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The Good Doctor

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This thread is for all the character sheets. This way, they will be easy for anyone to find and refer back to. In addition, other OOC resources that relate to the RP (such as maps or faction descriptions) can also be posted here. This thread isn't for chatting or discussing content. The only posts that go up here should be RP resources that have already been approved in the main OOC discussion thread.

For the sake of keeping this one more organized than the last, it'd be preferable if everyone either only uploads one character per post or follows these instructions (courtesy of Witch) to include multiple sets of spoiler tags in a single post:

Create the first spoiler and save the post. Edit the post and add an empty line above the spoiler tag. Use the little round handle at the top left corner of the spoiler tag to move it up. Add the new spoiler tag below and save. 

World Map (work in progress)

Wellstone Map

Forgotten Homes Gang Map

Timeline of important events leading up to the RP:


2162: The Master is defeated and his army of super mutants is scattered. (Ending of Fallout 1)

21??: The mutant Gammorin unites the super mutants and leads them east. (intro to Tactics)

2197: Brotherhood airships are dispatched to pursue the mutants, but storms scatter them and bring them down all across the Midwest. (intro to Tactics)

2198: Gammorin is defeated by the Brotherhood, leaving the super mutants leaderless.

2199: BoS General Barnaky's brain is integrated with the Calculator in Vault 0, giving him full control of its robot army. (end of Tactics)

2200: Under Barnaky, the BoS begins to round up mutants and send them to labor gulags.

2201: The BoS takes a strong offensive against Midwestern raider tribes.

2205: The BoS campaign against raider tribes ends with all tribes besides the Zarks left devastated. The Zarks retreat into their caves.

2211: A large gulag breakout occurs in Kansas. All of the escapees are put down by the BoS.

2212: The Mutant Liberation Army is formed.

2215: Barnaky hand picks his first group of inquisitors to root out BoS traitors, mutant sympathizers, and leaders of the MLA. The name of the BoS-protected community Gravestone is formally changed to 'Wellstone' in celebration of the good times that lay ahead with the Brotherhood at the helm.

2220: The MLA win their first major victory against the Brotherhood in Jefferson. Over 80 Brothers were killed and another 28 were captured. This event became known by the MLA as the day they 'Shattered Steel'.

2222: Anne Red, a leader of the MLA, is publicly crucified in Wellstone after being captured by Barnaky's Inquisitors. The MLA execute a dozen BoS prisoners in retaliation.

2238: A super mutant named Jaxton organizes a massive breakout at the gulag near Wellstone. He and his fellow mutants flee to the Ozarks, refusing MLA attempts to recruit them.

2243: The Brotherhood discovers an Enclave outpost that has recently been established in Chicago. In exchange for their knowledge and manpower, the inhabitants are brought into the fold. The Enclave children are taken to be raised in Vault 0.

2245: Well-armed slavers emerge from Vault 48 and start to build their own city in the ruins of Columbia. Occupied by war, the Brotherhood opts to ignore them for the time being. They quickly assert dominance in the region, and begin to take the Brotherhood's place as the major authority in what would soon become known as the 'Lost Lands'.

2249: BoS mutineers fail an attempt to assassinate Barnaky but do manage to cripple Vault 0's robot manufacturing systems.

2252: The MLA begins to get pushed west, into Colorado.

2256: The last major MLA holdout is obliterated by BoS forces. Word is sent out that the war is finally over.

2258: BoS scouts encounter Caesar's Legion for the first time in the Western Rocky Mountains.

2261: Bloody skirmishes and reports of the Legion's strength convince Barnaky to put any plans of western expansion on hold. They decide to focus on recovering their strength after war with the MLA.

2276: Led by Jaxton, the remnants of Gammorin's super mutants found Gateway City in the ruins of St. Louis. Expecting a fight with the Brotherhood, they begin to fortify it heavily.

2277: The Legion loses to the NCR at the Battle for Hoover Dam. During that same year, Jaxton and his super mutants successfully repel a full-on siege by the Brotherhood.

2283: Vault 0 abruptly goes radio silent and communications eastward cease. The reasons for this are declared classified, and travel into Colorado is restricted. The Brotherhood Elders in Chicago make plans to wipe out the mutants in Gateway City.

2284: Pockets of rebels cropping up in Wellstone cause the BoS to institute martial law in the city. Soldiers are brought in, and preparations are made to use it as location to house an army in preparation for the eventual assault on Jaxton's mutants. But first, they must rid the city of any organized rebel factions.


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The Renegade



Name:  Gregory Thatch
Sex:  Male
Race:  Human, Caucasian
Age:  52
Faction:  Renegade Brotherhood
Position:  Commander

S-7  P-5  E-7  C-6  I-8  A-4  L-3
TAG! Skills:  Small Guns, Speech, Melee Weapons
Traits:  Trigger Discipline

Appearance:  Gregory is of average height, with a soldier's build. He has blue eyes that are punctuated with lines that mark his age, which is also indicated by the grey that is overtaking his once fully-brown hair and beard. Despite having seen his share of combat, Gregory remains unscarred. His default expressions tend to fall somewhere within varying degrees of "solemn" and "tired".

Gear:  It is largely thanks to his suit of T-51b Power Armor that Gregory still lives today. It once belonged to the Brotherhood of Steel, as did his Colt 6520 10mm pistol and SharpWit combat knife. These are among many other pieces of gear that the Renegades stole before breaking away. Interestingly enough, Gregory also is one of the rare few Brothers who owns a Vault-Tec Pip-Boy 3000a, a useful personal device obtained from Vault 0 itself.

