Zeroth

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

A Lotta Talkin'

---

Town Hall
Whitlash
The next to enter the Hall was the Ghoul, and Walker noted the man's own position across the way. Far as he could tell, he and Sam Smith shared a lot in common--"old men" by everyone else's definition, wanderers who simply stumbled into town one day and then stuck around. And he had seen the mutant hit a crack shot more than once...but then, the way the rumors went, he'd had over a hundred years to practice. Walker felt confident that he'd gotten just as good in less than half the time. But other than that...

He'd never let it show, and thus far hadn't said anything. But to be perfectly honest...Walker thought of Ghouls like time bombs. So far as he knew, they always went Feral. It was just a matter of when. And anyone who claimed they weren't disgusted with the mutants' looks were lying to themselves out of social virtue, in the old Texan's point of view. Sure, it didn't mean you had to treat the man any different...but human beings had a tendency to avoid or feel uncomfortable around stuff like that for a reason. So, when he couldn't help thinking like that...it seemed the more polite and honorable thing to just avoid Sam where he could, and keep interactions short when he couldn't.

More of the Mormons entered the old church as well, filtering between the pews. Aside from them, Walker saw Eliza take a back row seat in front of Sam. When she pulled out the .45 and swiftly checked the safety, Walker once again admired the weapon. Not enough people really knew how to take care of their equipment anymore, at least not like the girl did. Wherever she was from, she'd clearly been trained and educated. The same was true of Elijah, who came close to blocking the doorway as he placed a hand on his weapon. Walker mentally took back his last thought about the man's education, and blew out the edges of his mustache. No need to put hands on a gun if you weren't about to draw--the last thing they needed in this crowded little matchbox was for someone to get jumpy or an itchy trigger finger.

Raven, and those three dunderheads he called a "militia," were next through the doors. Alexander, the northerner whom Walker suspected had just come back from a patrol, also took up a position on the wall like many of the others but not at the back of the room. Instead he posted up about halfway across the room. Whitlash had accrued itself quite a little posse for itself over the past few years...a lot of combat experience, it seemed, for a little out of the way gaggle of farmsteaders.

Finally, Mayor Nicholas and that little croney of his, Johnathan, climbed onto the podium. After a quick and pointless thanks and assurance that they had, indeed, rung the bell for a reason, the fisherman got to the reason.

Dammit, shoulda bet somebody. Would've won the caps. Walker rolled his mouth as if he were going to spit, but held back for the sake of the old church's floorboards.

So Raiders had captured one of the outlying facilities Whitlash operated, along with everyone working in it--including one of Nicholas's daughters. When Walker heard that, his lip curled and his nose wrinkled...like a dog with its hackles up. In his mind, an old scene played out--

A little girl was screaming. He was trying to get through the door--it finally gave way with a vicious kick. Smoke was starting to fill the house. He saw the man standing over the girl and cocked the hammer back--

His name was called, snapping the man out of his flashback. Somehow, he was able to replay what Nicholas had said despite disassociating for a moment. So the mayor wanted him, and some of these other rag-taggers, to take on the Helena Raiders Legion? Walker had heard of a Legion before, but for some reason these didn't seem like the same varmints. The rest of the town was told to disperse--but Walker had an iffy feeling about things.

Nick should've called our names from the get-go, then told the rest of 'em to leave without any more details. What if someone from the town decided to try and play hero, or do something else equally stupid and risky? What if the Raiders had a man or woman on the inside? Or some thick browed idiot decided they wanted to run away from home and live the criminal life, and decided to give the Raiders a heads-up as a way of ingratiating themselves to the gang?

Well, he was stuck in it now. Best to pay attention. The mayor outlined the rest of the situation, and again Walker rolled his mouth. His eyes never left the map from the moment it was unrolled, as he committed every squiggle to memory. That was something else he was proud of, at his age...although it also made sleeping difficult, some nights when the memories he didn't want decided to pop back up...

When Nicholas asked if there were any questions, Walker knew it was going to open a damn flood gate. Conor wanted to know the enemy's numbers--a smart question, but one that Walker imagined would be useless. Even if Nicholas had a scout or two setting eyes on the factory, they were apparently dealing with a "legion" of Raiders. This group might be able to call reinforcements--or said numbers might've already arrived. Any report they were liable to get couldn't be treated as gospel, only speculation. And you could spend all day speculating and never get anywhere.

Elijah was confident--too confident, for Walker's taste. And he immediately laucnhed into a plan for a stealth operation. The Texas didn't like the repairman's body language; like Elijah already felt in charge of the situation.
Then Sam chimed in, in his gravelly voice. Walker's brow furrowed. He understood the point the Ghoul was making--but felt like Sam had it backwards. Raiders weren't the type to keep to deals, and sure as hell wouldn't give up the hostages and leave first. To Walker's mind, if they did give in to the thugs' demands and deliver food, supplies, and so forth, the raiders would simply take the hostages with them until they were far enough away to escape pursuit, then release the hostages to run back home. And that was only best case scenario. Given Walker's experience...the Raiders would just take everything and demand more.

