[CHAR] Fallout: Under Silver Skies [Closed]

[Kingfisher]

ONLY FOR APPROVED CHARACTER SHEETS.

Please put applications in the OOC thread.

[SimplyDebonair]

Commander "Jack" Jackson Meriwether

Commander “Jack” Jackson Meriwether

Age: 42

Gender: Male

Appearance: Jack stands approximately 6’3 and weighs in to 225lbs of solid muscle. Due to his military background with the NCR, he is able to keep the physique on par of those his junior. Alongside the left side of his face, are three distinct claw marks from a run-in with a Deathclaw while on patrol as a NCR soldier. Although he could have a surgeon reverse the scarring, he keeps them as a reminder of the harshness of the wastelands. When out of his typical attire, Jack has his fallen comrades’ names tattooed to on his right ribcage.
While not roaming the wasteland, Jack is typically wearing a black tank top tucked into his ragged blue jeans. His boots are in similar to the old westerner’s boots during the days of the cowboy, but without spurs. Rawhide, Brahmin gloves are usually worn when he is doing manual labor for people on the frontier. When he is back to exploring the world, he is dressed in the typical attire of a NCR Ranger veteran. This often gives him the ability to be trusted by citizens of the NCR and antagonized by their enemies.

Race: Human.

Personality: Jack typically keeps to himself, which is typical due to his background as a NCR Ranger. Having spent most of his life in the wilderness and on patrols with small-teams, he has learned to be wary of others until they prove themselves to him. When his new acquaintances have done so, he is willing to lend a hand at their request as long as it is in the best interest of the people. If they break his trust or harm the populace for no warranted cause, he will not hesitate to attack them with all his might.

Skills/Attributes: With his military background, Jack is an expert in hand-to-hand combat and well-versed in marksmanship. As a veteran Ranger, he is an excellent tracker and scavenger that is capable of living off the harsh wastelands. Having studied with the logisticians with the NCR Army, he is capable of hacking low-level computer systems and reprogram few robotic systems as well. In his spare time, he learned to modify his equipment and weapons to enhance his survivability in the world he lives in.

Back-sTORY: Jack originates from the south-western territory formerly known as Texas. His childhood was typical for someone growing up as the son of a Brahmin rancher; learning to be a crack shot by age ten. While on a ranging, his convoy was ambushed by raiders and his family was brutally slaughtered. With his family dead and his Brahmin stolen, a badly beaten Jack crawled his way to the nearest town to get help. On a routine expedition to annex the territory, a group of NCR personnel stumbled upon him and helped him to the town medical practitioner. After a lengthy recovery, the young man thanked his saviors and requested to accompany them back to the NCR homeland. Seeing the determination of the lad, they agreed so long as he joined the NCR army to serve for the good of the people. Agreeing to the terms, Jack left with the group the following morning to the nearest NCR outpost in the Mojave wastes.

After swearing allegiance to the NCR, Jack reported to their training facilities in California to become a basic trooper. Upon graduation and reporting to his unit in the northwest territories, his starting years were relatively uneventful. A few routine patrols and ambushes again the local populace who didn’t welcome their presence were all he received during his time there. A couple years pass, he requested a transfer to the frontlines to see action and become a hardened soldier for his adopted home. During his travels to his new unit, his receiving platoon was ambushed by a Deathclaw when they encroached on its nest accidently. Although he survived the encounter, thanks to a small-team of Rangers, the attack left him with a scarred face and a deep resentment for the creatures.

Thanks to the Rangers and impressed with their skills, he immediately requested to undergo their rigorous training upon arrival to his new station. After many months of waiting, he was granted the chance after one of the Rangers spoke how he faced down the Deathclaw without hesitation. The training was brutal and more demanding than he originally expected, narrowly passing the course and becoming a member of their elite corps. With his new assignment, he began his career as a Ranger and accompanied a few of the small-teams on their engagements. As the years came and went, Jack rose through the ranks and eventually became a Veteran NCR Ranger. But after some time, he felt the years catching up with his age and he retired from the service with full honors for his accomplishments. Retiring to the Northwest, he planned to live his life in relative peace as a Brahmin rancher but that was before he stumbled across the misdeeds of the Lazzari family.

[Dismas]

Patrick "Horus" Teach

Name/Nicknames: Patrick "Horus" Teach

Age: Ghoulification began in mid 30's, though Horus has lost track of his age over time.


Gender: Male


Appearance: Horus stands tall at 6'3" though thin and malnourished due to his goulification. As expected, his skin is rotting and peeling with no hair to speak of atop his head. Skin that does remain on his body is a dark red with hints of green throughout. His eyes have lost all color in the iris and look soulless and grey. He wears a mud stained, green button up shirt underneath a heavy leather duster coat accompanied by torn blue jeans. He dons a black, wide-brimmed capotain hat and worn out leather cowboy boots. He always did enjoy the look of a cowboy despite never actually living any resemblance of the cowboy lifestyle over the course of his life.

Slung over his shoulder he carries an old side-by-side shotgun with external hammers. He also keeps a standard revolver in a side holster on his belt with a tacky spade suit embossed into the grip of the gun. A large leather satchel is slung over his other shoulder filled to the gills with medical supplies. Everything from stimpacks to fixer.


Race: Ghoul

Personality: The wasteland has been a series of high's a low's for Horus and has warped his personality and outlook on life over time. He began his life in the wastes caring only for himself. Selfish is a fitting term as everything he did was to ensure his own survival above all else.

He went through a time of camaraderie and learned to trust and care for others.

He went through a time of betrayal and felt abandoned.

As he stands today Horus seeks a fortune to secure his own safety. His motivation for going forward is that of selfishness and greed. He thinks logically and clearly and makes attempts to solve his problems through analyzing all the factors at work rather than charging head first into an unknown situation. He could be described as 'cut and dry'. Speaking to the point and limiting his banter with others.

However, glimmers of his selfless past still managed to manifest themselves in Horus. On rare occasions he will go out of his way to use his medical knowledge to help sick children or infants though anything more than that he charges a premium for his time.

Skills/Attributes: Horus is skilled in both medicine due to role with the Followers of the Apocalypse and repair given his profession as a repair man. He is also fairly knowledgeable, having received a proper education before the war and receiving even further education with the Followers.

Backstory

Back-story:

Patrick Teach grew up in Los Angeles before the Great War. He worked in a small equipment repair shop for much of his life, working his way up at a young age from shop helper to full time mechanic.

He lived alone without any wife or family, though he enjoyed his solitude for the most part.

As tension before the outbreak of the Great War grew Patrick became increasingly worried. He was never selected for admittance into a vault and feared for his life daily. On the day the bombs finally did fall he was working in the equipment shop. Once he heard the air raid sirens he threw his tools down and ran for the shop's back lot. His fellow co-workers stood in silence as the sirens sounded, each staring at him as he frantically weaved through the messy shop to get out the back door. Once outside he located a sewer access cover he scoped out at ahead of time in preparation for if this day ever came.

He snatched up a metal bar that had been laying in the shop's lot and pried away the cover. As he scurried down the sewer's ladder and pulled the cover over his poor man's vault he could hear cries of panic and shouting. The access point went deep, each step adding to his reassurance that he might survive the nuclear apocalypse.

----------

After the bombing finally stopped Patrick continued to stick to L.A.'s ruined sewer system as a means of safety from the outside world. He fed on rats and made occasional trips above ground to scavenge what food he could from the ruins of L.A. . After some time being exposed to nuclear fallout and taking nourishment from irradiated sources goulification began. Patrick attempted to care for his rotting flesh through practical means. He attempted bandaging and sterilizing his growing wounds but the process continued. His hair continued to fall out, his skin peeled, and his voice deteriorated. He eventually accepted his new state of being and just continued to do what he could to survive.

As time went on settlements began to crop up throughout the wasteland. People began to re-settle the area around the ruins of L.A. and thus The Boneyard was born. In the Boneyard Patrick continued to do what he could to survive. However, as time went on and more people began to settle, the ruins of L.A. were all but picked clean and Patrick had no way to sustain himself. Eventually he came across a group known as The Followers of the Apocalypse and found a new means of continuing his survival.

The followers of the Apocalypse at Angel's Boneyard Medical University were attempting to conduct research on goulification and offered food and living space to him in exchange for his cooperation in their research. He introduced himself to them as "Horus". In this new wasteland he learned quickly that the world was very cruel and used the name Horus to sound tougher than he actually was. He took the name from an Egyptian god which he recalled from a previous girlfriend who was very interested in the subject. In hindsight he figured this had been a fruitless effort as the people of the wasteland would never know any of the old Egyptian gods but he kept the name all the same.

Horus spent some time with the Followers of the Apocalypse and though the research eventually stagnated without any major findings, he began to enjoy the Follower's company. Working closely with their doctors he eventually joined their ranks and took to learning the intricacies of medicine and medical treatment.

Eventually he was selected to be a part of an expedition heading to Shady Sands. Horus accepted and found himself excited at the opportunity to do some traveling and see how the rest of the world had managed after the Great War.

The expedition went smoothly for the majority of the journey. However, around the vicinity of One Pine the expedition was ambushed by raiders.

Members of the expedition pleaded with the raiders. They offered medicine and other supplies if the raiders would just let them continue. The raiders ignored them, shooting 4 members of the expedition in quick succession. The other members of the expedition cowered and cried for their fellow Followers though Horus just stood still glaring at one of the raiders. One of them approached Horus and taunted him. He stepped closer and closer shouting insults and mocking the dead Followers. Horus couldn't contain his anger any longer and lunged at the raider. He quickly snatched a pistol from the raider's holster and took him hostage. He ordered the other raiders to drop their weapons. They laughed and continued to taunt him.