Personality:  While generally polite in conversation, Gregory is not quite the talker that he was in his younger days. His position has made him very cautious of anyone he is not absolutely certain can be trusted.

Background:  Gregory and his younger brother Tristan were born on a base on the West Coast, and were brought to Chicago as children. The Brotherhood absorbed the group they came with and sent the ones under 16 to be fostered in Vault 0. This is where Gregory grew up, where he learned to read and shoot, and where he eventually married his first wife, Amelia. It was not long before she became pregnant with twins, though sadly, both she and the children were lost in the final stages of their development. Distraught, Gregory begged for clearance to leave the vault. It took some string pulling, but eventually he was allowed to leave.

Gregory spent the next few years fighting the Mutant Liberation Army, happy to use it as a distraction from the ghosts of his past. During this time, he participated in some of the bloodiest conflicts in the history of the region. To this day, Gregory doesn't understand what he did to distinguish himself in that war, or why he eventually started climbing the ranks more quickly than some of the brothers and sisters beside him. To him, it just felt like a constant, bloody push across a seemingly endless country. He was just one man among many. 

In the final year of the war, Gregory's unit occupied a small town in Kansas, where the local mechanic befriended the Brotherhood by repairing their gear. Her name was Haley, and after several weeks of living in the same junky shed, feelings between the two started to develop. As if their new relationship had been a sign of good things to come, the war ended shortly after, and Haley returned with Gregory to Chicago, where they settled outside the city and had three children of their own. All of the kids were members of the BoS, but given their father's rank and background, they were permitted to live and train outside the city.

That might have been the end of Gregory's story, if not for a Brotherhood deserter named Felix arriving at their doorstep. There are no records of what, exactly, Felix told Gregory, or how long he lived under his roof. But it is known that after several years of retirement, Gregory and his family disappeared along with a small hoard of military equipment. That equipment was put to use not long after, when a small band of marauders set upon several Brotherhood patrols in the Chicago area. The leader was identified as Gregory Thatch, himself.

It has been quite a few years now since the Thatch family were labeled Renegades. Gregory's children have become adults, raised to hate the Brotherhood just as he does. It is true that they could have easily disappeared into the east, never to be seen again, but Gregory had something else in mind. He chose to live in Wellstone. 

Motivations:  The later years of Gregory's life have been defined by his burning hatred of Barnaky and the Brotherhood of Steel. There is nothing he wants more than to see the faction crumble, even if it means all the progress they've made crumbles with them.

The Entrepreneur



Name:  Josiah (Josey) Thatch
Alias:  Samuel Hall
Sex:  Male
Race:  Human, Caucasian
Age:  27
Faction:  Brotherhood Renegades

S-5  P-6  E-6  C-8  I-6  A-5  L-4
TAG! Skills:  Barter, Small Guns, Speech

Appearance:  Josey is of average height with a healthy build. He has blue eyes, sandy-blond hair, and a comely smile. He favors his mother, and is generally considered quite handsome among the rough sorts he tends to associate with.

Gear:  Josey typically wears plain enough clothes to not stand out in the city. He usually keeps a knife handy, both as a tool and an emergency weapon. If he feels the need, he'll carry a concealed pistol, his favorite being a snubnosed revolver, but he prefers rifles when engaging in open combat.

Personality:  Outwardly, Josey presents himself as humorous, light-hearted, and confident, with a penchant for making friends and changing minds. He doesn't like to sit idle, and is always thinking up new ways to make use of his time, and sometimes other people's time as well. He tries to always have a tangible end goal in sight, and considers this whenever taking on new challenges.

Background:  Josey was born into the Brotherhood of Steel less than a year after their victory over the MLA. Thanks to his father's position, he was allowed to live with his family outside Chicago during his years of training. His goal was to become a procurement specialist for the order of Scribes. That goal would never be realized, however, for the year that Josey was to be inducted turned out to be the same year that his family were declared renegades.

Of the three children of Gregory Thatch, it was Josey who had the hardest time transitioning to the life of an outlaw. He agreed with his father's stance, of course. The Brotherhood could not be allowed to continue as they do with impunity. But as far as he could tell, the ties that his younger siblings, Eli and Aly, had been forced to cut were nowhere near as important to them as his own had been. In the just one day, Josey had lost every friend he'd had. He'd lost his girlfriend, his career as a scribe, his entire future that he'd spent so many years planning and working for. It was difficult at first, but the circumstances that accompanied these losses gave him a sense of purpose that Josey found bizarrely comforting. As a scribe for the Brotherhood, he would have spent his entire life helping them grow and develop, but it would have been a thankless task with no end. As a rebel, he enjoys the clear and direct objective of bringing down the Brotherhood, a goal that he can consider every time he makes a choice. This has led to him taking a very active role in doing what he can to assist his father inside Wellstone. Josey's latest venture has been to utilize his mother and brother's skills with repairs and computers to open a tinker shop called 'The Garage', which serves as a useful cover for the family's presence in the city, as well as a source of comfortable income to support the lot of them. He runs the business as its owner, but this is only when he is not seeking out other rebels on the down-low.


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Tech Scribe



Name: Garret Rickson

Age: 23

S-5 P-3 E-4 C-4 I-9 A-5 L-5

TAG!: Science+, Repair

Traits: Trigger discipline, four eyes, night person

Appearance: Average height, African-American with a lighter skin tone for having stayed indoors so much. Black twisted hair that he has tied up behind his head. A light beard around his mouth. Amber eyes. In rather good shape and more muscular than a normal scribe but less than a knight. 

