Name: David Clark

Age: 38

Sex: Male

Your S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:
Strength:6
Perception:7
Endurance: 6
Charisma: 4
Intelligence:5
Agility: 8
Luck: 3
Skills and perks:
Sneak, Survival, Guns

Appearance:
Billy is 6'10, quite broad with a lithe muscular frame covered in scars and tanned from long hours outdoors. He has shaggy red shoulder length hair, and a wild untamed chest length beard to match, and pale blue eyes. His face is handsome if a bit angular and he has a hawkish nose that has been clearly broken multiple times. He wears a suit of leather armor that has been stained to resemble camo, a pair of worn boots, and a decently well-kept cowboy hat.

Armor and Equipment:
Leather Armor, canteen, camping backpack, rope, mortar and pestle, bed roll and tent, flint and steel, tender box, Coffin nails (Brand of cigarette), one dose of jet.

Weapons:
Bow and arrow, 20 arrows, hunting knife, revolver.

Personality: A grumpy loner who doesn't trust others easy as he's never really gotten along with most folks. Bill can be blunt and rude, tough if your able to pierce this rough outer shell they'd find a brave, loyal, and caring friend. He has a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later. He has a soft spot for animals, even the most horrible mutated. He loves nature and all the secrets she hides. He dislikes most people on principal but especially hates raiders. He dislikes super sweet things but loves sour or spicy. He tends to spoil Honey(his pet gecko) and is very protective of her. He has a bit of a substance problem so he's often short on caps, which isn't too much of a problem as he can survive of the land mostly.

History / How they came to be part of Whitlash: David was raised on his family ranch as the son of one Robert Clark and Olivia Clark. His upbring wasn't much to write home about as he had loving if strict parents and he rarely went hungry, which these days is a miracle. He learned to hunt, fish, skin, butcher, and tan from his father, while he learned all he knew about how to raise animals and grow plants, what was safe to eat and what wasn't from his mom. He took to ranch life quick and was a natural at it to boot, though his isolated upbringing did seem to make him less social. It wasn't long before he could handle a bow better than his father and the animals seemed to just natural love him.

This continued until he was 17 and his father never came back from a hunting trip. It was three days before they what was left of him. It seemed he'd run into something nasty deeper in the woods and tried to escape. His mother seemed to draw into herself after that, she rarely smiled and only ever talked when David asked her something. It was only a year later that she passed. David kept the farm going more out of habit than want for the next few years, until on one of his trips to the market he found a trader from Nevada had a couple cages with a couple gold geckos inside. He didn't know why but he bought three breeding pairs and brought them home. He'd never raised a gecko and their ornery nature and tendency to bite made it quite difficult, but after months of hard work and lots of bandages he'd done it. They still nipped at him sometimes and had a bad habit of chasing the bramen but otherwise they were tame. He learned a lot from them and though at first he'd planned to raise them for their hides he'd grown fond of the little devils. The turned out to be great at tracking and running down prey and he'd even used their bad habit of chasing his cattle to turn them into herders. This went on for a long while with him raising new clutches each year and occasionally going back to that same trader to buy new geckos every now and then.

It was 18 years later that tragedy struck once again as a local group of raiders decided his ranch looked like a juicy target. They attacked in the middle of the night, rushing in and shooting anything that moved and either taking or burning everything else. David fought back when everything he had and so did his scaly friends, but it wasn't enough. He tried to save the younglings but found all the eggs smashed and the few hatchlings dead. All but on, a little albino who'd hidden under one of the nest boxes. He quickly scooped her up and ran. He's just lucky they were bad shots as the didn't hit anything too important. It was almost a day later that he wandered into town almost dead and clutching a baby gecko to his chest.

That was 2 years ago, now he makes his living by going out into the wilds and bringing back meat, hides, fur, bones, poisonous and medicinal plants and fungi, and whatever else he can find out there in the wilds. He has a small shack on the edge of town and most people leave him be, unless they need something and have the caps.

Extras:
Honey- a three foot tall albino gecko that acts as his faithful companion and helps him hunt. She has a leather harness a spiked leather collar with a hear shaped silver tag with her name on it. She tends to be a bit aggressive towards strangers, but won't attack unless told, touched, or herself or David is attacked. If she get to know you or David she turns into one big teddy bear, though she'll still playfully nip. The easiest way to earn her trust is with her name sake, though with how dangerous mutant bees are it's pretty expensive. She is a bit of a troublemaker as she loves to grab objects that she find interesting, Ex: Anything shiny, colorful, makes noise, smells nice, ect, and hides it in what David lovingly calls her hoard, a pile in a small burrow under a stump behind there shack. She has a teddy bear she can't sleep with out and on long trips David will carry it in his pack. She loves belly rubs and seems to have a soft spot for very young children as even if there a little rough she has never bitten one.

Name: Conor Abraham Smith

Age: 19

Sex: Male

Your S.P.E.C.I.A.L. / Skills: Going by the 40 points of FNV
S - 6
P - 6
E - 6
C - 7
I - 8
A - 6
L - 1

Speech
Repair
Medicine

Appearance:

Conor is red haired, and of a pale complexion freckled and tanned by his ceaseless travels. He is taller than most wastelands - namely tribals, raiders, and the other chronically malnourished - but about average for a Vault Dweller or NCR citizen who has three meals a day as a child. His eyebrows are rather bushy, and just like facial hair are carefully trimmed to avoid becoming a ruler-sized unibrow. His eyes are a very light brown. The lad's ears are large and round relative to the rest of his face, whilst his nose has been flattened against his face by many impacts since youth. His appearance will always be as close to immaculate as is possible, with his Mormon suit always cleaned, his body washed and head groomed when time permits. His right shoulder has tribal tattoos, which he typically hides and will never mention.

Armor and Equipment:
From suit and tie to fine leather shoes, Conor dresses as his distant ancestors going about Utah did, though in harsh terrain he may switch into a more rugged outfit. He doesn't have any armour, preferring to instead be quick on his feet and instead use cover and terrain as his armour. He does however carry a handy-dandy satchel full of ammunition, medical supplies and survivalist tools to fare in the wild, as well as to help wastelanders. A respirator and geiger counter for hazardous environments will similarly be with him. His left index finger has a Choose The Right ring.

