@knighthawkI will be blunt and say an offensive spellcaster is something we need, however in this RP I pretty much treat it like I'm reading you your rights. "You're allowed to be many different classes, such as a mage. If you cannot be a mage, one will be provided for you." lol
Necromancy is a thing in my universe, but generally the undead soldiers they call back to life are without free will. However, they can definitely be raised with free will, or have free will given to them by some spell accident or by a cursed item. Be creative! Though don't hesitate to ask questions.
Oh. You DO need a caster... hehe heh. I'll get right back to you on that. *scurries off to do unspeakable acts to a gnome.*
@knighthawkThat does seem well thought out, but I already have an established lore for this world my friend. You'd mainly need to ask me what kind of Undead you'd be interested in and I'll explain the lore, though of course we can work around a few things.
Also, I will take control of Leonard the Darkslayer for a bit guys!
Fair enough, I was considering a type of sentient martial undead like a deathknight rather than a spellcaster. But there is need if a thief....hmmm.
@knighthawkDepends on what kind of undead, my friend. And would you be starting out as one, or are you curious on them as enemies?
w00t IC posts!
I was thinking as a culture. I'll admit I have never played war craft for more than 2 weeks and of that the undead for only a few days. So any plagerism is accidental or coincidental.
Magic is energy, energy comes in many forms such as plasma, gas, liquid, or even solid magic.
A hundred years ago a meteor fell into the already arid desert with no great disturbance to any villages and nowhere near any trade routes. For another ten years nothing would happen until a group of mercants saw a caravan traveling crossways to the trade route, while odd it was nothing compared to the fact that it was nothing but sun bleached skeletons of animals and riders.
Since then, there has been an odd academically rise in necrotic activity. Any sumoned/recently created undead always seem to be looking off to the horizon at some fixed point, like waiting for the sun to rise. Wild undead have started a long march towards the desert, many never making it due to natures hazards or the act of man. Inteligent undead have felt this pull of some manner like a 'new north'.
Those that survive the travel find themselves at a massive mountain a mile wide made of stone somewhere between sapphire and lapis, transparent blue with streaks of gold. The stone itself is worthless to jewelers and poses no greater focus for magic, much less necomancy. What it does provide, is stability. Ghosts become more solid, zombies began to regenerate rather than rot. Even vampires bloodless was slightly slated in the presence of the mountain.
Ninety years later, a thousand corpses have started the basis of a society some have called it necrotopia, others the mourning lands. There are ten leaders, assigned to watch over one hundred others with careful detail to avoid any majorities of any particular kind to prevent a caste system of the undead. So far, they are building their society similar to greek/Roman influence with a base ten structure and a strong oral tradition of multi-cultural pidgin with any written alphabet being an amalgamation of others symbols.
Slag was grateful to the eyebot for the mass transmission, he would have to report that in the morning. For now he had some much needed R&R to use up, he approached a few shopkeepers and inquired about making a modification. He had the technique and the technology. But to repair or upgrade a limb meant operating with a hand behind his back, or at least on the table.
Next was the wonder of which to upgrade first; it was the answer to short, medium, or long range. Eventually he decided after a lengthy deliberation of at least 300 miliseconds to set a scatter beam to his later armament. It would allow him five beams of widening breadth which would guarantee better chances against faster opponents at a distance and more beams connecting at mid or close range. Multiple attacks at energy conservation won out today.
He paid for the services and left to seek a perch for the night where he would not be dismantled. With morning came a crowd, this did not interest him, what caught his attention was the familiar signal from last night and the eyebot that transmitted it. Slag floated over to the commoners and the uncommon that stood apart. Watching g the pistol erosion spin his weapon, he analyzed the bravado to mimic the actions with his attached armament. Where the human had 4 points of articulation, even the standard robco limb had six points with full 720 rotation.
Andrew had hung back and kept his head on a swivel. Patroling the outer range, he took photos of the structure from all outsides. He let the others do the exploration and did indeed take the offered break to snack on a power bar then wash it down with a swig of his canteen that had a packet of kool-aid in it for flavor and a sugar boost. It was something his family did back since nam.
When it was time to be boots up, he took third position and switched from shotgun to grenade launcher in case they encountered anything heavy. As they came upon the tracks, he took a picture of them for the eggheads back at base, the boss was taking pictures of the signs. But now it was time for first contact.
Firing an explosive into the group was a recipe for disaster, so he switched back to shotgun but kept a relaxed position. His weapon was armed with alternatig rounds of birdshot-buckshot-slug. He set his phone to record and put it in his chest pocket. Hoping for the best and planning for the worst.