Faction: Brotherhood of Steel

Equipment: He wears a scribe robe in dark grey and a pair of rectangular glasses. Has a small laser pistol that he carries because it's required of him.

Personality: He often approaches his work with a form of productive laziness. He generally hates mundane, tedious and routine work and instead often of doing the work or simply avoiding it, he tries to find a way to program a robot or computer to do the work for him, even when it means more work than simply doing what he was supposed to do initially. Garret cares little for the going ons outside his hobbies and his work and generally considers other people to be too boring to waste time on outside his spheres of interest. 

Background: Born into the Brotherhood he showed quite the curiosity and inventiveness at an early age. Since then he has been raised for the duty of Scribe. He studied much in form of computers, robotics, electronics as well as some physics and a bit of biology. Worked under a few Senior Scribes and helped test and develop various computer and robotics systems to help with everyday lives of the Brotherhood.
At the age of 21 he was helping to develop an improvement to a robotics arm and one day when he was inspecting the internal parts the machine suddenly switched on and began moving. His left hand got stuck in the moving parts and was slowly getting crushed. When the machine finally stopped his hand and parts of the lower arms was quite damaged and malformed. The Brotherhood doctors tried to reconstruct the arm but in the end it was decided to simply lop of the damaged bits and replace it all with a prosthetic robot arm. 

With the new robot arm he gained a new fascination of merging human and machine. Since the accident he has gotten an implant in the brain that works as a calculator for crunching numbers much faster. He has also grown tired of his glasses and has filed a request for replacing his eyes with cybernetic ones. 

He has gotten his hands on a workshop robot that works and looks like a smaller Mr Handy. Its main body is slightly larger than a man's head and has six arms as well as various tools that it can switch between for each arm. 

As of late he drew the (boring) unfortunate lot of being stationed at the city of Wellstone to help oversee its technological development as well as some simple maintenance work of computers and robots.

That hasn't stopped him from continuing on a couple of his own personal side projects. One is a electromagnetically powered sniper rifle along with a camera and computer driven scope for it, that he co-develops along with a couple of other scribes back in Chicago in their free time. Aside from the sniper rifle he also likes to develop smaller computer games when he got spare time in front of his computer.

Also does some hand-to-hand combat sparring a couple of times a week to stay in shape. Partly because he considers some lighthearted sparring fun and because he's been told by the doctors that exercise is good for the brain. 

Motivation: Wants mostly to live a good life with the comforts of technology as well as creating and developing new and interesting technology. Has also begun toying the idea that the merging of human and machine might be the way to go for him to overcome the shortcoming of his flesh. 

Skills: Good with computers and robots. Quite decent with sniper rifles. Half-decent in unarmed combat.





Name: Rose Goldwyn

Age: 31

Appearance: She's somewhat short, got a mixture of Caucasian and Latin-American general appearance. While she was a rather pretty and beautiful girl to begin with, extensive surgeries has increased her beauty to a level few women possess. Her body is curvy, slim and ample in just the right places. Her skin is pale from rarely going out in the sun and is very smooth and practically without imperfections. Her hair is long with a light curl to it and colored rosy red. Her face is slim and looks gorgeous, leaning more towards being pretty than sexy. Her eyes are deep green with long eyelashes. 

S-2 P-6 E-2 C-10 I-7 A-5 L-7

TAG!: Barter+, Speech+

Traits: Sex appeal, small frame

Faction: Neutral but with a strong affiliation with the Brotherhood of Steel

Equipment: Carries a small silenced pistol hidden on her thigh along with a small hidden knife. Otherwise sports a quite large selection of elegant clothes. 

Personality: Almost always smiling and courteous to the people she meets. She likes to talk and hear her own voice and generally wants there to be cheerful and lightened mood in the room she's in. Loves compliments and generally hates critique, but tolerates some of it if she finds it constructive enough. Can be rather venomous in her speech when dealing with someone she thinks has offended her. 

Background: Born in a tribe with a rather urban civilized appearance but with a rather clan like mentality. The tribe liked to do the occasional raiding while claiming to do it for "liberty" which was a word that had long since lost its original meaning in the tribe and now simply meant "more stuff for us". 

She was destined to be little more than housewife of some much older man she didn't like. At the age of sixteen she ran away just before her arranged wedding and ran into the vault slavers going down the Route 63. As her tribe had occasionally done some raiding against the slavers while also remaining hidden from them they were of course rather interested in her tribe. Rose struck a deal with the slavers and led them to the small town where her tribe lived. In a quick ambush the slavers beat the tribe and promptly enslaved everyone that they could and killed the rest. 

With a brahmin pulling a cart full of fusion cells, some energy rifles and lots of high-tech kitchen electronics (two thirds of which were luxury vault toasters), and a simple assaultron to protect her as a reward, she made her way to Wellstone. There she met the elderly lady Miss Goldwyn that owned a big fancy hotel that was however down on its luck. Using her charms Rose endeared herself to Miss Goldwyn and used some of the money she had made of her reward to refurbish the hotel. Rose was then adopted by the old lady and thus took on the name of Goldwyn herself. But business only improved somewhat but was still not looking great and Rose got the idea of using prostitutes to help bring in the business. The old lady refused and was later killed in an "accident", leaving Rose as the sole owner of the hotel. 
She brought in the prostitutes and business began to flow. Eventually the prostitutes became the main business and the hotel was turned into a more traditional brothel and was renamed "The Rose Garden". 

