Friggin holey moley... If we find some ol' moley rats I'll put some holes in 'em!
Marcus XVI Member
STATUS: Just because you can have 36 attacks per turn that threaten a crit on a roll of 14+ doesn't mean it's worth doing. 6 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 12 mos ago
- Old Guild Username: Marcus XVI
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 1214 (0.31 / day)
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- Marcus XVI 11 yrs ago
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6 yrs ago
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Just because you can have 36 attacks per turn that threaten a crit on a roll of 14+ doesn't mean it's worth doing.
8 yrs ago
Purple, because aliens wear red hats.
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10 yrs ago
Isn't it weird how you can start a private conversation with yourself?
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Most Recent Posts
First there had been an explosion - not just any ol' explosion, but that of a mini nuke. Those had been such a rare sight back in the day and nothing compared to a nuclear powered oil rig exploding. The old man lit a cigarette and began cautiously moving towards what had sounded like a fight of some kind. Back in the day Max wouldn't have hesitated about going in to combat - admittedly back in the day he had been equipped with a power armor and there had been a lot of good people backing him up - nowadays being cautious was the better choice.
Max spat on the ground and straightened up. He had been travelling around the wastes for over 40 years and no one had killed him yet. If he'd go down in a firefight the better for him. He approached the small gathering calmly, like he was just taking a nice evening stroll - or was it morning? Anyways. He spotted what he counted as a woman and at least one man - not to mention a deathclaw, which wasn't moving. The old man lit a second cigarette, inhaled some smoke and began coughing rather violently. Still he kept on approaching the gathering. The brown duster hid his vault suit quite well - it also hid his pistol at the moment. "Well well, You lot got a damn deathclaw? I'll be damned, nasty buggers." He spoke calmly with a little peculiar drawl in his voice while stopping within pistol range. "You folks know if there is a settlement or sum'thin where an ol' man could get a drink aroun' here?"
Max spat on the ground and straightened up. He had been travelling around the wastes for over 40 years and no one had killed him yet. If he'd go down in a firefight the better for him. He approached the small gathering calmly, like he was just taking a nice evening stroll - or was it morning? Anyways. He spotted what he counted as a woman and at least one man - not to mention a deathclaw, which wasn't moving. The old man lit a second cigarette, inhaled some smoke and began coughing rather violently. Still he kept on approaching the gathering. The brown duster hid his vault suit quite well - it also hid his pistol at the moment. "Well well, You lot got a damn deathclaw? I'll be damned, nasty buggers." He spoke calmly with a little peculiar drawl in his voice while stopping within pistol range. "You folks know if there is a settlement or sum'thin where an ol' man could get a drink aroun' here?"
Name: Maximilien 'Max' Sawyer
Nickname: The Chosen One, Old Man From the West
Age: 67
Race: Human
Morals: There used to be a time when he tried - no, when he was - a hero, but that was such a long time ago. The little spark of heroism is still buried somewhere deep within the man - no matter how much Max claims it's not there. If someone is in dire enough need of assistance he will help them at least a little bit. He'd rather just spend his remaining years telling old stories and teaching the younger folk a thing or two about doing things.
Flaws: Max is well past his prime, though his accuracy and gun handling skills are still above average his reaction time has suffered greatly. His back isn't what it used to be either - back in the day he could have spent a week just sleeping on the ground like it was the most comfortable thing ever. He has a rather nasty habit of being melancholic and bitter.
Faction: Though Max does still have a few contacts in the Brotherhood he is not an actual member. He counts himself as a citizen of the NCR - a fact that seems to get puzzled looks and questions from people. In other words Max is not a part of any of the major factions of the Boston area.
Background: Max was born in the village of Arroyo during the early stages of the New California Republic, before the First Battle of Hoover Dam even. In his youth he was a legend, a hero, a savior. Defeating the Enclave made him a well known figure across the wastelands, but all that happened so many years ago. Though he has seen many places - San Francisco New Vegas, The Great Salt Lake, Dog City - he has always wanted to see more.
Now Max's travels have taken him to Boston - a completely new frontier for him, perhaps even a place to finally stay and live through his remaining years - perhaps this will be the place he'll meet his end in a gunfight over something completely trivial, or then he might have one final chance for glory. Personally? He doesn't care either way.
