[CHAR] 2100 ☢️ BADLAND REPUBLIC

[Shu]

NOTE : Remove all filler text when filling out sheet.

Character Sheet Template

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Image 800 x 800 (Player face claims must be of a style of anime or an acceptable alternative.) ___________________________________ P R O F I L E Age (Must be between the ages of 18 and 120 year old.) Sex ... Height (Please keep human characters within an average/acceptable height range. Mutants can range from 4’0/121.92 cm to 10’/304.8 cm. Weight (Please keep weights within an acceptable amount based around height and build.) Race (Human or Mutant.) Origin (State your character’s current occupation or state of being.) (Wanderer, Refugee, Exile, Bounty Hunter, Prospector, etcetera.) Transportation (Your character’s mode of traveling.) (All characters start without a vehicle/mount so for now mark this as “None” or “NA”.) Starting Location (Players must choose wether to start at Sully’s Rest, outside the ruins of Denton at a roadside encampment, or in Havenwood as a newly joined member of the community. Some mutant characters may be locked in at Havenwood at the beginning. Human characters are allowed in Havenwood as it is founded on the idea of welcoming all who are misfits and outcasts. Color Code (The color code you will use for dialogue text.) ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y (Inventory is where player items of note are placed. In this RP inventory mainly focuses of items of note or importance. That said feel free to include items such as camping supplies, extra rations, spare clothing, a medical kit, personal effects and mementos, etcetera. Be as creative here as you wish just do not “overdo it”.) ____________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T - Primary Weapon - Secondary Weapon - Armor Details - Gadgets/Tools (A maximum of three if applicable.) (If inapplicable leave blank or mark as NA.) ____________________________________ A T T R I B U T E S Points: 12 (These points are meant to be distributed among the six attributes below. This is to be removed from the CS after points have been distributed. Do not forget to show your work next to each ability regarding points added and subtracted by modifiers.) (Each category is capped at four points however can still be boosted by choice modifiers.) Strength: - Fitness: - Dexterity: - Perception: - Intellect: - Endurance: -

____________________________________________________________________________ APPEARANCE DESCRIPTION ... ____________________________________________________________________________ BACKSTORY ... ____________________________________________________________________________ PERSONALITY ... ____________________________________________________________________________ MOTIVATION AND OUTLOOK Optional ____________________________________________________________________________ MODIFIERS (Players are allowed two options when it comes to choosing modifiers; either two +1 modifiers of their design (With GM approval.) or one +4 modifier with a penalty of -2 in the form of two -1 modifiers or one -2 modifier.) Unlike attribute points which are locked in without additions modifiers can be earned throughout the course of the RP. Be it through experiences, implants, serums or pharmaceuticals, and so on. But be warned, not all modifiers will be positive. Many in fact can be quite detrimental. Distribute points and modifiers meticulously.)

[Shu]

RESERVED

[LanaStorm]

One Thousand Meter Killer

Izra

"Bang."

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___________________________________ P R O F I L E Age 30. Sex Female Height 5'7 feet Weight 140 pounds. Race Mutant Origin Assassin Transportation N/A Starting Location Havenwood Color Code 662d91 ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y + Dream Catcher Net + Beware, The Stranger Book + Silver infused hatchet ____________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T + Silenced Ulf Arms Sniper Rifle + Mountain Ground Range Bow + Armoured Trench Coat + Range Finder + Long Range Canteen + Throwing Knives ____________________________________ A T T R I B U T E S Strength: - 1 Fitness: - 1 Dexterity: - 2 Perception: - 4 (6 with OTMK) Intellect: - 2 Endurance: - 2

