Athol

Fallout: The Vegas Affair

Earlier

Sam did his best to move softly in the growing night. He’d been tracking an ex-Legion Raiding party for close to a week now, purely of his own accord; he’d discovered the remains of a small caravan, 3 adults 4 children, all butchered…among other indignities, and marked with Legion iconography. The group hadn’t been bothering to hide their tracks, so the only reason it had taken this long to catch up was the head start they’d had.

Now he picked his way slowly through the scrub, ever so often catching a hit of wood smoke and voices that bit by bit grew louder. Bearing wide of the camp once he saw it not too far off, he made his way along a nearby ridge until he found himself overlooking the raider’s overnight camp. It was a small party of four, sitting around their fire, eating and talking about how they ‘struck a blow’ against the profligates and bragged to each other about what they had done. It took almost all his self-control not to open fire right then, but they were all still awake and in the ensuing confusion one might escape and he wasn’t going to allow that. Instead he made himself rest in his perch, try and quiet the voice that raged for their deaths, and waited for the right time.

To his surprise he actually dozed off, though he only realized he’d done so after he woke up to the sounds of the sentries below him trading off. It was now well into the night and the moon was now starting to set, though it would still be a while before dawn. Shifting forward he brought his rifle to bear, flicking the switch to run it on ‘hot shot’ mode; he didn’t want to take chances.

Below him, the newly awoken sentry stood before the embers of their fire and stretched, his back to Sam’s position, what little glow remained enough to just outline him in Sam’s eyes. Sam settled the sights and fired, closing his eyes as he did to save his night vision. He’d intended to kill his target outright, but several factors interfered and instead the flash of energy struck the Legionnaire in the small of his back and burned a hole straight through skin and bone.

The man screamed in pain and terror as he pitched forwards, unable to stop himself from falling into the embers.One. The recently relieved sentry, still being partially awake most likely, reacted faster than his still sleeping companions, though that just sealed his fate faster. A twitch of movement in the gloom caught Sam’s eye and he fired again, this time hitting his target square in the face killing him instantly. Two. Over the screams of the first man, he heard crashing in the brush and realized the two sleepers were trying to run.

The low moon was casting deep shadows, and either on purpose, or through sheer luck the pair had bolted into a low crease that gave them decent concealment from Sam’s position. He lanced the dark with a couple of speculative shots at likely targets, his third one drawing another shout. Three. He was annoyed that it looked like the last one would escape, he could still hear someone crashing through the scrub, but the shadows were too deep to see anything, when he heard a short ‘yelp’ of surprise followed by more crashing and then quiet. Four.

Picking his way down, he swapped to his pistol and went to investigate the camp. His first target had stopped screaming, having lost consciousness even though he still lay on the coals, he wouldn’t last much longer. After confirming the fate of his second target, he cautiously followed after the remaining two. The third one he appeared to have hit in the upper back, possibly through the heart and left lung as he was dead by the time Sam got to him. The fourth he found just as dawn broke, laying at the bottom of a small crevasse having obviously fallen while running at full speed.

Both his legs were at decidedly unhealthy angles and smears of blood marked his passage down. Following the sounds of wounded sobbing, Sam stuck his head over the edge of the drop and looked down. Upon seeing the dark silhouette of Sam, the Legionnaire called out between gasps of pain. “Bastard..just...just end already…” Before he could reply, Sam heard a sound, geckos, probably awoken by the noise and smell of blood. It was still a bit too cool for them to be very active, but once the sun was up they’d be swarming this whole area. The Legionnaire had heard the sound too, fear now etched on his pain wracked face. “P-please…just do it…you can’t, you can’t leave me like this!”

Sam studied him for a moment then shrugged. ”Why not?” He said before turning away, it would still be awhile before it was warm enough for the geckos and he wanted to be well away from here before then. Tuning out the shouting and invectives from behind him he started making his way North.

Fallout: The Vegas Affair

Sam

Jonathan ‘Sam’ Samuel Smith

Age: Pre-War
Gender: Male (Ghoul)
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 200ish lbs

“Good? Bad? Don’t really care unless you shoot at me.”

---

Appearance

Short answer? He’s a ghoul.

Long Answer? Average height and what would best be called ‘solidly’ built. A life on the move, and with not always consistent rations, means he’s kept fairly ‘trim’ as it were. Other than that, he kind of looks like any other ghoul, flaking skin, some exposed muscles, no hair/ear/nose; the usual. The state of his body hides most of the scars he picked up throughout his life though there are a few exceptions; a burn up his left leg from a firebomb back in 2168 and a largish bite on his right forearm from a (newly hatched) deathclaw in 2250, being the most noteworthy.

To look at him one would expect Sam to be blind, as his eyes are almost totally opaque; in reality however his eyesight is fine, he can regularly hit targets at 2-300 yards over the open sights of his rifle.