The brothel tries to maintain a rather high standard with clean rooms and a doctor that makes sure that no kind of diseases spread throughout the staff or to the customers. A fifth of the prostitutes are men and all of them are given a weekly injection of a chem that makes them sterile. While the chem is largely safe, prolonged and constant use has caused some of the prostitutes to get addicted to it and will suffer light body pains and depression if not given their weekly dose. 

She also values the safety of her business and her staff, and as such each bedroom in the brothel is linked up to a rudimentary security system wherein each room has a small hidden, but still relatively easy to reach button that lights up a specific lamp in a security room. Pressing the button will usually result in two guards being sent to the room to investigate. 

This care she has over employees and how she likes to portray herself and her reasons has led to her over time almost become a cult like leader to them. She especially likes to entice prostitutes into making more profit with the promises of a life of luxury and glamour should they succeed. A life her few most successful prostitutes has and that she makes sure that they flaunt in front of the other prostitutes.

She also found out that selling information to the Inquisition is a good way to gain some leeway from the state in how she handled her business and competition. She has used this to hire some muscle to extort and deal with any potential competitors and threats. She also uses some of the information she gets to blackmail certain people to either do favors for her or simply pay for her silence. 

Rose has also acquired and owns a small medical clinic and a general goods store nearby the brothel. She has bought a few protectrons in addition to her hired muscle to help protect her businesses and has upgraded her personal assaultron one with better equipment to serve as her personal bodyguard. 

Motivation: Live the good life of luxury and power.

Skills: Very good at talking and acting, to a point where she has an eerie way to make people want to trust and like her, even when they have reason not to. Half decent with her pistol and knife.





Name: Richard Smith

Gender: Male

Age: 26

S-7 P-6 E-6 C-5 I-6 A-7 L-3

TAG!: Repair, Melee, Barter, Archery

Appearance: General look is like he was a mixture of Scandinavian and Italian heritage. Slightly above average height, deep red hair reaching down to his shoulders and is usually tied up a in small ponytail behind his head. Chiseled jaw with a light full beard. Clear blue eyes. Body is rather muscular but also rather slim with various cut scars here and there. Most notably are the whipping scars that cover his back.

Faction: Neutral

Equipment: Simple and relatively tight beige pants, sweater and hood with face covering. A pair of ski goggles. Simple leather boots, gloves and bracers. A bastard sword, a few of daggers (his primary one being forged from the metal of a strange kitchen knife he bought from a traveling merchant), a modern compound bow and a quiver of arrows (five bodkin, four broad-head, two barbed broad-head and two with modified fusion cells as explosive heads). A simple, small leather backpack with several pockets. A forging hammer and tongs. A sturdy, special steel ingot with a large screw sticking out of its bottom flat side that is used as a miniature anvil. Some basic survival gear.

Personality: Generally courteous to most people as he usually only wants to trade and avoid any trouble that can cause him serious harm. Would rather talk himself out of a fight rather resort to violence if he thinks the other party is of the reasonable sort. But he don't take kindly to people he considers to be dishonorable rabble. Though his times on the road has made him rather acceptant of underhanded tactics if the need arises.

Background: In a relatively secluded place where gun ammunition became a rarity, primitive weapons became the norm. As his tribe controlled a mine and a smelter with a forge, they forged weapons and armors based on knights of late medieval era they found in some old history books. His tribe conquered the other nearby tribes with their superior equipment and forced them into slavery (or serfdom) to work the fields and the mine. 
The tribe founded the neo-medieval kingdom of Forgeland and the knights became known as Forge-knights. These knights and their families of the original tribe became the ruling nobility of the kingdom. Blacksmithing became a sacred art that was to be kept secret from the rabble, else they forge their own weapons and armor.

Being born as Richard II of House Firesword he grew up learning everything that was expected of him as a knight: blacksmithing, fencing, literature, how to speak properly and be courteous, a creed of honor and of course how to command the rabble. 

At the age of sixteen Richard was forced into exile from his homeland and has been wandering the road since, working as a blacksmith and occasional mercenary. During this time he picked up a bow and became rather proficient with it. Has also learnt how to sneak rather well to avoid or ambush raiders. 

Motives: Wants to find a place where he can make his fortune and reclaim the life that was lost to him. Also to live in relative peace.

Skills: A relatively good (by his people's standards, very good by most wastelanders' standards) blacksmith and his combat skills goes along the lines of "if I can forge it, I can wield it", as spending his time forging weapons he must also be able to wield them effectively to see if he needs to adjust anything. So he's good with: daggers, swords, shields, heavy armor, bow and arrow, throwing spears and to some extent axes, pole-arms, other throwing weapons and unarmed. Decent at sneaking.





Name: John Nuker

Age: 20

S-4 P-7 E-5 C-4 I-4 A-8 L-5

TAG!: Sneak, Steal, Lockpick

Appearance: A bit below average height, rather plain looking with short brown hair and a clean shave, brown eyes. His body is rather thin with only a little muscle to show. 

Faction: Anti-authority rebel

Traits: Night person

Equipment: Has a pair of worn sneakers and jeans along with a light green shirt. Has a leather belt with numerous small pockets that are hard to see at a first glance and fingerless, thin, leather gloves. 

Personality: He has this idea of wanting to be the handsome, gentleman rogue that gets all the ladies; an idea he has some trouble living up to. While he's often nice and on rare occasion even exhibits qualities of a gentleman, he has a habit of becoming bitter and blame his own shortcomings on other people.

