TheCzarsHussar

Name: Sinbad of the Third Tribe.

Tittle: Heart of the Reavers

Race: Caucasian.

Sex: Male.

Age: 31.

S-7 P-6 E-9 C-2  I-5  A-6 L-3

TAG!: Energy Weapons, Melee Weapons, Outdoorsman.

Traits: Built to Destroy, One In a Million.

Faction: Nomadic Reavers (Formerly).

Position/Rank: Purifier of Saint Di Ode (Formerly).

Appearance: Being part of the Nomadic Reaver's warrior elite Sinbad like all the other elite was well fed while the Nomadic Reaver's slaves were malnourished unless bountiful harvest 'came into the Reaver's hands'. Sporting light brown hair that has in the past week grown shaggy and unkempt, Once had a well trimmed mustache that has too grown unkempt. 

Under all the getup and equipment is clothing that attempts to keep the old glory of the Reavers, Though it still bears a tribal appearance that attempts to look settled. Without the already limited production capabilities of the old Reavers this was the best they could produce themselves.

Weaponry: Sap Gloves equipped on his person, Punch Dagger stored on his person, Spiked Club stored on his person, Wattz 2000 laser rifle, Four Throwing Darts on his person, Zip Gun on his person.

Equipments: Respirator of Reaver design passed down three generations, Night vision goggles of Reaper design passed down three generations, Various pieces of armor from Reaper design passed down three generations of which modified what didn't fit.

Personality: Like all the Nomadic Reavers Sinbad follows the old faith of the Reavers, Plenty dogmatic about the doctrine given the religious position within the Nomadic Reavers. As with the third generation things have became diluted in comparison to the long dead first generation that fled Chicago, The technological society that the first generation still brought with them has became intermixed with tribal society such as it happens when a settled entity takes up nomadic lifestyle. Sinbad certainly is true to the name having little quires with marauding, Stealing and murdering to help keep the Nomadic Reavers afloat.

However the Nomadic Reavers have still attempted to keep themselves to the same religious education doctrine for the warrior elite, Preferring to keep the actions of the first generation alive through keeping the enslaved tribals illiterate.

Should Sinbad ever come inter contact with the Brotherhood of Steel his life depends on presenting himself as mere tribal.

Background: Three generations ago during the conflict with the Calculator the Reaper Movement was beset upon by both the Brotherhood and 'hydroelectric fiends of Satansoft', While the Reavers would eventually be absorbed into the Brotherhood there was for a time chaos as the Reaver's leadership and hidden themselves throughout and communication had been severed. While later restored one detachment of the Reaver Movement out in the field excavating what was believed a cache of pre-war technology had been cut off from their leadership with last known communications being attacks by both the Calculator's robots and Brotherhood of Steel.

What was perceived by this detachment as the loss of their four elders and decimation of the movement itself set in effect a panic throughout the ranks, Consolidating the detachment a night was spent examining all options and after prayers to Saint Sony it was decided that all was lost. The detachment was but ninety something odd men in total with minimal supplies but well equipped and determined to survive through any means necessary gathered all equipment that could be used on the move, Set about building tents and headed away with hastily built tents, A baggage train of brahmin and whatever technology brought with them that could be uprooted.

This detachment would never know of the events that followed suite in Chicago.

Early on as it fled both Brotherhood and Calculator the now Nomadic Reavers targeted weak tribes on the fringe and while outnumbered would prevail through superior weaponry and tactics, Pilfering the villages, Enslaving those who were not slaughtered and should the tribes targeted be culturally advanced enough to have elders or nobles give forth an option to remain free men should they convert to the Reaver's beliefs and join as 'Lesser Revears'.

It was a time of desperation as the once detachment of Reavers had no woman among them and thus no way to breed, For all they knew the Reaver Movement would die if they did not pass on their beliefs. The Brotherhood would remain a fearful thought to these Nomadic Reavers who would for three generations never enter land even near Brotherhood controlled territory.