Horus called again to them to drop their weapons and pressed the barrel of the pistol against his hostage's head. The raiders continued to laugh and taunt him but begrudgingly complied with his demands. They muttered to each other their disbelief that Horus would shoot them, assuming the expedition were pacifists.

Once their weapons were on the ground Horus took aim and began firing wildly at the raiders. He missed many of his shots but landed enough of them fatally injure the raiders before they could recover their weapons. He pushed down his hostage and emptied the remainder of the pistol's magazine into him. As he fired his companions called out for him to stop but he ignored them.

With the raiders dead he turned back to the expedition and saw the horrified faces of his fellow Followers. They scolded him for his actions and denounced his monstrous behavior in the face of disarmed opponents. He retorted back to the expedition, justifying his actions as revenge for killing his friends but his words fell on deaf ears.

The Followers cast him out and refused his company for the remainder of the expedition. They left him with the death rattling raiders and continued on.

Abandoned and alone, Horus continued on his own. Scavenging what he could from the dead raiders he continued north.

He passed through Shady Sands only to resupply. He feared a run-in with the Followers of the Apocalypse and heard word in a local bar that mercenary work was plentiful further north in a place called New Reno.

Horus took the strangers advice and made his way there, ready to open a new chapter of his life as a mercenary.

[Dragonbud]

Dusty

Name/Nicknames: Her birth name is Jessica Wells, but hasn't been called that in a very long time. Her Boxer name was "Duster" and this adapted to he Raider, and current, name: Dusty.

Age: 28

Gender: Female

Appearance:

Dusty is on the smaller side, 5'4 and has a muscular build after years of combat training. Her hair is tangled and cut in all different lengths, most likely the result of cutting her own hair with a knife while high. As both a force of intimidation and for the ease of comfort Dusty still wears ragged Raider Armor, a mismatched set of various scavenged bits of leather armor enhanced with spikes, leftover from her time running with them. Dusty can useably be seen accessorizing her rough exterior with bruising and scrapes all along her body. The girl never is seen without her trusty set of spiked knuckles. Her weapons are the only thing she carries with her that seems to be unkept.

Race: Human

Personality: Dusty has two rather distinct personalities, it honestly depends on when you talk to her. When Dusty finds herself without her Fix she is irritable and reckless, loud mouthed and paranoid. Everyone's out to get her, everyone wants what she's looking for. And she'll kill them for it. She would do anything to get rid of the itch under her skin and the pounding in the back of her skull. Rob people, beat the shit out of a lone NCR solider, burn down a farm. It doesn't matter as long as she gets what she wants. Once her needs are satisfied you see a very different Dusty. Relaxed and spontaneous, first one to suggest everyone tries wrestling Rad Roaches and hands out beers to the winners. When Dusty isn't craving she is more then happy to laze around in the sun, spooking trade caravans and exchanging stories with her friends.

Strengths: Her, well, strength is her biggest strength. She's also quick on her feet, quickly moving into battle and landing hits before her enemy even has time to pull out a weapon. Her quickness also translates into stealthiness. Dusty doesn't wear clunky armor, and knows how to move without making a sound. She excels in unarmed combat, her punches hurting just as much as any melee weapon. Dusty has survived on her own for a long time, so she is comfortable out in the wasteland. She is able to scavenge food and supplies from almost everywhere.

Weaknesses: Dusty is extremely addicted to several drugs, mostly Buffout and Hydra. As long as she has her fix she's fine, but as soon as her high starts to wear off things go wrong. She finds herself feeling nervous and jumpy. Irritable and impatient. Her hands always have a slight tremble to them, so shooting never goes well. Dusty also never learned skills involving reading or writing, and isn't particularly intelligent. Her illiteracy is actually rather embarrassing to her, and she hates when people points it out. Dusty also isn't much of a team player, especially with people she doesn't know or like. She is known to take advantage of people, and ditch them when she is bored of them.

Back-story: Dusty was born and raised on a small settlement, struggling to survive in the Wasteland. The settlement was several families, including Dusty's family, farming and working the land to something livable. It wasn't a bad life, it was dangerous but the whole world was dangerous. But this life wasn't for Dusty.

Dusty had always considered herself a good fighter, she was quick with her hands and quicker on her feet. Dusty never really thought she was providing anything to her families settlement or farm. Her siblings excelled at taking care of plants and animals, or building and fortifying. One of them even learned about medicine by reading, a skill she taught herself. Dusty was able to satisfy her desires to fight for a few years in her childhood by punching roaches and cutting wood. But it was never enough. Her family needed caps, but Dusty had no way to make caps, legitimately.

Dusty had heard of, in a nearby 'city', an underground boxing ring. Lots of Caps to be made, you just had to survive. Dusty was fifteen when she left home, promising to send caps back. She lied to the bouncer, saying she was eighteen. Not that the man minded, Dusty was gonna fight and make him some caps. It didn't matter how old she was, or how bad of a choice this was.

The first few fights were disasters. Her opponents were all much bigger and stronger then she was. But Dusty wasn't willing to give up. She trained daily, alone. One day, after a fight she nearly won, a man came up to her. He said he saw the potential in her, and offered to sponsor her. The jingling of caps in his pocket was enough to get her to sign on. Dusty continued her training, with the thought of the next prize egging her on. Her next fight, at age sixteen, was her first knock-out victory. She ate well that night, and even had cooled water.

Dusty was on a steady uphill, winning more and more fights and winning more and more caps. And as she became a more popular fighter she gained more perks from her sponsor. The perks of joining him were, besides the caps, a trail run of some drugs that might make her a better fighter. Dusty insisted that she would be fine without the drugs. But her next fight she nearly lost. After this near defeat Dusty grew worried that she wasn't getting any stronger, and took her first dose of Buffout.

The results were instant, Dusty felt great. And her sponsor even was willing to buy her her next few doses! Dusty's next few fights were a breeze. A dose of Buffout before each fight and a dose of Hydra after the fight to fix up her arms. But soon Dusty was taking Buffout in between fights, and Hydra whenever she was feeling a little achey. And then her sponsor stopped paying for her bad habit, but was willing to sell it to her for a discounted price. And she did.

Soon all of her winnings were going into Hydra and Buffout. She was barely scrapping enough winning money to buy her next dose. And she was getting angry. Dusty began to be sloppy with her drugs, and the owner of the Boxing ring discovered the discarded drug containers. She was quickly chased from town, with her supplier already off to find his next victim. Dusty had nowhere to go. She was 18 and had nothing but the Hydra and Buffout she was able to snag before she left. She had no reason to go home, her family likely assumed she was dead. All she knew was that she needed more of her stuff.

She met the Raiders a few months later, while she was scavenging through some of their territory. She was captured, and told she could earn her freedom if she could defeat their greatest in a contest of strength. Dusty had no trouble beating their warrior, and was allowed to join the Raiders, as they had control over most of the drug trade in the Wasteland. Dusty lived with the Raiders for several years, fighting everything she wanted and taking whatever she wanted. Bad habits got worse and Dusty found herself one of the leaders of the Raiders. She was feared by adventurers of their area, no one daring to enter their territory. Things were looking good.

That was until SOMEONE touched her stash.

And Dusty knew exactly who it was! That dirt bag who hit on her! Who thought he was top dog when the leader wasn't looking! And she knew exactly what to do to people who touched her stash! Hopped up on Buffout she marched up to him during a meal and snapped his neck with her hands. And as much as the Raiders loved swift and violent justice, the man was of higher rank. Dusty was chased out, for the second time in her life. This time Dusty had nowhere else to turn, constantly on the run. She had no issue with this, why stay with people if they are just gonna kick you out later. And lucky for her her stash was quite large, she had enough time to find some more product.

Dusty now wanders the wastes alone, showing no fear to any man or beast. She, in attempt to keep herself well supplied, often sells her services to weak looking settlers and wastelanders. But she rarely sticks around long enough to help them, instead leaving in the night after taking what she wants.

Other: Dusty is addicted to Buffout, Hydra and Psycho. Psycho and Buffout are her favorite "treats".

[Sol Grim]

Dallen Larson

Name/Nicknames: Dallen Larson (Dal)

Age: 36

Gender: Male



Appearance: 6'1" in height, with a slim athletic build. Dallen is tall, dark, and handsome, appearing just as youthful as his early days as he gets older. He appears to never age. He has brown eyes and naturally pale skin, complemented by jet black hair that grows down to his shoulders sometimes, though he prefers keeping his straightened hair short. In his older years he has found that he prefers keeping his beard, though goes back and forth with shaving, depending on his mood, though not really caring much about his look from others.

His signature look is that of a suit and tie, be that entirely black or the normal white and black, usually paired with a large black trench over coat. Being constantly on the move, he travels light, sometimes with light armor underneath, depending on the situation before him. He wears a hip holster on his right side bearing his revolver, while also having a chest holster that can hold more lightly weighted firearms, the chest holster usually being worn under his overcoat and over his suit and tie, providing a bit of extra armor and carryweight.

Race: Human

Strengths: His greatest asset, being the thing that's kept him alive all these years in the wastes, is his talent for killing. He is a weapons expert, though prefers light arms that are accurate and durable. He is not, however, the gunsblazing go in and shoot out type, being keenly intelligent when it comes to combat situations, such as using stealth to dismantle entire groups rather than all out war. He prefers to take out his targets without them ever knowing he was there, which unfortunately is not always the case. He is also highly advanced in hand to hand combat, having trained in multiple martial arts from different areas of the landscapes. He is no expert in any particular fighting skill, though is well versed in all. His style is quick and to the point, and though he can fight, he prefers to use his tactical knife for the quick kill. He is fully aware of a human's pressure points and joints, and how they are supposed to move or function. He uses this to his advantage, should the opportunity arise.