____________________________________________________________________________ APPEARANCE DESCRIPTION Cold, cool and calculated. The sun kissed mutant is dressed to her best, an armored trench coat and trusty rifle. Everything you would expect from an assassin on this side of the scorched earth. Coming in at 5'8 feet tall and a unknown healthy weight Izra is a woman of a modestly athletic build with clothes a mercenary would wear. She has to fit in with them regulars too right? Black boots, camo pants and something under neath that trench coat of hers to wrap it all together nicely. Dark hair, dark eyes the obvious tell is she's from the Mountain was from the Mountain. Ya’íí isn't a word she's heard in a while, but this chameleon plays her part. ____________________________________________________________________________ BACKSTORY See the killer? Most don't, just a dulled barrel and hair trigger is all it takes for lead to meet dome in this haunting, lethal wasteland. Beauty and passion don't mix well, especially in today's climate, but subterfuge and the dark arts do. Meet Izra, hailing from the Ya’íí as the old men on the Mountain call it. All accounts describe her as 'normal' a girl growing up in a tribal society of a bygone age but one that is still respected despite the Republic's aggression and hate towards her people she persisted. One thing stood out from the young woman more than anything else, her blood is black. Those veins? Dark like the shadows that her ancestors crawled, prowled and hunted in during more turbulent times. This killer wouldn't last in the Mountain's society, one rigid with tradition and superstition the presence of a woman with black veins. Toxic and potent was a bad omen, so she was outcasted. Rumors are the exile was ceremonial, she could come and go as she pleased acting as the right hand for the Old Men of the Mountain others say it was permanent to prevent the collapse of the Ya’íí. So she traveled, having been trained as a Brave most of her life Izra found her calling in martial arts. Hire contracts, being a blade or a gun mattered to many, and to Izra so did the coin. Landing in Havenwood among her other mutants the Exile established herself in a small alcove, a bounty hunter and killer for hire the mutant found work from all factions. Her impartiality to her contract, keeping her word, and getting the job done made her very lucrative even if the world shunned her for something she couldn't control. There was a sense of purpose, beyond a kill-of-be-killed mentality. With her agency and renown growing Izra felt a call towards the Republic, a hereditary sense of revenge. Opportunity or something more, she couldn't place it. At least, not yet. ____________________________________________________________________________ PERSONALITY Cold, Serious, Logical. Words like this sum up Izra, it's hard to smile and laugh when the world is against you even on your best days. Humor does break through the cracks of the tanned scope-seeing, skull taking assassin and she'll chime in when she is needed. Izra is an advisor, a tracker and most importantly a killer and she does all three of these things well. While it's a cliche to say she doesn't get close to anyone, she doesn't have much oppurunity. Outsiders use her, and her own fellow mutants are scared of her reputation of blood and danger. Who knew dating in the waste land would be so slim? The one trait that stands out is she's loyal, maybe to some than others. Contracts don't always dictate the morals of this trigger puller. ____________________________________________________________________________ MOTIVATION AND OUTLOOK Money, Power, Fame? A strange mysterious attraction to march onto the Republic? An urge to strike at the Old Men in the Mountain? Things are looking up and down for Izra, the old girl takes each day one at a time with stride. ____________________________________________________________________________ MODIFIERS [One Thousand Meter Killer] - Having trained as a brave and having the keenst eye in her Cohort, Izra is quite the sniper and can make shots even the Republic's best snipers dream off. Despite this she has a great sense of perception, and attention to detail.

[ctrlsaltdel]

Rory Arcadia

Rory Arcadia

I'm searching the clouds for the score

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___________________________________ P R O F I L E Age Late 20s Sex M Height 6'1" Weight 170lb Race Human Origin Con man Transportation None Starting Location Sully's Rest Color Code 0a9b00 ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y + Camping mess kit--includes new EverFlame Portable Neutrino Burner! + Medical kit + Multi-tool/firearm repair & maintenance kit ____________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T + Pre-war Semiauto Pistol - Late pre-war pistol that Rory... acquired from its previous owner. .357 caliber, 9-round magazine. + Bolt-action rifle - Old pre-war rifle; careworn but well maintained. Five-round internal magazine, small scope for distance shooting. + Flak vest - Pre-war police issue; mostly effective against small pistol rounds and blades + Cybernetic Eye - Left eye has been replaced by a cybernetic prosthesis; it mostly functions as a normal eye, but houses a pre-war AI advisor which analyzes data taken from the visual feed and from Rory's brain to make recommendations. Sometimes, they're even useful. ____________________________________ A T T R I B U T E S Strength: 0 Fitness: 2 Dexterity: 0 Perception: 8 (4 at creation, 4 from [Old World Ghost]) Intellect: 4 (4 at creation) Endurance: 0