Weapons:
Modified Automatic Rifle - just like the 1911, favoured weapon of Joshua Graham, it is designed by a member of the Mormon tribe. With rails, bayonet, tape, tuning, much like the ship of Theseus it has no components of the original. But it is still a memory of home, and a great tool to hunt fauna with, to flick onto automatic for breaking raiders with its high caliber .308 munition, or to use the blade on the end to open cans of food. No more or less is needed for Conor.

Personality:
Conor will typically shift from a choleric to melancholic disposition. Having seen so much of both of the best and worst of humanity, he has a hatred for people of the wasteland that must somehow coexist with a desire to cultivate the best in them; though once this was exhibited in a rather condescending manner, he has for the most part grown out of this habit. One may mistake him for being rather reserved, but truth be told he simply doesn't believe he has much to share.

As of late he has been struggling with his Mormon faith, the validity of a God above being a hard question after witnessing a sufficient volume of blood. But though not sure if the ultimate truth is there in his book, he is certain it at the very least shows a better way of life.

History / How they came to be part of Whitlash:
Conor was born in Ogden, or New Canaan as the men of the day called it. Supposedly a distant descendant of Joseph Smith, the founder of the Mormon Church, his family and their friends were sure the line was destined for great things. Though his childhood very briefly had all the prosperity and happiness that the New Canaanites had very briefly relative to the tribes that encircled them, this all disappeared in the blink of an eye with the arrival of the White Legs. Privately Conor was always happy that this happened sufficiently early in his life that he wasn't too soft to survive in the wasteland.

It was thus that his family became travelling missionaries typically going along with Mormon caravans, for though the city of Ogden was a charred ruin, the civilization of the New Canaanites went on as did their effort to spread the word. Travelling to spread the word of God, Conor got to see much of the world. The ruined remains of the Twin Mothers tribe out East, the tales of the Cyphers' mathematical mystics and insane stealth boy junkies coming from bunkers. He saw the vice and decadence of New Vegas and New Reno alike, and even set foot in the great civilizations of the Bear and the Bull when marching with traders.

But though the as a mere boy he saw so many wonders, Conor would hazard calling them adventures. All the visits were part of a series of unfortunate events. In one adventure a sister died of a radscorpion's bite in the night. On another, his father was vapourized by a raider's bundle of dynamite. His mother disappeared in a snowstorm, whilst a tribal girl that was his sole love was kidnapped by slavers he was powerless to set her free from.

With the passage of time, Conor foudn that he was losing people he held dear faster than he made new ones. But as a wise man of his people said, there was always his tribe. Though disheartened to his core, he was still happy to join a mission to proselytize distant Montana. It was thus that he ended up as part of the Mormon mission in Whitlash. Though the place was civilized and not a mere tribe to be wooed by electricity their pro-bono medical assistance, help in getting people off of the particularly addicting drugs like jet, and general sharing of the fruits of their higher education has still lead to some inroads being made within the settlement and its surroundings.

Extras:
He sings in a fine baritone, and is acquainted with guitar, harmonica and most other instruments one will see in the wasteland. He is acquainted with Spanish and several tribal and Native American languages, as well as Latin.

Name:
Eliza O'Connor

Age:
32

Sex:
Female

Your S.P.E.C.I.A.L. / Skills:
Strength: 5
Perception: 8
Endurance: 4
Charisma: 7
Intelligence: 4
Agility: 4
Luck: 3

Energy Weapons
Repair
Explosives

Appearance:
Standing at 5"6' Eliza is deceptive in her looks, her platinum blonde ponytail and baby blue eyes hide her experiences well. Eliza is most often seen wearing a dark flannel shirt, dark coloured trousers, combat chest piece and her .45 in its holster.


Armor and Equipment:
1× Combat Armour chest piece and arm pieces
1× Combat helmet
1×Shemagh
10× Stimpacks
12× Med-X
150× 5.56 rounds
35× .45 rounds
300× Caps

Weapons:
Assault Carbibe
.45 Auto Pistol
Combat knife

Personality:
Eliza is a kind person who is rarely seen without a gentle smile of her face. The years of indoctrination and belief in the ideals and goals of the Enclave having been slowly eroded by her years of travelling Westward. Her heart softened by the sight of the families simply trying to survive each day.

History:
Born in Raven Rock to Blaire and Jackson O'Connor she was the second of two children, her older brother Mason being five years older than her. Born into a family with a long military service history she would fit into that lifestyle easily. A member of Eliza's family has served in the US military in one form or another since it was formed, and Eliza was not going to be the one to buck the trend. Though her mother had hoped she would follow in her footsteps and try to join the science division Eliza instead opted to follow her father and brother and join the army when she was old enough, this partly led to her father constantly chastising her for not being as good as her older brother. As he wanted her to follow her mother as well and expressed a not so insignificant amount of outrage once Eliza announced what she planned to do.

The daughter of one of the more experienced field officers that served in the Enclave at the time Eliza had a lot to live up to from minute one. Eliza wouldn't struggle throughout training, yet her desire to show her father that she could do military service would cause her training to become mired with niggling injuries as she would often push herself too far in the pursuit of trying to make him proud of her. However, it was when it came to live fire exercises that Eliza would finally shine in the eyes of the instructors and indeed to an extent her fathers, her calm and collected nature under fire allowed her to take command of her squad when the squad leader cracked the moment actual shots came over their heads. And her natural knack for leadership meant she was soon made Corporal.

Her first real mission would not be anything too dangerous, a simple patrol of an already secured area. Not what she wanted but when her father used his connections to get her an "easier" first assignment she couldn't exactly say no. However, Eliza would return from one of these patrol mission to the news that her home, the place she has grown up in and had many fond memories of, had been destroyed by the Brotherhood. Luckily for her, her family and most of her friends had survived the battle yet the same could not be said for the upcoming battle of Adams Air force base.