---

Equipment

• Cowboy Hat
• Riot Armour
  - Flask [Moonshine]
  - Pipe
  - Tobacco
  - Lighter
  - Spare MFCs
  - Extra 5.56 (Whatever he can find)
• Backpack
  - Water Jug [CAUTION: Radioactive]
  - Pemmican [CAUTION: Radioactive]
  - MRE (4)
  - Bed Roll
  - Tool Roll
  - Microfusion Cells
  - Extra boxes of 5.56
• Wattz 2000 Laser Rifle [Modified] 'Mercy'
  - [Iron Sights] Found in a poor state of repair, he had to ditch the optical sight, fitting the weapon with simple but effective iron sights.
  - [Hot Shot] Allows him to fire much more damaging shots. This however expends the MFCs much faster and greatly increases heat and wear on the weapon.
  - [FC Conversion Kit] A belt mounted bit of kit that he made years back that lets him plug a Fusion Core into the weapon for greatly increased shot capacity.
• 5.56 mm revolver
• Trench knife

Past/Current Affiliations of Note

[Past]

United States Army (Armorer - E.Weapons)
Dead Hands (Founder, Raid Leader, Destroyer)
New California Republic (Bounty Hunter, Courier, Mercenary)
New Vegas Families (Bouncer, Debt Collections, Mercenary)

[Current]

(None)

Likes

Strong Coffee
Stronger Liquor
Hot Food
Uninterrupted Sleep
Med-X

Dislikes

Brotherhood of Steel
Caesar’s Legion
Legion Remnants
The Regime
Anti-Ghoul bigots
The thought of turning ‘feral’

---

Key Character Traits

In a word? ‘Broken’. He saw the world die in nuclear fire, and even though some groups are trying to rebuild, he’s not sure humanity deserves another chance; not after what he’s seen…or done.

Background

A long serving NCO in the US Army pre-War, Sam’s survival was largely down to luck. Luck had him on leave, hiking in the foothills of the Rockies when the bombs fell. It was about 9:30, he’d been up and moving for about 2 hours, when he saw the first flash through the trees; though it took him another hour or so to get to a clear enough spot to see what was going on. By then his worst fears had come to pass; multiple mushroom clouds dotted the horizon, occasionally being punctuated by the flash of either strikes on new targets, or follow up ones on old targets.

The next while was a blur; the mad dash down the hillside, not to go to war, but to find shelter. In the night and growing gloom he could see the glow of wildfires and he knew the rains, heavy with radioactive soot, would come soon. From there a mad scramble amongst the other panicked people to find shelter from the rains, dealing with fights, looting, a total collapse of law and order as the world burned. In that blur he did things for his own survival that he still regrets, though at times he’s still not sure what was worse; what he did, or how easily he found it to justify those actions at the time.

He’d assumed that the radiation would get him, like he’d seen to do to so many others, but that day never seemed to come. Eventually he ended up banding together with a few others like him; men and women who though obviously ravaged by radiation, still seemed to hang on. Calling themselves the ‘Dead Hands’, a sort of grim joke at their decaying appearance.

At first it was just a group that stuck together for security and survival; but as days became weeks and then months and then years, they changed. At first they just scavenged like so many others, and did their best to avoid altercations, maybe trade with those that didn’t actively flee from their sight; the first time one of them shot someone it was in self defence. Sandy, a former receptionist, and Bill, a mechanic, had been out looking for anything useful. The pair spotted a group with packs and such, so Sandy stepped into the open and called out to them hoping to maybe trade. One of the group took a shot at her on sight, fortunately just grazing her leg; Bill shot the shooter square in the chest with his revolver.

After that it got easier and easier to justify the use of force, and after only a year or so they were nothing more than another band of raiders, no matter how much any of them denied it. Sam was just as in denial as anyone, but eventually he was forced to take a step back and see what they’d become. He’d gone out solo to scout a new spot for them to set up and due to weather and wildlife he was away for close to a month. After being alone for that long, and actually peacefully trading with a few other travelers, what he came ‘home’ to made him finally accept that ugly truth.

The bodies of a couple folks that’d tested them were strung across the walls of the old shop they were hold up in, there was no attempts to ‘build’ anything as it was easier to simply take it; these weren’t new things…it’d been like this when he’d left, he’d just been too in denial to see it. Making his way inside he found the rest of them either asleep or in a drug induced stupor as it seemed their latest catch had been a chem vendor. From the looks of things the poor bastard had taken some time to die.

Sickened to his core, and in the back of his mind wondering how they all could have fallen so far, he acted. Taking a knife he made his way around and ran the blade through the heart of each one of the Dead Hands before tossing whatever he could grab that was flammable into the smoldering fire in the middle of the room and leaving. By the time he was half a block away the whole building was on fire. He nearly ended himself not long after, but his own stubbornness and maybe a need to keep punishing himself prevented that; so he kept walking.

Since then he’s walked much of the West Coast, finding ‘Mercy’ in an old Army convoy wreck just East of Seattle and his armor while heading South of Eureka. Keeping largely to himself since those early days, he’s hired himself out as a mechanic, hired gun or courier as local needs have warranted. More recently he’s done some work with the New Vegas Families, though as things heated up in the lead up to the Second Battle of Hoover Dam he got out of town as it were. He’s been less than impressed with what he’s found since coming back to the Mojave.