____________________________________________________________________________ APPEARANCE DESCRIPTION Rory is made of long lines and sharp angles. He's tall and broad-shouldered, with coltishly long arms and legs that make him look too skinny. His skin is fairly tan for his natural shade, though no more than usual for his circumstance. He wears his hair short and messy, and the same exposure that tanned his skin has turned his hair honey brown. His right eye is that same color; his left is emerald green, and the sclera unnaturally white. An old, thin scar outlines his jaw; his nose also looks to have been broken at some point. In motion, Rory has the puppy-like awkwardness that his long limbs would suggest. When he stands up, he has to unknot and unfold himself; when he walks, it's with a too-big stride that can leave even people taller than him marching double-time to keep up. When he talks, he gestures, and the gestures are wide and energetic. His facial expressions are similarly guile-less and exaggerated, and can make him seem younger than he is. Only his eyes--focused eyes, constantly and silently prodding--put the lie to that impression. His clothing is whatever he can get his hands on, so it tends to be worn, practical, and comfortable, in that order. His jacket is pre-war military surplus, and he wears oversized hiking pants, which he has cinced tightly with a belt and stuffed into his reinforced boots. His bag is a post-war creation based on pre-war hiking packs--canvas sewn on a metal frame. His head is covered by a wide-brimmed felt hat, and a tattered shawl covers his neck. His pistol rides in a plain leather belt holster; his rifle hangs from his backpack when not in use. ____________________________________________________________________________ BACKSTORY Of his early life, Rory has no memories, only impressions. He remembers being hungry--hunger has been his one constant companion through his life--but he also remembers being warm, and having someone who cared for him. Flashes of brown eyes, smiles, delighted laughing and happy cheers, all of which fade into a pink haze without attaching themselves to anything concrete. If he focuses, he can conjure up his first clear memory, of his mother's face. She looks up at him--eyes bloodshot, skin ashen, and smile wide--as he stands next to her bed. She places one hand on his arm--a cold hand, with more love than strength left in it--and says something to him, though twenty-odd years later he can no longer remember what. After that, he remembers nights lying alone in their small shelter--and then, after the shelter was taken over by another family, nights lying on the cold street. To a child not yet ten years old, that time seemed to last for an eternity, but the man recounting the memory has seen the fate of children living on the street with no support, and knows that it couldn't have been more than a few weeks. He remembers a large-ish man bending down over him where he huddled in a worn blanket. He doesn't remember most of the conversation, but he does remember these words: "I'll take care of you." And to the man's credit, he did. Rory remembers several other children more or less his age--they were the scraps, the leftovers, and none of them knew exactly how old they were--running in a pack through the settlement, harassing passers-by for whatever they had and stealing from the local merchants. They gave a cut of whatever they found to the man who--so graciously, he always reminded them, so generously--let them sleep in a pile on the floor under his roof, chased away angry adults who sought the return of their stolen goods, and only hit them when they had failed to bring in their quota more than one day in a row. Rory remembers not being the strongest or the fastest, but he does remember being the quickest thinker out of the group, the one who was always first to spot new opportunities and dangers. He remembers learning how to find people's blind spots. Adults were first--he was the one who figured out how to tell the people who would be taken in by a cute face and a sob story, and who would be lured away by a bait thief and their own anger--but he soon turned those skills on his fellow criminals. He remembers that, by the time he was in his mid-teens, the other kids in his cohort looked to him to resolve their disputes and to come up with their schemes. He remembers the look on the boss's face when that man finally realized how popular Rory was among the orphans he had taken in. It wasn't the look he had expected--the kind of look he usually got when bringing in an unusually large haul. It was searching, though at the time he wasn't yet wise enough to know what for. Rory remembers the gradual shift from petty theft to protection rackets, then to occasional caravan ambushes. He remembers the numbers of his initial group of children dwindling, both from desertion and from more violent fates--but that the number of people in the gang that looked to him for guidance never decreased. He very vividly remembers realizing that the look on the boss's face when he would return unharmed from a dangerous assignment was in fact disappointment. Rory doesn't remember the boss's son--Rory was never clear on if they were actually related by blood, or if he was just another orphan that the boss had taken a particular shine to--accompanying them on any of those dangerous tasks, at least not until the very end. He does remember the little shit throwing a tantrum when the boss approved his expedition to find a nearby military bunker whose location the kid had beaten out of a traveling merchant, only to tell him he had to bring Rory along with him. Rory remembers not wanting to go, either, but neither of them were willing to openly defy the boss. The thing Rory remembers most about the bunker is the smell--settled dust, rusting metal, harsh chemicals whose identity he could only guess at. He remembers the machine they found--like a steel coffin, tubes snaking out in every direction--and the sound of the boss's son cocking his pistol. Remembers the pounding of his heart as they sealed him in, eager to discover what the device's purpose was and not at all concerned with his well-being. He remembers the grinning face looking in at him from the small viewport as the chamber filled with gas. Rory remembers waking up, his head throbbing, his guts roiling. Remembers looking up to see the people who had come with him--the boss's son included--lying butchered on the floor nearby, the machine that did it laying in a pile with bullet holes through it. Remembers losing his lunch. Remembers a voice, coming from nowhere, say, //Good afternoon, Lieutenant. I detect that you are in distress.// Rory straightens up on the barstool he's warming at Sully's Rest and runs a finger along the butt of the pistol he remembers looting from the boss's son. He doesn't remember making the decision to run, but he must have done it, and he knows why--returning from that mission as the only survivor might as well have been suicide. He has faint memories of days spent lying still, waiting for a group of mutants to move on so he could continue on his way through the wastes. Most of all, he remembers the tales he heard from travelers of a great, shining city, a fragment of the old world, and the safety it promised, and his determination to get there and... Well. He'll figure that out later. ____________________________________________________________________________ PERSONALITY Outwardly, Rory is a friendly and generous person; he makes an effort to remember people's names, their likes and dislikes, and he's often willing to lend a hand even without being asked. He's not infrequently found buying drinks for other people, or in the middle of a crowd, and he's usually quick to forgive offense given. He's a social drinker, as well as a chronic gambler. Inwardly, Rory sees this friendliness as an act. He expects the worst from others--not unreasonable, given his upbringing--and so he is constantly looking for any bit of information or leverage he can use to gain an advantage over the people around him. When it's necessary--to secure further advantage or to save his own skin--he will exploit the weaknesses he's found. He much prefers that to come in the form of calling out favors and trading on people's goodwill than he does blackmail or threats, but the latter are by no means off the table. Rory tells himself that the reason he defaults to manipulating people the friendly way is because it's easier and lower risk. By this point, he pretty much believes it, too. ____________________________________________________________________________ MOTIVATION AND OUTLOOK + He sees life as a constant fight for survival. Even when his meals have come regularly, they haven't come easily, and he's been aware since a very young age that tomorrow isn't guaranteed. + He does not trust other people to have his interests in mind. His value to other people has been dictated by his usefulness; he at least claims to have the same outlook. + He is looking for a place where he can be safe. At least right now, that's Ardhelm, the rumored city of wonders. ____________________________________________________________________________ MODIFIERS [Old World Ghost] - A pre-war AI construct inhabits Rory's cybernetic eye, helping him spot threats and make more accurate visual calculations. However, the implant wasn't designed for him and the calibration mismatch has made him less coordinated than he used to be. [+4 Perception, -1 Fitness, -1 Dexterity]