Her first encounter with Brotherhood forces would not be one she would forget any time soon. The battle at Adams Airforce base was her first true experience of combat and seeing her squadmates, the ones she had grown up and trained with falling around her was nearly enough to break her and question whether her father had been right all along. But it was finding her brother dead in one of the hangars and watching as her father, who had to force her onto the last Vertibird, was cut down by Laser fire.

The journey on that Vertibird felt like she had taken as much Jet as humanly possible, minutes seemed like hours as she sat silently and stared at her brother's holotags. When they arrived at the rendezvous point she was awoken from her trance by another survivor and she went to join the others. It was a scene of utter dejection, the wounded and dying lay all around while the few remaining medics scrambled around to save who they could. Makeshift tents had already been established and Eliza found herself squeezed into a four person tent with almost ten people. It didn't take her long to see what the others could not, the writing on the wall before them. So in the early hours of the morning she crept her way out of the tent, gathered her equipment; Laser Rifle, armour and backpack. Along with raiding some unguarded medical and food supplies and a bedroll before sneaking out of the camp in into the surrounding woods.

At first she didn't have a plan whatsoever, she just wandered West in the hopes of getting as far away from the Capital Wasteland as possible. She learned quickly to cut out and scratch off any and all Enclave markings on her equipment but still avoided most settlements, spending much of her time sleeping rough and hunting wildlife to keep herself going. She had no caps, no plan but at least she had a sense of direction. Occasionally she would come across a small isolated settlement and, with whatever caps or tradeable items she had scraped together, would be able to sleep indoors for a few days but moved on quickly never staying in one place too long, the fear of a Brotherhood hunting party coking after her was always in the back of head.

For the next few years this was her life, travelling West while begging, borrowing or stealing whatever she needed to survive. Sometimes she was able to take an odd job here and there, mostly "Merc work" as her skills weren't best suited for much else. But still never staying too long. It was only as she made her way through the Midwestern territories and into what was once Montana that she began to relax a little, the likelihood of the Brotherhood following a single Enclave soldier this far West was close to zero. It was on one of these Mercenary jobs escorting a caravan of supplies from a trading post to the settlement of Whitlash that Eliza got the idea of finally setting up permanent residence. The community seemed nice enough and after purchasing an empty house she finally had a place to call home again. Though she would continue with the Mercenary jobs whenever Caps became tight she spends much of her time with the town guards while doing her best to integrate into the community, while keeping who and what she was a close to her chest as possible.

Extras:
"Out East" is the most common response when asked where she was from, though occasionally she would slip and say the Capital Wasteland by accident. But random settlers this far West shouldn't be able to deduce anything. And now after years the only outward sign of her former life are the holotags she wears under her shirt, hers and her brothers, but to most Wastelanders they're nothing more than a fancy necklace.

Med-X addiction: Thanks to an unfortunate incident with a Frag Grenade in the weeks before Raven Rock was destroyed, Eliza has to take a shot of Med-X almost everyday. Though it has been years since the actual event she still bears its scars and overtime the pain of the fragments still inside her has gradually been replaced by a severe addiction to the Med-X she has to take to stop the pain. It is not something she shares at all, even to those she calls friend, and the hand shakes that signal the start of withdrawal cause her no small amount of anxiety when in public.

Name: Walker
Age: 55
Sex: Male

SPECIAL/Skills:
STR - 5
PER - 7
END - 4
CHA - 5
INT - 5
AGI - 8
LCK - 6
Guns - Proficiency at using weapons that fire standard ammunition.
Speech - Proficiency at persuading others or negotiating, to talk oneself out of a troublesome situation or gain better information and rewards.
Melee Weapons - Proficiency at using blades or bludgeons in close-combat.

Appearance: An even six feet tall, Walker weighs around one hundred and ninety pounds of leathery, redneck-tanned hide and sinew. Though he’s beginning to show his age, one can tell that there’s still iron under all the wrinkles, and his thin, veiny hands are still quick as ever. He squints to see things up close, but his striking, sea-green eyes still have a spark of the old fire. His solid white hair is beginning to recede, but remains thick, and he takes pride in grooming his mustache. A deep, bassy voice rolls out of his jaw with a slow, easy cadence, and a drawling southern accent.


Armor and Equipment:
Field Hand Outfit - A simple checkered shirt of red and white, faded at this point to a dull brown and dirty yellow. It’s tucked into a pair of dark denim jeans, which have been cinched up quite noticeably by a black leather belt–seems Walker’s lost some weight since he started wearing these. Plain brown, square toed cowboy boots are partially hidden by the jeans’ hem.
Bounty Hunter’s Duster - An old gray longcoat, with split tails in the back and an attached rainslicker mantle on the shoulders. Its hem is ragged and even blackened in places. There’s a small patch on the left breast that’s far less sun-faded and dirty than the rest of the coat, but whatever was once sewn there has been torn off.
Old Cowboy Hat - Made from black leather, a striped turkey’s feather has been slipped into the band at its base. It’s been patched more than once–but a bullet hole or two remains in the brim.
Little Old Book - The edges of the leather bound cover are peeling away, and the title has long worn to invisibility. The pages are yellow and crackling. But Walker seems to protect this book more fiercely than any possession he owns.

Weapons:
.357 Magnum Revolver, Long Barrel - A single action revolver that fires .357 Magnum and .38 special rounds. Though visibly worn, this weapon has been maintained meticulously. An old inscription along the barrel reads, “Run On.” The modified barrel length allows the cartridge’s burning powder to act longer on the bullet, thereby pushing it to greater speeds and inflicting greater damage on the target.
Bowie Knife - An old fashioned fighting knife, a staple of American Wild West culture. The long blade’s distinct point allows it to be used for a variety of survival tasks.
Varmint Rifle - A low powered hunting rifle often used for dealing with pests and small game such as geckos. Chambered for 5.56, it’s surprisingly accurate from long range even without a scope or PipBoy’s VATS function–but then again, so is Walker. He traded for this from the locals after arriving to Whitlash…And they’ve learned that if he reaches for his waist, instead of the rifle’s shoulder sling, then it’s not a gecko he’s about to shoot.