Background: Born in the slums of the city of Wellstone he lived in the Forgotten Homes district and he never knew his parents or what happened to them. Raised at a rundown orphanage with his two years older brother, Chris Nuker, the two had dreams of making their way in life and become rich. They struggled with school and often skipped it to go steal nicer food than what they got at the orphanage. As they grew up and got kicked out of the orphanage they started to work part time with whatever work they could find, be it errand boy or storage worker, and part time as thieves. They stole and also did some chem smuggling for some other minor criminals. Both got caught a few times and served some time in prison.

Over time they made enough to live in a decent enough apartment that had running water and a roof without leaks. Chris got more bolder and began helping other criminals with some extortions as well as doing some armed robberies. John however wanted to stay subtle and stuck to pickpocketing and smuggling. 

Then one day Chris made an armed robbery against a shop owner and it went wrong. The shop owner got shot by Chris and he got caught by the law enforcement. Chris claimed that it was an accident because the shop owner tried to resist and gun just went off in the tumult. The police and the Brotherhood though had had enough of Chris and his criminal record and sent him to the nearby Gulag on undetermined time. 

Three months has passed since Chris was sent off and John is rather mad that the Brotherhood has taken away his brother in such a manner and hasn't answered his questions if his brother is well. When Brotherhood forces moved into the city and declared martial law, he has had a really hard time to make any sort of living of his old trade.

Motivation: Blames the Brotherhood for taking away the only family he had and partly for being poor as he thinks their petty laws are used to keep the poor folks in their place. Wants a more free world without any real authority where people are allowed to make a life for themselves. 

Skills: Good at sneaking, pickpocketing and lockpicking. Half-decent at haggling.

Edited by Witchking of Angmar
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The Sheriff



Title: The Sheriff

Name: Lawrence Taylor Harding

Age: 42

Race: Human Caucasian

Sex: Male

S-6 P-9 E-7 C-3 I-7 A-5 L-3

TAG!: Guns+, Survival, Medicine

Traits: Trigger Discipline

Starting Faction: Yellow Rose Caravans

Position: Guard

Appearance: Lawrence is a tanned, rough skinned man, stemming from many hours spent outside in the hot Texas sun. He has a dark brown mustache, the color of mud, which matches his eyes. His hair is greying on the edges, and is beginning to thin around his widow's peak. His nose is slightly crooked. His hands are calloused. He has two noticeable scars, one running across his right cheek, the other down the back of his left calf. He has a medium build, with a slight pudge to his belly. On his left peck is a rudimentary tattoo of a horse's head. Stands a little under 6 ft.

Starting Gear: Lawrence wears desert ranger combat armor, a pair of worn brown leather boots, a black felt hat, a white straw hat (both given to him by his wife), a faded black bandana, and a pair of road goggles. Around his neck he wears a large talon on a rawhide string. He uses a Colt Single Action Army, long barreled and .45 caliber, with his last name carved in wood grip. He also uses a Winchester Model 1894 repeater with a bullet sleeve on the tornillo wood stock, also .45 caliber, and wears a hatchet on his belt. In his boot holster he hides a snub nosed Colt Single Action Army. Ammo for each gun, as well as a canteen, a pack of food, and some caps. In his backpack, he has a Pip-boy model 2000, a few books, and his metal sheriff’s badge, a five pointed star inside a circle inscribed with “Sheriff” across the top and, in a different font, “Ranger” along the bottom.

Personality: Lawrence is a man haunted by his past and broken by the loss of everything he once thought essential to his life. He’s a man who tries to stay away from attachments so as not to get burned by death again. But beneath that he still holds the heart of a kind man, a loving husband and son who was well liked and trusted by the people he served as sheriff. Though he tries to keep himself closed off to others, most he grows close with won’t find a more loyal friend. He’s discerning and thoughtful, and hopeful that the Belt will offer him an opportunity to set his demons aside once and for all. He has severe survivor’s guilt, and suffers from nightmares and flashbacks because of this.

History: Born to Joseph and Atha Harding, Lawrence spent his youth inside the confines of the Vault 38, located far from the population centers of the Lone Star State. Nestled in the peaks of Big Bend National Park, the vault was intentionally under populated, leading to problems from the start. Because of the lack of workers, the vault dwellers had a hectic, busy lifestyle. After 200 years, even the hardworking dwellers could no longer maintain the vault, so when it fell into disrepair, they shut down the reactor and left. The Hardings were among those that headed east to find a new home. They arrived in Horse Head, located at the only safe crossing on the Pecos River.

There, they helped the town of Horse Head grow. It became a respectable trade hub, with the intrepid Hardings as leaders. Atha became its mayor, with Joseph always at her side as an advisor and the town’s teacher. Come hell or high water, the Hardings steered Horse Head in the right direction. But their time came, as all peoples' must, leaving their son Lawrence as the sole heir to their proud name. With little skill in the way of words, Lawrence was not a fit for mayor, but his expertise with a gun was undeniable. He was deputized at age 22, and became sheriff of Horse Head at 25. He was quick to dispense frontier style justice, but took no pride in putting people in the ground. He solved several mysteries as well, and took pride in his detective work. The Lone Star Republic Rangers made him an honorary member soon after, though he always knew it was so they could order him on missions in the undermanned West Texas region. Lawrence was happy in Horse Head, and formed a family when he married Lorena, the daughter of the bridge keeper, at age 28. They formed a happy couple, he maintaining law and order, she providing upkeep for the lone path across the river.