Appearance: As a railroader (atom cat/ greaser Jacket and jeans)
As the silver shroud He wears welders goggles to cover his eyes and the scarf around his mouth to hide his gasmask. Sex: Male Age: 28
Inventory: Silver shroud armor (armored for 87/87), silver shroud hat (armored for 110 like trilby hat) Welders goggled-gasmask (replaced standard goggle lenses with welders goggles, best of both worlds) 10mm Deliverer: (Powerful receiver, extended barrel, sharpshooters grip, large magazine, glow sights, suppressor) .45 Spray-n-pray: (Hardened piercing receiver, Short light barrel, Recoil compensated stock, large quick-eject, reflex sight, Suppressor) .308 Hunting rifle: (Calibrated powerful reciever, Long ported barrel, Markman stock, Large magazine, Long scope, No muzzle) Grenades: (Baseball grenade, Fragmentation Grenade, Molotov Cocktail) Inventing a nuka-cola bottle dynamite, mostly packing a nuka-cola bottle full of spent shell casings and gunpowder before lighting and tossing. Mines: (Fragmentation mine, Bottlecap mine) Inventing a pipe-pistol-bomb: Cock the gun to prime the mine and set down. When somene picks up the gun or kicks it away, it explodes.
Backstory: Bruce Clark Was an unlucky kid, he was born into the wrong era. In a place where survival is the daily chore, being a 90 pound weakling simply isn't an option. So he has to be smarter than stronger.
The son of a caravan trader, their usual triangular route being between Diamond city to goodneighbor then bunker hill before heading back to diamond city, Bruce spent most of the time riding on top of the family Brahma and watching out for bandits. He would catch and throw baseballs with his dad to at least develop his hand-eye coordination if not his physical might with he bat itself. During the down time, he would take the time to clean up whatever they were trading to increase the value. This is where he started to shine as brightly as their junk.
He went from simply cleaning things, to discovering how they worked. As long as he did not break it, he was allowed to fiddle and experiment with the junk they would find. Since this is the wasteland, guns were a constant fact of life so learning how to keep the weapons clean was an utter necessity. As it is, when they would come across a modified gun, he'd learn how everything would interconnect and strip interesting guns back to basic models for selling while keeping the interesting parts to make their guns better to protect them.
Fortune favored them one day when they came upon the remains of a struggle between raiders and some gunners. More than the guns or armor, a stockpile of explosives was the biggest win in Bruce's mind as he always saw their effectiveness but never their construction. It took some figuring out, but now he knew how to make rudimentary protection for their camps with a perimeter of lunchboxes.
Sadly, a life of a caravan worker is not only fraught with danger, but its a really boring origin story. So when the raiders sniper round pierced his dads skull, he was shocked to see the circuits flying out the back. For the last eight years, as far back as his 5th birthday, he'd been raised by a synth!
He grabbed what he could and ran, leaving his dead dad in the street for the raiders to pillage. When he got to bunker hill to explain what happened, he got pulled to the side and made to explain again to someone who knew his dad. They offered him a place to stay and earn his keep. They welcomed him to the railroad.
For the next three years he learned the crafts, getting an education to develop what he was already familiar with. He was taught how to scrap junk into its components more effectively, he learned how to not just reverse engineer the modification from guns, but to innovate his own. He even learned how to build a better bomb. Life was not all work however, as he found a hobby in not just collecting half destroyed comic books, but splicing them together to make whole comics from four or five of the same issue. Reading the comics inspired him as much as they took him away from the wasteland for a few minutes a day. He became a huge fan of 'the silver shroud' out of all the unstoppable's and would listen to the silver shroud station anytime he was near goodneighbor.
Finally fate would look to him as he made his usual delivery of Kill or be killed when he was asked to take something over to the memory den, it was there that he finally met Kent Conolloy. The two got talking and even though bruce was nowhere nearly as old as Kent, their shared interest got them along quite well. After another set of visits, Kent opened up to Bruce enough to ask him to travel to the old Hubris Comics where their hero was made. Perhaps there was some vintage memorabilia in a safe like a full set of original print comics!
He snuck his way into the store with his pistol, rifle, and a box of ammo. What happened next was nothing less than issue #64, "Ju-ju Jubilee" as he was firing off left and right into the ghouls as they came. He focused his fire on their arms and legs as he navigated around the gnashing mouths until he came upon IT. The holy grail, the sit itself and the silver Thompson.
He returned with his treasures to the eager ghoul who proposed that Bruce had what it takes to honor the mantle, having the conviction to brave the mindless threats for a trinket, surely he had the gumption to brave the truly dangerous monsters for the sake of saving the people. Thus, the silver shroud was reborn.
The first to face justice was Wayne Delancey, a murderer who would have had no trouble adding Bruce to his list, but his time with the ghouls taught him to strike first and leave Wayne disarmed before he could even draw his weapon. A disarmed foe is much easier to deal with as he left a calling card. Next came the pusher 'AJ' and his thugs. Three against one were not impossible odds but it certainly was more than Bruce expected as he laid down the next calling card. The suit protected him from any truly lethal wounds, but it taught him that upfront combat was not going to be his way, even as the Silver shroud. He had to out-think his enemies.