Personality:
Walker doesn’t seem to waste much effort, whether it’s speaking or working. But every movement he makes is smooth and precise, a far cry from the jerky or stiff movements one might expect from a man his age. And every word he speaks has a purpose–although he is known to joke around a bit. But beneath a stoic, hard to figure out old man is a warm and caring heart, especially any time women and children are involved. It’s rare to see him angry–or maybe he just doesn’t express it the same as most. It’s a hardness in his eye, a cold glare…a tight jaw, and a steady trigger finger. A combination of utilitarianism and a stern view of good and evil can make Walker seem compassionate and helpful to most, but unyielding to those who would dare threaten the weak or innocent.

Like any old man, he has plenty of stories to tell…just not many about himself or where he came from. But he never butts into a conversation or tries to one-up anyone. What he has to offer, he freely gives…but only to those who ask for it.

History:
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..."

Before the Great War, just about everyone in the great nation of the United States of America could tell you where that quote was from. Now it's hard to find folk who can read, much less know anything about the most widely read book of the Old World. But Walker walks...through valleys, over mountains, across the wasteland. Up out of the south. Far to the north. And he fears no evil.

When he first came to Whitlash, about five years ago, locals saw him from a ways off moving like a man on his last legs. One foot in front of the other…a pause. Arms hanging limp, he would tilt forward as if he were about to collapse. Then the other foot stopped him. One step at a time he came to the town’s edge, and what passed for the town’s guard at the time called out. A small community like this knew the danger of Raiders, of spies who pretended to be hurt or in need only to case the place for reavers and jackals. Walker didn’t answer, and despite warnings he just kept coming, one step at a time. The guard remembers raising a rifle to his cheek, fully prepared to pull the trigger–especially once he saw the glint of a gun under the billowing tails of that long coat–but then, as if by providence, a gust of wind whipped the old hat off Walker’s head. The old man looked up for the first time, staring straight down the barrel, never seeing the face behind it. He just…stood there. And then he said something, but the guard couldn’t hear him over a sudden cloud of dust that passed between them. The guard took pity on this broken down, dead-eyed fellow–just an old man, clearly sick or delusional–and lowered his weapon. Walker spat on the ground, then collapsed.

The town warmed to the stranger, especially once they’d nursed him back to health and he proved himself a hard worker to repay them. But he never quite seemed to warm to them the same way–the most anyone has put together being that he’s from Texas, and that he used to work as some kind of bounty hunter or lawman. They don’t even know if “Walker” is his real name. But any fears that he might be a Raider agent were quelled the night one such gang tried to storm the town, and no one knew about it until the next morning—because seven corpses with spiked bits of armor, tattoos and piercings out the wazoo, and a handful of weapons lay one beside the other right on the outskirts. Six had a single bullet hole through a single vital organ on each body. The last had his innards spilling out of a slash all the way across his belly, and a few tufts of white hair clenched in one fist. They found Walker back in town, sitting on his ramshackle porch with a bandage wrapped around his temple, cleaning his gun and reading from his little book:

“Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed…”

When they asked him what had happened, he raised an eyebrow at them as if that were a stupid question. Then he spat on the ground.

Extra:

• When David and Honey came to town two years ago, Walker probably gave them the heebies. For the first week they began to settle in Whitlash, it seemed like they kept running into the old man–even when sneaking out in the brush to hunt. Turn a bend in the trail, open the door to the saloon, or look up for a moment, and there he was. Always at a distance, just…watching. But on the seventh day of these encounters, Walker met David’s eyes, nodded once with a tip of his hat, and then walked away.
• Jimmy’s boundless enthusiasm sometimes earns him an odd look from the locals he works alongside, being that they’re jaded wasteland survivors with little use for ideals and all that. However, he’s had the distinction of being one of a literal handful of people in town Walker has ever smiled at wide enough to show his teeth.
• Eliza was once approached by Walker, who indicated–mostly by hand signs–that he wanted to see her weapon. Wastelanders being curious about her more tech-y weapons wasn’t unusual, but Walker shook his head at that. The .45 was the object of his inquiry, and after examining it in an expert manner he whistled appreciatively and handed it back to her. Then he patted her shoulder and walked away.
• Walker once came to Elijah's shop, placed his revolver reverently on the counter, and said "Trigger spring." with a steely, almost scowling glare. Due to the weapon's age and distinction, Elijah had to machine the part himself rather than simply find a replacement. During the whole process, Walker sat in the corner and watched him the way a mother bear watches someone handling her cub. Afterward they took it to the range, and Elijah saw Walker somehow get two shots out of what seemed like only one fan of the hammer--three times. The older man pursed his lips, nodded very slowly, and paid the repair fee plus 50% without a word.
• The night the Mormons held their first sermon in Whitlash, Walker was seen moving unusually quick through the town thoroughfare. He sat in the front row, intensely focused on the speaker. Then at one point, he spat on the ground, stood up, and walked out. He's refused to have much interaction with most of them since...but once offered Conor to "sit a spell, drink coffee," after getting patched up by the young medic.
• One day, Walker and a few of the locals were having a discussion of some sort that turned into a minor disagreement. It wasn't anything big--no one even remembers what it was about, now. But ever the listener and debater, Alexander thought to offer some intellectual insight to try and convince Walker--the minority--to go along with the rest of the group for peace's sake. His points were succinct and well-worded, and backed up by sound logic. He ended the statement with the question, "--don't you think so?" Walker narrowed his eyes, spat on the ground, then said "No." and walked away.
• When Raven was digging his well, the young man often worked long into the night so that the blazing sun wouldn't be overhead while he was down in that hole. But a lone man in the dark, down a big pit, screams "trapped prey" to wild animals. Once, Raven heard the howling of wolves getting far too close for comfort--followed by four lightning-fast cracks from a gun. By the time he scrambled out of the well, there were only blood spatters and a fading trail where something had been dragged through the dirt. When he asked around no one ever owned up to the deed--but a few days later someone said they saw Walker selling freshly tanned pelts at the general store.