---

---

SPECIAL
Strength - 7
Perception - 7
Endurance - 8
Charisma - 3
Intelligence - 8
Agility - 5
Luck - 4

Skills
Barter - 10
Energy Weapons - 33
Explosive - 20
Guns - 32
Lockpick - 20
Medicine - 25
Melee Weapons - 15
Repair - 33
Science - 23
Sneak - 21
Speech - 10
Survival - 25
Unarmed - 18

Theme Song: Don’t Believe a Word

Fallout: The Vegas Affair

Sam

Jonathan ‘Sam’ Samuel Smith

Age: Pre-War
Gender: Male (Ghoul)
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 200ish lbs

“Good? Bad? Don’t really care unless you shoot at me.”

---

Appearance

Short answer? He’s a ghoul.

Long Answer? Average height and what would best be called ‘solidly’ built. A life on the move, and with not always consistent rations, means he’s kept fairly ‘trim’ as it were. Other than that, he kind of looks like any other ghoul, flaking skin, some exposed muscles, no hair/ear/nose; the usual. The state of his body hides most of the scars he picked up throughout his life though there are a few exceptions; a burn up his left leg from a firebomb back in 2168 and a largish bite on his right forearm from a (newly hatched) deathclaw in 2250, being the most noteworthy.

To look at him one would expect Sam to be blind, as his eyes are almost totally opaque; in reality however his eyesight is fine, he can regularly hit targets at 2-300 yards over the open sights of his rifle.

---

Equipment

• Cowboy Hat
• Riot Armour
  - Flask [Moonshine]
  - Pipe
  - Tobacco
  - Lighter
  - Spare MFCs
  - Extra 5.56 (Whatever he can find)
• Backpack
  - Water Jug [CAUTION: Radioactive]
  - Pemmican [CAUTION: Radioactive]
  - MRE (4)
  - Bed Roll
  - Tool Roll
  - Microfusion Cells
  - Extra boxes of 5.56
• Wattz 2000 Laser Rifle [Modified] 'Mercy'
  - [Iron Sights] Found in a poor state of repair, he had to ditch the optical sight, fitting the weapon with simple but effective iron sights.
  - [Hot Shot] Allows him to fire much more damaging shots. This however expends the MFCs much faster and greatly increases heat and wear on the weapon.
  - [FC Conversion Kit] A belt mounted bit of kit that he made years back that lets him plug a Fusion Core into the weapon for greatly increased shot capacity.
• 5.56 mm revolver
• Trench knife

Past/Current Affiliations of Note

[Past]

United States Army (Armorer - E.Weapons)
Dead Hands (Founder, Raid Leader, Destroyer)
New California Republic (Bounty Hunter, Courier, Mercenary)
New Vegas Families (Bouncer, Debt Collections, Mercenary)

[Current]

(None)

Likes

Strong Coffee
Stronger Liquor
Hot Food
Uninterrupted Sleep
Med-X

Dislikes

Brotherhood of Steel
Caesar’s Legion
Legion Remnants
The Regime
Anti-Ghoul bigots
The thought of turning ‘feral’

---

Key Character Traits

In a word? ‘Broken’. He saw the world die in nuclear fire, and even though some groups are trying to rebuild, he’s not sure humanity deserves another chance; not after what he’s seen…or done.

Background

A long serving NCO in the US Army pre-War, Sam’s survival was largely down to luck. Luck had him on leave, hiking in the foothills of the Rockies when the bombs fell. It was about 9:30, he’d been up and moving for about 2 hours, when he saw the first flash through the trees; though it took him another hour or so to get to a clear enough spot to see what was going on. By then his worst fears had come to pass; multiple mushroom clouds dotted the horizon, occasionally being punctuated by the flash of either strikes on new targets, or follow up ones on old targets.

The next while was a blur; the mad dash down the hillside, not to go to war, but to find shelter. In the night and growing gloom he could see the glow of wildfires and he knew the rains, heavy with radioactive soot, would come soon. From there a mad scramble amongst the other panicked people to find shelter from the rains, dealing with fights, looting, a total collapse of law and order as the world burned. In that blur he did things for his own survival that he still regrets, though at times he’s still not sure what was worse; what he did, or how easily he found it to justify those actions at the time.

He’d assumed that the radiation would get him, like he’d seen to do to so many others, but that day never seemed to come. Eventually he ended up banding together with a few others like him; men and women who though obviously ravaged by radiation, still seemed to hang on. Calling themselves the ‘Dead Hands’, a sort of grim joke at their decaying appearance.

At first it was just a group that stuck together for security and survival; but as days became weeks and then months and then years, they changed. At first they just scavenged like so many others, and did their best to avoid altercations, maybe trade with those that didn’t actively flee from their sight; the first time one of them shot someone it was in self defence. Sandy, a former receptionist, and Bill, a mechanic, had been out looking for anything useful. The pair spotted a group with packs and such, so Sandy stepped into the open and called out to them hoping to maybe trade. One of the group took a shot at her on sight, fortunately just grazing her leg; Bill shot the shooter square in the chest with his revolver.

