[CHAR] Fallout Role Play [Always Accepting]

[Laika]

(A)(P)(P)(R)(O)(V)(E)(D) (C)(H)(A)(R)(A)(C)(T)(E)(R)(S) (O)(N)(L)(Y)

[Laika]

Bookmarked.

[Laika]

Damien

Name:
Damien Holland

Age:
Dirty Thirties

Gender:
What do you think?

Occupation:
Surviving dad.

Sexuality:
Women.

Nationality:
Not from round here.

Race:
I'm a ghoul -- are you blind? Human.

Karma:
Done some bad shit, just trying to do some right now.

Faction Allegiance:
None

Appearance:

*Minus the swords

Skills:
Small guns, sneak, medicine, outdoorsman.

Brief History:

Damien didn't always roam the wasteland endlessly with a kid, in truth, she isn't even his flesh and blood. For most of his life, Damien ran with a homegrown pack of raiders, other guys, and one girl, all around his age give or take a few years. Having grown up with them their escapades began at a relatively early age, for himself, fifteen. How or why they came around to doing what they did doesn't much matter now.

By his late twenties, their once clandestine group had dwindled, losing a couple of members -- not to death, in fact the entire group living this long was probably a feat in itself. The Lucky 7s, as they had come to be called, were now just five although somehow this never warranted a name change.

Tommy had just upped and left one night out of the blue at some dingy campsite they'd come across a half day's walk from Diamond City, presumably he had enough and wanted out. Damien would be lying if he told you it had not angered him, a great deal, he cursed him, wished him dead and for a brief period wanted to kill Tommy himself. Reflecting on it, he'd tell you he feels differently now. The next to leave was Sam, the groups femme fatale, and she might just have been the only woman he ever loved. Things were different after that, the remaining members stayed around for a couple more years, before eventually dispersing. They each had a story for where they were going, but who knows how it turned out, for all Damien knows he could be the last.

For nearly a decade he traveled the wastes, settling down for a short while here and there, namely smaller settlements scattered between the Commonwealth and Nevada, even spending a bit of time living in the New Vegas Strip. After outstaying his welcome there, Damien simply skipped town, making off with caps, notes and chems from a street peddler after abandoning an original, foolish idea to take on the casino on his own for it's worth. Off into the sunset went the one lucky bandito with his spoils, probably laughing hysterically. Some would say, for every action there's a reaction, and others would tell you that at some point, your luck just dries up. Robbed, beaten and left for dead by a group of Jackals raiders, not far from the Strip. The story would have ended here if a travelling group of NCR soldiers had not passed or not shown their good will in dragging Damien to the NV medical clinic.

Eventually, and for no particular reason, Damien ventured for the Capital Wasteland, after coming round and having being patched up. One night, somewhere in the Texas Commonwealth, Damien came across a pre-war storm cellar he planned on sleeping in for the night when he met Julia. She was no older than seven or eight but couldn't recall her age, for that matter she couldn't recall much at all or perhaps, Damien thought, she chose not to. Peering past a sheet of metal partitioning the toilet from the living space he spotted it, two corpses, recent and it didn't take a doctor to figure out it was an overdose. One look at the used chems scattered around immediate vicinity was enough to tell you that. The parents, he felt nothing for, they were like any other dead wasteland junkie. There was a difference between using chems and letting them consume you to Damien's mind.

They didn't stay in the make-shift bunker that night, he wasn't sure what it was that made him take the young girl, who called herself Julia, but he knew now that the child was his ward. Maybe it was a sign, or maybe not wanting to admit to some subconscious guilt making him believe there was a sign, or some purpose, Damien dwelled on it a lot and remains to. The girl didn't say much, Damien was sure he had heard her mumbling to herself at play, but truthfully, had no idea if she could speak any more than a few words and even then, seldom few. The pair have been together since, she called him dad once recently, he liked that.

Other:
Carries a snub nose 44 revolver and a machete.

[LordLinguinie]

Winston

Name: Winston
Age: 49
Gender: Male
Occupation: Engineer/Inventor/Demolitionist/Arms Dealer
Sexuality: Straight
Nationality: Wastelander
Race: Human, Robotic Right Arm
Karma: Neutral
Faction Allegiance: Who ever pays the most
Appearance:

picture

Skills: Explosives/Repair/Science/Charisma
Brief History:
Winston grew up in a workshop. His father did what he could selling weapons, scrap, organs, anything to feed his son. Winston’s mother died giving birth, leaving just his father to raise the newborn. Winston learned a lot watching his father disassemble whatever he could get his hands on. They bonded over learning what every intricate piece did. Eventually, when Winston was about 17, he and his father were building a bomb for a local militia. They didn't ask what they intended to use it for, only how much carnage were they trying to inflict. While working on the bomb alone, Winston made a mistake, causing the project to blow, costing Winston his right arm. His father did his best to heal his wounds. But the man was a mechanic, not a doctor. After cleaning and closing the massive wound, he began building his son a new arm. Every job after that was either to get parts for the arm, or trade bait for parts. Winston’s father continued work on the arm until his death years later. Decades have passed since then and Winston himself has become a well known underground market supplier. The arm his father started, has undergone many transitions from ineffective prototype to its current state now. His arm is his tool belt, with built in screwdrivers, hammers, blowtorch, and many more upgrades.
Though he sells some of the best and deadliest weapons to some of the most vicious factions, Winston himself is non-violent. He does not have many enemies, as most would rather employ him than kill him. He cares little for using violence himself, in all his years of shady underground deals, only twice has it ever erupted into violence. He is not a good shot, and lacks the physical prowess to be a melee warrior, his skill lies in his mind and his silver tongue. The years of dealing with thieves, killers, and cops, he's really lost all interest in building relationships, as he’s learned most will just turn on you for a quick profit

<excited beeping>

[The Narrator]

Johnny Rockabilly

"Sit down, listen to my song and please, drop that gun before you get hurt."

Name
"Johnny is enough"
Jonathan Rotizki

Age
"Yeah, I was born before the great war. World was shit back then to."
219

Gender
"It's hard to tell with us ghouls sometimes, yeah."
Male

Occupation
"I roam from town to town. Call me a wanderer."
Musician/Drifter

Sexuality
"Not that I have the choice these days."
Heterosexual

Nationality
"Red, White and Blue."
American

Race
"Should have got a place in one of those fancy vaults back then."
Ghoul

Karma
"I try to do good but mostly I try to survive."
neutral good

Faction Allegiance
"Me, myself and music."
None

Appearance
"I just wish I still had a real nose."
Johnny is a ghoul of average height and he is quite thin. He mostly wears black, dirty shirts and usually has light armor under them. His eyes are a milky dark colour and the hairs on his head (which he claims are real) are worn in the elvis hairstyle of the old times.
He is almost never seen with his guitar on his back, his most prized possession.

Skills
Apart from music? A few.
Charisma
Small Guns
Lockpick
Sneak

Brief History
"Shouldn't have shot that man in Reno."
Johnny was born before the great war in a small town in Nevada. He was the second son of a poor american family and was always a rebel. In his youth he smoked, stole and ran away. But most importantly he played the guitar.
It was not long till he got locked up for stealing a car. He spend half a year in prison when suddenly the bombs dropped he was out in the courtyard when he saw it, a mushroom cloud following a gigantic explosion. The radiation hit him and everyone else in the prison, most died. Johnny survived for the price of ghoulification.
Since the blast knocked down the gated fence of the prison and nobody really cared anymore about guarding it Johnny and the other prisoners escaped. It wasn't long till Johnny was completely ghoulified. The escapees made their way to Reno, the nearest big city. When they arrived the looting was already in full swing. He and the other escaped convicts formed a gang, calling themselves "The broken Chains". It was hard the first years but they managed. That changed however when the big crime families took power. New Reno became the Capital of Sin and smaller gangs had the choice to join or die.
Johnny spend the following years, playing guitar in "The Desperado", a casino owned by the Mordino crime family. That changed when one day he shot a man. What the argument was about Johnny refuses to say, most agree it was about money or music, but that did not matter. The man he shot was a Member of the Mordino family. Nobody big, nobody important really, but that to did not matter. Johnny fled Reno.

Many travellers have kind memories of the drifting Ghoul in Black, playing a song for them in the evening. How he eventually ended up in the Capital Wasteland? Who knows. But now you can find him in Underworld, playing his guitar for a smoke and a drink.

EXCITED BEEPING

[dereken]

OB

Name: Obadiah
Age: 20
Gender: Female
Occupation: Wanderer
Sexuality: Does it matter?
Nationality: Tribal-American
Race: Human
Karma: Neutral
Faction Allegiance: Tribal
Appearance:

Image

Obadiah is an imposing tribal, standing at 6'2", with a toned, muscular body. Her skin is the deep tan typical of tribals. Her clothing is a heavy leather armor, festooned with tribal fetishes and talismans. Her hair is cut short and tied back. It has a ruddy, earthy color.
Skills: Stealth, Survival, Melee, Unarmed
Brief History: Obadiah was born of her tribe, self-called the Mal'okai, but referred to by outsiders as 'The Cutskin' due to their ritual scarification. The Cutskin were a warrior people, which heavily emphasized the hunting of great beasts, and were highly nomadic, wandering about the lands north of the Capital Wasteland. This led them to be at odds with most of their neighboring peoples. As it often happens to tribals, the Cutskin found themselves targeted by slavers and raiders. Despite their war-like tendencies, and violent response, the Cutskin were worn down by constant attrition. Finally, there were barely enough to call themselves a tribe, and the Cutskin survivors fled.