Looks: Max stands slightly above 6 feet. His arms and shoulders lack the muscle they used to years ago. His age has not quite caught up with his face however which has remained handsome - though now with streaks of age and a rather nasty scar extending from the left side of his nose down to his chin. His black hair has also not thinned with age - though it's color has turned notably more gray. His green eyes no longer have any warmth in them - a fact that makes even the warmest look from the old man seem condescending or even threatening.
His vault suit still fits him well however. The yellow 13 still bright as ever. Over the suit he wears a simple brown duster and on his feet he has old military boots.
Other: Max carries with him only a PPK12 Gauss pistol - fully functional, but in dire need of repairs - and some rations to keep himself going.
Nickname: The Chosen One, Old Man From the West
Age: 67
Race: Human
Morals: There used to be a time when he tried - no, when he was - a hero, but that was such a long time ago. The little spark of heroism is still buried somewhere deep within the man - no matter how much Max claims it's not there. If someone is in dire enough need of assistance he will help them at least a little bit. He'd rather just spend his remaining years telling old stories and teaching the younger folk a thing or two about doing things.
Flaws: Max is well past his prime, though his accuracy and gun handling skills are still above average his reaction time has suffered greatly. His back isn't what it used to be either - back in the day he could have spent a week just sleeping on the ground like it was the most comfortable thing ever. He has a rather nasty habit of being melancholic and bitter.
Faction: Though Max does still have a few contacts in the Brotherhood he is not an actual member. He counts himself as a citizen of the NCR - a fact that seems to get puzzled looks and questions from people. In other words Max is not a part of any of the major factions of the Boston area.
Background: Max was born in the village of Arroyo during the early stages of the New California Republic, before the First Battle of Hoover Dam even. In his youth he was a legend, a hero, a savior. Defeating the Enclave made him a well known figure across the wastelands, but all that happened so many years ago. Though he has seen many places - San Francisco New Vegas, The Great Salt Lake, Dog City - he has always wanted to see more.
Now Max's travels have taken him to Boston - a completely new frontier for him, perhaps even a place to finally stay and live through his remaining years - perhaps this will be the place he'll meet his end in a gunfight over something completely trivial, or then he might have one final chance for glory. Personally? He doesn't care either way.
Looks: Max stands slightly above 6 feet. His arms and shoulders lack the muscle they used to years ago. His age has not quite caught up with his face however which has remained handsome - though now with streaks of age and a rather nasty scar extending from the left side of his nose down to his chin. His black hair has also not thinned with age - though it's color has turned notably more gray. His green eyes no longer have any warmth in them - a fact that makes even the warmest look from the old man seem condescending or even threatening.
His vault suit still fits him well however. The yellow 13 still bright as ever. Over the suit he wears a simple brown duster and on his feet he has old military boots.
Other: Max carries with him only a PPK12 Gauss pistol - fully functional, but in dire need of repairs - and some rations to keep himself going.
Name: Maximilien 'Max' Sawyer
Nickname: The Chosen One, Old Man From the East
Age: 67
Race: Human
Morals: There used to be a time when he tried - no, when he was - a hero, but that was such a long time ago. The little spark of heroism is still buried somewhere deep within the man - no matter how much Max claims it's not there. If someone is in dire enough need of assistance he will help them at least a little bit. He'd rather just spend his remaining years telling old stories and teaching the younger folk a thing or two about doing things.
Flaws: Max is well past his prime, though his accuracy and gun handling skills are still above average his reaction time has suffered greatly. His back isn't what it used to be either - back in the day he could have spent a week just sleeping on the ground like it was the most comfortable thing ever. He has a rather nasty habit of being melancholic and bitter.
Faction: Though Max does still have a few contacts in the Brotherhood he is not an actual member. He counts himself as a citizen of the NCR - a fact that seems to get puzzled looks and questions from people. In other words Max is not a part of any of the major factions of the Boston area.
Background: Max was born in the village of Arroyo during the early stages of the New California Republic, before the First Battle of Hoover Dam even. In his youth he was a legend, a hero, a savior. Defeating the Enclave made him a well known figure across the wastelands, but all that happened so many years ago. Though he has seen many places - San Francisco New Vegas, The Great Salt Lake, Dog City - he has always wanted to see more.
Now Max's travels have taken him to Boston - a completely new frontier for him, perhaps even a place to finally stay and live through his remaining years - perhaps this will be the place he'll meet his end in a gunfight over something completely trivial, or then he might have one final chance for glory. Personally? He doesn't care either way.