[Expendable]

Nine

Epsilon 9-00FF66 - "Nine"

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___________________________________ P R O F I L E Age 18 Sex Female Height 4' 9" (144.78 cm) Weight 93 lbs. (42.18 kg) Race Human Origin Exile/Wanderer Transportation N/A Starting Location Havenwood Color Code #FF00FF ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y - Poncho with detachable liner - Backpack - Three (3) boxes of shotgun shells (25 each) - Multitool - Survival kit - Sunscreen stick SPF30 - Soap in a case - Towel and washcloth - Two rolls of duct tape - 50' of climbing rope - 18 ration bars (Vanilla) - Spare socks and underwear ____________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T - Primary Weapon: Sawed-off Shotgun - Secondary Weapon: Kukri knife - Armor Details: Concealable soft body armor, rated III+ - Gadget: Osmosis Canteen - Gadget: Portable library (ruggedized) - Gadget: Analyzer (Basic) ____________________________________ A T T R I B U T E S Strength: 2 (Creation, 1 point. Fight or flight modifier, +1 point) Fitness: 1 (Creation, 1 point.) Dexterity: 3 (Creation 2 points. Fight or flight modifier, +1 point) Perception: 3 (Creation: 3 points) Intellect: 4 (Creation: 4 points) Endurance: 1 (Creation: 1 points)