Obadiah was one such survivor, having only recently having been inducted as a full status warrior of the tribe. She escaped the slaughter and enslavement of her people, along with a small band of other refugees, to the south, where they settled in with the various settlements of the Capital Wasteland. The defeat and destruction of her tribe, however, hung on Obadiah's mind, and she refused to settle, instead striking out once more to the wasteland, where she might prove herself a warrior and regain the honor of the Cutskin.

Extra: Obadiah's Warclub - A custom war-club, traditional of the Cutskin in line with their war-like nature. This one is unique to her, and is a heavy, powerful weapon, enhanced with the teeth of a yao-gui on the head, to both pierce and pulverize. This weapon was crafted over months as Obadiah was initiated as a hunter and warrior, culminating in the slaying of a great beast and festooning it with the beast's remains. It never leaves her side.

[AngelofOctober]

Spencer

A.k.a

Atomic Survivor

honestly it’s a bit of an embarrassing name now that I have had to clear up so many times the story

Age: 29

Gender: Male

Occupation: Courier

Sexuality: Do you think this is what I fill my time with? Deathclaws try to rip my face off. Mutants want to make me into stew. And you’re asking me who I like to bed. Is that really that important? I guess ladies. If an answer is expected. I like ladies.

Nationality: Is there a nationality? The world sort of exploded and I see a lot of the same people. Wastelanders.

Race: Human

Karma: Neutral - Look I am not a hero. I am not here to go rescue some folks, but I will if I have to. But I have no desire to go raiding either. Being a Raider seems like a faster way of getting shot and I am not really in the business of getting shot.

Faction Allegiance:

Couriers Militia Coalition

Knight Dawn always told me he was leaving the Brotherhood to make the Wasteland a better place. I always just thought he was joking or wasn’t really serious. Until I heard whispers from every corner of the Wasteland. Something about the Couriers beginning a group.

Run by a former Knight of the Brotherhood. Dawn had really done it. He began to train those who were Couriers or wanted to be Courier how to fight using all the training he had acquired in the Brotherhood to teach the Couriers how to defend themselves.

Color me surprised when one day he shows up while I am scouting. And he just smiles like he hadn’t left. He ask, aren’t you tired of this already? The Wasteland looks vastly different from down here then in the Brotherhood. He tells me.

What did he expect me to do? A Senior Scribe, as a Courier? What did he think he was going to achieve with his idealism? Then again weren’t all the factions in some sense someone’s idealism. We deserted the Brotherhood. In hopes or in belief we were providing a new service to the Wasteland. A safer service.

Don't Let the Duct Tape Fool You

Many are rather intimidated by the man whose face is obscured to them most of the time. Especially since he wanders in the shadows more often than the irradiated sun. No one is for sure why he obscures his face with the gas mask.

It could be a fashion statement, all though what an odd choice, or it could be that he is concealing himself so someone will not find him. Or maybe it’s because former Knight Captain Dawn tends to put him into tougher positions than others do.

He’ll say something like, those guys are former farmers or former Wastelanders without our background. Just do this. Go into that irradiated, atomic infested building and deliver this holotape. Because that sounds exactly like the vacation he wants.

So who is the man behind the mask. Behind the myth created by rumors.

Really just some ordinary guy sporting a crew cut and tan skin. He doesn’t even seem near as intimidating as his clothing would make him out to seem. Nor does his height, standing at 5’7” he’s short and compact. But lean and fit.

His voice is a lot lighter than you were expecting. Appealing to the ear, with a silvery smoky quality. It’s just the right amount of appealing hoarseness that gives him an attractive quality in this world. The way he pronounces words and speaks makes you really want to take his advice and listen to his orders. Despite his short stature and leanness in body.

Skills:

Small Guns - he’s known for having a deadly shot with his sniper rifle. Some people who like to blow things way out of proportion say he has the eyes of an eagle.

Sneak - he’s rarely heard or seen. The only reason he made it through the feral ghoul infested building was because of his capable skills.

Science - sometimes the best way in is through a computer. And he rather not be spotted or shot at by a machine gun.

Lockpick - and sometimes the best way through a lock door undetected is with a bobby pin

History:

I don’t necessarily like talking about my past. I am not sure if it’s regret or shame or if it’s some reflection of an incomplete self. I feel like an incomplete person when I talk about the person I was compared to the person I am today. But could it be entirely my fault I wonder? Or if Dawn is right and I beat myself up too much.