Looks: Max stands slightly above 6 feet. His arms and shoulders lack the muscle they used to years ago. His age has not quite caught up with his face however which has remained handsome - though now with streaks of age and a rather nasty scar extending from the left side of his nose down to his chin. His black hair has also not thinned with age - though it's color has turned notably more gray. His green eyes no longer have any warmth in them - a fact that makes even the warmest look from the old man seem condescending or even threatening.
His vault suit still fits him well however. The yellow 13 still bright as ever. Over the suit he wears a simple brown duster and on his feet he has old military boots.
Other: Max carries with him only a PPK12 Gauss pistol - fully functional, but in dire need of repairs - and some rations to keep himself going.
Nickname: The Chosen One, Old Man From the East
Age: 67
Race: Human
Morals: There used to be a time when he tried - no, when he was - a hero, but that was such a long time ago. The little spark of heroism is still buried somewhere deep within the man - no matter how much Max claims it's not there. If someone is in dire enough need of assistance he will help them at least a little bit. He'd rather just spend his remaining years telling old stories and teaching the younger folk a thing or two about doing things.
Flaws: Max is well past his prime, though his accuracy and gun handling skills are still above average his reaction time has suffered greatly. His back isn't what it used to be either - back in the day he could have spent a week just sleeping on the ground like it was the most comfortable thing ever. He has a rather nasty habit of being melancholic and bitter.
Faction: Though Max does still have a few contacts in the Brotherhood he is not an actual member. He counts himself as a citizen of the NCR - a fact that seems to get puzzled looks and questions from people. In other words Max is not a part of any of the major factions of the Boston area.
Background: Max was born in the village of Arroyo during the early stages of the New California Republic, before the First Battle of Hoover Dam even. In his youth he was a legend, a hero, a savior. Defeating the Enclave made him a well known figure across the wastelands, but all that happened so many years ago. Though he has seen many places - San Francisco New Vegas, The Great Salt Lake, Dog City - he has always wanted to see more.
Now Max's travels have taken him to Boston - a completely new frontier for him, perhaps even a place to finally stay and live through his remaining years - perhaps this will be the place he'll meet his end in a gunfight over something completely trivial, or then he might have one final chance for glory. Personally? He doesn't care either way.
Looks: Max stands slightly above 6 feet. His arms and shoulders lack the muscle they used to years ago. His age has not quite caught up with his face however which has remained handsome - though now with streaks of age and a rather nasty scar extending from the left side of his nose down to his chin. His black hair has also not thinned with age - though it's color has turned notably more gray. His green eyes no longer have any warmth in them - a fact that makes even the warmest look from the old man seem condescending or even threatening.
His vault suit still fits him well however. The yellow 13 still bright as ever. Over the suit he wears a simple brown duster and on his feet he has old military boots.
Other: Max carries with him only a PPK12 Gauss pistol - fully functional, but in dire need of repairs - and some rations to keep himself going.
Well I'll make a CS for everyone to have a look at and judge ^^
Well, you said we couldn't be Wanderer or the Sole Survivor, but what about the Chosen One?
I have this image in my head of an old man who has seen too much over the years, lost too many friends and fought too many battles. It's been 40 years since his adventures and so called glory days. His age has severely affected his fighting abilities, eyesight and even worldview. He's either sold or lost most of his high tech gear between the years and has just arrived to the Boston area with a barely working Gauss Pistol and a simple duster over his old vault suit. In other words I'm asking if I could take an old man from the West for one more ride?
I have this image in my head of an old man who has seen too much over the years, lost too many friends and fought too many battles. It's been 40 years since his adventures and so called glory days. His age has severely affected his fighting abilities, eyesight and even worldview. He's either sold or lost most of his high tech gear between the years and has just arrived to the Boston area with a barely working Gauss Pistol and a simple duster over his old vault suit. In other words I'm asking if I could take an old man from the West for one more ride?
I like this idea ^^
Well I'm still here ^w^
Ramia had after a while gotten rather bored and had again began pacing back and forth. Even if she felt bad for the princes or her own current situation she had chosen not to show it. Still the black haired swrodswoman knew she was a prisoner - now that she did not like. In her opinion the prince had completely overreacted, though now that Ramia thought about it maybe she could have been a tad bit more careful in the way she had worded her conversation with him. "Damnit, the least they could do is give me something to eat..." She mumbled and shook her head.
Oh, right ^^; I should post too.
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