Four year later, though, a band of raiders in the untamed western frontier had designs on Horse Head, seeking to tax or kill all those that passed by. Lawrence, eager to protect the town his parents built, kept them at bay for many years by paying tribute. But when a new leader took over the raiders, tribute no longer sufficed. The town was attacked in the dead of night, and most of the citizens murdered. As Lawrence and Lorena fled the town, one final bullet rang out in the night. Halfway across the bridge, Lorena died. His wife, his town, his parent’s legacy, was all gone in the blink of an eye.

The Lone Star Republic retook the crossing the next year, with Lawrence’s help, but they ran it thereon out. The town of Horse Head was buried beneath the new, government owned crossing. Worst of all, the raider chief had escaped, heading back into the lawless western lands. Lawrence sought him out, tracking and hunting the bandit across desert, plains, and mountains. But even upon avenging Lorena by killing the raider, he found no peace from his guilt. Lawrence made his way to Old Paso and drowned his self-pity in alcohol, knowing he'd failed his wife, his parents, and their town.

He stayed a lowly drunkard in Old Paso for several years. After a friend helped him realize drinking his guilt away wasn’t working and never would, he made his way to Dallas, where he joined up with Yellow Rose Caravans. He worked as a caravan guard, long enough to distinguish himself. He then joined the Northern Exploratory Expedition, heading for Oklahoma and Missouri to establish new trade routes with the communities they might find. With nothing but death and disappointment behind him in Texas, Lawrence looks forward to the blank slate that is The Belt, and hopes that maybe he can put some distance between himself and those he buried.

The Paladin Lord



Title: The Paladin Lord

Name: Alan Ogawa

Age: 45

Race: Human Asian-American

Sex: Male

S-7 P-7 E-5 C-5 I-8 A-4 L-4

TAG! Energy Weapons, Unarmed, Science

Traits: None

Faction: Brotherhood of Steel

Rank: Paladin Lord

Appearance: Black, groomed hair, parted on one side with bangs combed to the other (Fallout 4 Dapper style). No facial hair, which shows his strong cheekbones and jaw. Nose has a slight ridge, from being broken before. He is a strong man, with a muscular physique. His skin is slightly tanned, like a warm khaki color. He has a creased forehead with evidence of constant frowning. His eyes are bright blue. He has one scar, on the left side of his lower back. He’s 6 ft. tall.

Equipment: He wears an olive and black BOS uniform, with a faded and slightly black leather coat, and tall black boots. Around his neck he wears a breathing mask, and uses tinted, black, circular framed wraparound sunglasses to block out the harsh wasteland sun. On his head sits a black military beret. He carries a plasma defender sidearm, though in battle prefers a scoped laser rifle. He also wears a combat knife. Only in extremely hostile situations does he where his T-51b power armor suit, which has a similar shoulder cape to the Inquisitors’ power armor.

Personality: He views his appointment to rooting out insurrection in Wellstone the highest honor possibly bestowed, and plans to crush the enemies of the Brotherhood, who he views as existential threats. He devotes that same drive to what he considers only a slightly secondary goal, the hunt for new technology in the Belt area. He seeks to use that technology to help the people of the wastes, but only within reason, and only those that cow to Brotherhood control. He is a calm individual, not prone to outbursts, but does enjoy sparring as a means of releasing frustration. He is a leader by example, showing the proper discipline and demeanor a Brotherhood soldier should have. Though he doesn’t now do much fighting, he did in the past, and understands the struggles of the common knight.

History: Born in Vault 0 in 2239 to an Inquisitor mother and Senior Scribe father, Alan Ogawa embodies the best of both his parents. He possesses his father’s intellect, and scientific aptitude, while holding his mother’s ruthlessness especially close to his heart. He was born and raised at Vault 0, before eventually serving most of his time in Chicago. Though he came up through the ranks merely an average soldier, he frequently displayed superior skill at battle tactics and strategy. Combined with a fervent fanaticism to the Brotherhood and a reverence for Barnaky’s ideals instilled by his parents, he eventually stood out as a brutal soldier, especially toward mutates. His passion and lack of mercy led to his appointment to Paladin Lord in 2278.  

Yellow Rose Caravans


Name: Maxine O’Rourke
Role: Expedition Leader
Age: 48
Gender: Female
Race: Caucasian
Appearance: Medium build, light red-brown hair she keeps pulled up in a bun
Starting Gear: Service rifle, sawed-off shotgun, combat knife; long sleeved shirt, jeans, boots, wears a gray, knee length duster; an eye patch over her left eye; desperado style cowboy hat

Name: Kim Buchanan
Role: Scientist
Age: 29
Gender: Female
Race: Caucasian
Appearance: Skinny, with blonde hair pulled into a ponytail
Starting Gear: Plasma pistol; microscope, test tubes, other scientific supplies; red short sleeved shirt with cargo pants, boots, a stormchaser hat, and a shoulder bag to carry equipment; Pip boy; radiation suit

Name: Ezekiel Mathis
Role: Doctor
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Race: African-American
Appearance: Average sized man with curly black hair, clean shaven 
Starting Gear: .45 auto pistol, blue short sleeved shirt, cargo pants, a faded red baseball cap, medical kit