Before working in the CMC, I was a former Senior Scribe in the Brotherhood. And going from Senior Scribe to Courier is a wide stretch, but I was a product of my times. See I was born into the Brotherhood. I don’t know if that makes people feel sorry for me or ashamed of me. My parents met on the ship, my mother was a lead scientist and my father was some Power Armor wielding Knight. And here I was a product of the newest future. The future in the Wasteland. The future as a Wastelander, well not really. We were taught how to shoot. We were told that Mutants and Raiders were blighted diseases on the very Wasteland itself.

My father taught me how to see through a scope. My mother taught me things about science. And Dawn was a teenager by the time I was a toddler. He was a peer. We were both Squires. But our talents were filtered and screened. I was told I’d do better learning how to do Scribe work. So I shadowed other scribes. For many years.

I was told what we were looking for. Why we were looking for it? And our objective. To wipe away the disease that was the others from the Wasteland. Anyone who got in our way, kill on sight. Dawn described a very different life than the other Scribes or Knights.

He described the loneliness he felt. He described the hardships of the Wasteland. I think eh felt disgusted in himself before I ever did. And I still don’t even know if I feel disgusted in myself or not. If I regret or are ashamed of my previous actions or not. To kill innocent folks because we were told they were bad people. Was I misguided? Was I blinded?

Was I just young? I don’t really know how to answer those questions really. In my late teens Dawn starts to act weird. And other Knights are starting to question his loyalty into the brotherhood. I remember him talking about people in the Wasteland not being able to defend themselves. I remember him discussing some things he really shouldn’t have.

It never came to anyone’s surprise when he ran off and disappeared. He told me he was going to make the Wasteland a better and more productive place. He told me before he left that he was going to provide a service for the Wasteland.

I didn’t know at the time what that meant. Till I was in my early twenties and I started to hear about the CMC. Courier Militia Coalition. It didn’t sound anything like Dawn’s work. But his name was attached and associated with the rumors flying from people’s lips.

To go from a soldier. To someone sending messages. At the time I didn’t get it. I supposed I do now, being what I am, doing what I am. One day I find myself looking for old tech. I liked the missions where I could go out of the field. Anyway I could avoid being stuck at a desk in the Brotherhood the better. And Dawn comes up.

He doesn’t sneak, he’s never been really quiet as an individual. And he seems happy to see me. I wasn’t sure if I was overjoyed to see him or annoyed to see him. I mean I am here now in the CMC, but they were very close to what I was feeling.

He starts telling me about how couriers were found dead with undelivered messages and the importance of the Wasteland for people to receive those messages. He told me about the Capital Wasteland history of mail. To me it sounded like he had lost his mind.

Except that he was being entirely serious. He ask me out of the blue to dump the Brotherhood and help him run the CMC. I was the only one who knew how to navigate the Wasteland without being caught. That I was the very person he was looking for when it came to the actual talent. That these people looking to serve mail, not just old mail, but new mail needed me.

I’m not sure if I really bought his words. I still don’t think I joined or fled the Brotherhood because he wanted me to. I think I did it because I was bored. Or because I was looking for something that completed me as an individual.

When Kill first and No Questions becomes policy. It becomes stifling. Especially when you’re often an intellectual individual who questions the curiosities of the world. To not question the world that science teaches you to question, it becomes imprisoning.

So that’s how I came to be what I am. A glorified heroic courier who probably doesn’t deserve the heroism.

But delivering messages gives me the opportunity to meet new people. And know people. I do agree that being able to contact someone far away in a world that is out to kill you is a nice feeling for them. I am not sure if the CMC was the right answer. It makes us sound like we’re another group of soldiers looking for our own future of this land. When reality is we just wanted to keep other couriers safe on their dangerous quest to deliver messages to someone who may be dead or alive.

Equipment: Sniper Rifle, 10mm Handgun,bobby pins and a combat knife

[TheRedWatcher]

Fleabite

“You don’t have to worry. We’ll use all of you. Fear after all is the mind killer.”

We'll be Gentle

Age: 25

Gender: Male

Occupation: Shaman

Sexuality: Asexual - such desire for pleasure is temptation. It is also a distraction from the deeper understanding of the universe.

Nationality: That is not necessary to know.

Race: Human

Karma:

Ghouls of the Subway Tunnels - Good Standing - the Ghouls don’t bother the Den as much as they use to. At first the Ghouls didn’t know what to think with the strange human sacrifices that went down and while they may be hostile if anyone enters the Den itself, outside of the Den they do trade goods and have a neutral zone where they meet. And sometimes accidents do happen. Sometimes the Feral Ghouls take a nibble or two out of their tribe members, but everyone has a good laugh about it later. No point in worrying over spoiled meat.

CMC - No Good Standing - There’s something about people getting upset because you find their people the weakest and tastiest that gets them upset when you take their people. It’s honestly just a difference in opinion.