Weaknesses: As far as combat related, his flaws are few and far between. He doesn't quite work well as a team, as he only plans for singular situations. He trusts no one but himself. He is anti social, preferring to be a lone wolf. His people skills lack a bit of humanity, as the most that gets out of him are one liners, sarcasm, or just plain silence. He has no friends or anyone to watch his back, with little emotion and a lot of annoyance by everything surrounding him. His health is not in its best state either, as he smokes as much as he can find, as well as has a drinking problem. Luckily for him, supplies of that sort aren't that plentiful, though when he has them they go fast.

Personality: Dallen wasn't always the way he is now, but the wasteland changes everyone. He is a hardened man of little emotion, often showcasing his grit more than his feelings. He is very grim and quiet, and often is annoyed by other people, so he tries to avoid contact unless necessary.

He only thinks or cares about the next mission, whatever it may be and wherever it may take him. Though in everyday life, he is always quite calm and collected. Though things often annoy him, he rarely acts upon them save with a smirky sarcastic line. There is not much he really cares about anymore.

If one were to be able to see the humanity left in him, they might find that he is a good soul, lost in a dangerous hell. He has, at least he had, a kind heart. He is protective in nature for the little guy, meaning he usually sides and feels sympathy for the innocents out there. Though he would probably never admit to such, he believes his sole purpose is to protect and serve those in need. Dallen has lost so much over the years, that the once polite and sometimes humorous man has become a darker image of himself. It's all buried deep inside of him, perhaps to much so at this point in his life.

Skills/Attributes: Skilled in combat and survival, with a good sense of knowledge. He is very perceptive and somewhat agile, though has low charisma and doesn't believe in luck, only skill and practice. His endurance is somewhat limited from all the smoking and other bad habits, though he tries to keep in shape as often as possible, which is quite easy to do in his profession.

Back-story: Dallen Lee Larson was born in the harsh cold climates of the north. He was trained how to survive early on, only having his father, Melton Larson, to protect him. His mother Gil Larson passed at birth, and so it was just him and his old man up until his young adult years. His father was a tracker/hunstman, and also a retired NCR soldier. By the time his father passed away from pnemonia and left his son on his own, he had hoped his teachings would be enough. Having been pumped full of information from weapons, to hunting, to books of knowledge, and much more, Dallen set out on his own for the first time.

Dallen eventually found a settlement that accepted him. Using his skills, he was a valued asset for the community, being a hunter/gatherer for them. He there met his to be wife, a teacher named Erin Coppola. They fell in love and were to have their first born son, when the raiders came and destroyed his world.

While being on a hunt, his entire community was attacked by a raider gang. The elders were slaughtered, the children were enslaved, and the woman and men were all killed, with many unlucky ones being tortured before hand. Upon his return, Dallen found the place burned down and destroyed. He found his pregnant wife dead amongst the chaos, and thus, this was the moment he was truly born.

It took years to find them all, but Dallen did. One by one, he found and murdered the raiders that killed his people. Obtaining many scars on his body over the time, the day finally came when his vengeance had come full circle. His actions became quickly known by those in the area, as words spread of his accomplishments. Work then came plentiful, as there were many struggling people in desperate need of aid.

He became a mercenary, though only took the jobs that allowed him to kill people like the raiders. He never smiled again, and also changed his entire look and thought process of life. He changed his apparel to be the opposite, now only wearing suits and looking professional, as opposed to his hunter garb that he once was accustomed to. The only thing that mattered anymore, was the next job. So he moved on and started his way south into California, looking to do more of the same.

Other: He also carries a flask of whatever liquor he can find in a back pocket, as well as matches. Whenever he stocks up on caps and enters a new town, his priority other than keeping his arsenal in check is booze, smokes, and fire.

Inventory:
-(attire) Suit and tie. Trench coat, with many pockets and straps within it. Shoulder holsters under coat, over suit. Hip holsters on both sides. Belt with magazine holsters. Steel toe boots. Dirt stained socks.

-.357 magnum (4 rounds)
- Heckler & Koch P30L (2) (Breckinridge's weapons) (both silenced) (30+rounds)
-Tactical knife
-matches
-silver zippo
-pocket sized flask
-Alejandro's backpack (caps, 2mendats, 3 joints, carton of cigarettes(8 packs), 3 jet, 4 psycho, rat poison, 6 stimpaks, 3 buffouts, 2 rad away, psychojet)
-Shark Club casino chip

Caps: 1,120
(+1000 from pagans)
(+300 in poker)
(-180 to whore)

[Andreyich]

Name: Knight Freddy Stuttzer, a.k.a Lee Volker

Freddy Stuttzer

Age: 34

Gender: Male

Appearance: Precisely 6 feet tall, he possesses a light and relatively thin, almost atrophied frame. He has black hair, and a cleanly shaved face almost no matter the situation, and hazel eyes.

Personality: While born introverted and cowardly, he puts on the "tough guy" persona wherever he goes. He is very fearful someone will discover his BoS past.

Skills: He has learned close combat fighting both armed and unarmed, but has never used it in practice. He is well versed if not expert in repair and medicine, and is experienced in using energy weapons, the low recoil of which suits him perfectly. He is also trained to use power-armour, and is capable of slight acrobatics.

Gear: Recharger pistol, laser rifle, cattle prod, jeans, leather jacket, undershirt, leather boots, aviator glasses, rebreather.

Bio:

His early life was relatively uneventful, a normal Knight of the Brotherhood of Steel in the Mojave Chapter, until Elder Elijah decided that it was a good idea to take HELIOS one. Back then he was much more naive, blindly following the words of his superiors. However, everything changed at the battle for HELIOS one. He had never seen such a massacre before, so many men incinerated with no trace left of them but a pile of ash. While he did his best to fight off the massive assault, he instantly ran when a rocket barely missed him and splattered the Paladin beside him. While the NCR considered giving chase, it was not a good idea, and so he survived.

It was for a whole five days on end that he ran, until he finally fell, exhausted. When a day later he woke up, he thought what his first action would be. It was not long before he realized he had to ditch the power-armour, and his combat armour. When finally ridding himself of the biggest identifying things of the Brotherhood, he realized he had to put great distance between himself and the Mojave Chapter of the Brotherhood.

Now, he is in California's New Reno, thinking he can hide his past by putting on the "tough merc" persona. While he did hide his Brotherhood past, he is an inexperienced mercenary surviving only by his high quality weapons.

Strengths: jack of all trades, master of none. Light frame lets him run quickly and do decent if simple acrobatics.

Weaknesses: is a master of nothing, and is not particularly endurant or strong.
(BoS)

(as a Merc)

[Tsar Gatto]

Annelise Fuentes

Name/Nicknames:
Annelise Fuentes

Age:
27

Gender:
Dragon-kin Apache Helicop….
Female

Appearance:

pic

Annelise is clearly not someone who grew up in the wasteland, her appearance betraying that fact quite clearly. If it weren’t for the lack of grime, filth, scaring and general trauma covering her then the bright blue vault suit and number ‘96’ on her back tends to be a dead giveaway. The fact that she takes pride and care in her apparel and appearance only serves to further set her apart from those she encounters. Her hair is a bright shade of fiery red, falling down to her lower back and lacking in the tangles and generally matted filthy nature of others, brushed washed and maintained to a high standard – eyegrabbing would be an appropriate adjective. Her complexion too is rather clear and pale, somewhat too much so again, no wastelander would be so free of pocks, marks, scars, rashes and other unsightly skin conditions – only a vault dweller generally so pale and ‘pure’ in appearance.

Her body is thin and athletic, again the wonders of a balanced and sufficient diet doing wonders where others starve and waste away. Regular exercise and care, Anneliese knows how to look after herself and does so almost religiously – she wouldn’t dream of doing even half of the things that these wastelanders do to themselves and each other. Exercise, care, diet – these luxuries are clear when you look at Anneliese and currently her appearance screams ‘vault-dweller’. The attention she receives from both her fellow vault-dwellers and wastelanders alike serves to reinforce the fact that she is by far one of the more desirable creatures to grace the terrible wastes that the world has become.

Race:
Human

Strengths:

Headsmart: Annelise was chosen specifically by Doctor Hadley because of her strong and focused nature and her quick mind above all, though her athletic frame and her specific skillsets (and of course her constant badgering as well as the intimate nature of their relationship) certainly helped too.

Energy Weapon Savant: As well as being close to peak physical condition Annelise is somewhat of an expert on energy weapons technology, more than skilled in their maintenance and use. Her laser rifle is like an extension of herself, each component and part examined and modified in her spare time (her rifle and any other energy weapons she could get her hands on) – Annelise could almost disassemble and assemble her rifle in the pitch black if she needed to, not that she’d like to put that to the test.

Weaknesses:
Cheese!
Naïve/Trusting: Annelise grew up in vault 96 and as such is far from used to the world outside. To her life is black and white, good or bad. She incorrectly assumes that she is a fantastic judge of character, putting her trust in those who earn it – a little too easily so (similarly someone who looks what she would deem untrustworthy may incorrectly gain her mistrust). Fortunately for her Dr Hadley is around and deals with the wastelanders and makes up for her lack of ‘wasteland smarts’ and experience.