Name:
Alexander Whitmoore

Age:
37

Sex:
Male

Your S.P.E.C.I.A.L. / Skills:
Strength - 4
Perception = 5
Endurance - 8
Charisma - 5
Intelligence - 8
Agility - 6
Luck - 4

Skills:
Guns
Science
Unarmed

Appearance:
Alexander is a man of middling height, around 5'10" at the most generous estimates, with a build that's hard to pinpoint from under his clothing and gear. Alexander has jet black hair, mostly well kept and swept back, running down to the back of his neck while a thick, heavy beard also runs down a fair ways, giving him an almost wildman look if it wasn't for his attire. A long jacket with a peculiar winterized design often makes him stand out like a sore thumb, though he will never ditch the item, not even to save his life, while he wears apparently salvaged body armor underneath, the hard plates a hold over from pre-war designs. Sturdy blue jeans and well insulated boots round out the clothing, and one might be forgiven for thinking he had just marched out of some frozen north at a glance, though there is no evidence of any sort of identifying insignia .


Armor and Equipment:
Keepsake Body Armor: Passed down father to son for as long as his family can remember, Alexander still keeps wearing and maintaining his family armor whenever the opportunity arises. While similar in style to the NCR Ranger armor, it lacks nearly as much protection, covering mainly the core of the body and seeming to lack a number of pieces that the more well recognized design has. Still, there is a decent amount of agility to work with, owing to the lack of plates interfering with movement or unplanned scavenged additions weighing him down either.

Bugout Bag - On his person at all times, Alexander has learned the hard way that sometimes you need to leave now, and as such keeps his most important worldly belongings on him at all times in this white bag. Has a variety of vital supplies, including stimpacks, food, clean water, radaway, the ammo for his guns, and a sleeping bag. While he may have other items on him at any given time or place, if things are in a scramble, he'll at least be able to get to relative safety before having to start worrying about problematic things like 'eating' and 'someplace warm to sleep'.

Weapons:
Lever Action Shotgun
10mm Pistol
Brass Knuckles

Personality:
Alexander is, on a day to day basis, generally a pleasant enough person to deal with. Usually maintaining a, if not optimistic, at least upbeat outlook in the face of most trouble, ready to crack a joke in the face of trouble when others might not exactly appreciate the attempts at humor. While not actively discussing or talking about things, the man can become lost in thought, entertaining trains of thoughts, whether they be of recent events, or reminiscing on the past and grappling with all the ugliness he's seen in his wandering vagabond lifestyle. He'll wax philosophical when given the chance, willing to debate and discuss beliefs and points of view, never seeming to take one side or the other, almost always acting as the 'Devil's Advocate' or otherwise at least challenging the beliefs of others. He is notably tight lipped when it comes to his own, though whether its because he doesn't want to share, doesn't know what he believes, or otherwise remains to be seen.

History / How they came to be part of Whitlash:
Alexander is the son of a Brotherhood of Steel Paladin, from a surviving enclave that set up in the North, past where boundaries of countries once divided the land. The nuclear winter hit hard there, requiring hardy flesh and hardier souls to survive, creating a rather pragmatic, if forgotten, offshoot of the Brotherhood that scoured the wastes for forgotten bases and convoys, making ends meet through such methods. Such an upbringing was not easy, nor was it kind, but the warmth of camaraderie kept them going when all else was stacked against them. So it was that the boy would be raised into a young man, although despite the promise of a path of prestige following in his father's footsteps, he couldn't help but want to range out on his own, cramping under the regimented confines of the Brotherhood bunker complex. This was a foreseen issue, and he was granted equipment, including his father's old armor, and the blessing to return once wanderlust had been satiated, or to return with finds that would help the Bunker and its denizens continue to survive.

So the young man, barely 18, went first South, and then East. He'd been told of Brotherhood bands to both the East and West, and his fateful decision would get him embroiled in a conflict between the Enclave and his Brotherhood comrades. To say the skirmishes and battles were unpleasant was an understatement, and the increasingly weathered man found himself growing more and more weary of the battles, making friends with others in his squad only to see them cut down by energy weapons not scant days later, and while part of him hates the Enclave for existing and forcing the issue, another part of him wonders what good the Brotherhood goals were if it constantly led to conflicts with both people trying to survive and other factions who may or may not ever have been a problem to begin with. After spending quite a few years fighting the Enclave and other enemies of the Brotherhood, Alexander left and went West instead, chasing the horizon and stories of a shining Jewel in the desert, New Vegas.

New Vegas would bring him into contact with various groups, various ideologies and beliefs, something that Alexander grew fond of learning, discussing, and challenging when need be. What had started as curiosity in the outside world had been tempered, through fire and blood, into an outlook of eternally questioning and second guessing everything, for the sake of teasing out what was worthwhile, and what should be cast aside. He never stuck around for long, either run out by people who got tired of his debates, or because it had grown stale and boring, and Alexander found himself heading back north to report his findings, and what had happened in the East, to his comrades. All he found was a frozen, empty bunker, long abandoned. No notes, no indication what happened, but no signs of conflict or violence either. A complete mystery, something that continues to haunt him as he wonder what happened. But no one survives alone in the North, not for long at least, so he went back south to warmer climates.

His arrival in Whitlash was not particularly eventful, nor even stood out for that matter beyond the peculiar design of this stranger's attire, but Alexander found the mix of people quite fascinating. By far one of the more recent newcomers, barely approaching his first year in the community, he earned his keep through oddjobs and helping keep the place secure, though his knack for technology and scientific endeavors came in handy whenever someone brought back some prewar tech, a mix of his old Brotherhood training and long years making ends meet on his own coming to the forefront. Still, he never discussed his past, and he gained a reputation for debate and discussion, matching a stubborn intelligence against any point or stance if given the opportunity or asked. He had not intended to stay very long, but something had kept him rooted here, be it the curious gathering of people or the strangely varied outlooks, something compelled him to stay here just awhile longer. So he stayed, pursuing this strange feeling and his own strange beliefs while earning his keep as needed.