The whole "kill 'em all," bit, though, that he liked. And even the staked bodies part. The Ghoul's methods were as gristly as his face, but that didn't have to be a bad thing.

Raven wanted to know about the Raiders' weapons, armor, and tactics. Again, smart questions--if somebody worth a damn would teach these boys, Whitlash wouldn't be short on leader-types. But having too many chiefs and not enough indians would be a problem in itself. Then, though, the conversation turned to soemthing about drugging the food, sniping, negotiations, and then Walker tuned it out.

"Stop." said the old man, raising his voice in a loud growl for the first time that morning. He looked at the others, then directed his gaze at Nicholas. "Who's leading?"

If there wasn't a leader, someone to say "ten hut!" and have the rest snap to attention, then this whole damn thing would turn into arguing over the best way to do the same damn things over and over. Whether all these different suggestions were feasible or not--Walker had no idea where Raven expected to get a damned "delayed action sedative" in a podunk town where the closest thing to a hospital was a tent full of Mormons--was one thing, whether their group could agree on who got to do what was another, and Walker didn't have the time or patience to put it all to a vote.

Neither did those hostages at the factory.

Echoes of a Moonless Night

Kyozan | Mika

Assignment Understood

---

@Rune_AlchemistKaeru responded playfully to Mika with a cheeky grin as he introduced himself and his partner. Kyozan noticed the nekomata's intense stare, which her master tried to wave away with her earlier antics. Maybe that was the case--and maybe not. The Rasetsu chuckled suggestively as the cat protested.

"Maybe she's just looking for someone to scratch under her chin, eh?" A prompt *slap* from Mika's side echoed in the vehicle's limited space.

Luckily, their transport lurched to a stop in the parking lot. Suzume moved and talked like a real professional, immediately earning the Aomori heir's attention. Kyozan watched Lily as she activated her charming magic, displaying a great deal of fine-tuned control to draw the fleeing civilian's attention. Interesting, that an ability meant to make slaves and willing partners of Humans could be used this way...Was this how the Youkai of this era managed to "fit in" to Human society?

"Nakanishi, Nyoko... honestly, try not to invite yourself next time, but you know what to do; keep the grudges away from civilians." Nyoko leaped out of the van and stretched her legs, which Kyozan observed eagerly with his thumb and forefinger on his chin. Before he could appreciate the invention of "dolphin shorts," however, Mika curled up in her seat before slamming both feet into the small of the demon-man's back. He grunted as he allowed himself to be propelled out of the vehicle, and as his own feet stomped the ground like a wrestler taking position he heaved a deep breath. Blue fire once again outlined his form as his muscles swelled and joints cracked, restoring him to his full height.

"New hires... well, I don't know what you can do," their driver admitted with a shrug. "Priority is to keep people safe first, then exterminate the Grudges. Don't get tunnel-visioned into killing them before we know if we missed someone." Kaeru, too, warned them not to "cut loose" too much...before saying something about raising the dead?

"Aruji, these modern standards confuse me."

"For once I'm as lost as you are." Mika tossed her hair with a sigh as a light tension built up around her temples. "I'm hoping the Nekomata's ability doesn't require fresh corpses." She opened her schoolbag and withdrew a binder, before speaking to Suzume.

@Raineh Daze"I can create a barrier around us, so that we have a safe fallback--and a place to render first aid!" The last part she called out more loudly, so that Lily could hear her and guide any injured civilians to them if need be. Four ofuda tags, bearing graceful calligraphy, were drawn from the binder and clutched between her fingers like playing cards. As Mika closed her eyes for a moment as if in prayer, her Ether--or "Ki" as Kyozan had known it in the old days, before this strange "science,"--began to ripple across her body. An unseen breeze lifted the girl's hair, and when she opened her eyes again the power within them flashed.

"My orders, Aruji?" Kyozan stepped up alongside her, slamming his giant fist into an equally big palm.

"Make sure no Grudge escapes the park." spoke his contractor, before she tossed the tags into the air. As they circled her once, then darted off in four directions, so too did Kyozan charge towards the gentle green hills now dotted with amorphous monstrosities. A wild, maniacal grin split his features. Behind him, Mika performed a swift series of hand seals.

"When the world was born
Desolate and chaotic
Heaven and Earth split."

The four tags attached themselves to the asphalt on the lot, forming a perfect square with the team's car at its center and a sizeable space on each side--a large enough footprint for a small scale medical tent. Each one burst into a flame, with four different colors: Black, sea-green, purple, sky-blue. A dazzling scarlet flame took shape in front of Mika as well, as the centerpoint of the shape.

