((In a grand scheme the Chinese Stealth Suit and the Advanced Stealth Suit from the Big Empty might as well be the exception. But these two things are from top-secret military programs that might as well be forgotten, and only appear once under very dangerous circumstances; The Chinese Stealth Suit only ever cropping up after finishing a killer simulation and the Advanced Stealth Suit coming up when you visit and tear through an insane lab with some of the most dangerous enemies ever.
If bulkiness was the constant for everything in Fallout, then they lose the title for sure.))
((How will these "mongols" maintain a good number of horses? We know the the NCR have horse-mounted cavalry, but that's because they have a functioning country with the resources to feed and breed said horses. It's hard for me to believe raiders can maintain a horse-based horde like the mongols could. At most they have a handful of sickly, bony horses ready to fall dead under the scorching Nevada sun.
Likewise, it's hard to believe a horde would have state-of-the-art weaponry. They'd probably rely on makeshift bladed/blunt weapons, and whatever broken down guns they can find on a raid. They're a horde. They can't settle down and manufacture weaponry the same way the NCR and the Brotherhood can.
Then there's the mask. You're assuming everything functions like in the games. You shouldn't do that. By that logic, our characters can take a missile to the forehead and survive. Don't play like it's a game. Play like it's semi-realistic. A mask that improves your perception simply by wearing it is not realistic. You can say the mask has some kind of zooming feature, but then it should be one of a kind because, again, you're a horde. You couldn't manufacture that type of equipment. You'd be lucky to find one to give to the leader or something.
And, not like it matters, but they technically are "wannabes" ;P. Just because I have a Spanish background doesn't mean I can get a couple other Spanish dudes and establish the "official" continuation of the Conquistadors. They're mongol, sure, but they're not the mongols. They're mimicking what they've read about, same with Caesar.))
((And by extension, same as the Khans. In a more American Biker tradition.))
The metal door clanged shut behind Sweet Gin as she stepped out of Smith's workshop. The plate that bound the patch to her arm still throbbing with a soft, gentle heat. The kind she felt underneath he jacket.
Hitching up her reloaded and repacked bag she looked at her guide. Flanked by his two goons. Barston looked upon the android, flat and incompassionate. "Are we ready." he said.
"I am." said Sweet Gin nervously, hiking up her pack higher on her back, "Are these two coming along?" she asked, looking at the two grizzled goons.
Barston shifted casually about on his feet to give the two a wayward look. "Indeed they are." he said softly, "These two go where I go and they're coming. If father wants to argue let him argue, but they're coming regardless. You got a problem?"
The android bit on her lip and shook her head. Barston smiled greedily, "Then we're good." he crooned, turning on his heels to march off down the hill. The android hopped off after the man.
"We're not going to take any roads." Barston said back to her as they weaved through the milling residents of the hill on their decent. Many stepped aside to let the noble pass before going on about their day. Barston didn't seem to care, not affording them any recognition. His lackeys hung off on his side, looking like vultures.
"It's a more direct route and we don't get to meddle in the winding mazes that are the suburbs." he continued, "As well, even if we've purged the area it would not surprise me to know if there are zombies hiding in those homes and apartments that line the buildings. I can expect it to be more difficult as it is long to try and fight through the roads."
"Alright." Sweet Gin said, rushing to keep up with the knights. Their pace was quick and they offered no hesitation.
"Once we hit the University you're going to need to keep a sharp eye," Barston continued unheeded, "The knights of old left behind some distant relatives of yours there to hold the area and they don't hesitate to kill.
"Even with the Hellfire's power apparently frying many other things as far out as the ruined hamlets of Leicester or Spencer those machines continue to operate. Our only good luck is that they can't see far. So don't take shots or make a noise. They'll detect you."
"Alright." Sweet Gin repeated nervously.
"And the lake beyond that," he said, "I don't know how you types fair with water or hellfire's residue. But don't drink it, or move through it.
"Afterwards its a clear enough shot through Logan to the airfield."
"What's a Logan?"
"Raider turf. You'll smell it before we get there."
(( don't kick a dead horse. We've finished that argument long ago. Naturally you could not just say you're a conquistador just like that, but then again, how much do you know about the Mongols? They have retained their horse culture over the ages, because when you live on such steppes, you have little else. Calling them a disorganised horde is also not knowing a great deal about them. It is true that they didn't produce much because they had no facilities to do so, but they were far from disorganised))
((You're forgetting the leadership factor in the Mongolian conquests. And that they flumped as soon as they hit any region where Feudalism was law and had a bred-in warrior culture. Bureaucratic states like China could fold easy because they hadn't been fighting itself for land titles the way Europe, Japan, and Indochina had been.))
And, not like it matters, but they technically are "wannabes" ;P. Just because I have a Spanish background doesn't mean I can get a couple other Spanish dudes and establish the "official" continuation of the Conquistadors. They're mongol, sure, but they're not the mongols. They're mimicking what they've read about, same with Caesar.))