Extras:
Alexander speaks with a bit of an accent, not unintelligible but, despite all the years away from home, uniquely stand out compared to what most folks will hear. Doing oddjobs and never settling into a singular role in the community has never exactly endeared him with the common folk, as most folks expecting him to just up and vanish one day, as abruptly as he arrived.

Name: Raven Collins.

Age: 26

Sex: Male.

Your S.P.E.C.I.A.L. / Skills:

SPECIAL:

Strength: 5
Perception: 8
Endurance: 6
Charisma: 8
Intelligence: 6
Agility: 6
Luck: 1

Skills:

Guns, Unarmed, Speech.

Appearance: A tall, handsome figure, physically fit and athletic, whose well-groomed black hair matches his own dark eyes. His uniform isn't dirty, but isn't immaculately-clean either, but shows proof of regular use.



Armor and Equipment:

- NCR Trooper Armor /w helmet.
- Ballistics Vest.

- 2x Stimpak.
- 2x RadAway.

- 1,150 caps (converted from NCR cash).

Weapons:

- Service Rifle.
- Hunting Rifle /w scope.
- Cleaver
- 10mm Pistol
- Switchblade.

Personality: Despite a concious effort to appear like an ideal soldier, Raven knows full well that he joined for the adventure, for the exploration, to satisfy his desire to see new horizons and meet new people. And the people of Whitlash have satisfied that desire for now, so he earnestly wants to help them, including by digging them a new well and making sure that it lasts, or helping repel the occassional raider or band of bandits. Nevertheless, he is easily bored, and part of him wishes to explore the wasteland, finding old vaults and installations and the secrets of the Old World, not alone, of course, but with a band of adventurers.

History / How they came to be part of Whitlash: Raven Collins was born in the NCR heartland, in The Hub, to a pair of small merchants, who paid for a good education which prepared him for the military, which was scoring victories against Caesar's Legion in his youth. Joining at the age of 18, he managed to serve in the Mojave, and at the age of 20, helped fight off the Legion in the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, where his abilities as a sniper reached full bloom. Raven then returned to the NCR and was then transferred to the new territories being expanded to up north, proud of having done his duty.

In Wyoming, Raven spent time improving his survival skills in the beautiful area of what was once Yellowstone Park. Negotiating with the local tribals helped him realize that not all of them were savages, and many of them were useful to the NCR as they are and didn't need to change their way of life. It was an idyllic time, but reports of overpopulation and a potential food shortage were setting in, meaning that he had to go further east in order to earn new trading alliances and yes, areas to settle. Even then, years of helping manage tensions between the local tribals and new settler communities had ensured that Raven knew the need to build up goodwill.

And so once he reached the town of Whitlash, sent there to scout out the town, his first acts were to seek out odd jobs and work to get the people's trust, before offering to dig them a new well with his own hands and shovel. After fulfilling this duty, Raven then bought a house and some land, getting to know the diverse cast of people who had settled inside, occassionally raising an eyebrow at the apperance of Enclave or Brotherhood folk, but deciding not to provoke a fight for now - There were ties to form and regions to explore!

Extras:

- Raven is bisexual.
- Raven dug a new well for Whitlash at the first opportunity in order to foster goodwill.

Name:
James “Jimmy” Van Buren

Age:
23

Sex:
Male

Your S.P.E.C.I.A.L. / Skills:
Strength - 6 - Barrel Chested!
Perception - 8 - Monocled Falcon!
Endurance - 6 - Hardy!
Charisma - 8 - Movie Star!
Intelligence - 4 - Knuckle Head!
Agility - 4 - Butterfingers!
Luck - 3 - Sickly Albatross!
Energy Weapons, Barter, Survival

Appearance:
Blond hair, closely cropped at the back and sides but looser on the top and front, recalls a more practical take on the immaculately-styled action heroes Jimmy had grown up with. His jaw is sharp, speckled with stubble from a close shave of the straight razor. He has a strong brow, his eyebrows often speaking for him where words would otherwise fail. A poker face he does not have—anyone attentive can easily get a read on him from his expressions. A short round nose and unusually rosy cheeks contrast his more angular features, giving him a more approachable look than some of the more hardened servicemen.

Jimmy is taller than the average person, assisted by the boots that come as standard with his uniform. Being a soldier, and very passionate about that fact, he’s very well built: Having grown up in a Vault, he lacks the disadvantage of malnutrition many Wastelanders have, and thus easily developed his muscles into a lithe, but strong frame, striking a balance between tone and mass.

Jimmy tends to prefer his vault suit for day-to-day wear, and even in more hostile scenarios, generally wears his NCR armour over it.

Armor and Equipment:
Pip-Boy 3000A
Vault 50 Jumpsuit
NCR Mantle Armour
x50 Energy Cells
x20 Flares
x3 Healing Powder
x250 NCR dollars
NCR Dog Tags
Roughin’ It! Bedroll Kit
Teddy Bear

Weapons:
Laser Pistol
Flare Gun
Combat Knife
Straight Razor

Personality:
A rarity for the Wasteland, Jimmy is optimistic to the core. He soldiers on when most would succumb to despair, facing the dangers of the wasteland with little fear and much hope to see tomorrow. He will do everything he can to make a difference, however incremental it may be. Through the emulation of his action hero idols, he’s selfless and motivated to assist others: He’ll gladly put himself in harm’s way if someone else’s safety is on the line. He clears the air of tension with smart comments and rallies his compatriots with words of inspiration.
Partially driven by this optimism, and partially driven by naivety, Jimmy sees the best in people and trusts their intentions are as pure as his—though he reserves harsh judgement for those the NCR would deem undesirable, such as the Legion remnants or the infamously testy Brotherhood of Steel.