The first shapeless mass of hatred turned its attention away from the terrified Humans, towards a large source of spiritual energy that began to collect nearby. White, empty eyes, unstable in their shapes like the mass within a lava lamp, peered out of a wide circle made from a mire of black mud. But another large mass of power was heading directly towards it--the other Grudges, too, began to twist their hideous forms as their noxious forms salivated. When they felt killing intent, their limbs curled into blades and bludgeons.

"Kyozan No Rasetsu shall join the fray! Let me taste your blood!" roared the demon as he spread his arms.

"Mountain, Sea, Wind, Rain, And Flame!
Amahara Seiritsu!"

With the completion of the renga, Mika spread her arms and a ripple of power pulsed outward from her. A shimmering barrier, colored like paper thin amethyst, shot up from the four tags and converged as a sharp-edged, solid cube over them all. As each pieces locked into place, the barrier became thicker, stronger. The eerie feeling even non-spiritually sensitive humans got from the Grudges--like a prey animal aware of the predator in the brush--was cut off immediately as if by a knife, and even sound outside the force field seemed muted. Through the translucent screens they could still see everything, as if through a TV with an improper color balance.

"Our side...can pass freely!" Mika put her hands on her knees as she panted. "But nothing else, haah, aaah, should get through!" With four tags to draw ambient Ether from the environment, a full recital, and the power she could draw from Kyozan, this barrier should prove self sustaining against any attack...unless she had greatly underestimated their opponent. But no--she clenched her fists in her skirt, and forced herself to stand up straight. This barrier was just...a precaution.

Her Guardian would not allow any of the beasts near them.

---

Bloodshed

---

The first Grudge leaped at him much the way any human would, but rather than swinging a fist or sword it thrust forward an arm that had become a thick, deadly lance covered in barbs. Kyozan leaned to one side and the cruel weapon passed under his arm, inches from his ribs. From his great height, the overhand haymaker came down like a meteor. The creature tumbled across the ground like a ragdoll, but its brothers were undeterred. Their shapes took on new forms even as they attacked him with abandon.

A head burst open like rotten fruit to release numerous tentacles, each tipped with a pendulum-shaped blade. Kyozan's hand shot out and grabbed the tendrils like catching a nest of snakes. As the next leaped into the air, its arms and torso shrinking to produce long legs with ankles shaped like halberds, the blue ogre yanked his prisoner in front of himself. The axe kick split his body shield in half--and lined them both up perfectly.

"DOSUKOI!" The demon man's palm shot out with the force of a battering ram, and the impact rippled through both Grudges before blowing a hole through their backs. Both began to dissolve into mist, and Kyozan flexed his claws as he turned to a small group of the creatures. "Weaklings! You call yourselves demons!?" As if he were ripping the very air itself apart he swept his talons at them. "Tanban-Kugi!"

Like a whip his spiritual energy followed the lashing arm, and multiple cerulean blades materialized. They whistled through the air before tearing more of the Grudges to shreds. Before the bodies hit the ground Kyozan had leaped in among them again, crushing a foe underfoot before grabbing another and using it like a club against its brethren. After smashing it against the earth for good measure, the monstrous Guardian opened his fangs wide and took an enormous bite out of the creature's shoulder, actually severing its arm as he tore away his vile mouthful. Moments later he grimaced as black ooze ran down his chin.

"You don't even taste good! Where's the fun in this!?" In his wrath, he launched the corpse over his shoulder. It collided with Mika's barrier like a fly hitting a windshield--or a bug zapper, considering the energy that repelled what remained with a sound like crackling flame.

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

My Empire of Dirt

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Walker's Farm
Whitlash

A blade bit the earth with a hungry crunch, chewing the dirt in a mindless rhythm. The hoe swept the little pile of pebbles and sand to one side, shaking it out over evenly spaced mounds. Crunch. Atop the mounds, tall stalks of corn shivered in the chill morning breeze. The sun would soon warm them, but only a few sparse golden ears would receive the life giving light this late into the season, maturing just in time for one last harvest. Still, the fields had been kept free of weeds and Mole-Rats all this time, no matter the yield. Crunch.

Walker paused when he reached the end of the row, leaning one elbow on the hoe as he turned to look over his handiwork. A half-acre of corn, the mutant hybrid fruit known as tatos, the modified Razorgrain wheat, and carrots stretched between him and a quaint little farmhouse. This was his home, now, and one could see by the orderliness of the rows, the trimmed bushes and a single pruned Mutfruit tree that he spent a great deal of time taking care of the place. He had never understood why, more than a century after the bombs dropped, so many houses still looked like collapsing, half-rotted trash heaps. Over the last five years, he'd taken an axe to the plentiful forests around Whitlash--a single solid oak could get you well over a hundred board-foot of lumber--and by hand split, sawed, and sanded enough planks, posts, and trim to replace parts of the porch, the stairs, the floor, and a big hole in one of the walls. With slaked limestone and a few bits and bobs, he'd whitewashed the whole thing too--after a good, thorough scrubbing, and sweeping out all the dead leaves and piles of refuse. Sure, maybe the average folk--except maybe Vault Dwellers--didn't have education or proper tools much anymore...but why not just learn things the old fashioned way, through trial and error?

