanity he soon became desensitized to it and saw it as just another duty. For his most honourable service Nathaniel became a Corporal.

Now higher in rank there was a tour of duty to be done in the Mojave, and while he had new officers he somehow couldn't shake off the habits Doyle had instilled in him; the easy life the man taught was all too enticing in the world of so much violence and suffering. So what he pilfered water bottles from the canteen? There was nothing wrong with taking the ring from a tribal woman, after all with a dead husband she wasn't using it anymore, not to speak of the fact they were raider folk! At most the soldier saw his actions as innocent, almost childish misdemeanours entirely oblivious to the slippery slope he was on. With looted supplies keeping him afloat the young soldier was alway far more prepared for anything than his straight arrow comrades, and in spite of his family weary of losing this asset he went forth to carve quite a name for himself in active combat. For his bravery and selflessness he was given a ribbon and the rank of Sergeant.

Following that a peace of sorts reigned, during which Nathaniel was nevertheless very busy. Over the three years of blissful ignorance regarding Caesar’s Legion the many patrols Nathaniel went upon along with increasing administrative duties got him to Sergeant Major, eventually ascending to Lieutenant just before General Kimball retired. As the Kimball was voted into presidency, Nathaniel received the first letter from his family for a considerable time asking him to attend a celebration of the new President’s inauguration just after his tour of duty would end. Curious, the fellow accepted it. Returning back to the core NCR he was surprised to see the power the Fox family had amassed along with the subsequent wealth. There was a considerable amount of jealousy over this, but the warrior’s pride prevented him from voicing this vile emotion. He drank, ate, and made merry there having more than enough time to make a show of reconciling with his family who were in turn glad to have a decorated serviceman in their ranks.

The three years of peace had the looting and pilfering of the soldier slowly diminish to nothing more than taking an excess sweetroll in the mess tent every so often and supplementing his equipment with that which was found in the wasteland. But seeing what was going on in the civilian life made all of the man’s gradual rehabilitation evaporate in but a day. But now he was a true officer and any corruption he could do was on a far greater scale. Rather than just a mere magazine or two he could make whole rifles disappear. At the beginning he merely worked with acquaintances in the Crimson Caravan and the Gun Runners, effectively selling them back their own merchandise on the down low. However, with the discovery of and occupation of Hoover Dam the Mojave was now a giant market, in which appropriated supplies could be sold in great number. Positioning himself in a rear echelon unit where logistics would regularly go through Nathaniel was able to sell anything from foodstuffs to armour to advanced munitions and the weapons that fired them. At the same time he was a cautious individual, he made sure he dipped into the supplies that went to elite and specialized units like Rangers, MPs and Heavy Troopers at a minimal level lest people with actual influence get angry at their poor logistics rather than mere Conscripts and lowly NCOs.

As war against the Brotherhood began, Nathaniel was to be frank scared shitless. He had previously seen power armour only once, and though he knew enough AP rounds would make short work of them they were nevertheless most frightening things he had no intention of going up against, even if defended by a line of the meatshields known as NCR conscripts.

Once more going to a rear echelon unit he only got a few weeks of the easy life. Indeed, this is where the corruption of the Officer started to significantly diversify. He started selling chems, alcohol and cigarettes to his own troops for a pretty penny. He ran an unlawful exchange of NCR dollars to bottlecaps and vice versa, and was at some point even approached by his friend in the Crimson Caravan to clear out a camp of raiders. Recording this action as one in the defence of NCR logistics, he had effectively hired himself and the men under his command to be mercenaries for corporate interests. It was all very easy money until a raid by the Brotherhood on the NCR supply lines came forth. Knights first opened fire with stealth boys before true power armoured Paladins came forth cutting down a good portion of the men under his command. The officer was fearful, but he had not come so far to die in a night raid with piss in his pants. Scarfing down all the chems in the medical tent with glugs of whiskey he rushed out barking orders to rally his men and return fire with the threat of a bullet to the skull of any man who run away; the fact if things started to go wrong he’d be the first to run was omitted from his speech.