Name: Guerillmo Monterroso
Role: Cook and quartermaster
Age: 50
Gender: Male
Race: Hispanic
Appearance: Black hair, sharp widows peak, a strong jaw; smiling blue eyes, clean shaven; thick around the midsection, but barrel chested; formerly fit figure evident
Starting Gear: Hunting shotgun, snub nosed .44 revolver; plaid button up shirt, sleeves rolled up, with jeans and boots, large straw cattleman’s cowboy hat with a headlamp attached to the crown; guitar

Name: James Hudson
Role: Guard, 2nd in command
Age: 38
Gender: Male
Race: Caucasian-African American
Appearance: Large build, tall, with a shaved head and muscled physique; tidy red-brown beard; always has a slightly crazed look in his eye; tattoos of a clam with a pearl inside on his chest
Starting Gear: M1 garand rifle, .44 magnum revolver, Bowie knife; bomber jacket with leather pauldrons attached at the shoulders, black pants, black fingerless gloves, ammo bandolier, gas mask, black boots, combat armor helmet

Name: Linda Breckner
Role: Guard 
Age: 43
Gender: Female
Race: Caucasian
Appearance: Brown wavy hair pulled into a ponytail, sharp grey eyes; medium build, strong and fit
Starting Gear: Laser rifle, laser pistol, brass knuckles; a brown leather vest over a tan long sleeve shirt, with a leather chestplate across the chest and one pauldron, with high leather boots, jeans, and a t-shirt, gas mask, grey, wide brimmed cowboy hat (FNV Sheriff style).

Name: Reyna Hernandez
Role: Guard
Age: 35
Gender: Female
Race: Hispanic
Appearance: Short black hair, short height, medium build
Starting Gear: 10mm pistol, C4 explosives, switchblade; black leather jacket, jeans, leather greaves and gauntlets, brown boots, green bandana around hair, aviator glasses

Name: Abbey Rustin
Role: Guard
Age: 40
Gender: Female
Race: African-American
Appearance: Tall woman, long black hair, high cheekbones, green eyes
Starting Gear: Service rifle, a trench knife; metal chestplate and greaves, with a green shirt, brown pants, hiking boots, and a wide brimmed, curved sided, straw cowboy hat (FNV rattan style); around her shoulders is a serape

Name: Lawrence Harding
Role: Guard
Age: 42
Gender: Male
Race: Caucasian
Appearance: Medium build, brown hair, droopy brown mustache
Starting Gear: Winchester Model 1894, .two Colt Single Action Army revolvers, hatchet; long brown leather duster, cowboy hat, goggles, red bandana, combat armor chestplate over a gray shirt, with jeans and brown boots

Edited by BTC
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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




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

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.

Edited by TheCzarsHussar
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The Hunter


Name: Boone Patton (Goes by Patton)
Sex: Male
Race: Human, Caucasian
Age: 23
Faction: Independent
Position: N/A

S-5 P-8 E-5 C-4 I-6 A-6 L-6

TAG! Skills: Guns+, Survival

Appearance: 6’0, Sun-tanned skin, Medium build (about 180lbs, toned, lean muscle), Short brown hair and blue eyes, shaves most of his face except the hair on his chin. 

Clothing: Worn blue jeans, smooth-sole riding boots made from light tan leather, a single loop holster holding .45 Colt rounds, a horned gecko hide belt, a KCPD shirt, KCPD SWAT Kevlar Vest, KCPD SWAT Helmet, dark leather duster. Also has a leather satchel bag for carrying excess items.
Weapons: Colt Single Action Army (.45 Colt, 4 3/4" barrel), Winchester Model 1886 (.45-70)- Destroyed, Combat Knife

Personality: Patton, as he calls himself, is not what you would call a talker. He is usually reserved and only speaks when absolutely necessary, though that won’t stop him from flirting with every pretty lady he runs into. If he is in a situation where there is only two ways out, either talking or shooting, he starts shooting. 

Bio: Growing up on the Western edge of San Antone taught Patton many things, like how to beat rustlers in a duel and how to dispatch roaming tribals from the Southern Brush quickly before they killed to many of his families brahmin. At the age of 16 his family farm was burned and his parents and siblings killed. He ventured into San Antone proper and began taking on small bounties from various communities, including the Alamo Cult. During his time pursuing these bounties he developed a prejudice against ghouls, viewing them as little more than time bombs wrapped in rotting flesh. Eventually, he traveled north with a caravan to Lone Star where he picked up what he thought would be a quick job, to track and capture a dangerous fugitive running north to avoid the law.

The Grunt


Name: Mathew Ryczek (Matt for short)
Sex: Male
Race: Human, Caucasian
Age: 22
Faction: Brotherhood of Steel (Midwest)
Position: Knight (Scourge Squad)

S-5 P-7 E-7 C-5 I-5 A-6 L-5

TAG! Skills: Repair, Energy Weapons, Explosives

Appearance: Matt stands at 6’0”. He has dark blue eyes, his dark brown hair is cut short on the sides with long loose but neatly kept hair on top and he has a clean shaven face. He is muscular as a result of his extensive physical training. He has a large scar on his face from some shrapnel that came from a raider grenade while on a test during his days as a senior squire.

Equipment: Being born into the Brotherhood, as well as being the son of a Paladin, comes with many advantages when it comes to equipment. Matt wears a full suit of olive drab combat armor over a skintight black bodysuit. He carries an AER9 Laser Rifle and has a number of grenades on him as well. 

Personality: Matt is a soldier. He has trained his whole life to serve the Brotherhood and put down its enemies. He knows when it’s time to be serious and when it’s okay to relax and make jokes with his brothers. His goals center around being in the fight. 