Though not the most intelligent, Jimmy is quite socially and emotionally aware, in tune with the thoughts and feelings of others. This assists him greatly when it comes to bartering: He is a shrewd negotiator, cleverly navigating through logical hoops to reach a deal that both sides can be happy with. Rather than sweetening them up, Jimmy prefers a more practical and down-to-earth style of conciliation: He speaks in facts, of gains and losses, hazards and opportunities. He arrives at his deals through logic rather than sweet-talk, a surprising trait for someone often deemed dull or lacking in smarts. This pays dividends when it comes to teamwork: He can easily inspire others and rally them to him, not by clever wordsmithing, but with frank and honest encouragement.

Still, Jimmy tends to ignore his own needs for the sake of others. Emotionally he is quite starved, bottling up fears and anxieties so as not to become a burden or slow himself and others down. Refutations of his black and white world view often shake him, and he’s prone to shutting them out and falling back on the manufactured personality of his idols when confronted with contrary reasoning he cannot rebuke.

History / How they came to be part of Whitlash:
Some two hundred years ago, Jimmy’s forebears were herded into the safe, lead-lined walls of Oregon’s Vault 50 to escape nuclear annihilation. It seemed a benevolent act of the American government—but their freedom came with a price. The inhabitants had been hand picked from a variety of factors: Voting history, involvement with anti or pro-war demonstrations, party membership, letters and phone calls made to senators and local representatives. An expansive vault, it had been designed to fit upwards of 535 inhabitants—or rather, members, and their families.

Any adults of voting age in the vault were assigned a district, some a state, and inducted into the so-called new American Congress. They were instructed that, because of their political activism, they had been selected by their party—Democratic or Republican—to act as a leading official, casting votes and making decisions to influence the future of their country. Their “president”—an Overseer, chosen for their total apathy to the political system—would occasionally receive notices from the Vault’s supercomputer. These notices would present conundrums or crises for the Congress to solve—and the Congress would debate endlessly over these made up issues, for the foreseeable future. Seats were inherited rather than voted for, by the oldest child of the current sitting member. The system was endlessly self-sustaining, and endlessly self-frustrating.

Vault 50’s experiment may very well have run until the end of time itself. However, it would be interrupted when, one fateful day, contact was made from the outside world. A group calling themselves the New California Republic had managed to open the Vault door, and were eager to interface with the inhabitants. It was a difficult process, given the shock that came when the inhabitants were eventually convinced their “civic duty” was a farce. Eventually, however, after much denial and deliberation, the inhabitants of Vault 50 voted unanimously to dissolve their Congress and assimilate into the NCR.

This was Jimmy’s first introduction to his new government—his new home. Already patriotically inclined, Jimmy idolised the NCR as the true continuation of America’s sacred democracy. They had presidents, states, taxes—it was truly the Old World that had been sealed from his ancestors two hundred years ago. With no frame of reference to the rest of the Wasteland, the NCR seemed the pinnacle of civilisation. Their civic duty would continue not as congresspeople, but as defenders of democracy. Enrollment into the military amongst Vault 50 residents was almost ubiquitous: At least one individual of fighting age from each family volunteered their services. Jimmy was eager for the day he, too, would get to fight for his people. He’d grown up with stories of the war, triumphs against China and decisive victories in places like Anchorage. He idolised the strong soldiers in power armour, toting laser-powered weapons of justice to smite any enemies of democracy. The American soldier, to Jimmy, was a paragon to aspire to. He wanted to be like them, one day—to fight on the front lines against tyranny, delivering democracy from the warm end of a Plasma Caster.

Death was a fate Jimmy’s heroes had always managed to defy. Countless times they’d evaded its clutches, seizing the day despite the odds. So it shook him, then, when they received news from the New Vegas front: His father had been killed in action, fallen against a Legion incursion at Nelson. Not exactly the most well-adjusted person, Jimmy chose not to process this at all—not to wrangle with the questions mortality confronted him with. Was he wrong about the world? Could this suffering have been avoided? Were the NCR truly throwing away the lives of their soldiers for nothing?
These were all questions Jimmy buried within himself. Rather than letting it shake him, he used the event to strengthen his patriotism—his blind following of a shiny ideal amongst the dusty, desolate wasteland.

Finally, the time came for Jimmy to offer his services to the NCR. With the Battle of Hoover Dam won, and Caesar’s forces scattered to the north and north-east, Jimmy was dispatched from Wyoming into Montana. A food shortage was approaching: It was Jimmy’s job to scout for potential trade alliances, or fertile land for the NCR to send farmers to tend to. Wandering into the uncharted wilds of Montana, Jimmy happened upon the settlement of Whitlash—the ideal place to hunker down and call home for the duration of his mission. Best case scenario, they could even be folded into the NCR with enough persuasion.

For now, Jimmy lives a quiet life in Whitlash, doing all he can to support the local community and paint the NCR in a positive light for them.

Extras:
It was customary for inhabitants of Vault 50 to be named after important figures in U.S. history. Jimmy, from the Democrat’s camp, is named after president Jimmy Carter, his ancestors having changed their last name to Van Buren somewhere along the line.

Jimmy is very knowledgeable on U.S. history, though his understanding of the Wasteland and its customs is admittedly somewhat shaky.

He’s fine with Stimpaks, Radaway, and their ilk, but Jimmy refuses to use chems like Jet, Mentats, or Med-X on principle.

Being a proud NCR citizen, as well as a Vault Dweller subjected to a cruel and unusual experiment, Jimmy is quite distrustful of the Old World government and the Enclave. He has yet to rationalise this belief with his patriotism in his head, and chooses not to think about it.

Name: Phineas Holiday Cassidy

Age: 32

Sex: Male

Your S.P.E.C.I.A.L. / Skills:

Strength: 4
Perception: 6
Endurance: 5
Charisma: 7
Intelligence: 8
Agility: 7
Luck: 3

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. A battered old pipboy three thousand tuned and even color swapped to a less painful on the eyes on light blue screen. With shaggy auburn hair and a pair of welders goggles hung around his neck, stocky built with strong legs and a charming face. Sea blue 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 worn blue jeans suit worn under a thick duster jacket with the patches sewn on, a holster at his left hip carrying forty-four magnum. A heavy traveling bag crossing from his left shoulder to his right hip. A cowboy stetson sat upon his head with a old Winchester 1886 custom chambered slung across his back.