(Speaking of which, I can go to Glendale in the NCR (it's an LA suburb) and recruit a battalion of Armenian NCR soldiers to be the most badass of them all. Muahahahahahaha. Based on all the gangstas there already, they'd be pretty hardcore raiders by now. I shall call them the Fedayeen.)
Charles, Feeling bored, Charles puts the barrel of his shotgun to his forehead, pulls the trigger, & a sudden jolt from the gun marks the spray of the shotgun shell, effectively decimating Charles head.
Charles, Entering the hotel room, Charles sets down his gear on the end of the preserved Pre-War bed. Looking around, Charles can see that the room was relatively patched up, despite the minor tear of cream colored wallpaper or the blood stains on the carpet. Robyn had laid her gear, partially on the floor & nearby desk. On the dresser sat her sand covered helmet & her big-ass sniper rifle. Charles frowns as he rests his Combat Shotgun on the wall nearest to where he'd be sleeping. The bed was set up nice & tidy, but the two hundred year old, yellowing sheets were somewhat unwelcoming; Charles was finicky with these things after acquiring high standards, thanks to Robyn. Robyn stood, her eyes tracing around the room, she somewhat smiled to herself & nodded, placing her hands on her hips.
-"I think this'll do." She says, turning to Charles who bore a rather unimpressed expression.
-"Maybe." He says, looking towards the bathroom.
A porcelain bathtub sat on the tiled flooring, it was inviting, though Charles was aware that the water would most likely be piped from a nearby lake & nowhere near warm, unless the owners had fixed the valves & assured that certain pressures were active. Charles sits on the end of the bed before rubbing his forehead, dirt & grime smudged on his hand & he looked up to Robyn who remained somewhat untouched due to her helmet, though the suntan was still evident. Charles releases a sigh as he falls back onto the bed, his eyes facing the ceiling.
-"Long day?" Robyn asks.
-"You can say that." Charles responds.
Charles, -"That can wait." Charles responds. The bed was comfortable, despite being two hundred years old, but it was a welcome change to sleeping in a bedroll that had no lumbar support. Slowly, Charles feels himself slipping away, it'd felt like years since he had gotten some rest on a nice bed. All his troubles would soon be forgotten, ebbed away by the bed, by sleep. Charles yawns as he rolls on his side, closing his eyes, the sunlight in the somewhat warm room makes Charles sweat. He quickly removes his armor & shirt to prevent overheating, along with kicking off his boots.
Name - Corporal Andranik "Andy" Kabardian
Age - 18
Gender - Male
Race - Human
Ethnicity - Armenian
Physical Appearance - Young, crooked nose, light brown skin, short curly black hair, clean shaven, in-shape. He has a tattoo of his wife's name on his left shoulder.
Clothing - NCR issued khaki flightsuit, gloves, boots, helmet, armored vest, and equipment riggings. Also aviator sunglasses.
Personality - Bright, inquisitive, and excited to be out of LA. But he also likes to behave like his peers do, and thus often ends up in silly hijinks with the other kids-at-heart.
Karma - Neutral
Biography - Andranik was born in the LA Boneyard, in the downtown hoods. His childhood was rough, marked by gang violence, police ruthlessness, and overall poverty. His mother was a prostitute from New Reno who died from an unspecified disease when Andranik was eleven - his father was on deployment at the time as an NCR soldier. Now left a street urchin, Andranik was forced to drift around for a few months, often in mortal danger. But he later found himself falling in with the local chapter of the Followers of the Apocalypse, who fed and educated the poverty stricken community. For the first time in his life, Andranik had a stable "family", as well as good food to eat. He even gained his lifelong friend: Rodney K. Lord, while he was there. Rodney, a much wiser boy than Andranik, kept them out of trouble. This friendship persisted even as Rodney joined the NCR Army when he was 18. Andranik was left to live the next five years with only letters to his best friend.
As soon as Andranik turned 18, he took the opportunity to join the military. As he left with the rest of the recruits on the bus to Shady Sands for basic training, he was overjoyed to be out of the Boneyard. And so basic training was a welcome relief. It instilled discipline and got him a paying job. It would also be serving the country he grew up in, and making it better so that nobody else would have to grow up like he did. Andranik, for the first time, was truly happy. He was even happier when he found out that his friend had pulled strings to get him into Army Aviation as a Vertibird crew chief. That required mostly no training, and had Andranik shipped out to Vegas within months of graduation. But while he was in Shady Sands, he met a very special girl: Clara. Despite being young, they both got married because life doesn't last long in these turbulent times. Andranik had a tether back to the normal world, and he kept in touch with her with mail.
Now, Andranik performs his duty as crew chief onboard Grizzly 4-1, the Vertibird he and Rodney were attached to. Vegas is an interesting position, and has led to some interesting opportunities...