It would take many years to get anything close to a stable state of being in their new nomadic lifestyle yet through a number of attacks on weaker peoples, Searches for pre-war caches and founding more flexible Reaver laws and doctrine would carve out a somewhat stable nomadic community as far as one can be stable in the wasteland.

As before the warrior elite would be in power and serving a desperate imitation of the old Four Elders system, With enslaved tribals serving as the camp following and labor. The slaves would have devices to prevent escape, Unlike slave collars which would be impractical to the Nomadic Reavers a collar designed to drive a railway spike into the skull if one of a set of conditions are met, This way the device isn't useless after a single disobedient slave.

The first three tribes that had such systems with elders or nobles were allowed to join as free men, In current times the first generation that had fled from the Brotherhood and Calculator has long since died with their direct descendants of the second generation as elderly warriors or joining their fathers in the Eternal Assembly Lines of Panasonica.

Now the third generation is no longer truly like their grandfathers and have forged a Reaver-Tribal hybrid, Still focused on gathering technology and worshiping the same gods as their grandfathers these third generation warrior elite still bears the dangers of their forefathers if not less refined.

When word would reach the Nomadic Reavers of the internal war raging in Brotherhood lands even going so far as to lose territory it filled the Nomadic Reavers with confidence and fervor that would drive them back westward not to Chicago as the memories were too painful even for those who never lived the lives of their grandfathers, It would be the Lost Lands that call to them. The prospect of recovering Brotherhood tech caches called to them.

In the Nomadic Reaver's warrior elite there are different castes that mimic the old Reavers, While all warriors they take up different sub-castes that hearken back once again to the old Reavers who at this point were believed by the Nomadic Reavers to have been destroyed.

One such Nomadic Reaver, Sinbad of the Third Tribe serves as part of the sub-caste to protect the temporary encampments and keep the slaves in check. Religiously serving as priest to ward off evil currents from Satansoft and Be'alza-Gates, Rooting out heresy among the slaves is also part of his caste.

Faithfully serving for two decades since childhood Sinbad has killed a hundred times would be heroes and rival raiders seeking to sack the encampment or baggage train, As the warrior elite, Their baggage train and camp following prepare to set up temporary encampment for the first time in the Lost Lands after marching the day away even the chilling feeling in the air does not worry the faithful this night...

The Sun Dog

Name: Sully Sun-Burnt Brahminshit, Moldy Sullivan.

Race: Caucasian.

Sex: Male.

 Age: 70.

 Special: S-3 P-10 E-4 C-1 I-4 A-2 L-10

TAG!: Small Guns, Outdoorsman, Traps.

Traits: Fast Shot, Jinxed.
Faction: Fort Collins (Formerly), Sun Dogs (Formerly).

Position: Militiaman (Formerly), Tribe's Silent Lie-Seeker (Formerly).

 Appearance: Ol' Sully has missed his right eye and cheek for nigh thirty years, not the result of some minor eye injury or a knife through one's cheek. Both were shot through the barrel of a tribal's 'musket'. There's a healed entry wound right at the base of his nose, exiting through a piece of his brain and eye; leaving just an empty socket. His cheek didn't fare much better. An healed entry wound through his left cheek bore through his tongue and shattered his right cheek and teeth. The exit wound is long stitched and left his face disproportionate, yet the brain and mouth injury left him greatly speech impaired. At his fascinatingly lucky age Sully also suffers from an inability to properly use his left arm and leg, he could never be left handed and moves with a noticeable gimp.

He's not had any means of proper cleanliness. When his thin fine hair gets to be a bit too long, it's cut with a rusty bayonet. Running water is a commodity he longs for again. He doesn't much have any defined cheekbones, if he ever did they're long gone. Dressed in tattered brahmin trousers and suspenders, barely holding up a faded brown plaid button up. From bygone civilized days, now mildewed and half way dry rotted. On his back Sully lugs around a two hundred year old knapsack, besides spare ammunition, consumables and the odd scavenged stimpack has his most coveted valuable. A can of baked beans still sealed, saved for that last special occasion.