Arrogant/Vain: Without beating around the bush Annelise is rather big headed, assuming that as a vault-dweller she pretty much already knows everything worth knowing and that a wastelander couldn’t possibly teach her anything worth knowing. Similarly so her appearance is right up there on her list of concerns, similarly the appearance of others is something that often causes her much distress (after all who wants to look at an ugly, filthy, disease ridden and badly dressed wastelander for longer than required).

Personality:
Annelise is a vault-dweller and as such has a very different personality from the general riff-raff. She is generally polite, well-spoken and articulate – her chosen vocabulary often unintentionally leaves her with confused or even angry looks so she usually has to dumb down what she says.

At heart she is endlessly curious, always seeking more sources of pre-war information and technology and willing to endure quite a bit to achieve her goals – not that this has been put to the test yet.

That being said she is somewhat out of place in the wasteland, having little to connect her to the outside world other than Dr Hadley and the group of dwellers that she is travelling with. Something tells me this is about to change.

Skills/Attributes:
Annelise scored top marks in her GOATs.
Good at shooting things with energy weapons. Better at tinkering with and maintaining them.
Pretty good with old world tech.
Pretty good with medicine.

Back-story:
Annelise was born amongst the inhabitants of vault 96 and lived a rather normal life as a vault dweller. A happy child with few concerns, life was good. Her parents (her father was the overseer, her mother a teacher) ensured that she received the best education possible, the young girl flourishing in such a positive environment.

Soon enough she found herself as a young woman, filling the slot of a junior technician as she worked on the vaults most fragile systems thanks to her quick mind and careful hand. Eventually she discovered the wonders of energy weapons and found herself obsessed – trading away her few possessions for a hardly functioning laser rifle(after persuading one of the vault’s ‘traders’ to do so on her behalf) as the vault had only a few barley functioning laser pistols. Countless hours of tinkering and toying with it later Anneliese finally got it working after substituting and repairing several of the parts.

From that moment on every single extra bit of food, water or anything else she saved for when a trade caravan would leave the vault, before she would beg them to bring back as many of the microfusion cells the weapon consumed as ammunition as possible.

Annelise’s room looked more like a workshop turned firing range before eventually her father took note of her obsession, more-so he was concerned with the crates of food and water she was trading away than anything else. It soon became clear that the young woman would not cease and so he encouraged and assisted her where possible, giving her a workshop of her own and arranging for provision of the items she needed for her extra ‘work’.

Several years later the vault found itself in trouble, one of the key components for their water extraction and purification facilities began to fail. After the vault’s best technicians (Annelise included) had tried all they could it became clear there was only one solution – they needed a replacement from another vault (or similarly high-tech pre-war facility). After failing to barter such an item it became again clear that they would need to physically get the part themselves before it failed or they would all need to leave the safety of their vault or die of thirst.

Jumping at the opportunity to not only assist the vault, but to also further her experiences and knowledge of energy weapons she applied to go with the group to search the wastes. Initially the idea was met with huge resistance from her parents, but eventually with much convincing and the assistance of Dr Vincent Hadley (one of the several other vault dwellers who would be going, also Annelise’s rather fantastic lover of the past several months) they were finally convinced.

They left the vault 21 days ago…

Other: (Anything else you'd like to include)

[Leidenschaft]

Redding Schmidt

Name/Nicknames: Redding Schmidt

Age: 29

Gender: Male

Appearance:

Clad in a somewhat ratty light green t-shirt and a dusty, scuffed leather jacket. Wears steel-toe work boots and a compact 9mm pistol tucked away in his pants. He stands at an even six feet and a modest enough amount of muscle keeps him from being gangly. His eyes are almost always low, dark bags standing out under them and a scraggly beard lines his jaw. He has a noticeable underbite and a crooked nose, a face just this side of handsome, taken a step further back by the Med-X, pills and alcohol.

Race: Human

Strengths: Redding can be a kind man and knows this can be useful

He's a tough individual, growing up on the streets, he won't shrink away from hard words.

His loyalty to the friends he has is limitless, having lost the love of his mother and growing up with a shit father.

He always tries very hard to use violence as the last resort. It's bad business to beat people to death if they don't need to be dead.

Weaknesses: Redding has a mean streak to contrast his niceness, he can get very violent.

Alcoholism, though highly functioning, is a side effect of using alcohol as a maintenance drug for chems and very rare prescription drugs.

He can not sleep unless he is drugged or drunk and this puts him on edge, or can lead to him being somewhat robbed of his energy.

Personality: Redding tries to be a good man when he can, it's just too bad he's made a career of doing things he doesn't like. In another time, they say he could've been a good guitarist, but his voice isn't anything to write home about on account of the smoking. To any who meet Redding, he comes off as cold and businesslike, but you'd find he was only shy, but mostly very knowing of the fact people in his line of work don't live long enough to become good friends or end up on the other side of his gun for one reason or another.

Skills/Attributes: Violence Savvy: His father taught him how to take punches, his friends taught him how to throw them. Growing up with a street gang as family does things to a man, even one who started out as meek and helpless as Redding. He shrank away from violence, but when he found his brothers, he turned his self-loathing outwards and became the man he is today. He's a good shot, he has quick hands and no fear of a sharp edge.

Face of a Thug: He's also learned to cultivate an aura of fear about him, as it's less how you feel about a violent situation as much as those others in it feel about you. Put on a mean face and people tend not to fuck with you. As a man whose job is to squeeze people for their very last cap, he knows how to do this very well.

Back-story: Mentioning the Brothers Schmidt's names is enough to have your tongue ripped out of your mouth in many dive bars in North Vegas. The eldest and de facto leader, Craig Schmidt is a name both respected and hated, depending on who you ask and his three brothers below him in station and age are all names just as known- Simon, Jaime and Redding. All three are known for different things, Simon for his quick tongue and womanizing, Jaime for his size and rough features and Redding for helping Jaime settle disputes some might have with the Schmidts. And his taste for the drugs.

Left to their own devices when Craig was of age in the Mojave, the brothers sought their fortunes in the much more turbulent New California Republic crime world. The Families and street gangs there were in an everlasting battle for petty reasons. The one thing that drew them there was that the Families were willing to pay those who were willing to settle their petty disputes. Taken in by a minor gangster who was tenth in line for inheritance as patriarch of the Family but whose ambition and greed reached far beyond what he could achieve by himself, the brothers Schmidt were given the best lessons money could buy. Almost Dons themselves when it came to their wallets, the thing that kept them there were their willingness to do what it took to keep themselves at that position. The things they were told to do was anything from blackmail to murder. One such Schmidt excelled at the art of killing.

It would be years before their young employer would be killed in a fistfight, in which he met his opponent on the backstreets but was shot by hired thugs, thus losing fair and square- this obviously using the crooked rules of 'who-has-the-biggest-gun'. Of course, in order to keep their heads and their money, they joined with the obvious winner of the fight in a show of goodwill and professionalism. Two years in service to a man named Vincent de Courmier and they worked with more freedom in what they chose to do, enjoying their place in a growing empire in the underworld. Redding and Jaime began spending more time around the chems and alcohol and developed a taste for it, Redding much more than Jaime. It was also around this time that Redding began a romantic relationship with a girl named Teresa. Redding’s taste for chems and drugs only worsened over time, left unchecked in his frequent absences from his brothers.

It was to the point at one time where Redding had stopped working for money and started accepting drugs as payment. Craig would not stand for this, neither from Vincent nor Redding. Craig took it up with Vincent and failing to reach an agreement, Jaime broke the man’s spine and they took their brother away from Vincent. They skipped town, selling their services to some upstart drug dealer in an insignificant town. Despite their assistance, the small-time pusher still managed to get himself killed and the Brothers Schmidt earned a price on their heads on behalf of the town's sheriff. It was around this time, after three years of hiding and the anniversary of their most recent defeat, that Redding decided to cut ties with his brothers and move on to a shiny town full of opportunity named New Reno.

It was upon stepping onto those streets that Redding did what he knew best. An enterprising family called the Lazzaris had been making moves just recently when he'd arrived, and what better opportunity for employment than to loan yourself out to the underdog. It was through working with the Lazzaris and other smaller names that he earned his own reputation in New Reno as a brutal and efficient enforcer, alongside another upstart named Joel. Sticking to his professionalism, he kept a wide berth from Joel when they weren't catching the same jobs, but a healthy respect was there between the two. Fast forward a year and a half and Redding had managed to cut a deal with a man named Ramirez, the second in command of a small street gang calling themselves the Serpiente Familia. Through a string of brutal killings, he and Ramirez established themselves and staked a claim on the Familia's old turf, building a small area of influence where only they could push Redding's hookers and drugs. Over the next year and a half, Redding has established a small but steady business. Under the radar with a small amount of turf, but that's how he likes it these days.

Belongings: Currency: 270 caps, (46/50 usually on his person, -2 for various expenses)
Weapons: Sig p938 (1/2 magazines), a 4 inch boot knife, 12 gauge coach gun (17 shells)
(Kept at apartment: An AKS74u, a Tec-9, 2 .38 snub-nosed revolvers, 1 pump action 20 gauge shotgun, 1 lever-action 12 gauge shotgun, four grenades and a sizable stockpile of ammunition for all of these weapons)
Clothing: Clad in a somewhat ratty light green t-shirt and a dusty, scuffed leather jacket. Wears steel-toe work boots and jeans.
(kept at apartment: 2 combat armor chest pieces(sturdy) w/ molle pouches for mags, a combat armor helmet)
Provisions: A covered syringe of Med-X, ready for use
A pack of (8/10) cigarillos
(Kept at apartment: A week's worth of food and 2 weeks of water, a box of 100 cigarillos and a suitcase that used to be filled with an assortment of drugs.)