Too busy surviving, probably. On that thought, Walker spat and picked up his hoe again. But before the crunch, he heard a new sound...the rumble of a truck, coming back from the river. The leather-skinned man watched them from beneath the patched rim of his old hat. Ol' Nicholas don't usually come back that quick... Then again, they didn't need as much fish as the "mayor" usually hauled back anymore--with the last harvest on the horizon, the farmers didn't need as much Indian-style fertilizer. Walker thought it wasteful, but who was he to deny someone their hobbies? He knew perfectly well the need to take one's mind off things--and with that thought, he spat again.

Not long after he started down the next row, crunching away, he heard the truck stop near the town hall. He also heard that dang-blasted generator start up. Walker was as carnivorous as the next red-blooded American, but he didn't know why David insisted on using that fuel-drinkin', noise-makin', foul-smellin' contraption instead of salting or smoking his kills. Nonetheless, he continued to plough. Best not to concern himself with what other folk did or didn't do. Best to just take care of his own, as best he could. His own little farm, his own little house, his own rickety, no-good, little-older-every-day self...

His empire of dirt. Best to just take care of it...because no matter how much he'd like to trade it, no price could soothe the hurt...

---

Town Hall
Whitlash

A few hours later, Walker entered the town hall among the rest of the townsfolk. David, still covered in blood, sat up front with a sour look on his face. Had the hunt not gone well after all? The boy could've at least dunked himself or wiped off before he came over. Another young fella, Conor, stood near a row of seats with a book in hand--no, not a book, the Book. Good, at least he had the right one this time. But that meant the rest of those Mormons couldn't be far behind him. Walker's lip curled, but he took off his hat as he crossed the threshold and took the sweaty handkerchief off his neck, hastily shoving it into a back pocket. Unlike the missionary who wanted for others to be seated, and the hunter who wanted to be right at the front of the action, Walker moved to a corner at the back of the hall and stood against it with his arms crossed. From here he had a good view out of the windows on one side of the building as well as the whole of the interior--and anyone who walked through the doors, while they might not see Walker himself unless they turned their heads. Most would probably be offput by his silence and expression. Some of the more experienced folk, who had seen a gunfight or two in their lives, might also realize the significance of such a position.

If I had the caps to bet, it's Raiders... The old man tapped his foot. He needed to start taking his late-night walks again--even after all these years, he couldn't let himself get complacent.

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

<Snipped quote by Zeroth>
Yeah thats fine. Small question, would the offer to have a coffee be earnest or "trolling" the lad if discernible? (If you weren't aware, Mormons aren't allowed to drink caffeine).

@Bugman

Earnest and ignorant, if he were told such Walker's response would be to raise an eyebrow, then add "...Whiskey?"

XD

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

Walker

Name: Walker
Age: 55
Sex: Male

SPECIAL/Skills:
STR - 5
PER - 7
END - 4
CHA - 5
INT - 5
AGI - 8
LCK - 6
Guns - Proficiency at using weapons that fire standard ammunition.
Speech - Proficiency at persuading others or negotiating, to talk oneself out of a troublesome situation or gain better information and rewards.
Melee Weapons - Proficiency at using blades or bludgeons in close-combat.

Appearance: An even six feet tall, Walker weighs around one hundred and ninety pounds of leathery, redneck-tanned hide and sinew. Though he’s beginning to show his age, one can tell that there’s still iron under all the wrinkles, and his thin, veiny hands are still quick as ever. He squints to see things up close, but his striking, sea-green eyes still have a spark of the old fire. His solid white hair is beginning to recede, but remains thick, and he takes pride in grooming his mustache. A deep, bassy voice rolls out of his jaw with a slow, easy cadence, and a drawling southern accent.

Image

Armor and Equipment:
Field Hand Outfit - A simple checkered shirt of red and white, faded at this point to a dull brown and dirty yellow. It’s tucked into a pair of dark denim jeans, which have been cinched up quite noticeably by a black leather belt–seems Walker’s lost some weight since he started wearing these. Plain brown, square toed cowboy boots are partially hidden by the jeans’ hem.
Bounty Hunter’s Duster - An old gray longcoat, with split tails in the back and an attached rainslicker mantle on the shoulders. Its hem is ragged and even blackened in places. There’s a small patch on the left breast that’s far less sun-faded and dirty than the rest of the coat, but whatever was once sewn there has been torn off.
Old Cowboy Hat - Made from black leather, a striped turkey’s feather has been slipped into the band at its base. It’s been patched more than once–but a bullet hole or two remains in the brim.
Little Old Book - The edges of the leather bound cover are peeling away, and the title has long worn to invisibility. The pages are yellow and crackling. But Walker seems to protect this book more fiercely than any possession he owns.