____________________________________________________________________________ APPEARANCE DESCRIPTION This lady reminds you of a mysterious monolith. She has almond-shaped eyes the color of wild moss. Her luxurious, curly, ginger hair is starting to grow out of a buzz cut. She is very short and has a slender build. Her skin is pale. She has wide feet. There's a barcode on the back of her neck and a number 9 laser-tattooed on her upper arms. Her servitor uniform, originally black, has faded to a grayish color. ____________________________________________________________________________ BACKSTORY Nine was born in the Pinnacle-Stone Genetic Research Facility underground bunker where she was mis-classified as an Epsilon worker class, 9th generation. When others began to act atypically, they would be taken away and autopsied to discover anomalies, so she quickly learned to hide her intelligence. Working as a cleaner, she soon learned her way through the network of ducts and could easily access any part of the facility. She could watch the Alphas and Betas students in their classrooms and picked up how to read and write. While she had no code of her own at first to let her access the facility intranet, they did have a library of actual physical books that was seldomly visited, so she could easily borrow one or two to read without anyone noticing. Gammas, on the other hand, loved to party. These four had planned a special entertainment for themselves - putting an epsilon into an experiment's cell and watching it be torn limb from limb. But when the Beta experimenting on the creature arrived in the morning, it found the experiment was out of its cell, wounded but bloated, still chewing on one of its handler's legs and assumed they had mistakenly released it. Cleaners were summoned, including Nine, but it warily gave each of the black-clad servitors a wide berth. The Beta assumed it was the experiment's desire to sleep and digest its former handlers. Following her 18th year physical, Nine was working in the ducts near a conference room and overhead them discussing the results for the 9th generation epsilons, then her individual designation FF00FF came up. Some of the betas argued that her short stature was useful into getting into smaller areas and admittedly enjoyed towering over Nine, while others pointed out that her shortness and ginger hair was not aesthetically pleasing to them. The Alpha leading the meeting decided that she be taken away for full examination and autopsy to locate any anomalies to explain her differences. This was the day Nine had been dreading, but preparing for. She'd managed to override some of the autofacs in the service level maintenance shops months before to produce a few items for her escape kit. Hitting a storeroom along the way, she worked her way up to the surface ventilation system and triggered a maintenance cycle which allowed her to escape. Nine sprayed copious amounts of pepper spray behind her to confuse any scent-trackers the bunker might send after her. ____________________________________________________________________________ PERSONALITY Wary around new people and strange things, but with a lot of curiosity, this being her first time topside. She has a hunger to learn. So many years of having to constantly hide herself, she's usually silent, showing so little emotion and patience that one might mistake her for an android - or fear, until her bloodlust surfaces. ____________________________________________________________________________ MOTIVATION AND OUTLOOK She's driven by both her need to survive and her desire to learn. Its her desire to find a place she can do both in, without fear of retaliation by the bunker. However, she realizes realiation is unlikely, as they will not want to leave their bunker. ____________________________________________________________________________ MODIFIERS +1 Strength (fight or flight) +1 Dexterity (fight or flight)

[Mav99]

Maverick Breaker

Maverick Breaker

"I've seen too much to trust easily, but I'll fight like hell for the people I care about."

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https://imgur.com/a/yVj8L3R ___________________________________ P R O F I L E Age 24 Sex Male Height 5'11 Weight 185 Race Human Origin Ex - Bandit Transportation None Starting Location Havenwood Color Code CD5C5C ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y - Duster’s necklace (1) – Not practical, but sentimental. Maverick tends to fidget with the necklace when he is lost in thought. - Canteen (1) – normally filled with whiskey. - Shotgun shells (20) – Extra ammo for “Duster” ____________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T Weapons: - “Duster” – A crudely maintained shotgun that was owned by his partner - “Maverick’s toothpick” - An old Tanto point knife - Armor Details: No armor – Maverick prefers to travel light, relying on his speed to avoid danger. Gadgets/Tools: - Explosive satchel charges – Improvised explosives that can be used to breach doors. - Grappling hook – Used to scale ruins and escape when necessary. ____________________________________ A T T R I B U T E S Normal: Strength: 4 Fitness: 3 Dexterity: 2 Perception: 2 Intellect: 0 Endurance: 1 With “Survivors Guilt”: Strength: 6 Fitness: 3 Dexterity: 2 Perception: 2 Intellect: -2 Endurance: 1