[Stitches]

Abigail Harlow

Name/Nicknames: Abigail Harlow

Age: Late Teens

Gender: Female

Appearance: A malnourished runt of a woman, Abigail could have looked fairly beautiful were it not for the unforgiving conditions of the wastelands. Her physique is bony at best - small packs of muscle can be seen primarily on her arms and legs, but her abdomen retains the typical pot-belly and stunted growth of a starved child. She averages at around 5’2. Her hair has been haphazardly cut short and She usually wears thin, baggy clothing which makes Abigail seem even smaller than she actually is; the cloth bunches and gathers around the straps of some old sports gear she wears on top.

Race: Human

Strengths: Abigail’s hopeless when it comes to avoiding trouble, so she worked incredibly hard at being able to get out of it. She likes to label herself as an actress, when in fact she simply has a knack for thinking on the spot. Her photographic memory makes it easy for her to remember factual information such as scraps of conversation or certain mannerisms of particular people, and she can use what little she knows about her opponents to try and convince them she is either not a threat, or perhaps an ally.

Whenever she failed in her little ‘acts’ the outcome was usually a ruthless beating or getting shot, so Abigail quickly learned how to control her body right down to the facial expressions and body language. This helped immensely as, sometimes, the best thing she could do was run away. Since Abigail can’t run very far or for very long, she is far more skilled at hiding and stealth - by using her small frame and slight build, she has learned how to move around fluidly and silently.

Weaknesses: The origin of Abigail’s weaknesses is undeniably her addiction to Med-X. This powerful painkiller has caused some irrevocable damage on the nervous system in her brain, making her photographic memory unreliable and being partly to blame for her compulsion to fidget. Perhaps the strongest (and weirdest) effect it has had on Abigail’s psyche is giving her magpie-like tendencies, primarily an overwhelming urge to take and hoard shiny things - even if it’s a very dangerous move to take. Her attention span is also rather short, meaning that she gets easily distracted at all the wrong moments.

A lifetime of beatings and poor nutrition has also made Abigail fragile - she takes longer to recover from physical injury, becomes fatigued easily and does terribly in hand-to-hand combat. This makes her solely dependent on her stealth and speech to truly survive - that, or the help of a few friends...

Personality: Abigail’s always been a little odd, for as long as anyone could remember. Stories in the Wasteland always focused on the hardened veterans, the ‘shoot-first-ask-questions-later’ folk, the lone wolves who can hold their own in any situation; those who are too weak to fight and survive have to find other means of keeping all their limbs intact. In Abigail’s case, she has developed a series of facades to switch between depending on the situation. The most common one is her theatrical, loud-mouthed and outgoing persona.The way she manages to maintain a constant sense of optimism, the jovial and almost theatrical way she spoke, the big smiles and boundless amounts of energy; these traits were pretty jarring when set against the backdrop of the unforgiving wastelands and its people. This bright outlook on life has undercurrents of nihilism, as she is wont to believe that everyone is going to die soon enough so there isn’t any point in wasting that time by brooding or generally being upset.

When she is hard at work or the situation demands some form of solemnity, Abigail shifts from one extreme to another. Quiet, scrutinising and very wary in her movements and speech patterns, Abigail becomes incredibly guarded and tries to remain as self-sufficient as possible. These moments are when her inferiority shine through; she acts naturally submissive, keeping out of the limelight and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. This is for her own sake, as she is actually quite cowardly and prone to running away instead of sticking around to fight. She’s the underdog who’d rather save her own skin than risk dying over a bag of caps.

Finally, there’s a sort of childlike inquisitiveness within Abigail. She is quite analytical of situations, and though she is not the brightest she likes to boast about having more common sense than many of the people she has met. She has the potential to become a very good tinkerer, but her restlessness and painfully short attention span prevent her from doing so. Certain things tend to capture her attention for long periods of time and she uses these as a sort of calming method or a way to stave off boredom; things such as counting, checking inventory, learning how to read and write or playing with shiny objects.

Skills/Attributes: Abigail’s strongest skill is her thievery. Lockpicking, pickpocketing, sneaking into old buildings through a gap in the boarded-up windows...if there’s a thing that doesn’t belong to her, she’s got the means and the skills to grab it. Aside from that, she’s pretty much useless aside from the basics - cooking, first aid, simple repairs and the like. She likes to commend her excellent skills as a mascot, however.

Back-story:
Every time Abigail talks about her past, the story becomes more and more extravagant and outlandish to the point where the listener has a hard time trying to figure out what proportion of it was real and how much was just a rampant hallucinogenic fever dream during one of her Med-X highs. From what has been deciphered (and admittedly nobody cared that much to actually do it properly) Abigail’s early childhood is too hazy to distinguish. She’s been in Freeside of new Vegas for as long as she could remember, working as an informant to scrounge up some food. She didn’t make many friends, and ended up on the receiving end of quite a few punches.

One of Abigail’s business acquaintances suggested Med-X to help numb the pain, and she’s been addicted ever since. In order to get the caps to pay for her bad habit, Abigail took them from passers-by along with anything that looked like she could pawn it off. Her teenage years were a muddied tangle of poor excuses and lots of hiding; nobody gave a shit about a spindly little addict in Freeside, and her face was easily forgotten in the crowd of petty criminals that lived there.

Eventually, Abigail ran out of luck trying to pickpocket a local thug; she made a wrong turn into an alleyway and ended up being cornered by him and his goons. It would have taken a small miracle to make it out of that situation alive. Luckily, a stranger saw the commotion play out and decided to run after the fleeing thief. He shot the men down at point-blank range and offered Abigail a ‘second chance’ at life, seeing potential in her. Abigail took on a much more pragmatic approach and saw free food and shelter, so she jumped for the opportunity.

Abigail was initially wary of this man; he was religious, and she didn’t want to hear him preach. The prospect of finally leaving Freeside and getting to see all the weird and wonderful parts of the Wastelands was worth any sermons along the way, and the moment Abigail found out he wasn’t going to lecture her the duo got along like a house on fire. They have been travelling the Wastelands together for several years, living off bounties and mercenary work alongside Abigail’s shameless looting and thievery.

Other: N/A

[Biscuits]

Brooks Moreland

Name/Nicknames: Brooks Moreland

Age: 43

Gender: Male

Appearance:

Brooks stands at around 5’10 with a stocky figure and a rotund belly. His hair is a darkish brown, but the roots are starting to shine silver with age. His face is lined with age and darkened with a layer of grime and dirt; from behind his dark, bushy brows Brooks’ brown eyes are usually squinted against the harsh sunlight, and a short greying beard does little to hide the habitual scowl on his face.

His choice of outfit tends to be a sweat-stained, loose-fitting shirt rolled up at the elbows and a pair of coarse cargo pants, the pockets filled with essentials - bullets, shotgun shells, caps. His belt has been modified with a hard leather harness to hold a small bible at his hip. His guns clatter by his side and he has a couple of satchels slung over his shoulders. Resting on his breastbone is a tarnished silver chain with a small Christian cross dangling from it. At night, he wears a dusty grey trench coat to keep warm.

Race: Human

Strengths:

- Endurance: Years of helping strangers and local towns has granted Brooks the gift of stamina and physical toughness. From plowing seeds to helping maintain make-shift pastures, Brooks is accustomed to working under the scalding sun and cool nights.

- Perception: Travelling alone has sculpted Brooks’ senses into a heightened state. Improving his ability to see, hear, and notice things other people would not.

- Intelligence: A daily dosage of the worn out and torn bible he carries with him allowed Brooks to become a well read man, the books contents offering him knowledge, wisdom and the ability to think quickly.

Weaknesses:

- Stubborn: Years of arguing his way out of fights and travelling alone has made it very difficult to get Brooks to change his mind once he’s got a set idea in his head. In his little world, his word is law; you’d need a small miracle to work around whatever goal he’s set off to achieve.

- Judgemental: For Brooks, first impressions really are everything. He takes you at face value and if he doesn’t like what he sees, you’ll have a damn hard time trying to work your way out of his assumptions.

- Rude: There’s a reason Brooks travels alone. His brutal honesty and tendency to make snide remarks has hardly made him a particularly amicable person, and he shows no shame in speaking his mind.

Personality:

Open

Brooks is practical. A realistic attitude has allowed him to be able to expect the worst and avoid nasty surprises; he rarely sees the good in people. His firm, cold demeanour emanates authority, but his respect needs to be earned through actions before he can trust you. He adheres to a loose moral code due to his belief in Christianity whilst understanding that sometimes the only way to survive is to fight dirty. This doesn’t stop him from reading and quoting the bible on a regular basis, however. He’s stubborn, narrow-minded and quick to make assumptions of people based on their appearance. Fortunately, Brooks is also very self-sufficient, and can go for long voyages on his own if need be.

Hidden behind his cold and hostile exterior is a bit of a soft side. A family man at heart, Brooks is steadfastly loyal and protective over those who he truly cares about. It would take a long time to be able to reach this level of intimacy with Brooks these days however as his past has made him very guarded and secretive, unwilling to divulge in his personal affairs.

Skills/Attributes:

- Hunter: Hunting wasteland wildlife and feral monsters has blessed Brooks with the knowledge and skill to proficiently wield a rifle against a broad variation of creatures. Repeated exposure to dangerous creatures has allowed Brooks to figure and adapt to their individual weak-points.