Brotherhood of Steel - Hated Infamous - If you thought the CMC were sticks in the mud, the Brotherhood of Steel has made an enemy out of us. They have raided the Den more times then we can count. We have had to renovate and change the tunnels to the inner sanctum of the den more times then we can count. They call us even more scum of the Wasteland than the scum. They have called to annihilate us all. But we won't’ have it. We’ll stand against them. One of the Captains may have a vendetta against us when I ripped off his ear with my bare hands and teeth as a message to the Brotherhood of Steel.

Faction Alignment: Beastlords
*Note except the fact that I making this faction more native to the Capital Wasteland than the one in the wikia page. I just felt like throwing the link up

Deep in some irradiated tunnels it is not the feral ghouls you have to worry about. In fact even the ghouls seem cautious of the irradiated, broken down railway system. There is a cult of individuals who can somehow control animals.

They called the tunnels their den. And are notorious cruel to those who enter their territory. They are known for their acts of cannibalism. And are said to have a shamanic leader with abilities beyond controlling animals and that he can hear the words of the Great Mother. Whomever she may be.

Skills:

Med - actual medicine. To his people he’d be considered a healer of some sort. He knows the right tools to help with a wound. While he knows about chems as well, using an assortment of them on his own to seek signs from the Great Mother and hear the voice of the universe. He also pretty handy with a scalpel and bandages.

Char - You know a man who leads or helps lead a cannibalistic group of animal telepaths can be quite persuasive and likeable. Despite being intimidating and kind of creepy, and maybe a little bit insane. But then again aren’t we all a little insane. But it is also this skills that allows him to lead his people and for his people to follow or encouraged to follow.

Unarmed - He has no problems taking down a man with his bare hands. He seems unusually strong for a human in an underground cult who worship animals, mother nature in a sense, and eat their fellow kind. But Fleabite is not left defenseless.

History:

I have never met someone so foolhardy and yet so interesting before. You ask to interview me when I have decided you fit our requirements for sustenance? Very well. If that is your last request, your death wish if you will then I’ll oblige. Where did I grow up?

Why of course here in the Den. With my brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers. Certainly I must have had a mother who birthed me and a father who gave her the seed, but in the Den we eventually all share the same blood together. We’re tied by the things we hear, through the animals of the Wasteland and the blood we drink?

Is that enough of an answer for you? Oh my childhood. Well it was uneventful. Well I mean uneventful in the sense that it all seems ordinary to me, but not to you. My brothers before me were warriors, we go out and collect the food. Maybe persuade it down to the Den. As we did you. But none of them ever became what I have become.

See while many of us can speak to the beast of the Wasteland. I also can sense danger. Call it some kind of sixth sense. My parents, my actual parents, thought it some great gift from the Great Mother I do believe I agree. It’s nothing like seeing visions, I just get these odd sense and think we shouldn’t go this way.

I guess that’s how I got into the position I am in now. Well it’s more complicated than that. For anyone young man to become a warrior of the Den and to prove himself, he must cross a great valley of radiation and not die. You of course will assume many have died doing so. Some have died, but made it back to the Den. But they all get cleaned up if they make it.

See in a fit of radiation poisoning I had a dream. The misguided Children of Atom will have you believe there’s a goddamn ghost in the Atomic Wasteland. I do not doubt it, but it’s not Atomic ghost. Instead the voice of the Great Mother guided me to my two special dogs. Ripjaw and Shredclaw.They guided me out of the radiation poisoning and back to the Den.

My people believed Ripjaw and Shredclaw were some kind of demigods that blessed this earth. After they heard my dream of the Great Mother. So naturally of course, you agree with them as you would that you were chosen by the Great Mother for something greater and kill the former leader in the night and take his throne.

No one complained really. Then again they all believe I can speak with the Gods. I can. But that’s my whole story in a tight little bow. It isn’t important really. Our future is more important.

Equipment:

Ripjaw and Shredclaw - his war dogs

War Dogs

Brass Knuckles

Rope, handcuffs, and a sack that carries bandages, scalpels, a first aid kit, 1 radaway, 3 stimpaks, 1 buffout, 2 Psycho, 1 Jet, 1 slasher, and 2 Mentats

[The Last Hero]

CS

Name:Knight Connor Lancet
Age: 27
Gender:Male
Occupation:Brotherhood of Steel Knight East Coast chapter.
Sexuality:Heterosexual
Nationality:American
Race:Human
Karma:Good
Faction Allegiance:The Brotherhood of Steel
Appearance:

Picture

Skills*:Energy weapons, big guns, melee weapons, repair
Brief History:Connor was only three when they left the west coast bunker behind, instead they went east. Hoping against all odds to make contact with the midwestern chapter, when that failed they continued further east until they came upon the ruins of Washington D.C. At this point the boy was a squire learning how to fight so he didn't get to see much of the action of pushing away the super mutants or the taking of the citadel, it was during this time that his parents got sick and passed.