After that it got easier and easier to justify the use of force, and after only a year or so they were nothing more than another band of raiders, no matter how much any of them denied it. Sam was just as in denial as anyone, but eventually he was forced to take a step back and see what they’d become. He’d gone out solo to scout a new spot for them to set up and due to weather and wildlife he was away for close to a month. After being alone for that long, and actually peacefully trading with a few other travelers, what he came ‘home’ to made him finally accept that ugly truth.

The bodies of a couple folks that’d tested them were strung across the walls of the old shop they were hold up in, there was no attempts to ‘build’ anything as it was easier to simply take it; these weren’t new things…it’d been like this when he’d left, he’d just been too in denial to see it. Making his way inside he found the rest of them either asleep or in a drug induced stupor as it seemed their latest catch had been a chem vendor. From the looks of things the poor bastard had taken some time to die.

Sickened to his core, and in the back of his mind wondering how they all could have fallen so far, he acted. Taking a knife he made his way around and ran the blade through the heart of each one of the Dead Hands before tossing whatever he could grab that was flammable into the smoldering fire in the middle of the room and leaving. By the time he was half a block away the whole building was on fire. He nearly ended himself not long after, but his own stubbornness and maybe a need to keep punishing himself prevented that; so he kept walking.

Since then he’s walked much of the West Coast, finding ‘Mercy’ in an old Army convoy wreck just East of Seattle and his armor while heading South of Eureka. Keeping largely to himself since those early days, he’s hired himself out as a mechanic, hired gun or courier as local needs have warranted. More recently he’s done some work with the New Vegas Families, though as things heated up in the lead up to the Second Battle of Hoover Dam he got out of town as it were. He’s been less than impressed with what he’s found since coming back to the Mojave.

---

---

SPECIAL
Strength - 7
Perception - 7
Endurance - 8
Charisma - 3
Intelligence - 8
Agility - 5
Luck - 4

Skills
Barter - 10
Energy Weapons - 33
Explosive - 20
Guns - 32
Lockpick - 20
Medicine - 25
Melee Weapons - 15
Repair - 33
Science - 23
Sneak - 21
Speech - 10
Survival - 25
Unarmed - 18

Theme Song: Don’t Believe a Word

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

Sam Smith

---

Sam grimaced at the Mayor’s words. ”Fucking parasites.” He growled under his breath. He wasn’t the easiest fellow to get along with, he knew, but even he did what he could to help others, or at very least not add to the suffering that was so prevalent in this day and age…but raiders? They simply fed off the rest in their own short sighted and violent little worlds.

He studied the map as Nicholas gave a run down on what they knew, and was roughing out a few ideas when the names were called. Not hearing his name, he shrugged and made to leave with the rest, only to stop in the middle of the walkway.

Now only those left were the ones that would be carrying out the rescue. ”A word of advice from an old man, if you’ll take it.” He said, his foggy and blood shot eyes sweeping across the small group. ”Give ‘em what they want. Food, ammo, caps, time with a woman or two; promise them whatever they want so long as they give you the hostages and leave the factory…and once they’re clear, kill them all.” His raspy, gravely voice was as hard as iron. ”Kill ‘em all and stake their bodies out for the wildlife, and just maybe the next pack of them will get the hint and fuck off before they become our problem.”

With a small nod to the Mayor, he left the town hall to go see about getting a drink.

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

Sam Smith

---

Sam woke with a groan and a stretch, listening to and feeling his body protest; he’d never been a morning person, and things certainly hadn’t improved with age. Climbing out from under his blanket, he got to his feet and stretched once more before getting dressed to start his day.

His place had stared life as a nice pre-War two car garage, the associated house having burned down not long after the bombs fell. Being unclaimed when he’d arrived in Whitlash, he took it over, converting one corner into a sleeping area and the rest into a mixture of cooking and storage. Stoking up the wood stove to push back the morning chill, he rummaged about in the old chest freezer he used as a cooler for food storage. Need to get back out there. He thought as he dug through. He was getting down on his foraged stuff and he tried to leave the pre-War scavenged food for emergencies.

With the stove hot, he set a frying pan on top and tossed a piece of bighorner on to cook. A couple of quick flips to keep it nice and rare he then lifted off the heat and onto a plate. Adding some chopped barrel cactus fruit and a honey mesquite pod to the pan, he put it back on the heat and added a little wine. Once that was cooked, he poured that over the bighorner and sat in what passed as his living/dining area, an old armchair and coffee table.

Once done, he cleaned up and closed the damper on the stove, letting the flames die down. He was about to pull out a map of the area and see about doing a little hunting and or scavving when the bell rang. ”Fan-fucking-tastic.” He muttered. Making sure his armor was sitting right, he snagged his scattergun from beside his bed and tucked it into the thigh holster he’d made for it, before putting on his overcoat, hat and grabbing his carbine from its place by the door.

Gear sorted, he stepped outside and made his way a short distance to the town hall. Already folks were gathering, a low hum of conversations as they wondered what was going on. Positioning himself against the back wall, he took a nip from his flask to drive off the last of the morning chill from his old bones.