With the darker clothing and his natural agility, he optioned for a stealthier approach than alleyway shootings. He returned to the railroad for some supplies and with the next missions into the apartments of Kendra, he laid down a network of frag-mines in his stealth-boy passing. By the time any of her goons would come upon them, he was already up the next floor. There was an irony he found in bombing a bomber, but hand grenades were a much easier task than a drawn out gunfight.
After an instructed visit to Handcock, he was informed that time was being wasted on small scores when there were greater troubles in the making. The silver shroud needed to destabilize Shinjins base of power before it took a foothold and he became a credible threat. Bruce's next trip was to Bunker hill to face Smiling Kate. Fate was smiling as well as there was a merchant there making her rounds known as Cricket who had the most amazing weapon, an explosive Thompson called the 'spray-n-pray'. He traded her all of the weapons and armor he gathered from Kendra and her goons to possess the weapon which he immediately put to use.
One step at a time he approached, hugging the alley walls until he was within a stone's throw. He laid down a mine to prevent being flanked before swiftly retreating and approaching again to open explosive fire from the shadows of a different angle and using a car for cover. The wounded tried to flee at least far back enough to use some stimpacks, one fled back into the alley and got flung right back out from the explosion. The rest was a mop-up and he drug the loot from Mary’s crew to Bunker Hill to make a tidy profit. Leaving nothing but a calling card tucked into her bra line.
Next came North at Prospect hill, this time he watched and waited to see if he could find an opportunity. After six hours Camped across the street and a can of Cram it was finally time for North to catch some shut-eye. One of the guards had a pack-a-day habit, so he approached her from behind and dropped a pack, as she turned to pick up her treasure, he slipped around behind her and lobbed two baseball grenades into the window of North’s bedroom before flitting around the corner. There was an explosion and a scream before he emerged from the other side of the building to open fire on the confused bodyguards. There was barely anything left for him to leave his calling card so he borrowed a combat knife off the guards and stuck it onto a 2X4.
On the way back to base, he caught a radio interruption where Kent was now in trouble, kidnapped to the Milton hospital for a final showdown. The silver shadow arrived, but he was armed to the teeth and not alone. No simple silver shooter was going to save who he was willing to call friend.
One by one he stalked the halls, dropping them as they came. Room by room he cleared the whole place until it was just him and an elevator. He shot out the lights and turned on his stealth boy for a dramatic entrance. There was kent, on his knees in front of what could almost be mistaken for a supermutant. All eyes were on Bruce, not the darkened elevator he came from. He may be the Silver Shroud, but he was also a railroader.
Six guns opened fire behind him as he drew out his Silver typewriter and wrote his name up Sinjin’s gunarm, across his chest and down the other. A wonderful arc right around Kent’s kneeling position. The smoke cleared and the railroaders looted the bodies.
It was right about then that Bruce felt like an actual hero, defeating his first supervillain. That feeling got dashed with the arrival of the zeppelin with the brotherhood of steel. Dashed but undaunted, Bruce got on the radio and declared that “The Silver Shroud protects all innocents, including Synths seeking freedom with the railroad.”
That may not have been the wisest of decisions as the next events unfolded with the institute. ***** *perception, inteligence, agility. *Gun nut, demolitionist, scrapper
Two weeks ago he started this journey, the railroad was suffering from the damage but it hadn't failed it's mission to rescue those that wanted to be free. They decided to send a representative of the railroad and after some debate, Bruce decided to volunteer to go. He made arangements to set up six fake silver shrouds, (in truth nothing more then six black trenchcoat and hats with pipe machine guns), in order for the silver shroud to seem to be anywhere and everywhere between good neighbor to bunker hill. This also meant he could not travel the roads in all black, aside from the fact that it was very hot in the getup, without diminishing the name of the silver shroud. He kept the outfit and explosive weapons in his backpack in case he truly needed them.
So it was that he was traveling as a caravan guard from bunker hill to county crossing then finches farm. He returned the armor he borrowed to look intimidating and broke off from the caravan before reaching hub city auto wreckers. Bruce ate a crab cake and risked the rivers rads to emerge on the road south to nahant.
If there is one thing the railroad does not lack, it is lanterns. Before reaching the police station, he took out a glass lantern with a polished metal lining to make the light even brighter but more focused. Bruce shouldered his rifle to his left hand for the march and set the lantern on the bayonet fitting. This left his right hand to draw his pistol if need be, but he hoped the presented rifle would be enough of a deterrent
Rick nodded and unrolled his brownish yellow bundle; revealing a NYFD getup he started suiting into while he talked as well as a chunk of black rock. He removed his denim jacket that indeed revealed an armpit holster under his left arm with some sort of handcannon tucked into its cradle. As he put on the overclothes, he began his sharing.
"Pleasure to meet y'all, my name is Richard and you can call me Rick. But..." As casually as he can, he picks up the two handed chunk on asfault he got from some streetwork outside. White skin turned black as the properties of the tar and stone absorbed into his outermost layer. He gained a foot to his height and the floor under him groaned in contest. "Somehow I think 'Brick' is going to be my nickname."
Ariamis