For the next few years that fortress was his home and prison, he never saw outside it's walls until his promotion to aspirant came and he was sent out into the wasteland with a paladin named Rachel Lachance and her team. They became his second family, underneath them he fought with super mutants, raiders, and talon company mercs. With them the boy became a man, and finally was promoted to knight. Given a shiny new suit of power armor he became one of theirs. Two years after his promotion to knight, they unknowingly walked into an ambush. Super mutants streamed out of the ruins. Hitting them with rocket launchers, and miniguns. The squad fought as best as they could, but quickly found themselves out of ammo, and reinforcements still a ways out. They still stuck to their orders and held their ground using the super mutants weapons against them, during this skirmish the boy was struck unconscious when he got into hand to hand combat with a super mutant master.

When he came to, reinforcements had arrived to late. He was the only one left of his squad, when they found him alive they took him back to the citadel. It's been months now, and he hasn't left the citadel and they won't tell him when he's going back out, so once again he feels imprisoned. Contemplating the idea of escape.

<EXCITED BEEPING>

[Kaja]

ES

Elizabeth Smith

Bets - Betty - Liz

Age: 22

Gender: Girl

Occupation: Trailblazer, Chem Dealer.

Sexuality: Betty usually says, “Y’all mind your business. I have no time to worry about it.”

Nationality: Ancestors were German immigrants in pre-war New York, briefly raised in the south by her chem addict parents.

Race: As human as one can be, being a child of addicts, and the radiation, after all.

Karma: Chaotic neutral

Faction Allegiance: None, has done some work for caps in the past

Appearance:

She has long blonde hair, that can be found tucked underneath her cap, or in a neat pony tail. With stern eyebrows; full lips, sharp blue eyes, and a straight nose.

It fully reinforces that immediate stereotype of the pompous rich girl, yet her outfits typically say otherwise. In a pinch, anything that is lightweight, comfortable, or practical will do. Usually, she wears her cap, strapped with a couple spare bullets tucked between its elastic band. Alongside that, a light and durable brown duster, and underneath sporting any clean, blouses or tank tops. Black pants of any kind are her favorite, prefers a good pair of tight jeans. Shoes are come and go; warm socks are her biggest worry. Yuck, no boots.
Thin and agile, but not the best at keeping quiet. Likes to be clean but not afraid to get dirty (no not like that). Betty doesn’t mind messes or the grime, she just loves to be clean as she can be after the fact.

Some big pictures, just FYI

Visuals

Skills: Small guns, Any .308 rifle, most wastelanders would kill for one. The best there is, in her opinion. While Betty loves a good hefty rifle; they are heavy, loud, and sometimes just over the top. She can wield a pistol just fine. Nothing fancy, but she has fair aim. Unarmed, while bullets and energy cells can be sparse, your body is always there. Don’t lose your limbs! She has a practice with unarmed combat, although straying away from pure unarmed techniques, she prefers brass knuckles. Her pair, worn almost religiously, are made from steel, the impact zone of the knuckles have a spike on for each of ringlets, thus causing bleeding and blunt force. The spikes, about 0.5 inches (roughly 2 cm) along with the impact zone of the knuckles themselves are scratched and worn, showing they have been used before. Charisma, growing up as “maid”, for the jet dealers of the southeast. She was always interacting with men and women of all types. She thinks she can read people well, and knows when to speak and when not to. Virtually a glorified slave, she was forced to do a lot of things. Frequently it took a sharp mouth and an even sharper mind to deal with the constant looks and moves, made by the guests of the chem kingpins. Medicine, none of that sewing and cutting business, leave that for the skilled hands of a doctor. Betty knows chems. Her parents did them, her employer sold them, her services as a maid required lots of interaction with people under the influence of them. Knowledge of anything from the simple healing power of the stimpak, to the surge of energy and strength from Buffout. As for real medical expertise, find someone else.

Personality: Rigid, unless there’s a fair point, it’ll take some persuasion if she isn’t up for it. Realistic, knows that not everything always works in her favor, surviving is about adapting. Cold and abrasive, like a good can of Cram, she takes a while to warm up. Her abrasive and attitude come from a hard childhood that taught her to stay quiet and never talk. She is still like that, but has rebelled as much as possible. Clashing with authority, abuse and twisted morals have left a broken young woman that wishes things were different but is smart enough to realize that it cannot be.