____________________________________________________________________________ APPEARANCE DESCRIPTION Maverick is a tall, muscular man in his mid 20s, who gives a rugged and imposing presence. He has pale skin dotted with needle wounds and stab scars, along with piercings on both of his ears and flame tattoos on both of his upper arms. Maverick has tired, dark brown eyes that have just about seen it all, and thick unkempt blonde hair. ____________________________________________________________________________ BACKSTORY Maverick’s early life was one of relentless struggle, he was born to a family of nomads who barely made ends meet each day. The family lugged their way across Aldemara, hoping to find a safe place to raise their children and make an honest living, traveling was difficult but manageable for the first few years. Maverick’s parents navigated the harsh desolate wasteland, while he and his older brother would learn basic survival skills from their parents. However, there was one lesson that was proved to Maverick; the wasteland will show no mercy. Food grew scarce for his family, and the harsh conditions took a devastating toll on his mother. She had become frail and malnourished, so much so that she couldn’t continue on any further. Maverick still remembers his mothers sweet smile as she laid in her tattered sleeping bag, as death slowly crept close to her. “Help your brother. Listen to your father… Please… Stay strong for them…” She softly spoke to him as she gently wiped the tears from her son’s face. His mother didn’t make it through that night, and Maverick’s father, who was already weak willed from the start, took his own life a few days later. Maverick and his brother were left to fend for themselves in the brutal, unforgiving wasteland. His brother was only 15 when he had to take care of Maverick alone. The two brothers avoided settlements out of fear of being turned away or exploited, but surviving on their own wasn’t easy. His brother turned to any means to keep him and Maverick alive, he would scavenge for trade, hunt for food, and even steal supplies when they needed to. By the time Maverick reached the age of 20, he and his brother would finally get caught by traveling merchants in an attempt to steal some of their goods. Maverick could only helplessly watch as his brother was overpowered by the traders. “Dammit Maverick! Run!” His brother yelled as the traders began to beat him to death. Maverick stumbled away from the scene, he still remembers his heart pounding and the tears that streamed down his face as he disappeared into the vast open wastes. Maverick roamed the wastes of Aldemara alone, still haunted by his brother’s screams. He was ashamed at himself for running away, guilty for not protecting his brother, but mostly angry at himself for being weak. Maverick was so caught up in his emotions, that he didn’t care that he was quickly becoming dehydrated and gradually starving, “There’s no point.” He constantly told himself. One day, Maverick saw the silhouettes of people on the horizon that seemed to approach him, but by the time they could become remotely visible, He collapsed. Maverick found himself waking up in a crudely built tent as a man tended to the wounds he gained from the trader incident. The man chuckled as Maverick came to his senses. “I’m kinda shocked yer even alive” He said playfully. Maverick looked at him with a raised eyebrow, then further down at his stomach where he saw the man dabbing an alcohol soaked cloth over a bullet wound. “I guess ya didn’t even notice you got shot…” The man grinned as he looked up at maverick “Then again, ‘course ya wouldn’t when ya get so thirsty you can’t even stand anymore.” Maverick shrugged then looked away from the man “Thanks…” He spoke softly. “Yeah, don’t mention it.” The man said as he grabbed the bandage on the floor next to them “M’names Duster… You got a name?” Duster said as he began to gently wrap the bandage over Maverick’s wound. “Maverick… My name is Maverick.” “Well, Mav…” Duster said as he put the bandages away. “Looks like you found yerself stuck with a buncha bandits out here… Roaches, as we like to call ourselves.” Maverick looked at Duster with a face twisted in confusion. “’Course you can always leave whenever ya want, I doubt the guys out there could give two shits where ya go... Or, you can stick with us, pull yer own weight around here, maybe even live longer. Yer call.” Maverick was unsure about continuing on with a life of crime, but he was desperate at this point, it was obvious he couldn’t survive alone in the wastes. Maverick would take a look outside of the tent with Duster by his side. he still remembers the first time he saw the men and women of the gang sitting around a campfire and telling stories from their pasts or details of the last raid they took part in. The sound of conversation and laughter gave Maverick a sense of hope in what he saw, it was as if the Roaches were a family, much like his own. Maverick was invited to sit at the campfire with open arms, he was on the fence of declining, but Duster saved him a seat next to him anyway. Maverick took a seat in the sand as Duster scoot closer to him. The Roaches showed an interest in Maverick’s situation, everyone listened as Maverick shared stories about his family, his past of stealing, and the mistake that ended it all. The other members would share similar stories of their past, Duster would even mention that he ended up becoming an orphan at the age of 12. Maverick felt a sense of belonging with the Roaches, from this point on, he knew he had to help them, the same way they helped him. Over the next few years, Maverick found himself as part of the Roaches, they weren’t as brutal as he initially thought them to be, at least amongst themselves. Maverick and Duster’s relationship would grow closer over the years as well, the two would become a couple one night after Maverick drunkenly kissed Duster while the two were looking out at the Sevara horizon. All would seem well for Maverick and the Roaches, but at the end of the day, the wasteland will show no mercy. The Roaches would conduct another routine raid on a caravan that was making its way to Sevara. The roaches did their business as usual, hold up the guards, take their weapons, and steal their goods. Unbeknownst to the Roaches, this caravan was affiliated with the new republic of Sevara, and the survivors of that raid would flee to Ardhelm, where they would report the gang. The Republic would send some of their soldiers to track down the Roaches’ camp site. On the night of the attack, Maverick and Duster awaken to the sound of screams and gunshot, The soldiers managed to easily overwhelm the Roaches. Maverick and Duster fought alongside the other Roaches against the Republic soldiers in an attempt to protect themselves, but one by one, each member fell. Duster and Maverick held their ground the best they could, until Duster was shot in his chest. Maverick caught Duster before he fell and dragged him behind cover, there Duster pleaded for Maverick to escape, but Maverick was not willing to leave him behind. Duster’s breathing would begin to slow as he laid in his arms, Maverick pleaded and cried for Duster to hang on, but Duster just kissed Maverick one last time as he drew his final breath. Maverick let out a blood curdling scream as he held Duster’s lifeless body close to him. In a fit of rage, Maverick grabbed dusters shotgun and began to take on the soldiers himself. He was outnumbered, but he couldn’t care less. Maverick could only see red as he took down each soldier one by one. Maverick would sustain multiple injuries such as grazings from gunfire, stab wounds, and there were even moments where the soldiers would almost take him down but he was adamant to keep firing no matter what. Eventually, Maverick was the last man standing. Maverick stood in the middle of the Roaches’ camp, he was gasping and covered in blood. He was surrounded by the bodies of his friends that he considered to be his new family. Maverick fell to his knees and clawed his hands into the sand as he cried. Maverick would eventually go to Duster, where he held him in his arms one last time. The sun would begin to rise over the horizon, as Maverick began to walk away from the camp. He didn’t know where he was going, and he could care less about where he ended up. The camp began to shrink smaller behind him as he disappeared into the wastes once again. Days later, Maverick found himself in Havenwood. He didn’t bother talking to anyone, he would only sit at the bar and spend whatever money he had left on alcohol as a means to drown out a past that still haunts him. ____________________________________________________________________________ PERSONALITY Maverick is a cold and wary person who has a cynical outlook on life. After losing his partner in the raid, he spends his days in one of Havenwood’s dimly lit bars, lost in his thoughts. Regret claws at him relentlessly, he couldn’t protect the one person he loved in this world, and that guilt festers within him at all times. Maverick tries to avoid interacting with others around him and hides in the back of the bar, that is until he drinks enough alcohol to loosen his tongue. When he’s drunk, Maverick tells stories about his past as a bandit, the faces he’s met along the way, the many people he has stolen from, the lives he’s taken, and the battle that ended it all, yet there is something that he does keep to himself. Every time he comes close to mentioning Duster, he shuts down and retreats to the back of the bar where he can confide in alcohol once again. ____________________________________________________________________________ MOTIVATION AND OUTLOOK Driven by the dying wishes of those he has lost, Maverick feels a desperate need to survive and redeem himself. Maverick wants to honor the memory of everyone he has lost and carry their legacies with him ____________________________________________________________________________ MODIFIERS “Survivors Guilt” Maverick can only see red in a brawl. In combat Maverick gains 2 strength but suffers -2 Intellect