Weaponry: Poor man's jury rigged Long-Rifle, scoped awkwardly for right handed use and for the left eye. An under the weather revolver which he doesn't even know the model, barely has three bullets left. His only family heirloom from out westways, some long prior pre-war bayonet rusted thoroughly through and through.

His hand shakes more than it used to, and he chokes up at times but Sully is still in the mindset of his yonder days. A terribly fine shot with his long rifle, just not against power armor, hypothetically.

Personality: Sullivan's a rather dull fellow, not particularly stupid but lacking cleverness. Taking damage to his brain fucked him worse; Therefore, he has such trouble reading and writing that it's practically an inability. Thank god for neural plasticity huh? Sullivan suffers from mind numbing seizures ever since that injury. He's a man of few morals, holding only a personal few, believing not in gods but a high law.

Background: Sullivan's folk originally hailed from the ruins of Fort Collins in Colorado, their sources of relatively fresh water in the Horsetooth Sanctuary marked the community for plunder. The Collinsmen vehemently protected their resource, murdering anyone who didn't bare their clothing. They were without the luxuries of old but continued as they had for centuries pretending to be civilized men. In truth they were dying out, interbreeding was punishable by death as civilized men and yet nobody in the outside world was tolerated. Precious water allowed for agriculture and the soil was kind enough to grant it, and still their society was a grim one.

In truth they were nothing more then a warrior society in mock pre-war drab, their's was the only community in a twenty mile radius. Through might of gunpowder they had destroyed what little was left and inhabited for their resources. Time enough had the outside world forgotten, their old maps told only lies. They became legendary to the tribals outside the Collinsmens' knowledge, wicked and powerful never to be touched.

Sullivan never really understood why. But long after his parents were resting below ground his wife proved unsatisfied, or perhaps he just couldn't satisfy the younger woman. She was far more infatuated with Sully's higher ups than the old militiaman. Unfortunately for all people involved he was hopping mad when it came to light. To the court (of absolutely civilized and not tribal at all men no sir) he demanded his right by law to take both their lives. However, even in the remnant of a society there lay corruption. In secret Sullivan had his ultimatum, continue demanding his right and he'll be killed by 'raider attack' very soon. The message was clear, and Sullivan lacked friends or the courage to fight it. It was the perfect scenario for the man he wanted dead, Sullivan had disappeared from Fort Collins. Sully wouldn't ever discover that said corruption was elsewhere as well in the ruined town, his superior and their friends found themselves hung. Ambitious men taking their places when rats squeaked.

Collinsmen knew the south and southwest to be dangerous land, yet outside of the sacked villages to the near north and east was utterly unknown. It was to be that Sullivan wandered east, to the once fertile grasslands of the old world. The world was alien and wondrous, in it's own horrid irradiated way. The comforts of civilization were gravely missed, greatest of all were endless clean water and plentiful harvest. Life was hard out there, testing Sullivan's mettle to persevere or turn back and risk getting killed. The only company he had was a very brief encounter with another wanderer from the far north, which lost his life when Sullivan blew his brains out during the night. All for the little food he carried, such was life in the wastes. Netted Sullivan the man's firearm as well, meager little revolver that it was. His friendly encounter taught Sullivan one thing above all, there were other communities elsewhere in the wastes. They would appreciate the hand of a Collinsman.

For the most part Sullivan avoided traveling through the middle Pawnee Grassland; However, this was difficult without proper maps, which he didn't even have any. Thinking himself through with the grassland when the landscape began getting rough and hilly. Sullivan was in for quite the shock when he scaled the peek of the hilly terrain only to lay witness to ancient Buttes, ancient Buttes with a rather modest cluster of buildings around them. With one standing high and proud atop each of the two Buttes. His hopes were dashed when he got a clearer look at it's inhabitants. They didn't seem to be nearly naked, painted savages; Never the less, they were obviously tribals. Sullivan didn't even know if they spoke English. Damn sure wasn't going to just waltz into there smiling out his ass. He was no more heathen then they, but they damn sure were more superstitious, all tribals are...?