Armor and Equipment:

1× Worn BoS Combat Armor chest piece and leg pieces
1× Brown Stetson Cowboy Hat
1× Heavy Leather Duster
6× Stimpacks
1x Wasteland Mutt mostly Border Collie- Zelly
1x American Mustang Horse- War Admiral
1x Acoustic Guitar
1x Pipboy 3000
1x 20ft Rope
1x Saddlebags
1x Reins, Saddle, and Blankets
100× 45-70 rounds
60× .44 rounds
150× Caps

Weapons:
Winchester 1886 in 45-70 gov't
.44 Magnum revolver

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.

However, that dream would come crashing down when Maxson took the spot as Elder Finn and others who had signed up to fight under Lyons deserted. Maxson wasn't the Elder they had signed up to follow, after that. Finn made his was Westward looking for the fabled and lost Midwestern Brotherhood of Steel. Dreams of a new future in the West.

History / How they came to be part of Whitlash: 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. A pack of Deathclaw's moved in, tracking a recently arrived herd of beef cattle Finn's town left to defense putting their rifles and turrets to work. Every trader, guard, and farmer poured lead into the beasts the heard was small thankfully only five 'claws but they busted through the wall near Finn's section. Finn aim true as ever took out the eyes of the beast leaving it blind and flailing enough time for several others to wheel about and open fire on it from all directions.

After these years, at nineteen, Phineas met a girl, she was young and capable she was from a small farm that worked in vegetables while profitable the land would be better suited to cattle in truth. After a year of getting to know her and her family, Finn made an offer to take his savings and combine it with their profits to start a small cattle ranch in this part of the state. Shortly before they had fully agreed, Finn asked Jessamine Blossom to be his bride. She said yes, her father agreed to convert his farm into a ranch against his brother's will. So Finn left them the money while he headed over to tell his parents the good news of his coming marriage, it wouldn't stay good news for long.

Finn returned three days later the cattle gone, horses too, along with anything valuable that had been left within the place. Behind the barn he found three shallow graves one for his beloved fiancé, one for her brother finer friend Finn never had before, and her kind pa who had given Finn his blessing to marry his daughter. With Ezrah Blossom not being among his families graves, Finn knew who was responsible for what had happened to this kind and decent family.

Phineas Holiday Cassidy was taken on as Deputy Marshal by Senior Marshal Sam Smith, who taught him much of what he would carry through his life. Adding the combat skills of a Marshal, Finn would spend nearly a year learning from Sam before Ezrah Blossom resurfaced. Finn hid the information and pursed Ezrah out of North Carolina to a mountain near Virginia. Finn went alone, believing that this was his fight and no one else's many people remember the story of the young Deputy Marshal who brought down a gang of ten alone. Finn was reprimanded after he took his vengeance, seeing Ezrah Blossom hang for his crimes. He would sell much of the goods taken from the corpses he made that day, before quitting the Marshal's, understanding that his attitude as he was would get someone killed.

Over the next few years Phineas would become bounty hunter, tracking down targets or people the Marshals or Tarheels couldn't be bothered with. He would range out into Virginia, Tennessee, and South Carolina on several occasions during one such trip he would acquire his six string which he would keep pristine for years to come. During this time, Finn drank heavily and developed his problem with alcohol even learning to brew it to make drinking cheaper. He was broken by the death of his loved ones and the loss of his entire plan for himself living just to find a place to be killed.

A Brotherhood squad 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 and women in power armor yet Phineas ever the tinkerer walked right up and began to ask about the features and what they had gotten working on the armor. Phineas himself had recovered a busted up suit of Power Armor from a Vertibird he'd stumbled across and wanted to know more about the working models before him. 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. They eventually agreed to have Finn show them the way to Creamery and around the Carolina's in general.

Bringing the Brotherhood to the Carolina Creamery built above Vault sixty-six, 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 Knights on the mission, the greatest discovery of the entire mission was that the Vault dwellers had a working icecream maker. 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 their base 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 protecting people. 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. Joining as an initiate Finn would be promoted to Knight when the Enclave Brotherhood war broke out, Finn would perform admirably throughout at several combat sights. With special commendations being awarded for bravery and service during the battle of Addams Air Force Base, he was promoted to Knight Sergeant by the end of that war.

The Brotherhood then took it's new martial strength and brought it full force down on the Super Mutants, Finn and many other Knights battle hardened by the Enclave taking the fight to Vault eighty-seven. When the super mutants of the capital wastelands were finally beaten, Phineas's squad would evacuate Little Lamplight during their retreat. Saving nearly a hundred children, who were taken in by the Brotherhood. Finn would be promoted to Knight Captain for his actions in the destruction of the super mutants home turf. Finn would be rotated off combat duties and they put his talent to tech to work making him part for several salvage units and recovery squads deployed across the capital wasteland.

However after the Death of Elder Sarah Lyons and the election of several feckless and devise Elders Phineas couldn't stomach it when Maxson took charge and set undoing the legacy of the Lyon's family. Himself and many of the Wastelanders who had come into service under Sarah spoke up harshly, they were shouted down by old guard and berated by those who more recently joined. So Finn turned in his armor and his holotags saying that men like Maxson were the reason Brotherhood would die. Few had ever walked away but Knight-Captain Holiday did along seven other knights. They headed west towards the lost and fabled Midwestern BoS the reports had mentioned may still be active.

It took years, trials and tribulations to reach Chicago another six months to establish contact with the BoS Elders in the Midwest. Finn had finally gotten used to lacking the armor and the better firepower to match. Their new contacts in the Brotherhood put them to work looking for new towns and villages to put under protection. Finn volunteered to head back west, quietly sending back messages every few months or so. His current assignment is in Montana working as a ranch hand selling his labor and seeing what can learn about the region for the more expansionist Mid-western Brotherhood of Steel.

Extras:
Finn is a talented singer and musician.