Bio: Matt’s ancestors were part of the original group of Brothers that arrived in Chicago after their airship dropped out of the sky. Since then his family has served the Brotherhood, and High Elder Barnaky, faithfully for generations. Mathew was born to a Paladin father and a Field Scribe mother. When Matt was 11 years old he received word that his mother had been killed when Jaxton’s supermutants repelled the Brotherhood siege of Gateway City. Afterwards, with the encouragement of his father, he began to focus more and more on combat training and became very familiar with the use of small arms and explosives. When he found out the Elders were sending an army to Wellstone to stamp out the rebels and prepare to take Gateway City from the mutants, he volunteered. 

Scourge Squad

Squad Leader:
Paladin Daniels - Alive - 2

Alpha Team:
Senior Knight Cade - Alive - 2
Knight Ryzcek - Alive - 2
Knight Austin - Alive - 1
Junior Knight Mikles - Alive - 0

Senior Knight Lewis - KIA - Killed in the Taylor Simon Raid - 0
Knight McDowell - KIA - Killed in the Downed Scribe Incident - 1

Bravo Team:
Senior Knight Starnes - Alive - 2
Knight Cruz - Alive - 1
Knight Antony - Alive - 0
Junior Knight David - Alive - 0

Senior Knight Elliot - KIA - Killed in the Downed Scribe Incident - 1
Knight Caldwell - KIA - Killed in the Downed Scribe Incident - 1 
Junior Knight Berard - KIA - Killed in the Downed Scribe Incident - 0

Edited by Centurion
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The Fallen Scribe


Name: John Edmonton

Sex: Male

Race: Human (Half British, Half American) 

Age: 45 

Faction: Neutral, but heavily dislikes this specific Chapter of the Brotherhood and sympathetic to the plights of mutants. 

S-3 P-8 E-3 C- I-8 A-7 L-6

TAG: Science +, guns, medicine

Skills: Uncanny marksman,  very skilled in using pistols and rifles in general (Favouring the Edmonto family’s heirloom, a century old Lee-Enfield rifle used in World War 2, and his father's Mare’s Leg.) Because of his farsightedness, and extreme eye sight, he doesn't often require scopes for long-ranged sniper shots. His deteriorating health, does however, has a rather large effect on his killing ability. On single targets, and brief skirmishes, he’s more than cable of handling the situation. Is an expert, borderline genius on the subject of bioengineering, biology, cybernetics and science in general. Very well read, he also extensive medical training, and as a side job, acts as a doctor to his community. 

Miscellaneous: Has early stage lung cancer, as such his health and stamina are quite horrid, additionally he’s far sighted, and needs to wear glasses, as a plus though, he does not require scopes on his rifles if he takes them off.

Equipment: Wears a light tan trenchcoat over a a suit , and a pair of silver antique spectacles. Always wears a black glove on his left hand, to hide his robotic arm. Always carries around his custom, sawed-off Winchester Rifle (Mare’s Leg) at his hip, holstered and hidden by his trench coat. Other weapons he owns are a antique Lee Enfield Rifle, which he keeps at his desk, and a riot shotgun he gave to his bartender. He has a variety of pistols, and assault rifles hidden away, in his secret bunker. Carries a Trenchknife on the off chance he's forced into a physical confrontation. 

Very rarely, when he takes the field, he still wears his trenchcoat, but with a layer of kevlar armor underneath, armored shin guards, armored elbow guards, and a black ballistic mask.

Personality: Is very stoic, but not unfriendly. Very anti-social, preferring to keep to himself. Has no friends, besides his barkeeper, and her partner. Very cautious in his interactions with others, he much prefers the company of books, and computers. He does appreciate dry humor, laughing in a monotone way. Rarely shows whatever emotion he’s feeling. Takes joy in saving lives, but doesn't show it at all, remaining strict and uptight. As a result of his stoicism, and lack of attachment, he has no issue making tough decisions, and doing what needs to be done for his perceived greater good. Very heavy smoker, his cancer not having stopped that one bit, preferring heavy unfiltered, tar cigarettes. Drinks only corn whiskey, and nuka cola.  Because of his bad health, he usually hires Mercs in teams of two for whatever objective he has, guiding them and acting as support by radio.

Appearance: Handsome, but grizzled, with light brown hair mixed with large parts of grey. Well-shaven beard. Cold grey eyes. Always bored, but occasionally frowns if motivated enough. Well-muscular, he keeps himself in shape despite his deteriorating condition. Speaks in a sophisticated, bored voice, but doesn't seem to be condescending or elitist. Has a black prosthetic mechanical left arm, with a built in lighter. Willingly replaced his organic one to compensate for his guns high recoil, allowing him to wield his Mare’s leg in one hand, despite his falling health. 

Bio: Arrived in Digggersville from parts unknown ten years ago, refusing to elaborate on his background to anyone, only stating he was from out west. When he arrived, he purchased, with considerable funds, a rather large bar, The Drunk Hospitaller, from it's owner, Aveline Curio. The Drunken Hospitaller got most of its clientele from mercs, and off duty Brotherhood soldiers. Keeping her on as the bartender, and manager (Aveline being silver tongued and very savvy when it comes to business), John kept to himself, spending most of his time in his office, and computer terminal, while Aveline ran the business for him. His medical skills were known to the community at large, when he saved a little girl from a bullet wound, operating on her himself. Afterwords people went to John when they had a medical issue, he offering up his services to anyone willing to pay.


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