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

Sam

Sam

_{"I have seen the Devil laugh, I have seen God turn his face away."}

Full Name

Jonathan Samuel “Sam’ Smith

Age

230ish

Gender

Male

S. P. E. C. I. A. L.

S = 6
P = 7
E = 7
C = 4
I = 7
A = 6
L = 4

---

Appearance

Pre-War, he was a decidedly average looking man. Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, and while not fat he was certainly a bit soft around the middle. Now while his hair is mostly gone and eyes have turned black, he has lost that ‘spare tire’ around his midsection. Like any other ghoul his skin is a pale yellow-ish green and looks like he’s a full body burn victim, with really bad dry skin. Along with the loss of most of his nose and ears, in places the skin has completely fallen away and exposed the muscle and bone underneath; yet despite the rather gruesome look it causes him no pain.

Thanks to his new physiology, what wounds he does get, rarely leave scars unless they are fairly traumatic (IE: gunshots, serious stabbings etc). He does have a few of those, but they tend to get lost in the general mess that his body is in now.

---

Personality

He plays the part of the gruff and sometimes acerbic loner, who most folks assume has just seen and done too much; and while that is somewhat true, it hides a much simpler truth…he’s just not very good with people mostly. Even before the war 'interpersonal’ interactions were something he avoided if he could, and now he uses his gruff persona to stop anyone from getting too close. The truth is though, he’s a deeply lonely man.

History / How they came to be part of Whitlash

To call Sam’s early life ‘average’ would be an understatement. The only child of only children, he cruised through life with barely a ripple, the sort of person you could sort of forget about while you were talking to him. It seemed like he’d risen to the height of his mediocrity working as a mail clerk in NORADs ‘Cheyenne Mountain Complex’, pushing carts of featureless manila envelopes sent from one set of cubicles to aother.

Day in, day out, eight hours a day, five days a week for five years, that was his life; the closest he ever got to a ‘relationship’ was a couple of awkward double dates with a co-worker friend of his that never went anywhere. All that said though, he was content with his lot in life. In July 2077 his life was completely upended when his parents were killed in an auto accident; an eighteen wheeler lost control and ran a red light, T-boning the brand new Chryslus Cherry Bomb they were in and killing them instantly.

With his whole world now upended, his boss told him to (for once) use his banked vacation and sick time to go and get his head together. Taking the advice, Sam headed into the mountains to a secluded cabin his dad’s family had owned since the 1980s. Stocking up his car, he headed out and lost himself in the wilderness while he grieved. The cabin had always been one of his favorite places, spending time with his dad while he was taught to hunt and fish and to live off the land. He was still there on October 23rd when the bombs fell and the world he knew died.

He’d been out for a morning hike when he saw the flashes behind the trees, and by the time he got to a good vantage point, mushroom clouds dotted the horizon everywhere he looked. Returning to the cabin, he thought about ending himself with his dad’s old rifle, to spare himself the slow death by radiation but he couldn’t, so he waited. Days turned into weeks, into months and he kept going. A few heated altercations with survivors fleeing the urban areas convinced him to hide the gravel track that led to the cabin and so he shut himself off from the world, and largely it passed him by.
--
For the next twenty years he never left, though he’s amazed he never went feral in all that time alone. He noticed the radiation changing him, but since there was nothing he could do, he simply went on with his life as best he could. He sustained himself by trapping, fishing or foraging, saving what little ammunition he had for threats both animal and human.

He probably would have stayed there in his new little rut if not for random chance. During a storm one of the dead trees came down and smashed into the cabin. Fortunately he’d been out checking trap lines, but when he saw the damage he realized all he could do was salvage what he could and move on. Packing up what little he had, he set out into the ruins of what used to be America.

Over the next few years he roamed the remains of Colorado, Utah, Idaho and Montana, for reasons he couldn’t ever put a finger on, always at least roughly North. He’d been content to wander, either providing for himself or trading the skills he’d picked up along the way for supplies and shelter, until a few years ago when he walked into the town of Whitlash. For the first time in decades he didn’t have the driving urge to push on.

Now he has a small place, just off the main street and spends his days either hunting or assisting the local law as is needed.

Skills

• Survivalist - His dad had taught him from a young age how to live off the land, mostly as a way to try and improve Sam’s confidence. Now with a little over two hundred years of experience and practice, he can make a go of it pretty much anywhere.
• Guns - After two centuries, missing is something other people do.
• Melee - Pre-war he’d have probably lost to an energetic middle schooler, but after so long and so many lessons (both good and bad), he’s not one to be trifled with.

Armor and Equipment

• Cowboy Hat
• Riot Armour
  - .45-70 Gov’t x36 [6 loaded, 30 spare]
  - .20 Ga x25 [5 loaded, 20 spare]
  - Flask [Moonshine]
  - Pipe
  - Tobacco
  - Lighter
• Backpack
  - Water Jug [CAUTION: Radioactive]
  - Bed Roll
  - .45-70 Gov’t x 60 [Spare]
  - .20 Ga x15 [Spare]

Weapon(s)

• Brush Gun
• Lever-action shotgun
• Combat Knife
• Switchblade

Extras

He’s terrified of going feral, is deeply uncomfortable around feral ghouls

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

Sam

Sam

_{"I have seen the Devil laugh, I have seen God turn his face away."}

Full Name

Jonathan Samuel “Sam’ Smith

Age

230ish

Gender

Male

S. P. E. C. I. A. L.

S = 6
P = 7
E = 7
C = 4
I = 7
A = 6
L = 4

---

Appearance

Pre-War, he was a decidedly average looking man. Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, and while not fat he was certainly a bit soft around the middle. Now while his hair is mostly gone and eyes have turned black, he has lost that ‘spare tire’ around his midsection. Like any other ghoul his skin is a pale yellow-ish green and looks like he’s a full body burn victim, with really bad dry skin. Along with the loss of most of his nose and ears, in places the skin has completely fallen away and exposed the muscle and bone underneath; yet despite the rather gruesome look it causes him no pain.