He squared his shoulders and stood up high as he could, firing his acquired revolver in the air. Surely tribals hadn't the slightest comprehension of firearms, it certainly drew the attention of the entire Butte dwelling community. Whatever it was he thought would happen, Sullivan had forty tribals ascending at him cautiously. He didn't give them enough credit, not only did the tribals speak English but four among them held their own firearms, far more crude than his own homemade version but firearms nevertheless. They were confused and weary of this giant who bared a champion's weapon. Sullivan spent his entire life well fed while these tribals had lived a harsher life with much less substance. Most were more muscular but none were taller and broader of shoulder.

Sullivan held himself as a civilized man from a land with wonders they couldn't fathom, where each man held "champion's weapons" and none felt hungry or cold, twisting the truth a bit but in essence it was true. It fascinated the tribals, all of it. The man's clothes, his height and weapon. Sullivan say a place to rest and perhaps stay a while, they saw a warrior of gunpowder, it worked out well for both parties. Sullivan was led to the Pawnee Buttes and there descended their leader from the butte, more priest than chieftain. Just like that Sullivan was blessed and anointed, welcomed into the Sun Dogs.

The Sun Dogs were a strange bunch, they were no more heathen than Sullivan but certainly held different beliefs. Worshiping their solar deity in a polytheistic faith. Sullivan wasn't interested in changing this at all, but he was bound and determined to set around being organized. Not that these tribals weren't damn well organized, having reduced one of the three Buttes to a nub for building material to raise their homes. Certainly made for better dwelling then mud huts. Out here he just flat out knew they had hostile tribes to conflict with. Sullivan didn't care for that skirmishing tribal shit, he wanted the Sun Dogs to wage their conflicts like the Collinsmen had. The Sun Dogs despite welcoming what they perceived as a welcome addition to their tribe, wasn't willing to follow his advice.

He had to earn that, which was difficult when through the tribal maps, discovered numerous other tribes in the grassland. The Collinsman in him said these were supply cashes just waiting for more deserving to seize it. Even though the Sun Dogs had their enemies, they weren't beset or even actively fighting. His old pre-war Junior Scout's Guide to Guerrilla Warfare against the Commies would be awful useful out here. If he could just get every properly armed tribal to follow and listen to him, they'd murder the opposition's leadership in no time. Granted, the tribal's firearms were more akin to flimsy muskets of old.

Thus Sullivan took the initiative and stalked the hostile tribe, keeping under an improvised ghillie suit and scouting through his scope for weeks. It was all very thrilling waiting beyond the hostile tribe's eye, never getting bored observing them. Sometimes he would watch for days at a time. First Sullivan had to figure out who their chieftain was, then the chieftain's family and finally catch them all, or most of them in the open at the same time. The chieftain had his four wives, two daughters, a son and a infant. Fucked up as it was Sullivan wanted to kill the infant and son as his highest priority. Time enough at last had revealed the next best thing, he caught the chieftain cradling the infant in his arms outside their hut. After a single crack Sullivan shuffled away triumphantly.

The Sun Dogs were no less appalled and perhaps slightly afraid. These tribals held children as innocent and while certainly not naive enough to think they were never harmed or capable of harm, were still shocked that Sullivan had murdered one. In truth, the leader was much more appreciative that a rival chieftain was dead. Urged by Sullivan to take the initiative, the Sun Dogs utterly destroyed the rivals in mourning. They had relatively similar numbers to the Sun Dogs but lacked leadership, nor had they a man who snuffed their own 'gunpowder champions' from beyond their muskets' reliable range. That tribe was lost to the wind, those who were not initially slaughtered were sacrificed to the Sun Dog's deity high atop the Buttes.

Doubt between the Sun Dogs and Sullivan washed away. Their leader wanted Sullivan to snatch the lives of the Sun Dog's foes. The leader could see that civilized men could commit sins that righteous tribals never could. They concocted some spiritual mumbo-jumbo about how their solar god chose Sullivan to seek out those that disrespected him. Ergo anyone the priestly leader claimed, silly tribals.