- Tracking: By examining his environment Brooks can distinguish varying tracks from one another, allowing him to not only be efficient in cking:tracking animals, but also clue him in on people’s location.

- Barter: When travelling solo, every cap counts. Brooks is determined to get the best deals out of any situation, so he is exceptionally good at negotiation and deal-making.

Back-story:

Open

Brooks was born in a less than ideal area near Salt Lake City in the state of Utah to a less than ideal dad. With the streets running rampant with crime, his future looked bleak. In a time of need people throughout history tended to turn to a beacon of hope, something that shone with promises of salvation; for Brooks and his mother that beacon was the christian faith. With nothing more than the shirt on his back, the love of his mother, and the bible tucked under his pillow, Brooks endured.

Being forced to pitch in to contributing to the family funds at an early age, Brooks set out to help the locals with as many mediocre tasks as possible. One task lead to another, and once he was of age to properly wield and use a weapon, the odd-job tasks turned into clearing out critters or chasing down packs of predators stirring trouble to local pastures and crops. Eventually, after realising how proficient he had become, Brooks expanded his horizon in regards to what he could do. He left town more than occasionally to hunt creatures for trophies and caps, or track wanted outlaws dwelling nearby.

The years passed on and Brooks’ mother eventually succumbed to the harsh death of radiation poisoning. After having suffered through turbulent experiences along with her son, the poverty, the abuse, the heartache, it had all become too much for her to bear on top of the painfully slow death she was facing. This would mark one of the lowest points Brooks had to endure during his adult life. Not knowing how to cope and without his mother's presence, he felt the grasp that religion had on him slip. After she died Brooks turned to the one thing his father had taught him, the bottle. The next years in Brooks’ life wasted away as he consumed drink after drink, all until he went through an especially difficult week of binging alcohol, realizing his self destructive path.

When it dawned upon him that his home had nothing besides bad memories left for him, Brooks did the best thing he could; he said his farewells, packed his belongings, and began to walk into a direction that would hopefully offer him some purpose. After being alone on the the road for nearly twenty years, some small act of fate caused him to cross paths with a young, malnourished girl. He watched from the entrance of an alley as three thugs came rushing out with the aforementioned girl huddled up defensively in its far corner. Scowling, he confronted the girl, only to be told that her belongings had been stolen by the three goons. Not thinking much about what trouble he might stir up, he chased the three men down to confront them. One harsh remark lead to another, and the situation took a turn for the worse as he shot all three of them in the alley. Brooks returned the items that were reportedly stolen back to the girl, and lent her a helping hand. The small favour was enough to have her trailing after him for weeks; eventually they had travelled too far for the kid to return home, and Brooks reluctantly let her stay. They have been travelling the Wastelands together for several years, living off bounties and mercenary work alongside Brooks’ hunting skills and deal-brokering.

[Kingslee]

Joel Woods

Name/Nicknames: Joel “Happy” Woods

Age: 24

Gender: Male

Appearance: Joel is a relatively small man, standing at 5’6 and being lean and muscular in build. He has thick black hair that he usually keeps cut quite short, although not quite in the military-like buzz cut fashion a lot of veterans keep for some years during and after service. He is clean shaven most of the time and has somewhat pale skin for someone who spends much of his time out in the sun. Due to long periods of extreme stress he looks quite a bit older than he actually is and his once warm brown eyes now look dark and angry. He rarely smiles, his face seemingly etched into a statue representation of his deep cynicism. His body wears reminders of his time spent in war, the most noticeable scars being from a bullet wound to his right shoulder that fortunately went clean through and wounds from several different machetes to his left bicep, across his chest, his left hip and both palms of his hands.

Clothing wise Joel dresses surprisingly well, wearing a white button-up shirt, black dress pants held up by a black belt and comfortable black dress shoes. Whilst on a job this outfit gets a whole bunch of light armor, sheaths and holsters strapped onto it. These include a Kevlar vest, shoulder plates, elbow and knee pads, tactical gloves and what he is most renowned for; a Kevlar mask.

Race: Human

Strengths:

Battle Hardened: Time spent in the trenches has given Joel a frightening capacity for violence and a shockingly cold attitude towards it. He’s calm under fire and weirdly a firefight is one of the very few occasions he’s almost guaranteed to show some humor. This almost apathy towards death and destruction make him an incredibly dangerous foe to go up against.

Berserker: During his time spent fighting Joel encountered a couple of major issues. Firstly the fact that the NCR army and his camp in particular were severely under-supplied. There wasn’t enough of anything. Food, medicine, ammo and even weapons were badly needed. This meant he and his comrades often had to enter melee combat with enemies that were both physically stronger and significantly better trained than them. This caused a lot of deaths on the NCR’s side and very nearly killed Joel over and over again during his time in the Mojave. The only reason he survived against the Legionaries was rage. Pure rage. It made him almost impervious to the pain he inevitably suffered from wounds in every conflict and made him attack like killing this one legionary was the only reason he was born. He made being faster, more tenacious, more violent and more blood fuelled his only reason to keep on living in those moments. Just a few more seconds, just a few more kills, just a little more revenge against the bastards who’d killed so many of his friends. So many teenagers just like him. By the time the war was over he’d killed more men with a combat knife than he had with bullets.

Chomsky: Joel's best friend. One of his only friends actually. Chomsky was originally a Legion war dog, trained in the art of overwhelming and killing the enemy. He was shot during a skirmish in the no man's land between the NCR camp and the Legion's position. When the fight was done and the Legionnaires lay dying or dead this dog, whimpering in pain caught Joel’s eye. Usually they would just finish the job, putting the poor animals out of their misery but something on this occasion possessed Joel to carry the dog back to camp. A desire to take some life out of so much death, perhaps. Digging the round out of the pup himself Joel slowly nursed him back to health, sharing his meager rations over several months, training and eventually even fighting alongside the dog. Turns out he fought with whoever he considered master, not a specific faction. They’ve been working together for five years now.

Weaknesses:

PTSD: Obviously what he experienced in the Mojave left him with a lot of wounds. As you might expect not all of them were physical. Joel experiences recurring nightmares about the time he spent fighting, his particularly nasty kills and his friends deaths. These nightmares have made it so he has more or less given up on regular sleep. Once upon a time he’d drink a bottle of whiskey and that would pretty much insure he didn’t dream that night. He soon became dependent on those bottles though and that came with its own set of problems so he eventually kicked it. Insomnia’s better than a alcoholism but it’s still pretty terrible. Aside from that he’s almost always on edge and can’t even remember the last time he was able to relax without the aid of drugs or alcohol. He has basically given up on living a normal life and now throws himself at his work, disregarding almost everything and everyone else.

Bare Bones Training: The NCR didn’t exactly take their time making sure new recruits were trained properly. They seemed to be mostly concerned with replacing all the soldiers that died in the field as quickly as possible. This meant that Joel and a whole lot of other troops got only the most basic of basic training. Most were sent into the Mojave not even knowing how to strip and clean a weapon. As such Joel didn’t get anywhere near as much training as you might expect a soldier should. He knows how to kill and he’s a decent commando but aside from that he’s basically your average raider in terms of tactical knowledge.

Personality: Sadly a lot of Joel's personality was changed by the trauma he went through in the military. What is left of the lad he was before has been partially hijacked or clouded by his mental illness. Where once was a compassionate, kind and open young man is now someone who is almost completely shut off from the thoughts and feelings of others. Even those he does care about deep down. He was or maybe is intelligent but unlike in the past he is completely uninterested in pursuing knowledge in a recreational manner. He doesn’t have it in him to drastically pursue change and has somewhat made his peace with living and dying how he is.

Despite his feelings being buried Joel is in no way a psychopath. He still has something akin to a moral code and won’t do anything that goes against it. These days he definitely has difficulty distinguishing right from wrong, even to himself but there are some things he believes to be completely irredeemable. Slavery in any form is one such thing. Killing children is another. Despite his natural leanings towards at the very least trying to be good he has put himself into an incredibly violent lifestyle where it has proven pretty damn difficult to be.

Calm and collected in nature, Joel tends to be polite and honest with those he communicates with, rarely ever even raising his voice.

Skills/Attributes:

CQC: Joel is incredibly deadly at close quarters, his speed, intelligence and brutality making him extremely efficient in such encounters. Give him a decent knife and point him at a dimly lit building and he’ll fill that place with corpses. Although he initially had to wing his close quarters fighting he has since trained extensively, being tutored by the rangers he met whilst stationed in the Mojave taught him a hell of a lot, primarily certain techniques of old world martial arts that utilized weapons. No single one in particular, but there are definite Pencak Silat, FMA and WW2 Combative influences to his fighting style.

Aside from his talent with knives and his hands he’s also adept with handguns. He’s certainly no Ranger when it comes to marksmanship but he can hit a target well enough at a reasonable distance and his reflexes make it so a bullet is usually leaving the barrel of his gun before his enemies have even registered he has one in hand.

Back-story: Joel grew up in New Reno, the oldest of six children. They were a blessing and a curse to Joel, he loved his mom and siblings deeply but as soon as his father left he had to become the man of the house. Thus his life of stress began. At first it was relatively easy, he just worked a whole hell of a lot. Anything he could do that wouldn’t get him or his family gunned down. Eventually though that wasn’t enough, there were too many mouths to feed in their home and things were only getting worse. Seeking a way to help long term his little brother suggested joining the NCR army. They were apparently paid well enough and the place they were all being sent off to now was supposed to be unlike anything else in the land. A city preserved. He never really wanted to join the army, but New Reno isn’t exactly teeming with work for young men trying to feed over sized families. It really wasn’t much of a choice. Join the army and fight away, saving and sending money back home or join one of the local crime families and likely be dead before his 20th birthday. So he enlisted and several months later found himself stationed at Camp Forlorn Hope, freshly turned 19.