Casualties were massive, but the Brotherhood warriors were routed. Bloodlust all over him along with slow calculations that the death Brotherhood troops were effectively walking paychecks. Still in his drug fuelled anger he ran down the fleeing foe, taking no prisoners with a bullet through the skull to those who raised their hands in surrender. It was on this fateful day that Nathaniel started to make friends for his venture. Enlisted men and conscripts alike who were found to be more eager to blast the brains out of the Brotherhood soldiers rather than taking them prisoners as expected were malleable to his influence, and while much of the equipment they had brought along was turned in the Lieutenant ordered some likely lads to bury some of the fancier toys left at the scenes and to mark the location with a rock for Nathan would have to get treatment for his wounds, and sell the parts later.

While recuperating from his wounds he received a commendation for the valiant defence of his post and met someone who - by no fault of her own - would eventually lead to the final downfall of Nathaniel’s last shreds of morality. It was a nurse at the camp the officer was sent to for recovery, and it was an archetypal story of a wounded soldier falling for his caretaker & vice versa. But yet, Nathaniel doesn’t even bother remembering her name anymore.

For her the man cleaned himself up shaving his thick stubble and quit all of his vices. He stopped pilfering that which would go on to honest soldiers and he stopped charging interest on cap-to-dollar exchanges, the only vaguely illicit venture remaining being taking his troops to attack particular targets after being paid by third parties (however even then he made sure it was only against Fiends and the likes who most certainly deserved it).

Ascending to Captain after his fourth tour of duty against the Brotherhood, the war against the power armoured bastards came to an end and attention was instead turned to the Legion, the man participating valiantly in the battle for Hoover Dam. Lucky to survive after a sniper hunted him, the man took leave following the battle to once more see his sweetheart only to find the lass dead. While the main battle was raging on Frumentarii had raided NCR rear echelons, cutting the throats of all they found.

Many men would have reacted with a frothing rage to follow, going on long vendettas against the Legion. Nathaniel took the discovery rather calmly, but now he saw no more reason to hide his festering villainy within. The world was clearly a vile place, and he no longer saw any reason to do better for it than it was doing for him and anyone else upon it.

Overnight his trading of what was meant for other returned to a state that was an order of magnitude greater than that which he had done before meeting the deceased nurse. He ordered his men to clear out squatters from abandoned building with deadly force, and even attacked independent caravans under cover of night if the pay was grand enough. Indeed he was even there at Bitter Springs to fire upon Great Khan civilians seeing them as naught more than target practice and walking caps; he silenced any would-be whistleblowers under his command with great threats he would be more than ready to act upon.

For the second battle of Hoover Dam Nathaniel had finally become a Major. With a considerable amount of men under his command he started to make connections that would be the predecessor of what would later be dubbed the Blackjacks. Men of a similar mind to the Major who were in good standing with him with which good work could be done. A whole plan was coordinated around the great profits to be made off of the second battle for Hoover Dam, but things did not go as planned. The courier showed up the NCR, and they had to evacuate. Everything collapsed for the Blakjacks, for once they returned to the NCR following the evacuation it was fairly likely their actions would be discovered. Even if they weren’t, it certainly wouldn’t be wise to continue them with the Mojave campaign over and a toxic political climate; even if they did, there wouldn’t be great profits.

The Major made a swift decision that they would desert. They packed up all the arms and armour they could onto brahmin and headed deeper into Vegas rather than back towards California, taking out any other NCR armed forces they came across to supplement the merchandise they already had.