The inevitable survivors of the defeated tribe would make the other tribes weary. Sullivan's greatest mistake was believing he could get away with the same thing, in the same way. The very first night he skulked around another close tribe to the Sun Dogs was met with disaster. Unbeknownst to Sullivan the tribe in question were clever, they had their most skilled hunter hide and watch the Sun Dogs each day(and night) for the man to leave. When Sullivan did end up heading out with his raggedy mismatch of sewn and mud-glued foliage; the hunter being swift of foot returned to his tribe with warning. The hunter was set back out to find and kill Sullivan. Sullivan was well hidden and prone before getting into eyeshot of the village, even worse was the sun setting.

What ended in disaster for Sullivan was the consummation of a single pill, Moldy Sullivan was almost killed because of a single pill of Cateye. Late in the night when Sullivan was observing the village from a great distance, the hunter picked up the shuffling movement of a man. It happened so quickly. Sullivan's heart skipped a beat when out of nowhere rapid footsteps were made apparent. He freaked out and looked up towards the sound while trying to pick himself up from his prone position. Instead Sullivan had his right cheek torn off from his left side, the hunter thought it was a fatal wound. Who himself felt his chest tighten and fell. Through the unbearable fire in his face managed to roll on his side and shoot the bastard. Sullivan was on his back crying in agony while holding his hollow right cheek in his hand. His would be killer stirred as Sullivan did, he didn't have as good night vision as the tribal with literal night vision but could see the bastard shuffle himself up. The hunter had his hands back to the firearm while Sullivan cocked his bolt with a shaking hand. Had Sullivan realized the hunter didn't at all have a wimpy little musket but some sort of .22 bolt action, that might have made him cock his own faster.

Instead Sullivan got the short end of the stick when the hunter leveled it to his face and fired. In an instant Sullivan heard thunderous ringing in his head, like a million hammers were striking metal at the same time. His reaction was immediate and the hunter's head found a reactionary bullet above his nose. Denial set in and Sullivan refused to acknowledged what just happened to his head, through the ringing and sudden mono vision he fled back to the Sun Dogs with all his remaining strength. They were horrified to see Sullivan, with a large exit wound in his right cheek and completely lacking his right eye, with it's own exit wound on the side of his skull. Far as tribal medicine went, it was beyond smashing bones together. They actually managed to sew Sullivan's cheek together, which unfortunately scrunched up and tightened the right side of his face. They were completely at a loss at what to do with his eye, best they could do was continue pumping him full of pain numbing concoctions.

Adding insult to injury, at least to Sullivan, the would be enemy tribe wanted to make peace with the Sun Dogs. While Sullivan was being fussed over by tribal witch-doctors the Sun Dog's leader accepted to speak terms of peace. However, Sullivan made his recovery before the leader set out to it. It was personal now, Sullivan was amendment to leave in the leaders place. Promising one way or another there would be peace. The arrangement was that both leaders would meet between their two villages and make peace, with two warriors in their retinue for protection. Sullivan hatched an idea that was entirely dependent on the placement of the enemy chieftain and his warriors. If they weren't exactly as he wanted, then Sullivan would make peace. As luck would have it the surprised and weary chieftain was in the center, flanked by his two warriors. Sullivan spoke about setting aside animosity and asked for forgiveness, the enemy chieftain granted it and was all to eager to leave. Sullivan didn't have any of that bullshit, not without 'honoring civilized tradition' with a handshake.

The chieftain met Sullivan's extended right hand to shake, and was gripped tight enough to make the elder's veins turn bright purple. Sullivan drew his concealed revolver, hidden in his trouser's left pocket, placing it right next to the chieftain's ear and fired at the man to his left. The chieftain wailed and the left man fell with hole in head, still gripping the poor chieftain, Sullivan swing him around to the ground and fired twice at the man to his right. The original plan was very similar but Sullivan had planned to use the chieftain as a human shield when swinging around to kill the right man, once again as luck would have it only the man to his left was armed with firearm. There wasn't any hesitation, no time to plead. Sullivan discharged the rest of his ammunition in the chieftain's belly. Sitting down with the dying man and watched. Also tried talking too, but the chieftain only wept.