It was all right for a while, they were under-supplied but they didn’t see a massive amount of combat. At least relative to what they would in the future. Then the Legion took Nelson and hell began. They crucified two of his friends who had been ordered to hold the town temporarily and with that as a stationing point the raids began. It seemed they attacked every night, and when they didn’t Joel and his comrades were ordered into the no man's land where they skirmished with the Legion. Most of the time at least half of the people sent down were killed, felled by machetes or dogs. He saw more death than he ever thought he would, even coming from a place such as New Reno. He eventually became comfortable with it. Every night he welcomed it, just to see friends and enemies alike die and welcome it again the next night.

Eventually The Courier arrived. Her arrival was the beginning of better times at Forlorn Hope. This was way before she would become the legend but already she was a spectacular human being. She recovered supplies, helped patch up the wounded and even lead the assault on Nelson. Joel having faced death and lived several dozen times at this point volunteered to help with the attack. He was good, as were the men and women sent with him but compared to The Courier they were doing child paintings whilst she was Leonardo Da Vinci when it came to the art of killing. They won that fight almost entirely because of that woman. When Joel stormed the house and came face to face with Dead Sea he was almost killed. He, Chomsky and another trooper managed to kill two of the three in that place, but Dead Sea was like a Deathclaw with that machete of his. He sliced open Joel’s chest, and just before he buried that deadly instrument into the 20 year old's skull his own was burst open by the rounds of a 5.56 pistol. What a day.

Things got better at the camp after that. There wasn’t anywhere near as much daily bloodshed and about a month after The Courier left the famed 1st Recon came to the camp, freed up at Camp McCarran by actions taken by The Courier apparently. Despite all the improvements however it was too late for Joel, he’d become more familiar with death than he would ever be with life. There’s no easy way of getting over that. By the time the Second Battle of Hoover Dam came and The Courier pushed both the NCR and Legion out of the Mojave Joel wasn’t even mad. The whole war had been a shit show. He went home, honorably discharged and with several medals feeling nothing but loss. Whilst he was away his family had done okay, although one of his sisters had developed a Med-X addiction and began working as a prostitute in one of the casinos, a slave to the chems they provided. She overdosed and died, putting yet another nail into Joel’s tortured soul. His family was happy to have him home, at first his little brothers even wanted to hear stories about the Mojave and New Vegas. They could tell though, that campaign had ruined the Joel they knew.

No longer held in check by fear of fighting or death and still needing caps to keep his family afloat Joel took work as a soldier for a local crime family. The Lazzari’s. He had other reasons for working with them too, they were at war against the assholes who got his sister addicted to Med-X. Slaughter those bastards and get paid for it? Yes please. Joel blamed all of them. Not just the specific crew who ran the casino where his sister had worked. Every single one of them. Over the next year he gained a reputation around New Reno for his brutal efficiency. Where most gang killings were peppered with bullets his were mostly absent of them. Just knife wounds and enough blood to paint the walls with. Word of his line of work inevitably got back to his mom and family and he was disowned, but he still gets caps to them in ways. Whether it be by just giving it to his younger siblings and telling them to lie about it or bribing certain people to give his younger siblings better paid, safer jobs.

He’s now an independent mercenary, but Lazzari being the major power in town most of his work comes from them.

Theme Song: Richard Thompson - Dad’s Gonna Kill Me

Items Owned:

On Person:
Sig Sauer P226 (10 Rounds + 2 Spare Magazines)
Glock 17 (17 Rounds + 2 Spare Magazines)
2 Karambits
KA-BAR Knife
78 Caps

In Apartment:
Survival + Camping Gear
Winchester Model 70 (35 Rounds)
WASR-10 AK-47 Rifle (500 Rounds)
S&W Model 269 (48 Rounds)
Various Bladed Weapons
4 Grenades
Food
Several Bottles of Purified Water
754 Bottlecaps

[Chrononaut]

Zelzibel

Name/Nicknames: Zelzibel

Age: 24

Gender: Female

Portrait

Appearance: Her hair is a black frayed mess of wild mane and her skin is extremely pale for a wastelander. She has wide, twitchy grey eyes. She wears what looks what used to be some kind of cream dress with flowery designs, but now the skirt is ratty and torn and the color is now brown from the various kinds of filth she's encountered. She has ropes wrapped around the skirt near her waist to her knees, keeping the skirt tight round her legs. There's a leather jacket over the top part, which is black with brown spots.

Race: Human

Strengths: She's a quick thinker and often thinks ahead of problems. She's very good at solving problems in an unpredictable manner, confounding her enemies. She has skill with creating chems and small mechanical devices. She, in a manner disturbingly similar to serial killers, has a knack for getting into buildings and tricking people into thinking she's someone else.

Weaknesses: She's insane. Due to her lineage being entirely people with mental or physical disorders, she is a arguably high functioning psychopath and schizophrenic, along with some obsessive tendecies.

She has no sense of social propriety and often says or does the wrong thing. She's also prone to violence and a chem user of her own supply.

Personality: A frantic and quick witted woman known for her fast mood swings. She will pursue her desires despite all reason. She can be very helpful when the mood strikes, then later do something just to spite you. She runs off pure feeling and emotion and often disregards straightforward solutions to problems. This is at odds with her general knowledge of science and chemistry. She would seem to be the kind of person that would have no place in civilized society, but fits in perfectly to a post apocalyptic bandit camp or something. Though most bandits would consider her behavior too extreme. She's known to be very exciteable.

Skills/Attributes: Chem making. She's crazy with a knife and is pretty good at improving melee weaponry. Sneaky. Able to create small snappy devices like chemical injectors or radio jammers. Can break her own bones and remove herself from a straightjacket or constraint. Has a very twitchy trigger finger, meaning she can shoot fast but she doesn't have any idea of how to deal with recoil.

Back-story: She was a part of Vault 232, where the experiment involved filling a vault almost exclusively with mental asylum patients and criminals with psychopathic or sociopathic tendencies. The only retraining factor was a often hidden group of Overseers and guards who would only act to prevent the inhabitants from murdering eachother. Zelzibel was in a particularly awful lineage that consisted of schizophrenics, psychopaths, two serial rapists, and at least one elected U.S official. The Overseers and Guards were of a lineage of autistic savants. By her generation, they were nearly machine like in their logical faculties.

Her mother, when Zelzibel was about eight, was disected by her father who was convinced he could achieve immortality by devouring her heart. He told Zel if she ever told the Overseers he'd stick her like a stuffed pig. Then he taught Zel how to stick men like stuffeds pigs and as a reward he beat her. She was locked into a closet for looking at him funny one day. She eventually got tired of being locked in the closet and when she was freed she slit his throat with his own shaving razor.

The Overseers did not believe the shaving razor story, but considering the other vile attrocities that were often committed and her fathers rampant abuse, only stuck her into one of the padded rooms for three months until she agreed to not kill anyone ever again. This did not work out.

As the years went by she became obsessed with chemistry books and later learned how to make chems from another vault dweller who had a family history leading all the way back to a convicted drug lord. This lead to working with injectors. Unfortunately, one of her favorite chems was basically her version of psycho and one fateful and bloody night she was brought out to the surface like a dog to be shot.

This, of course, was where it went bad.

Other

It's a cold summer night. It's always a cold summer night post-nuclear war California. You get used to it. Zelzibel has never gotten used to it. Zelzibel is in a skintight blue suit that says "232" in bright neon lettering. Her arms are constrained by blue and yellow guilded arm restraints. She is followed by three men. One man has a shotgun. Another man has a small black device with a wobbly black antenna at the top. There's a big, red, flashing button. If he presses this button, her head will explode.

Zelzibel doesn't want this to happen. Which is why she is compliant. She's always compliant when her head is about to explode. Even when it's not and she is being constantly reassured it isn't. But she knows her head is going to explode and she knew who was going to do it. Not the man behind her with the bomb collar detonation device, that's just a guy with a bomb collar. No, her head was going to be exploded by a psychic radeon alien named Big Joe.

Big Joe was a serial rapist, conman, and friendly neighborhood maintenance inspector. These were all split personalities. Zel liked one of three of these. It was the conman. But he wasn't the problem. Is was the friendly, sweater wearing, smiling, clean coifed friendly neighborhood maintenance inspector. She knew he didn't actually wear a sweater, everyone wore the same vault suits with the straps just in case the Overseers and guards needed to stop an orgy riot. But he looked like he would wear a sweater.

This aspect of Big Joe, she deeply suspected, was psychically trying to explode her mind. She would wake up in a cold sweat. Sometimes, she would wake up beating some mans head against a urinal stall. She'd stop, horrified, then stab him in the kidneys so there were no witnesses. She knew this wasn't her fault. It was Big Joes, she could hear him at the back of her mind at all times.

So she knew when she enacted her plan to poison sector 37 of the vaults water purification system with pure radiation, that she would likely get caught. She knew the Overseers felt bad executing vault citizens with bomb collars. It was a waste of bomb collars and they didn't send anyone out of the vault to get supplies. This is because they were all insane and you don't get insane people to find more bomb collars. They come back with mini nukes or having formed a small Ochlocracy (a mob based government). Then, they demanded to all have pet rabbits, but you can't have pet rabbits, what are these people, crazy? Then you have a sudden realization, they are. Point is, it's pointless alright? You can't have the unreasonable reasonably acquire reasonably acquirable devices without having good reason and unless a reason is found, it's unreasonable to reasonably ask any Vault Overseer. So there.