[Blizz]

Johnny Corpse

Johnny Corpse

"Gettin' way too old for this shit, man."

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___________________________________ P R O F I L E Age 73 Sex Male Height 5'7" Weight 168lbs Race Mutant Origin Bounty Hunter Transportation N/A Starting Location Sully’s Rest Color Code 00ff00 ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y - Compass - Hand radio - Small notebook full of radio tower frequencies - Map of Sevara - Satchel (Rations, knife, tent kit, and other small things) ____________________________________ E Q U I P M E N T -CG29: A single-action, magnetic rifle built to quietly accelerate a metal slug to absurd speed, strong enough to punch through two square inches of reinforced steel from 100 meters away. -Hazer-12: An old laser pistol that hasn't been in production for a few decades. It has adjustable settings, and can put out enough heat to slowly cook dead meat or enough to burn open a human's stomach. Johnny mostly keeps it for sentimental value. - Leather armor, fitted with plenty of pockets for ammo or rations, and designed for coverage from the sun. - Trusty knife. (If inapplicable leave blank or mark as NA.) ____________________________________ A T T R I B U T E S Points: 12 (These points are meant to be distributed among the six attributes below. This is to be removed from the CS after points have been distributed. Do not forget to show your work next to each ability regarding points added and subtracted by modifiers.) (Each category is capped at four points however can still be boosted by choice modifiers.) Strength: 1 Fitness: -1 [1 + Old Bones] Dexterity: 2 Perception: 3 Intellect: 1 Endurance: 8 [4 + Mutant Freak]