This was how it all started. The Sun Dogs would arise to greatness...greatness on a tribal scale. This was a long and arduous process, the years progressed and Sullivan did anything and everything to the Sun Dog's enemies. Though they became few. The hard work brought them subservient tribes, begging to confederate and dominion over those who hadn't or denied it. There wasn't anymore total destruction of tribes after the first two, Sullivan taught the concept of tribute to the lesser villages. In time the Sun Dogs encompassed the entirety of the Pawnee Buttes, it wasn't as impressive as old Fort Collins but damn was the the payoff good. From the tribal perspective they were practically a pre-war city, to Sullivan it was a start of a possible town. Prior to the coming storm the Sun Dogs held dominion over all the Pawnee Tribes.

But oh did the storm come, and it bore the color red, flushed yellow with a bull. Twelve days. From the eve of this southwestern army appearing beyond the grassland, it took no less and no more than twelve days for the Sun Dogs to be judged on their knees. A Dead Sea came and drowned seven tribes, Sullivan now white of beard, was too terrified to face this threat. The old leader kept his most trusted companions atop the original butte, when this great army came Sullivan and his fellowmen fought tooth and nail atop the butte long after the would-have-been town below was sacked, it's people held outside the scrap walls. Of the twelve days it took this grand army to conquer the Sun Dogs, three were spent attacking this final holdout. The mettle of the old leader didn't hold up forever, seeing Sullivan and the other firearm wielding men run low on ammunition was too much. He wished for Sullivan to join him in surrendering, Ol' Moldy Sullivan was with him every step of the way as they descended the butte, both men prostrating themselves before the victorious man who drowned seven tribes.

The Sun Dogs struck that middle point between admirable resistance and subservience, neither too weak or too much resistance to warrant absolute annihilation. Sullivan stuck out like a sour thumb among the Sun Dogs, despite spending so time with them he never adopted their getup, he would rather keep his ragged clothing from so long ago. Which seemed to amuse the victors. Sullivan had a deadly eye atop that butte that found it's mark time after time, now the man lay before greater feet. The presence of a civilized man among tribals was a curious thing to the victories, he was also too old to be indoctrinated into their army. The one who drowned the tribes were clever, their conquest of the tribes beyond the Pawnee Grassland was not yet complete, since the Sun Dogs was getting absorbed anyhow there wasn't much point of killing a useful hand. One that spent so long fighting the tribals in the area. No surprise Sullivan would much rather train their scouts in future conquest eastward then end up crucified. 

The loss of so many years of hard work was bad enough, but what was heartbreaking most of all was the army's main encampment, it was in Fort Collins. The ruins within ruins, not even cross-bound survivors remained. Turns out the Collinsmen put up a resistance so fierce that in the end those that surrendered were just killed altogether. Sad thing was for all the fight they put up, it took a meager day and half night for the town to fall. Never had Sullivan felt worse, here he was rather bow with some fucking tribal then fight to death with his real folks. He felt worse then brahminshit. He practically sleepwalked through the year, it was a blur of teaching the lay of the land and their tribes to the army's scouts. The entire experience was surreal, he was an outsider looking in on a force far more brutal then the Collinsmen had ever been. Sure the Sun Dogs had slaves and made sacrifices but this army, was something else. Time enough would have the main bulk of the army prepare a long march westward. Just like that the same men who fucked over everything Sullivan knew wished to depart in good faith, he was rewarded with strange coin and ammo for teaching the scouts, something that apparently went over well in their conquests.

With the army departing west and the Pawnee under harsh flag there was only one way to go. Spent the rest of his days drifting in Kansas, ever so slowly heading further east. Compelled by the memories of what remained in the west. Whatever it took to survive. He spent his seventieth birthday in view of the most beautiful city he ever saw....