Weapons:
.357 Magnum Revolver, Long Barrel - A single action revolver that fires .357 Magnum and .38 special rounds. Though visibly worn, this weapon has been maintained meticulously. An old inscription along the barrel reads, “Run On.” The modified barrel length allows the cartridge’s burning powder to act longer on the bullet, thereby pushing it to greater speeds and inflicting greater damage on the target.
Bowie Knife - An old fashioned fighting knife, a staple of American Wild West culture. The long blade’s distinct point allows it to be used for a variety of survival tasks.
Varmint Rifle - A low powered hunting rifle often used for dealing with pests and small game such as geckos. Chambered for 5.56, it’s surprisingly accurate from long range even without a scope or PipBoy’s VATS function–but then again, so is Walker. He traded for this from the locals after arriving to Whitlash…And they’ve learned that if he reaches for his waist, instead of the rifle’s shoulder sling, then it’s not a gecko he’s about to shoot.

Personality:
Walker doesn’t seem to waste much effort, whether it’s speaking or working. But every movement he makes is smooth and precise, a far cry from the jerky or stiff movements one might expect from a man his age. And every word he speaks has a purpose–although he is known to joke around a bit. But beneath a stoic, hard to figure out old man is a warm and caring heart, especially any time women and children are involved. It’s rare to see him angry–or maybe he just doesn’t express it the same as most. It’s a hardness in his eye, a cold glare…a tight jaw, and a steady trigger finger. A combination of utilitarianism and a stern view of good and evil can make Walker seem compassionate and helpful to most, but unyielding to those who would dare threaten the weak or innocent.

Like any old man, he has plenty of stories to tell…just not many about himself or where he came from. But he never butts into a conversation or tries to one-up anyone. What he has to offer, he freely gives…but only to those who ask for it.

History:
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..."

Before the Great War, just about everyone in the great nation of the United States of America could tell you where that quote was from. Now it's hard to find folk who can read, much less know anything about the most widely read book of the Old World. But Walker walks...through valleys, over mountains, across the wasteland. Up out of the south. Far to the north. And he fears no evil.

When he first came to Whitlash, about five years ago, locals saw him from a ways off moving like a man on his last legs. One foot in front of the other…a pause. Arms hanging limp, he would tilt forward as if he were about to collapse. Then the other foot stopped him. One step at a time he came to the town’s edge, and what passed for the town’s guard at the time called out. A small community like this knew the danger of Raiders, of spies who pretended to be hurt or in need only to case the place for reavers and jackals. Walker didn’t answer, and despite warnings he just kept coming, one step at a time. The guard remembers raising a rifle to his cheek, fully prepared to pull the trigger–especially once he saw the glint of a gun under the billowing tails of that long coat–but then, as if by providence, a gust of wind whipped the old hat off Walker’s head. The old man looked up for the first time, staring straight down the barrel, never seeing the face behind it. He just…stood there. And then he said something, but the guard couldn’t hear him over a sudden cloud of dust that passed between them. The guard took pity on this broken down, dead-eyed fellow–just an old man, clearly sick or delusional–and lowered his weapon. Walker spat on the ground, then collapsed.

The town warmed to the stranger, especially once they’d nursed him back to health and he proved himself a hard worker to repay them. But he never quite seemed to warm to them the same way–the most anyone has put together being that he’s from Texas, and that he used to work as some kind of bounty hunter or lawman. They don’t even know if “Walker” is his real name. But any fears that he might be a Raider agent were quelled the night one such gang tried to storm the town, and no one knew about it until the next morning—because seven corpses with spiked bits of armor, tattoos and piercings out the wazoo, and a handful of weapons lay one beside the other right on the outskirts. Six had a single bullet hole through a single vital organ on each body. The last had his innards spilling out of a slash all the way across his belly, and a few tufts of white hair clenched in one fist. They found Walker back in town, sitting on his ramshackle porch with a bandage wrapped around his temple, cleaning his gun and reading from his little book:

“Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed…”

When they asked him what had happened, he raised an eyebrow at them as if that were a stupid question. Then he spat on the ground.