____________________________________________________________________________ APPEARANCE DESCRIPTION They call him Johnny Corpse for a reason. Johnny is a mutant, the sort that doesn't get many chances to blend in with the crowd. His skin is a pallid shade of green that makes him look perpetually infected with some sort of skin condition. Some shades of bloody red blend in around his joints, and if it was just that, nobody would clock him as a mutant. But if you look closely, you can see a very easily-spotted gouge in his left arm that he jammed bits of metal into a few decades ago, which might look like cybernetics to some people. Some punk took a glowing-hot piece of iron and swung it at him, trying to maim and kill Johnny, but it only pissed him off. At the ripe old age of 73, Johnny doesn't look as old as he really is, but he sure sounds like it. Anyone who hears him speak gets treated to the sound of sand in a blender. And then there's his face, with one glazed-over eye, an eyepatch and scars from shit someone might never believe. ____________________________________________________________________________ BACKSTORY It is well and truly a mystery as to where exactly the mutant known as Johnny Corpse came from. He’s nobody special in terms of his deeds out in the wasteland, barring the fact that he’s on record for bringing in over three hundred bounties, he didn’t carve out a place in the reaches past Sevara, and he damn sure didn’t come up from money like some people. Rather, Johnny Corpse first started making appearances fifty years ago when he, allegedly, was just a man of his 30s. Anyone who makes a point to track intelligent mutants and their actions could tell you that he always had a mind for making money and bringing a sense of frontier justice down on someone’s head. From Sully’s Rest to Ardhelm, Havenwood to the other end of Lake Tankar, the old mutant’s made his way up and down the sands more times than most can count. He’s packed bodies cold and warm and made a bloody killing chasing bounties that no sane individual cares for. Once, he tracked down a man who was more cybernetics than meat, and shot the man seventeen times in the skull before he finally died in an explosion of fire and blood, killing three “innocent” bystanders in the process, before he left Strider territory. Johnny has mostly kept his head down in most other areas. He’s lucky enough to have never been shot dead by the Northwood Blackwatch, and “settlers” that have come and gone never could kill him either, on the rare occasion they jumped him. Johnny’s life has mostly been one of hard living and shooting the socially acceptable targets, for the better part of five decades. Whenever he rolls through the more civilized areas, people usually know him ahead of time and can at least be assured he’s not there to shoot them, and his record as an effective bounty hunter is no doubt the only thing that allows him to walk into such places at all. Recently, Johnny paid off some Striders to let him hitch a ride to the outskirts of Sully’s Rest, where he spent the last two days taking it easy. ____________________________________________________________________________ PERSONALITY Johnny is the poster boy of jaded, disgruntled bastards who don't let the world tell them what to do. Everywhere he goes, people give him funny looks and keep the safety on their guns off. And his brusque, blunt attitude definitely doesn't help, but they usually let him go when they see the body he's packing. It's a tough world, one that'll chew you up and spit you right out if you don't bite back, and Johnny Corpse didn't earn his nickname by falling over without getting back up. More often than not, he gets himself out of sticky situations in civilized areas by telling someone to just fuck off and behave themselves, since he usually has a gun at the ready before they do. Still, Johnny isn't that hard to get along with, if you're not a bitch about it. Sit down, act your age and shoot the shoot about the weather or whatever's going on in Havenwood the last few weeks and he'll probably tolerate your presence for the day. Johnny's seen a lot of people come and go over the years, being one who isn't inclined to sit down and stay still, so his patience is usually a lot less than most. ____________________________________________________________________________ MOTIVATION AND OUTLOOK Money, life and freedom. The only things someone who lives life by the gun in their hand truly needs. ____________________________________________________________________________ MODIFIERS Mutant Freak - Johnny occasionally jokes that shooting him in the head with a shotgun at point blank range is only going to scratch the shotgun. +4 to Endurance. Old Bones - Johnny is older than a lot of people who travel on a regular basis, and he's starting to slow down. -2 to Fitness.