The Invincible Zodiac

Name: Zodiac.

Race: Human.

Sex: Male.

Age: 24.

Special: S-9 P-5 E-10 C-2 I-3 A-6 L-5

TAG!: Melee, Big Guns, Throwing.

Traits: Heavy Handed, Kamikaze.

Faction: Brotherhood of Steel.

Position: Senior Initiate.

[Quartermaster's note: Initiate Zodiac entered Brotherhood service with three pieces of sharpened rebar, two shorter in length for throwing purposes and one two point eight meters in length for close quarters combat. As Initiate Zodiac will not be hunting for the Brotherhood, these weapons were relinquished and sent to the scrapyard.]

Equipment: Fourteen weighted darts, issued for exceptional throwing accuracy, approved for replenishment. Surplus club, reserved for tribal initiates, acquisition for superior melee equipment pending on performance and survivability. Bolt action Colt Rangemaster "Hunting Rifle", issued as surplus, denied for re-acquisition. Forty 7.62mm bullets of ammunition, approved for replenishment if presented with confirmed kills. "Hand-me-down" Brotherhood leather kit designated 'mk2'. [Quartermaster's Note: Initiate Zodiac is a very large tribal, his position in the brotherhood forbade wasting resources for custom tailoring. Unfortunately the armament that fit him well enough was a superior crafted, if not old and worn, set of leather armor. Letting an Initiate serve in his rags is a worse insult to the brotherhood than equipping Initiate Zodiac with slightly higher quality armor.]

Appearance: Before his person as tribute to the brotherhood, Zodiac would have the look of a large tribal in brahmin skin drab. Sharpened rebar spears and overall savagery. Even after his barbaric weaponry was replaced and his person equipped in more uplifted gear, the brotherhood desires tribal savagery to remain, if tempered by discipline. Zodiac is obedient but discipline is something he has taken poorly to. Brotherhood standards for initiates dictated his hair too unkempt. His great tangled beard is to his absolute horror little more than a thick brimming mustache, and lengthy knot ridden hair buzz cut. Zodiac is permeated with a harshness about him, evidence of entry wounds and once broken bones, a nose that will never be fully straight again and a brow that would need physical forcing to cease it's furrow.

Personality: Unintelligent, obedient, hulking tribal. Everything the brotherhood could want in a grunt. Zodiac knew his place in his old tribal hierarchy and served it well, better than any other in his tribe. Oddly enough his tribe is monotheistic and odder still is their Jewish faith. He's adjusted well to serving the brotherhood now that the tribe is under protection. Zodiac is as ferocious as tribals come and makes for an extraordinary soldier. Albeit lacking leadership skills and utterly dull, it is nigh implausible to ever ascend past a junior knight. Prefers to rend with great melee weapons or tossing missiles but is learning with firearms, and with training can handle larger heavier weapons well.

Background: Zodiac isn't even a footnote in wasteland history. He hails from a semi-migratory tribe that has settled on the edge of brotherhood lands. Moving west into old world Kansas. Newcomers into the brotherhood sphere they are brahmin herders with aspirations for a settled lifestyle. Being non hostile and in awe of the Brotherhood the tribes elders prostrated themselves before the brotherhood. They themselves were herded further inland into brotherhood territory and encourage to settle on Wilson Lake. Under Brotherhood protection the age old terms of tribute by warriors was enforced. Their herd numbered in the thirties and the tribe less then seventy, their small numbers created a more lax demand. The greatest of their warriors was plucked by the brotherhood, to the tribe it was a tremendous honor, for the brotherhood it was acceptable enough.

Zodiac went through firearm training decently enough, he had never used any before then and it showed. Prior to the influx of reinforcements to Wellstone, his duties for the brotherhood were in patrol of the Kansas Stretch. His performance was admirable but without noteworthiness. When Wellstone began being reinforced, Zodiac was promoted to a Senior Initiate and sent marching east with several other initiates and a squire.

Name: Inwold Dalomax.

Gender: Male.

Age: 39.

Race: Breton.