Thus in independent new Vegas the Blackjacks were officially formed. They were a mercenary concern that did any work you paid them for with more or less no scruples; they were more than happy to take in anyone with experience regardless of their background and took any job provided the caps were sufficient. At times they almost descended to being lowly raiders, preying on beggars and prostitutes in Freeside to sell as slaves elsewhere. But no matter what the Blackjacks were always distinguished by unparalleled professionalism, their tanned grey combat armour & uniforms, and snazzy tuned firearms accompanied by all sorts of tactical equipment. Their reputation would be mixed. Any town they showed up in they would spend a lot of money in. They always paid their tabs in full, helping old ladies carry produce and they would be generally courteous, never causing trouble to locals and indeed not asking any pay for particularly minor tasks like cutting up some molerats. At the same time rumour would spread that the Blackjacks do nasty things. Tales would spread of how they would hunt former Legion tribals not sparing women, children or elderly. They’d take hits from criminal enterprises upon people, and many a person could claim a tale of suffering to be the result of the Blackjacks’ work.
Hearing of the frontier opening up, Nathaniel saw a once in a lifetime opportunity. The market for mercenaries would be grand with all the trouble there, not to speak of the fact many tribals and settlers with military experience be it in the NCR, Brotherhood or Legion would be good hires for the Blackjacks. Perhaps on the frontier they could grow to the point of Nathaniel even being able to lead a peaceful life himself, managing the company from afar.

Some say it takes a village. Lily-of-the-Valley both had and didn't have one.

Originally named Lily-of-the-Oasis, she was born in 2270 in the tribe of the Crazy Horns, a dwindling nomadic tribe that primarily operated in Northern Nevada. Her father was a lowly hunter, and her mother was the tribe witchdoctor and resident psyker. Her tribesmen were like family, regardless of blood. With each member doing their part to raise the child. Tribal life is hard in the wasteland-- all the more when you survive not by combat, but by relying on the guidance of spirits, apparitions, dark forces-- the unknown. In this tribe, babies were miracles from the spirits alone, but a child of the tribe's last living psyker? She was practically born a goddess. Surely under the training of her mother this child would bring about salvation!

So under the training of her mother, Cholla, she went. Starting the day Lily could talk, Cholla set about training her daughter in the old ways of mysticism, herbalism, and living off the land like the Crazy Horns' ancestors of the beforetimes-- teaching her the names of all the flowers and fungi of the region, how to make poultices, potions and poisons and how to use these gifts from the land to keep a body going. By the time Lily was 8, Cholla had Lily serving as the tribe's midwife. By the time Lily was 10 she could be considered an apprentice medium, her mother had her consuming ceremonial herbs on a regular basis to strengthen her connection to the other side. She had communicated with the ghosts of the land itself, had visions of places she was not, and could hear the past.

Yet she had never spent a day playing with her friends-- she didn't even have any. Children her age of the tribe went on hunting trips with their parents and friends, they were learning ways not just to keep body going, but how to keep a community going. Young Lily made it a point to understand the difference. Still, the little flower could barely fire a bow. Her father's face blended into those of the tribe, all faces that looked at her with love... and fear. Everyone smiled at her from a distance. She had a village, but she was solitary. Cholla was more of a mentor than a mother. One day, Lily-of-the-Oasis asked her mother why the two weren't closer, the tribe's witch cryptically replied, "To live in the world of the living and the world of spirits is to tear yourself in two, the decision has been made for us, little Flower, we must honor our gifts." She had said, "Do not let their reverence and fear that tears you, my young one."

Lily didn't argue, but she didn't agree with her mother either. Cholla saw this, but trusted not the spirits-- but her daughter, to do the honorable thing. Despite a growing uneasiness in Lily, this trust was well placed. Years passed and Lily studied the mysticism and shamanism of Crazy Horn ghosts, the tribe survived-- only barely, as a competing, militaristic tribe, the White Legs, grew in the region-- but they did survive, which, for a time, was enough.

Only for a time.

Cholla told of his coming, a 15 year old Lily saw him as well. A New Canaanite dressed in grays, coming to the Crazy Horns with a proposal. The Tribal chief welcomed the self-proclaimed missionary, Daniel, with open arms. Crazy Horn way of life left allies few and far in between, and an alliance with New Canaan could help alleviate some of the tribes sorrows brought about by the growing threat of the White Legs. After a feast and a tribal ceremony welcoming the Mormon stranger, a meeting was held between the Crazy Horns chief, Daniel, the tribe Witchdoctor and her apprentice. Lily marveled at the man as the adults spoke, sure, she had seen ghostly apparitions and beforetime visions with men who looked like Daniel-- but this was her first time seeing such a figure in the flesh, his clothes were alien to her, and the device on his back... She heard the war-chief talk about those; G-U-A-N-Z. Guanz they were called, like bows, but louder, with small and fast arrows.