Brief History: Like all other unplanned babies, Betty was born in a trashy tradepost, her young and unmarried parents were hooked on Jet and Rad-X. Tiny and weak, they sold her to their dealer for a good chunk of money. Raised then till she was 17 as a maid. She was healthy, but even with the food and shelter, it was not worth it, the people were horrible, she was treated as a worthless slave and only taught to work and nurse all the poor wretched people who showed up on the doorstep, of one of the biggest chem operations south of the capitol. As it became progressively worse, she started doing a lot of chems herself. Realizing that she was in a bad place, and owned nothing, Betty left one late evening. Pretending to be charmed by one of the many guardsmen, leading him back to her room where she gave him a Nuka-Cola with left over med-x, enough to cause a fatal overdose. With the man out cold withing seconds, she took his weapons and gear, spiked knuckles, a 9mm with 20 rounds, some jet, and 5 stimpaks, and most importantly his keys. Unlocking her door, she crept from her maid chambers, which were located behind the main estate, out into the woods. Running as fast as she could, hearing sirens minutes later, but by that time, she was off the property. Thus starting her time traveling and surviving. Now after about 5 years of grueling hard work, she has fair experience in the wastes. Betty thinks knows her way around, she knows her skills. Meeting and talking with passing traders, mercenaries and even a few odd jobs to larger factions. The caps and experience have helped fill her empty heart. After recently selling her most recent goods and buying some provisions, she set out for new land. With her spiked knuckles on her hands, and a bag of the basics on her back. Betty headed further north than she had before. Blazing her own path into new, unknown territory.

<Excited beeping>

[Saarebas]

The Rad Merc

"It's the bloody truth, mate!"

Name
"Just call me Kane."
Seamus Daigh O'Kane

Age
"Hell of a looker for my age ain't I?"
225

Gender
"Last time I checked I still 'ave me dangly bits."
Male

Occupation
"Yo' 'ave the caps, I 'ave the muscle."
Mercenary
Currently employed as a guard for Underworld

Sexuality
"I fancy the lasses."
Heterosexual

Nationality
"I'm a proud drunkin' bastard!!"
Irish

Race
"I think the rads add character."
Ghoul

Karma
"Life is gonna give yo' shite, might as well give it some back."
Evil

Faction Allegiance
"Gotta watch out fer yer own arse out in the wastes."
Himself, but is working as a guard for Underworld at the moment.

Appearance
"Zombie is the new sexy."
Kane is a towering juggernaut of a ghoul, standing at a staggering 6'11 and weighting 393 pounds. He has a bulky, muscular body build with a wide frame, giving him a rather intimidating stature. His skin, like many of his fellow ghoulified kinsmen, is rotten and incredibly burned, it has a sickly green hue and is peeling off in patches. He has a few scruffs of dry, dull red hair poking from his scalp in random locations. His eyes are two sunken pitch black orbs.

Skills
"I'm a man of many talents."
Unarmed
Melee
Explosives
Big Guns

Brief History
----BEGIN VOICE MESSAGE----
"Oh so yo' wanna hear about lil' ol me eh? Well pull up a seat lad!! As yo' may 'ave guessed from my good lookin' mug I'm a ghoul, one of the few that won't try and snack on yer noggin'. I was around before the bombs dropped and everythin' went to shite, I know that is 'ard for yo' smoothskins to picture. I was born in a far off place called Ireland, that's right lad America isn't the whole world. Spent my days drinkin' and fightin', I eventually decided that I might as well get paid for it so I found work as a gun for hire, I was pretty damn good too. After a while I got hired on to help some American troops over in Anchorage, nearly froze my arse off doing it. I spent months shovin' my boot up Chinese arses, which paid off seein' as America eventually reclaimed the place. I was sent to the states to 'enjoy some much needed leave', jokes on me seein' as it wasn't long after that the world was made extra crispy."

"Turnin' into a ghoul wasn't so bad, once the first layer of skin falls off yer pretty much over the hump. What was rough was survivin' the first few years after the bombs fell, lots of confusion with fok all answers. Eventually though those damn vaults started openin' up and you smoothskins started comin' to the surface, yo' should of seen the look on some of their faces when they got a glimpse of my hide."

"In all honesty things weren't that different from before the war. People still wanted to kill each other and I was good at doin' it so work was easy enough to find. Wandered the wastes for decades, killed and cashed in, seen some shite yo' can only dream of. Eventually ended up here in the capital wasteland, got hired as some extra muscle for those ghouls down in Underworld, but I can always use the extra caps. Which brings me to this."

----GUN SHOTS HEARD----

"If yo' would be so kind as to hand over everythin' in yo' pockets lad. Or I could introduce yer teeth to the bottom of me boots."