Thanks to his new physiology, what wounds he does get, rarely leave scars unless they are fairly traumatic (IE: gunshots, serious stabbings etc). He does have a few of those, but they tend to get lost in the general mess that his body is in now.

---

Personality

He plays the part of the gruff and sometimes acerbic loner, who most folks assume has just seen and done too much; and while that is somewhat true, it hides a much simpler truth…he’s just not very good with people mostly. Even before the war 'interpersonal’ interactions were something he avoided if he could, and now he uses his gruff persona to stop anyone from getting too close. The truth is though, he’s a deeply lonely man.

History / How they came to be part of Whitlash

To call Sam’s early life ‘average’ would be an understatement. The only child of only children, he cruised through life with barely a ripple, the sort of person you could sort of forget about while you were talking to him. It seemed like he’d risen to the height of his mediocrity working as a mail clerk in NORADs ‘Cheyenne Mountain Complex’, pushing carts of featureless manila envelopes sent from one set of cubicles to aother.

Day in, day out, eight hours a day, five days a week for five years, that was his life; the closest he ever got to a ‘relationship’ was a couple of awkward double dates with a co-worker friend of his that never went anywhere. All that said though, he was content with his lot in life. In July 2077 his life was completely upended when his parents were killed in an auto accident; an eighteen wheeler lost control and ran a red light, T-boning the brand new Chryslus Cherry Bomb they were in and killing them instantly.

With his whole world now upended, his boss told him to (for once) use his banked vacation and sick time to go and get his head together. Taking the advice, Sam headed into the mountains to a secluded cabin his dad’s family had owned since the 1980s. Stocking up his car, he headed out and lost himself in the wilderness while he grieved. The cabin had always been one of his favorite places, spending time with his dad while he was taught to hunt and fish and to live off the land. He was still there on October 23rd when the bombs fell and the world he knew died.

He’d been out for a morning hike when he saw the flashes behind the trees, and by the time he got to a good vantage point, mushroom clouds dotted the horizon everywhere he looked. Returning to the cabin, he thought about ending himself with his dad’s old rifle, to spare himself the slow death by radiation but he couldn’t, so he waited. Days turned into weeks, into months and he kept going. A few heated altercations with survivors fleeing the urban areas convinced him to hide the gravel track that led to the cabin and so he shut himself off from the world, and largely it passed him by.
--
For the next twenty years he never left, though he’s amazed he never went feral in all that time alone. He noticed the radiation changing him, but since there was nothing he could do, he simply went on with his life as best he could. He sustained himself by trapping, fishing or foraging, saving what little ammunition he had for threats both animal and human.

He probably would have stayed there in his new little rut if not for random chance. During a storm one of the dead trees came down and smashed into the cabin. Fortunately he’d been out checking trap lines, but when he saw the damage he realized all he could do was salvage what he could and move on. Packing up what little he had, he set out into the ruins of what used to be America.

Over the next few years he roamed the remains of Colorado, Utah, Idaho and Montana, for reasons he couldn’t ever put a finger on, always at least roughly North. He’d been content to wander, either providing for himself or trading the skills he’d picked up along the way for supplies and shelter, until a few years ago when he walked into the town of Whitlash. For the first time in decades he didn’t have the driving urge to push on.

Now he has a small place, just off the main street and spends his days either hunting or assisting the local law as is needed.

Skills

• Survivalist - His dad had taught him from a young age how to live off the land, mostly as a way to try and improve Sam’s confidence. Now with a little over two hundred years of experience and practice, he can make a go of it pretty much anywhere.
• Guns - After two centuries, missing is something other people do.
• Melee - Pre-war he’d have probably lost to an energetic middle schooler, but after so long and so many lessons (both good and bad), he’s not one to be trifled with.

Armor and Equipment

• Cowboy Hat
• Riot Armour
  - .45-70 Gov’t x36 [6 loaded, 30 spare]
  - .20 Ga x25 [5 loaded, 20 spare]
  - Flask [Moonshine]
  - Pipe
  - Tobacco
  - Lighter
• Backpack
  - Water Jug [CAUTION: Radioactive]
  - Bed Roll
  - .45-70 Gov’t x 60 [Spare]
  - .20 Ga x15 [Spare]

Weapon(s)

• Brush Gun
• Lever-action shotgun
• Combat Knife
• Switchblade

Extras

He’s terrified of going feral, is deeply uncomfortable around feral ghouls

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

Banging my head against the idea of a pre-War ghoul

The Elder Scrolls: Shadow of Oblivion

---

Darmon sat against the wall of the holding cell, feeling his bones ache and hoping no-one got too close to the fellow beside him with an open flame; if the pain every time he moved wasn’t already making his eyes water, the ‘humm’ of alcohol coming of the other man certainly would have. With nothing better to do, he pulled the edge of his head scarf down over his eyes and attempted to nap.