So she knew one of the guards would remove the collar, probably strap it to his hip or his own neck maybe. The second part was the ideal situation. The first is what actually occured, the belt dangling off the portly mans belt. Zel had prepared for this by constructing a specially made harmonica that could, when blown, emit various radio frequencies. She had practiced by attaching the harmonica to a terminal and seeing the frequency range she was blowing on. When she was satisfied, she'd swallowed the harmonica seconds before she dumped a cylindrical tube of radioactive isotope into the drinking supply that connected specifically to Big Joes section of the vault.

This killed more than just Big Joe. It didn't even work on Big Joe completely, the only part of his personality that wasn't ghoulified was the serial rapist and he's still alive. Zel considers this a win.

A guard raises his shotgun. Zel has already, wretching and hacking, produced a small harmonica in a pile of vomit. She slips it into her mouth with her tongue, the tip coiling around it like a snake. It tastes like dirt. She sucks some of the dirt out of the whistle, then blows. At first nothing happens. Then the bomb collar detonates from the fat mans hips, sending shrieking pieces of jagged metal into the air, nearly giving Zelzibel an anal lobotomy. Her heads half on the floor, her ass is in the air. She got it half right. She flips around, her arms are still restrained but she's used to it by now. The fat mans torso has been shredded and she sees the spaghetti string of his flesh noodling out. Perfect. Less than perfect, one of the guards is still moving. The other isn't moving, but struggling to get off his feet. He looks wounded bad.

Zel has two options. She knows she can either sprint away, hoping that in this long trek of desert she might lose the man before he realizes that shotguns still operational. Or she can go over there and convince him, with reason, to let her go. She decides on the second option.

She straightens all the way to her feet and begins sprinting towards the man. She doesn't scream, so the man is somewhat surprised when he sees a long black haired woman with wild eyes sprinting at him. He now realizes what's going on. He gets ready for a headbutt, throwing his hands to the top of his head so that he can block a blunt blow. Then he feels a pressure on his arm, then a sharp pain. The bitch is biting him! He grabs at the crazy cunts hair, but as he does this she's tearing her head away, letting the hair follicles rip right off. He stares aghast at his hand full of hair for just a second, quickly deciding to punch her. She goes to the fall and drops onto her back, then kicks him right in the dick. This hurts, and he crumples down. Zel kicks him again on the fall, this time in the face, and quickly rises to her feet. She then kicks his head, knocking him over. Then, she starts stands over him and starts stomping. She doesn't stop until her legs are tired and bloody.

The other man, nearly unconscious now from pain, rolls his head dully. Zel is trying to pop her own arm bones to free herself from the vault straight jacket. He groans. His eyes close. When they open again, there's a shotgun barrel in his face. He hears a click.

BOOM.

Belongings

Clothing: One cream colored dress, now brown and ratty, with little flowery details held against her waist and legs with a series of old belts and hide. Some flat shoes.
Weapons: One shiv and 10mm submachine gun, 4 pipebombs (that, when triggered, release molten hot thermite)
Ammo: 40 10mm rounds
Chems: Four Psycho inhalers and some sort of needle that's an injected form of psycho

[Antediluvixen]

Lilith Toma

Name/Nicknames: Lilith Toma

Age: 27

Gender: Trigendered pyrofox Apachehelicopterkin Female

Appearance:

A testament to the twisted capabilities of the human mind, and nothing less. Lilith looks overwhelmingly normal at first glance, maybe slightly attractive even, with scarred olive skin and dirty raven hair that usually stays tied back in a long ponytail. She stands at a fairly average build, with a body that would certainly be sturdy and curvaceous had she recieved a proper upbringing.

Covering almost all of her skin, and especially her forearms, is a motley assortment of clothes - an old kevlar vest from a corporate security uniform, a ragged and patched garment that looks to be half competently stitched from a mixture of various animal hides and matching pants, a bullet hole riddled heavy duster that moves with a telling weight that gives away the armored plates sewn on the inside - and a curiously clean and intact black cowboy hat. Clumped on her shoulder around her neck is a crude but effective shemagh fashioned from an old burlap sack.

Closer inspection reveals sleek chrome looking metal poking through the skin of her arms, strange ports on the back of her neck, and the fact that she weighs nearly 130 kilograms (286 pounds) despite looking for all the world like a normal malnourished wastelander.

Race: Human

Strengths:
Intelligent: While it rarely surfaces through the mask of anger, violence, and drugs, Lilith sports a keen mind, frequently spotting patterns or probabilities that might not be otherwise obvious. Dulled somewhat by a life that gave her no room to bloom, she still retains a keen wit and can be surprisingly perceptive - when calm.

Weapon Master: While no close combat master, Lilith can come pretty close to claiming that title at range. Favoring an aged but good condition Winchester Model 1886 for the raw power of its .45-70 cartridges, and a much newer looking 1911 pistol with an unusally long slide in the classic .45, the implants in her arms and brain grant her a steadyness of aim and reaction time that border on the unbelievable. While no action movie hero, her improved reflexes have saved her hide on more than one occasion.

Weaknesses:

Angry: Lilith finds herself prone to the occasional sudden, inexplicable, and nearly uncontrollable outburst of anger. While she is capable of restraining herself with those she considers friendly, more than one argument has turned lethal as a result of a sudden blood rage.

EMP Weakness: Like any other being with electronic parts, Lilith is highly susceptible to EMP weaponry. While such a weapon will not permanently incapacitate her, it will render her paralyzed for at least half an hour or more while her systems repair themselves.

Remote Control Human: While not currently an issue, Lilith’s motor cortex has been wired to a wireless transmission module implanted in her skull - should someone find a way of accessing its frequency and issuing commands to it, she will be a spectator in her own body as the commands of another override her own mind. There was a time when she did not even breath with permission - she is not eager to return to that time. (The means to control her could be pieced together by anyone with significant computer skill and enough resources to play around with to build the controls)

Personality: (I prefer to show this IC, if possible)

Skills/Attributes:
Almost preternatural marksmanship skills
Calculator like ability at large number crunching
Speaks fluent Spanish

Back-story:

Lilith was born in what used to be the US state of Texas in circumstances identical to those of many wastelanders - destitute, hungry, barely able to find enough water to drink to stave off death. Her early memories are hazy at best, but she remembers learning to shoot a rifle and which plants were and were not safe to eat - mostly by trial and error and the misfortune of others. However, at the age of 16 she was sold into slavery. The exact reasons are unknown, but she has little difficulty guessing them.

However, contrary to her expectations, she was not taken to serve as some sex slave for a depraved gang leader, but bought in bulk along with every other captive. Their purchaser, a man who referred to himself only as Moses, spoke eloquently and dressed snappily - quite unlike any other denizens of the wasteland she had ever seen before. Clad in a monocle and pristine suit, he had lead his new property to a hidden lab somehow carved into a solid rockface. Lilith had been uncertain of just what fate awaited her inside, but what little snippets of conversation she had heard, mention of experiments and scientific breakthroughs, did not bode well.

Over the next few months, almost all of his new acquisitions perished under his ministrations, and a growing heap of malformed bones began to grow in the far corner of his lab. Except for Lilith, unique among the captives, her body had not only not rejected whatever he implanted her with, but seemed to bond inseperably with it - much to “Moses”’ surprise and delight.

For years, she knew nothing but experiments, testing, and pain from innumerable surgeries. She never even learned to read, or had the time to entertain herself whatsoever - almost certainly leading to her rather hedonistic but hollow way of spending free time, knowing no other satisfaction than those of base urges.

Throughout the ordeal, she struggled not only to maintain her sanity, but her own identity and individuality. Viewed as more of a two legged guinea pig, albeit a valuable one, every day was a battle, one she only barely barely won through sheer bloody minded stubbornness.

When she finally reached the age of twenty she was deemed ready. Innumerable additions had been made to her body, reinforced bones, cybernetic arm muscles granting her strength to equal that of any well fed man, enhancements to her motor cortex that turned a normal motion into an effortless, graceful dance. And a chip in her head, one that allowed “Moses” to control her every motion, every word she spoke. She could not do so much as wipe sweat from her brow without being permitted. A prisoner in her own body, she became both a walking advertisement to mercenaries and scientists, and a remorseless and brutally efficiant bodyguard.

Eventually however, despite all his paranoia over his own safety, the most mundane of things did her puppetmaster in. A mutfruit, infected or contaminated with some disease, toxin, or radioactive waste, found its way into his dinner meal, and Lilith watched with glee as the man who had turned her life into a hellish prison of her own mind died within hours - there was nothing she could’ve done, but the lack of new commands had locked her in place next to his bed for the full duration until he finally died. It had been uncomfortable to stand stock still, but it had been oh so sweet watching him take his final pained gasps of air.

Finally, she was free. Truly free - she could sit when she wanted, eat when she wanted, breathe however she wanted, no insidious marionette strings pulled in her mind - and she was lost. She knew how to survive of course, but to what end? She had had all the time in the world to think for the four years she had been a walking puppet, but now that she could act, she was at an impasse.

With little better idea of what to do with her newfound freedom, she struck out for the nearest caravan, mercenary company, scavenging expedition, or anything in between - packing everything of value from the old man’s belongings she could think of and demolishing anything to do with his research.

She drifted for a few years, going wherever the winds blew her, eventually ending up in Shady Sands.

Other: If I think of something I shall put it heeeeere