----EXCITED BEEPING----

----END OF MESSAGE----

[Sirkaithethird]

John White

Name: John White
Age: 36?
Gender: Male
Occupation: Caravan trader
Sexuality: Straight though not wanting a relationship as then he would have to settle
Nationality: Nomad but I doesn't matter anyway the word has gone to hell and no real nations stand anymore
Race: Human
Karma: Neutral but does it matter anyway we just do what is needed to get by in this cesspit of a world
Faction Allegiance: Anyone with money to buy, tends to float between factions
Appearance: John White, a man with a weathered face from wandering the wasteland he wears a nomads backpack and hat with a roving traders outfit. Brown hair, no scars, his eyes show that he isn't trusting.
Skills: Bartering, small weapons,charisma, and speech
Brief History: “John White? That's a name I haven't heard for years. Sure we were old companions but it is the wasteland and that's the way of things. I'll tell you about him sure. I knew he was born to a nomadic trading family, with his mother and younger brother, his father was killed before John was born at aroun- Oh you want to know about when I knew him? Well that was 3 years ago back in the commonwealth. What he's where? The capital wasteland I've heard bad things about that area, well I wish him luck” -Frank Winterburg
“My life? Why would you care about that? I'll start where it matters at the age of 10 my mother was killed by a mirelurk, and it was then just me and my brother, Roy. When I was 13 Roy and I came to a bridge and we were stopped by a group of raiders. Roy being the hardhead he was tried to argue, he didn't even finish his sentence before he was killed by a raider, if I had pulled the trigger first pistol he could still have been alive.”-John White
“John White? My brother? Does he know? Good. Yeah I guess it was a good childhood. But I know he cheated me… I can't Remember what now. What's that he moved on to megaton? That pile of shit? Suits him right. So what if I faked my death to join the raiders. I can tell you now he runs a good store, and he is fair… except to me. Yeah I've been keeping tabs on him.. I know he has had at least 3 companions they don't stay long. I know he uses a 10mm pistol.” -Roy White
“White? What I know about him? Well he wandered into the capital wasteland quite some time ago. He brought along another lad….. Anyways he is a frequent visitor to megaton. Every time he sets up a large crowd gathers. I don't know much about him as a child but last I heard he was headed to Rivet City. I've noticed some things about him, he is quite fast with his gun, he can talk you into almost anything and can get you up to his price before you notice. He's a good man”. -Sheriff of Megaton

[Lunar]

*****

5.9ft, without the tank and unnecessary tubes.

Without mask

with red/yellow hair

New mask

Name: Lesley

Age: 22 or so.

Gender: female.

Occupation: professional 'sacker'

Sexuality: heterosexual.

Nationality: Caucasian.

Race: human.

Karma: Neutral.

Faction Allegiance: none

Skills: small guns, melee, sneak, and repair.

Brief History: Sam was born and raised in a experimental and un finished military vault designed to specially train and recreate a military force in that area after the bombs fall. On Aprill 21'st the valt's systems began too fail and the life support systems went offline, trapping all inhabitants inside. After a few days of trying to get the vault door open the people in the vault began too died off until there were only a few left. It just so happened that Lesley and the few other survivors found some explosives in storage but due too the vault never being completely finished the structural integrity was diminishing, setting off these explosives could trap them in for good or worse kill them from debris. As a group they all decided they would blow the explosives against a week part of the door. Once the smoke cleared she found the door blown open just enough for her and the others to get out but as they thought the room wouldn't hold much longer. The group of them all rushed through the opening to the outside she had heard so much about not having enough time to grab any equipment except the suits they were wearing and the knife one of the survivors had on their belt.

As they rushed into the sunlight, there eyes in pain from the unwelcome beams of light. As the group finaly adjusted too the light they looked back at the collapsed cave opening and noticed the crushed body of a comrade and the faded yellow letters 145 on the blast door, there were three of them now, two of them girls. After that the group learned of the surface worlds imperfections and treacheries, slavers killed the only male of the group and attempted to capture Lesley and the other girl but they escaped from there grasp. Soon enough it was just her, the other girl turned into a ghoul and parted ways with Lesley. After being alone for so long she had too harden herself mentally, emotionally, and physically. She began trying too keep her kind, happy, and caring side buried beneath her armor. She had always been musically inclined as well as being equipped with a naturally acute sense of hearing that allows her too listen too the sounds and the rythem of the world as well as music made too calm down her emotions, some sounds though... she might like a little too much. However, having hearing such as her's makes her susceptible too concussion grenades as well as dog whistles and the like.

Equipment: clothing and 'armor' from picture(s), gas mask, a small radio, earphones, two katana's, a hatchet, as well as knives hidden around clothing. She carries a

Backpack

For Holding ammo, medical supplies, food, caps, etc.

.45 long colt

A large Revolver firing a .45 round with 6 bullets per cylinder.

Hecate II

A long range rifle firing a .50 caliber bullet and holding 8 rounds per magazine.

Mini Uzi

A small and rapid firing sub machine gun firing 9mm bullets with 32 bullets per magazine.