Much Earlier

The sounds and movements of his lady companion before him told him he’d done his job right this evening. Her legs wrapped around his waist hard enough to start to hurt as she arched her back howled in pleasure; being spent, but trapped, all he could do was admire her radiance and appreciation of his hard work as a few ‘aftershocks’ of pleasure rippled through her. As she regained her senses and her grip waned, he leant forward and kissed her before rolling to her side.

“By the NINE!” Miss Rexia, a rather striking woman his own age who he’d just spent a rather fun and exhausting evening with while most of the city was at the Arena, gasped as she stared up at her ceiling. “You said you would provide a wonderful night's entertainment but…wow!”

He replied with a rumbling chuckle that was surprising for a man his size. ”I would be a poor gentleman if I were to prove myself false, or deliver anything less than my best.” As they both laughed, Rexia got up to get herself a drink from a jug of water sitting on the dresser in her room; this left Darmon with a rather enjoying view as she walked across the room. “I’m going to need a moment…but I do hope you have more planned Mr. Saishir…” She said with a sly grin as she turned to face him.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he laughed again and gave her a grin in reply. ”As it happens, I brought something for just such an occasion;” Shifting, he pointed to a pile of his clothes near Rexia’s feet. ”There’s a wine skin in there, a personal brew of mine, I think that should help. Finishing her drink, Rexia found the skin and after pulling the cork and having a sniff, she took a drink. “Oh wow…” She muttered. From his position, he could see her shift slightly as the weariness from their endeavors left her. “So Darmon,” She said, heading back towards the bed, skin in hand. “Round Two?”

A While Later

After Round Three, or possibly Four, Darmon was standing by the dresser pouring himself a cup of water to recover; he found stamina potions seemed to offer diminishing returns after a while, and he was nearly ready to tap out. While Rexia had stepped out to tend to the call of nature, he wandered over to a window. Idly he gazed at the street scene below him for a few moments before something struck him…there were too many people. The Arena had been hyping the bout between the Grey Prince and the Companion for weeks, pretty much every man, woman and child was going to be there; and a non-lethal match between two fighters of that level of skill should have lasted for quite a while. Lifting the latch, he pushed the window opened as a small group passed below the townhouse. “-s ish BULLSHISH!” One of them slurred loudly. “I paid…paid good Gods-damned coin fer ‘ma tic-tick…ticket an’ the’ canceled ‘cuz a one rock…”

FUCK!!! Hastily closing the window, he downed the water before rushing over to where he’d abandoned his clothes some time ago; as he was rapidly dressing Rexia returned, still naked as the day she was born and riding the contentment of the last few hours…though that quickly was lost upon seeing Darmon madly throwing his clothes on.

“What’s wrong!?”

”Don’t know exactly, but that Arena match ended early…”

It took a few moments for Darmon’s words to register before all the colour drained from her face. “Oh Gods…if they catch you-”

”Trust be, I’m aware!”

Finishing dressing, he snagged the nearly depleted wine skin and downed what was left before returning to Rexia and giving her a deep, parting kiss. ”I truely hate to run after such a wonderful time but… He shrugged and gave her a beaming smile. Despite everything, Rexia couldn’t help but laugh and reply with a quick peck of the cheek. “Yes, go, go, get before my fiancee…or father find you!” With a theatrical bow he swept past her and down the stairs to the front door at a jog. Without breaking stride, he threw the latch and stepped onto the stoop of the townhouse…only to see two men on the sidewalk looking at him in shock. The closest was an Imperial of roughly his own age, though with the soft build of a clerical worker, while the second, older, fellow looked remarkably like the lovely lady he’d just left upstairs.

“HEY!!” They shouted as Darmon reacted. Throwing the wine skin in the face of the younger and closer man, he vaulted off the stoop and onto the sidewalk before taking off at a dead run. There were more angry shouts, and the sounds of pursuit behind him, but he wasn’t about to turn and look. He wasn’t really thinking, he was merely trying to evade the significant beating that was coming along behind him, and as a result he found himself heading towards the Arena and the unhappy (and often intoxicated) crowds that’d been told to go home.

The closer he got, the thicker the crowds got and the more frequent the angry shouts from others as he dodged and weaved through them; and to cap it all, he could feel that last swig of stamina potion starting ebb. When that happened he was going to crash like he’d been dropped from the top of the White-Gold Tower. Ahead he saw the sign for ‘Daggerfall Dan’s’. Should be packed, Watch too, won’t beat me in there…hopefully.

Cutting through the crowds at the door to a chorus of more angry yells, a smile started to light his face as he saw a table full of (probably) off-duty guardsmen…just as a young Bretton looking fellow crashed into it, having been propelled by what was either a large Orc…or a small and green tinged Giant; however, before he could puzzle any of that out, a large weight slammed him in the back and his memories got a lot more fragmentary.