Extra:

• When David and Honey came to town two years ago, Walker probably gave them the heebies. For the first week they began to settle in Whitlash, it seemed like they kept running into the old man–even when sneaking out in the brush to hunt. Turn a bend in the trail, open the door to the saloon, or look up for a moment, and there he was. Always at a distance, just…watching. But on the seventh day of these encounters, Walker met David’s eyes, nodded once with a tip of his hat, and then walked away.
• Jimmy’s boundless enthusiasm sometimes earns him an odd look from the locals he works alongside, being that they’re jaded wasteland survivors with little use for ideals and all that. However, he’s had the distinction of being one of a literal handful of people in town Walker has ever smiled at wide enough to show his teeth.
• Eliza was once approached by Walker, who indicated–mostly by hand signs–that he wanted to see her weapon. Wastelanders being curious about her more tech-y weapons wasn’t unusual, but Walker shook his head at that. The .45 was the object of his inquiry, and after examining it in an expert manner he whistled appreciatively and handed it back to her. Then he patted her shoulder and walked away.
• Walker once came to Elijah's shop, placed his revolver reverently on the counter, and said "Trigger spring." with a steely, almost scowling glare. Due to the weapon's age and distinction, Elijah had to machine the part himself rather than simply find a replacement. During the whole process, Walker sat in the corner and watched him the way a mother bear watches someone handling her cub. Afterward they took it to the range, and Elijah saw Walker somehow get two shots out of what seemed like only one fan of the hammer--three times. The older man pursed his lips, nodded very slowly, and paid the repair fee plus 50% without a word.
• The night the Mormons held their first sermon in Whitlash, Walker was seen moving unusually quick through the town thoroughfare. He sat in the front row, intensely focused on the speaker. Then at one point, he spat on the ground, stood up, and walked out. He's refused to have much interaction with most of them since...but once offered Conor to "sit a spell, drink coffee," after getting patched up by the young medic.
• One day, Walker and a few of the locals were having a discussion of some sort that turned into a minor disagreement. It wasn't anything big--no one even remembers what it was about, now. But ever the listener and debater, Alexander thought to offer some intellectual insight to try and convince Walker--the minority--to go along with the rest of the group for peace's sake. His points were succinct and well-worded, and backed up by sound logic. He ended the statement with the question, "--don't you think so?" Walker narrowed his eyes, spat on the ground, then said "No." and walked away.
• When Raven was digging his well, the young man often worked long into the night so that the blazing sun wouldn't be overhead while he was down in that hole. But a lone man in the dark, down a big pit, screams "trapped prey" to wild animals. Once, Raven heard the howling of wolves getting far too close for comfort--followed by four lightning-fast cracks from a gun. By the time he scrambled out of the well, there were only blood spatters and a fading trail where something had been dragged through the dirt. When he asked around no one ever owned up to the deed--but a few days later someone said they saw Walker selling freshly tanned pelts at the general store.

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

@Bugman Most people seem to agree the "Spare" ending is the best outcome for most involved--although I've read of quite a few who only make sure Joshua spares him, and finish the job themselves, so the philosophy behind it may not match the game's take on the meanings.

When I move Walker over I'm also going to add a bit regarding Connor to the Extra, so let me know if you're unsatisfied with that.

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

>I don't see an issue. Elijah will probably assume his fanning trick is some kind of semi-auto modification 😄.

@Zyx

Walker: *stares at Elijah* "...It's a revolver, son." *refuses to elaborate, spits*

😄

Echoes of a Moonless Night

Kyozan | Mika

Clown Car

---

@Raineh Daze"Boss told me to pick the team; I'll take the new hires with me. See how they work." Kyozan looked to Mika, and she nodded. "Come on, I have a car just outside." Kyozan groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Kyo-chan, you're going to have to shrink a bit." said Mika, as she poked at his side under the rock hard obliques. The big demon groaned again...but as the group moved outside the building, he slowly began to "compress." It seemed almost like a "layer" of his body was melting away, in the form of translucent, barely visible blue flames curling off his upper body and dissipating into the air. Now closer in build to someone just under six feet tall and seemingly fifty pounds lighter, he still had to duck his head as he forced his way into the back row of the vehicle after his mistress.

"If the Youkai of this era have been accepted by humanity, why are your "modern conveniences" not appropriately sized for us!?" he growled as he took the center seat, with Mika at the window. @Rune_AlchemistThankfully the person who slipped into the other window seat beside the Rakshasa was quite small...but Kyozan looked at Kaeru sharply for a moment as the boy put on his seatbelt.

"Most modern Youkai aren't as big as mountains anymore." Mika sighed, before she too noticed the Nekomata woman's contractor. "My, my! How cute!" She clapped her hands together, but then bowed her head sheepishly. "Ah, but you're also one of our senpai, yes? I'm Aomori Mika, and this is Kyo-chan! It's a pleasure to meet you."

Kyozan merely nodded by way of introduction this time, and turned his glare now to the vehicle's windshield. The world of concrete, asphalt, and steel outside was filled with the Ether of more humans than he could've imagined existing in one place at a time, and yet the atmosphere somehow felt more "empty," than it had a thousand years ago. How had they done all of this? These "cars," the even bigger contraptions called the "trains..." Even the "office building" they now apparently served was taller than some castle towers he had seen, and yet this "company" was considered small and insignificant? It boggled the mind.

@RolePlayerRoxas@VitaVitaARAt this point, the man-demon noted the conversation between the small, white-haired Youkai and her Attuned, as they fiddled with the restraining contraption of the vehicle. His own felt entirely too snug over his chest, which he scratched absent-mindedly.