It was all so impressive to her, in recent memory, the only other time she felt such awe is whenever she could parse a message from the land about the beforetimes-- and half the time the land spoke so cryptically she didn't know what it meant! The meeting was fate, she had concluded in her mind-- important matters were being discussed that pertained to the tribe's future, she scarcely understood any of it. But she certainly wanted to look like she did. English was difficult for her at first, but hearing it from a native speaker in the flesh-- someone who wasn't her mother, anyway-- gave it such a beautiful new life to her. The meeting had much more grave meanings for her mother, the Chief, and the tribe as a whole. But for Lily-of-the-Oasis, it was the day she decided she wanted to leave-- to see the world she had only just now begun to learn about, to learn from ghosts and people and experience everything that inspired awe in her, like the man Daniel.

The following months saw major shifts in the Crazy Horns modus operandi. The Mormon missionary, Daniel, assumed executive power over the tribe in all but name. They stopped moving around and made a home near Zion national park. Hunting stopped being the focus of the tribe, guns were introduced, and those who could, learned how to fight as the skirmishes with the White Legs increased as time passed. Daniel was unsure if he was doing the right thing, but he continued, backed fully by the chief of the tribe.

Cholla spent so much time using her own sight to aid in the coming war with the White Legs that for what felt like the first time in her life, Lily was free. She spent almost all of this free time pestering Daniel, trying to learn of him, the outside, what he called Mormonism, everything-- Of particular interest to her were long range weapons and persuasive tactics of a sensual kind. Guns and boys. Whatever she could gleam from the man, she did. And for a time, she considered the man her friend. Her first real one.

Daniel once famously brought the girl a radio capable of receiving far flung signal, and the girl's head nearly exploded with joy. Ghostly voices that sing for you whenever you want! What *isn't* to love? They bonded, he eventually taught the girl how to speak proper English. When not with Daniel, Lily felt it appropriate to learn how to properly use weaponry-- Lily preferred the precision of long-range scoped rifles. This and more she did with her freedom, she still felt ostracized by her tribes "Fear and reverence" of her, but even without company, she certainly didn't waste her break from the typical way her tribe ran. That brief moment in history may have been some of the best in her young life.

All good things must come to an end though, this particular good thing came to its end a few weeks after her 18th birthday. Cholla had a single vision the day of the Crazy Horn's march on the White Leg encampment, the land preemptively stained with blood told her of their numbers-- their brutality. Grabbing her daughter's hand, she ran faster than the march of every Crazy Horn fighter, stood in front of Daniel, the Tribe Chief and the full Crazy Horn vanguard, and relayed to them the visions. Relayed the warning. For the first time in the tribe's history, a Chief ignored the warnings of one of its Witchdoctors. He followed Daniel, and the tribe followed him, they had the Heavenly Father in the sky on their side, not a few spirits of the ground-- they couldn't lose.

Without a word, Cholla took Lily, returned to camp one last time to get a single Brahmin carrying everything they needed, and they began the long walk back to Nevada. Lily-of-the-Oasis didn't get to say goodbye to her father. She hadn't seen her the man for weeks.

The entirety of the Crazy Horn fighters were brutally slaughtered that night. Any survivors were sold into slavery, eventually becoming property of the Legion. The rest of the tribe scattered, much like Lily-of-the-Oasis and Cholla.