Now

The nap wouldn’t come, so he sat there and listened to the others, while he decided as to whether his ribs were broken, or merely bruised.

The Elder Scrolls: Shadow of Oblivion

Darmon Saishir

---

---

Name: Darmon Saishir
Age: 26
Race: Redguard
Appearance: Not a large man by any measure, Darmon stands only about 5’5” and is quite lightly built; Though not a warrior by any means, his life being nearly perpetually ‘on the road’ as it were has kept him quite fit…despite his preference for richer food and drink.

Like many of his people, he favours the flowing hoods and robe styles native to his home land; though not overly flashy compared to some of his peers, obvious wealth ‘on the road’ draws bandits like honey draws flies.

Darmon

Personality:
A friendly and outgoing fellow, as any successful merchant should be; he's a man who tries to take work seriously but life, not so much. Growing up a ‘Merchant Prince’ of Sentinel, but spending plenty of time down on the docks with his uncle (and older brother), he’s as comfortable drinking in rough taverns with the average folk as he is trading polite nothings with ‘high society’ (though he prefers somewhat more of a middle ground; rough enough to have an actual fun time, but classy enough that people bathe regularly.)

His charming and outgoing nature, and good looks also has a tendency to make him rather popular with many of the women that he crosses paths with..and very unpopular with quite a few of their husbands/fathers/fiancees etc; he’s also fond of ‘justifying’ his actions by saying ”If the man was better at his duties as a partner, the lady wouldn’t have found me nearly as interesting.”

This philosophy has gotten him run out of numerous towns as establishments over the years.

---

Abilities

Swordsmanship - While he’d be the first to admit he’s no Arena Champion or Companion when it comes to swordplay, Darmon is certainly skilled enough to defend himself from the usual lowlifes and cutthroats he sometimes encounters.

Archery (Crossbow) - Like his swordsmanship, it’s not anything special, but he’s a good enough shot to both defend himself and keep fed between towns.

Sleight of hand - He was taught by an ex-Thieves Guild man he knew in Sentinel as a boy, and over the years he’s learned a few new tricks in his travels. Though largely used as an ‘ice breaker’ in social moments, what he knows has saved his skin on a few occasions.

Alchemist - Another thing learned for its practicality for someone travelling the length and breadth of Tamriel. Though he only knows a handful of recipes by heart, he knows them quite well, though some more than others.

Magic: None

Equipment

Personal Items

• Typical clothing for a man from Hammerfell
• Saishir Family signet ring

The Lock Box

• Steel dagger
• Pouch of Septims

Stored Items

• Legion surplus crossbow
• Bolt quiver (12)
• Scimitar
• Trading Catalogue
• Travel Bag

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Background

Born the second son and third child of the head of the Saishir Trading Company, Sentinel’s third largest trading firm, he was born into the sort of wealth that most only find amongst Tamriel's nobility. That said, unlike too many of said nobility, his father wasn’t one to let his children become spoilt, idle layabouts that leeched off of the hard work of the folks that worked for Saishir Trading.

To his father’s credit, he also did his best to mould his children into jobs that most suited them. In Darmon’s case, his ‘itchy feet’ as his mother would put it and an easy and charming personality made him best suited to be one of the company’s point men, travelling Tamriel, searching out new products to bring to Hammerfell, buyers for goods coming the other way, making friends and contacts, in both high and low places.

By fourteen Darmon was travelling with his brother on the Sentinel to Anvil run, making friends, opening talks with other trading companies, and by sixteen he was setting off inland, eventually making his way as far as the edges of Morrowind and Black Marsh. At twenty his tiring, but freewheeling, life hit a bit of a hiccup as it was decided that he should be married to cement ties between his family and one of the noble houses of Sentinel. While a drag, he knew the young woman he was to marry and had always considered her a friend.

Though everything else proceeded as planned, all was not without issue. After some awkward confessions on the wedding night, Darmon and his wife Chan came to a few agreements and settled into ‘married’ life, with a lovely woman named Kiarsa as their servant and nanny once their son Limdon was born. While he spends much of his time on the road, both for his job and just because he enjoys the travel, he does his best to return home regularly to keep up with his family.

Currently he’s been in the Imperial City for a few days, overseeing some trade negotiations between Saishir Trading and the Imperial Trading Company. With his dealings having gone well, he decided to spend some time with a lovely lady while most of the city was off at the Arena for the big bout; sadly their plans fell apart rather quickly after the bout was cancelled suddenly and the lady’s father returned home sooner than expected, drunk, angry and with her equally drunk and unhappy fiancee in tow…though Darmon would swear to the Divines that he didn’t know the lady in question was already betrothed.

The two men were in no mood to debate such semantics, so he found himself dropping off a second story balcony and running, most likely for his life. Knowing he couldn’t run forever, he made the fateful decision to try and hide from his pursuers in a local place called ‘Daggerfall Dan’s’. Rushing through the door, he had just enough time to see a breton kid go crashing into a table of off-duty guardsmen…before several hundred pounds of angry, who’d been closer than he realised, hit him from behind.