"Regardless, you'll be getting a demonstration of what I am once again soon. You so clearly need one, after all."

"I, too, hope the enemy is strong enough to show my might!" grinned the blue haired giant as he leaned forward. "I have not had many opportunities to cut loose since I was unsealed, but these Grudges have not yet impressed me!"

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

@AndromedaiHere's my submission, let me know if anything needs to be tweaked. If you're concerned about any aspect of the "mysterious past" tropes just let me know and I'll send a PM.

@Cuddles 1438@udonoodles@Goblinguy@Zyx I hope there's no problem with the references I included in the "Extra" section. I figured that'd be a good way to sort of establish that they've all been in Whitlash for a while now? Let me know if you'd like me to change or remove anything.

Walker

Name: Walker
Age: 55
Sex: Male

SPECIAL/Skills:
STR - 5
PER - 7
END - 4
CHA - 5
INT - 5
AGI - 8
LCK - 6
Guns - Proficiency at using weapons that fire standard ammunition.
Speech - Proficiency at persuading others or negotiating, to talk oneself out of a troublesome situation or gain better information and rewards.
Melee Weapons - Proficiency at using blades or bludgeons in close-combat.

Appearance: An even six feet tall, Walker weighs around one hundred and ninety pounds of leathery, redneck-tanned hide and sinew. Though he’s beginning to show his age, one can tell that there’s still iron under all the wrinkles, and his thin, veiny hands are still quick as ever. He squints to see things up close, but his striking, sea-green eyes still have a spark of the old fire. His solid white hair is beginning to recede, but remains thick, and he takes pride in grooming his mustache. A deep, bassy voice rolls out of his jaw with a slow, easy cadence, and a drawling southern accent.

Image

Armor and Equipment:
Field Hand Outfit - A simple checkered shirt of red and white, faded at this point to a dull brown and dirty yellow. It’s tucked into a pair of dark denim jeans, which have been cinched up quite noticeably by a black leather belt–seems Walker’s lost some weight since he started wearing these. Plain brown, square toed cowboy boots are partially hidden by the jeans’ hem.
Bounty Hunter’s Duster - An old gray longcoat, with split tails in the back and an attached rainslicker mantle on the shoulders. Its hem is ragged and even blackened in places. There’s a small patch on the left breast that’s far less sun-faded and dirty than the rest of the coat, but whatever was once sewn there has been torn off.
Old Cowboy Hat - Made from black leather, a striped turkey’s feather has been slipped into the band at its base. It’s been patched more than once–but a bullet hole or two remains in the brim.
Little Old Book - The edges of the leather bound cover are peeling away, and the title has long worn to invisibility. The pages are yellow and crackling. But Walker seems to protect this book more fiercely than any possession he owns.

Weapons:
.357 Magnum Revolver, Long Barrel - A single action revolver that fires .357 Magnum and .38 special rounds. Though visibly worn, this weapon has been maintained meticulously. An old inscription along the barrel reads, “Run On.” The modified barrel length allows the cartridge’s burning powder to act longer on the bullet, thereby pushing it to greater speeds and inflicting greater damage on the target.
Bowie Knife - An old fashioned fighting knife, a staple of American Wild West culture. The long blade’s distinct point allows it to be used for a variety of survival tasks.
Varmint Rifle - A low powered hunting rifle often used for dealing with pests and small game such as geckos. Chambered for 5.56, it’s surprisingly accurate from long range even without a scope or PipBoy’s VATS function–but then again, so is Walker. He traded for this from the locals after arriving to Whitlash…And they’ve learned that if he reaches for his waist, instead of the rifle’s shoulder sling, then it’s not a gecko he’s about to shoot.

Personality:
Walker doesn’t seem to waste much effort, whether it’s speaking or working. But every movement he makes is smooth and precise, a far cry from the jerky or stiff movements one might expect from a man his age. And every word he speaks has a purpose–although he is known to joke around a bit. But beneath a stoic, hard to figure out old man is a warm and caring heart, especially any time women and children are involved. It’s rare to see him angry–or maybe he just doesn’t express it the same as most. It’s a hardness in his eye, a cold glare…a tight jaw, and a steady trigger finger. A combination of utilitarianism and a stern view of good and evil can make Walker seem compassionate and helpful to most, but unyielding to those who would dare threaten the weak or innocent.

Like any old man, he has plenty of stories to tell…just not many about himself or where he came from. But he never butts into a conversation or tries to one-up anyone. What he has to offer, he freely gives…but only to those who ask for it.

History:
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..."

Before the Great War, just about everyone in the great nation of the United States of America could tell you where that quote was from. Now it's hard to find folk who can read, much less know anything about the most widely read book of the Old World. But Walker walks...through valleys, over mountains, across the wasteland. Up out of the south. Far to the north. And he fears no evil.