Mother and daughter traveling alone in the wasteland, vulnerable and weak. They should've been easy prey. But three weeks of walking and they found themselves in New Reno. The two relied on the spirits of the desert to keep them safe, help them hunt and find them a place to settle down, and the reliance paid off. Any differences the two had before were wordlessly forgotten in the journey. Lily cried as the ghosts of the land showed her landscapes skewered with the slowly dying corpses of her fellow tribesmen, and Cholla burned with a cold resentment that she hadn't done enough to prevent what Daniel led her people into. Lily got her wish, to leave her tribe and see the world.

But, the question was, at what cost?

Despite tribal origins, Cholla and Lily did well in New Reno. Cholla picked up where she left off in regards to her mystic training in the arts of the witch, however this was tempered with more freedom for Lily, and time for Lily to learn about new things and explore her own interests. Lily was young, and so was renamed after the Valley of death she and her mother had escaped from, no longer the oasis her mother had found in the Crazy Horns. 'Lily-of-the-Valley,' shortened as Lily to better avoid a tribal stigma. Cholla kept her name, not entirely stuck in her old ways, but resigned to the fact that, unlike her daughter, she could never belong to New Reno.

To make caps, the pair charged for holistic, tribal mind/body/soul healing, tribal drugs, poultices, potions, and on occasion poison, and psychic readings. The tragedy brought the two closer with time, and the newfound freedom granted to her by her mother, as well as the life of the city, brought Lily to life.

The second Battle of the Hoover Dam passed, life moved on, New Reno kept on keeping on. As Lily aged, she healthily began to move away from home, taking on a myriad of odd jobs and learning the in's and out's of more wasteland. At 20 she got paid to advertise for a few casinos and clean up after customers at restaurants, at 21 and 22 she tried petty and not so petty thievery-- it went quite well with the use of her tribal visions, her mother didn't approve. For a few months between 22 and 23 she tried merc work, it didn't fit her-- farmhand work fit her even less right before she turned 24. 24 and 25 saw her working as a Cat's Paw prostitute-- she did quite well at that, being what was essentially a "flower child" raised conservatively, sexual liberation fit her well. Like a glove. Or a well lubricated jimmy hat, in this case.

Her mother urged her to leave, but even as she neared her 30's and began to dabble in prospecting, scavenging, and career gambling, she'd still occasionally work as a call girl for a hundred caps or two, she was always lucky enough to avoid the dangerous customers. By 28 she could scavenge with the best of them, she was better at finding specialty items, through her own perception, luck and hallucinogenic/psyker assistance. During this time, she happens upon what she considers her most valuable find-- her Pip-boy 2000, and the ability to listen to those beautiful whenever she wanted.

At the age of 28 her mother's health started fading, she had to stop leaving on prospecting trips so she could spend as much of Cholla's remaining time with her as possible. To stay afloat Lily gambled, cheated, and slept her way from month to motnth. Eventually, she scored a gig that involved serving as a guard-- a sniper in one of the casinos. This, combined with the tribal sales, and an occasional high profile client, allowed her to better reliably afford her mother's medical expenses, and remain close to her mother, watching over her in her decaying health.

Cholla died sleeping next to her daughter, full of regrets the she had failed her tribe, but happy she'd at least succeeded her daughter.

Lily worked through the sadness of her loss. She eventually grow tired with Reno and head south. Impressed by the nation the courier had built, blissfully unaware of how she had missed the man by a few years in Zion. Eventually, the ex-Tribal made her way to Westside. She works for herself-- occasionally as a call girl, mostly scaving so that she can continue to sell the hallucinogens and healing salves of her tribe-- she tries to be a guiding figure in her little corner of the wasteland, but she knows she's not immune to sin or it's temptations.

In a certain sense: she's content. The caps are good, she lives in a tight-knit settlement under the protection of the Courier, she's a voice of the community with admirers and fans-- she even does well gambling her caps away on fights at The Thorn. In another sense, though, she feels fed up with being where she is-- she never forgot her childhood dream of seeing the world, to honor her gift for her mother, to do... rebuild... or something.

Ghosts whispered from the lands one night of an opportunity to hear more from the land. Lily-of-the-Valley didn't turn a blind eye to the sign.