Birthsign: The Tower.

Faction: Kingdom of High Rock, Knights of the Dragon (Formally), Fief of Dresan.

Rank: Earl of Dresan, Honorary tittle of Knight of the Dragon (For previous service).

Position: Vassal to Baron Gabryel Lafont, member of the martially bound lesser nobility, Bound to the Lordship of the Gaerharts.

Appearance: An averaged sized Breton man, physically in shape from following the treatises on training in armor. A round face with a weak chin, albeit has his curly blond beard to cover it. Greenish grey eyed.

Equipment: While the wealth required to purchase and maintain full plate is beyond Inwold's grasp, neither is he poorly equipped. Owning full maille (with hourglass gauntlets) hauberk, chausses, coif and aventail. Alongside plate breastplate, Schynbalds and sabatons. All atop an aketon. Wearing a local fashion that covers most of the maille, Bascinet and visor.

Primarily equipped with a halberd, arming sword on his person as a sidearm. As his kit isn't full plate Inwold carries an archaic heraldic shield on his person.

Owns a warhorse with maille barding.

Coat of Arms: Yellow mountain lion atop three perpendicular mage lights with the Tower constellation nestled at the bottom.

Retinue: Currently none, yet has sent for his old retainers once being reinstated.

Personality: Isn't much for the classic scheming of the Bretons, too fearful of losing his recently regained position his forefathers earned. One of his greatest pleasures is having servants equip him in his kit, Inwold feels like a king in those moments. 

Patron Divine: Zenithar.

Background/History: The Dalomaxes are a young family in the Breton nobility, while historically serving as knights for lesser nobles or as Imperial Knights. After the collapse of the Septim Dynasty the Dalomaxes saw a sinking ship and made the transition from serving as Imperial Knights to solely household guards in High Rock.

They found service for the wealthy Mon merchant family. The position of household guards for the Mons was lucrative enough that bribery was difficult at best. While never achieving any heroic deeds or displaying great chivalry the Dalomaxes were, after the Mons established a Barony around 4E 60, rewarded with the Fief of Dresan, where they continued serving loyally.

Dresan had little in the way of industrial potential yet made up for it with it's grazing lands and agrarian society. Wealth flowed to the Dalomaxes who were not prevalent in Breton schemes. For they it was better to jealously hold onto what they have then attempt to expand. Prior to Duke Jhared Mon's scheming against King Adrard the vassalage of the Dalomaxes were never put into question.

Needing extra wealth for his imminent scheme against King Adrard, Duke Mon heavily increased his taxation of the vassals under him. The current Earl of Dresan, Inwold Dalomax, couldn't pay the demanded increase in tariffs without dipping into his own treasury. He wrote of his complaints to Duke Mon stating at the current rate Mon's increased tariffs would have Inwold in debt within months. 

Duke Mon took the complaint as insubordination and ordered Inwold to be exiled and all assets seized. Without gold, arms or even horse Inwold had to walk outside of Mon's holdings. 

Inwold ended up in Daggerfall, given one of his siblings had married a lesser noble within the city. His desperation outweighed the shame and he sought for her help. Borrowing gold from the two and an sponsorship from his sister's husband landed him in the Knights of the Dragon.

Inwold toiled with mundane duties believing this would be his life now. He had been shoved from grace and replaced with a harder taxmaster. It was all the more surprising out of the blue Sir Emeric Bridwell, head of the Knights of the Dragon, summoned him and announced his reinstatement as Earl by the authority of Baron Gabryel Lafont. The loyalty of Inwold's replacement had been called into question and was deposed of, as he was associated with the now imprisoned Duke Mon.

A lifetime of exile lasted only a couple months.

Motives: Content to keep his regained Fief, understands what will be demanded of him in the war to come but isn't looking forward to it. Quite genuinely thankful for the generosity of his lord Lafont for returning his assets.

Skills: Trained all his adult life in Breton martial arts, understands all the treatises involving arming swords and polearms, trained extensively within his full kit. Is slightly less of a milk drinker.