When he first came to Whitlash, about five years ago, locals saw him from a ways off moving like a man on his last legs. One foot in front of the other…a pause. Arms hanging limp, he would tilt forward as if he were about to collapse. Then the other foot stopped him. One step at a time he came to the town’s edge, and what passed for the town’s guard at the time called out. A small community like this knew the danger of Raiders, of spies who pretended to be hurt or in need only to case the place for reavers and jackals. Walker didn’t answer, and despite warnings he just kept coming, one step at a time. The guard remembers raising a rifle to his cheek, fully prepared to pull the trigger–especially once he saw the glint of a gun under the billowing tails of that long coat–but then, as if by providence, a gust of wind whipped the old hat off Walker’s head. The old man looked up for the first time, staring straight down the barrel, never seeing the face behind it. He just…stood there. And then he said something, but the guard couldn’t hear him over a sudden cloud of dust that passed between them. The guard took pity on this broken down, dead-eyed fellow–just an old man, clearly sick or delusional–and lowered his weapon. Walker spat on the ground, then collapsed.

The town warmed to the stranger, especially once they’d nursed him back to health and he proved himself a hard worker to repay them. But he never quite seemed to warm to them the same way–the most anyone has put together being that he’s from Texas, and that he used to work as some kind of bounty hunter or lawman. They don’t even know if “Walker” is his real name. But any fears that he might be a Raider agent were quelled the night one such gang tried to storm the town, and no one knew about it until the next morning—because seven corpses with spiked bits of armor, tattoos and piercings out the wazoo, and a handful of weapons lay one beside the other right on the outskirts. Six had a single bullet hole through a single vital organ on each body. The last had his innards spilling out of a slash all the way across his belly, and a few tufts of white hair clenched in one fist. They found Walker back in town, sitting on his ramshackle porch with a bandage wrapped around his temple, cleaning his gun and reading from his little book:

“Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed…”

When they asked him what had happened, he raised an eyebrow at them as if that were a stupid question. Then he spat on the ground.

Extra:

• When David and Honey came to town two years ago, Walker probably gave them the heebies. For the first week they began to settle in Whitlash, it seemed like they kept running into the old man–even when sneaking out in the brush to hunt. Turn a bend in the trail, open the door to the saloon, or look up for a moment, and there he was. Always at a distance, just…watching. But on the seventh day of these encounters, Walker met David’s eyes, nodded once with a tip of his hat, and then walked away.
• Jimmy’s boundless enthusiasm sometimes earns him an odd look from the locals he works alongside, being that they’re jaded wasteland survivors with little use for ideals and all that. However, he’s had the distinction of being one of a literal handful of people in town Walker has ever smiled at wide enough to show his teeth.
• Eliza was once approached by Walker, who indicated–mostly by hand signs–that he wanted to see her weapon. Wastelanders being curious about her more tech-y weapons wasn’t unusual, but Walker shook his head at that. The .45 was the object of his inquiry, and after examining it in an expert manner he whistled appreciatively and handed it back to her. Then he patted her shoulder and walked away.
• Walker once came to Elijah's shop, placed his revolver reverently on the counter, and said "Trigger spring." with a steely, almost scowling glare. Due to the weapon's age and distinction, Elijah had to machine the part himself rather than simply find a replacement. During the whole process, Walker sat in the corner and watched him the way a mother bear watches someone handling her cub. Afterward they took it to the range, and Elijah saw Walker somehow get two shots out of what seemed like only one fan of the hammer--three times. The older man pursed his lips, nodded very slowly, and paid the repair fee plus 50% without a word.

Fallout: Montana (Accepting new characters)

3: This is actually still a W.I.P. since I am trying to see how I can most effectively implement the system into the RP. My idea for the moment is to just have players pick those three main skills. As the RP progresses, there will be times where characters can talk to an NPC, learn from books, or practice on their own to improve a skill of their choice a little bit. This way, no points will be needed. I am, however, open to suggestions on how better to make this work.

@Andromedai

As someone who once ran a Fallout tabletop based on general D20 stuff and a somewhat incomplete guidebook, my suggestion would be that if you include SPECIAL at all, include it as "soft" stats just to give an impression of characters--"Hmm, this guy's character has a STR of 9 and mine has a STR of 6, it'd probably be IC of me to write about how intimidating his build seems when I meet him"--or for simple "challenges" like the following:

"The door is electronically locked, with a still functioning keypad, but the mechanisms are old and rusted. Does anyone in this party have a STR or an INT of 7+?"
"Damn, we left the only hacker in the group back at the bar, time to backtrack!"
"Backtrack? This is what I brought the dynamite for!"

SPECIAL didn't usually increase too often over the course of the games, picking Perks and Traits were much more useful, at least in my experience. So you could let players "earn" those over time or something, they'd be easier to envision narratively since they're usually descriptive anyway. My two cents.