Vault Dweller - No
Faction - NCR Army Aviation
S - 6
P - 7
E - 6
C - 6
I - 7
A - 6
L - 6
City/Location - Camp McCarran
- 9mm Pistol w/ Ammo
- Service Rifle Carbine Variant w/ Ammo
- Playing cards
- Combat Knife
- Maps and Navigation Gear
- NCR Money
Other- I have another character of course I've read the rules. Let me in, dammit.
Rising apartment buildings peeked out over the desolate and scorched tips of trees. Rising from where the gnarled claws scratched for the sky, inter-twining in webs that clattered in the soft, warm breeze that blew throughout the wasteland. A dryness that enveloped and preserved it.
Chords of dry sticks, timbers, and refuse littered the bed of the suburban forest as the group of four trudged west, away from the hill. Their foot steps a solemn drum on the dry sands and dirt of the ruins of Worcester. Dark figures in a darker place. None of them spoke as they trudged along. The knights and the guardian prince keeping their attention glued to the ruins that stood around them. Giving each collapsing house a wary glance, peering into, past the shadows that enveloped the ruins and decay inside for the sounds of movement.
Sweet Gin watched them with an absurd curiosity. A watcher of the watchers, she was not so much interested in the world around them as she was them. Bewildered by the care that they took in gauging their surroundings. It was all sort of magical, and strange. But brushing over her arm, and remembering the sniveling gnarling packs of ghouls that had pursued her earlier that day, or the day prior, she understood their concerns.
The knight's cloaks had been throw back, their arms resting on the makeshift hilts of scrap forged swords strapped to their belts. Though battered, what blade that appeared from the sheath looked gnarled and vicious. A mouth of teeth, ready to grind and tear just like the ghouls wished on anything that they could.
They were fighting fire with fire.
As well, she noticed at least some difference to their weapons that conflicted with Roose Bancroft's original, romantic approach. Strapped to their chests in battered and weathered holsters hung old-world fire-arms. Kept up in the best conditions as they could. Large revolvers, or automatic pistols as heavy as Sweet Gin's own gun. And all over top hard, boiled leather, reinforced with scratched and dented plates of steal. Or some manner of ceramic face.
She looked away from them again and back to the world around her. They were still in the woods, surrounded by sky scrapers and housing development. "So, Barston," she started softly. There was a tension and boredom she sought to cut and it edged on her. She hoped she could cut it, "tell me about your father..."
Barston Bancroft was slow and hesitant to answer. His attention too secured on his environment. "What about him." he said suddenly, in a low hushed voice.
"I don't know." she replied, "Why all of this?"
"I hazard that the old man likes you." the lord's son snickered, "An old man his age who has had so little ***** can certainly dream. But I guess he decided he couldn't keep you."
Well that was nice to know, "Well, not so much that..." she started, "But, this city?"
"Why not the city?" he replied quietly, "It's what he tells me. I think he feels he had no where else to start. And he talks about that Bancroft man."
"That Bancroft man?" the android inquired.
"I'll let you in on something," Barston started, "My father was a man of no name, so he told me. When he left his vault, he wandered. Then learned of some George Bancroft. Hell if I know when, before I entered the world. But he talks about him, how the tower he calls home is a symbol to his achievement and should become one.
"But he's too lazy to grab it."
"He didn't seem very lazy." replied Sweet Gin, shocked.
Barston chuckled, "He is." he said with a soft sigh, "I imagine if he levered his resources, he could have had it in his life-time. But he refuses too. He wants 'more people to recognize his claim'. The does it matter, he has all the living residents of Worcester who matter under his banner. And all because he killed the right men. He just has The Logans, but he won't do ."
"Is this why he left the vault then?" asked Sweet Gin.
"He doesn't talk of the Vault." Barston snorted, "He just taught me what he learned there."
"Not where it was at?"
"I imagine he wants to forget it." one of Barston's guards cut in unexpectedly. His voice was low and rumbling. Like thunder.
Barston nodded hesitantly, slow, in agreement. "His future is his own, so he says."
((And I too would like to apply for a second character, but I am not abandoning Sweet Gin. I am presuming I can operate more than one.
Name- Rodney K. Lord
Age(Between 15 & 45)- 23
Ethnicity(Caucasian/African American/Asian/Etc.)- Black
Physical Appearance(Body Type and Facial/Picture or Description)- Broad chinned african-american man. Black hair cut short with a handlebar moustache.
Clothing- NCR issued khaki flightsuit, gloves, boots, helmet, armored vest, and equipment riggings. Also aviator sunglasses. Sometimes a NCR Ranger hat that he won in a poker game.
Personality(Characteristics)- An excitable energetic young man with a tech savviness and eye for the sky and finger for the trigger. Though a smart young man, he isn't ambitious enough to fulfill his potential and preferes the dirt to the paper.
Karma(Good, Neutral, Evil)- Good
Biography- Born in the Boneyard in the NCR, Rodney was the ******* son of a local stripper. Without much money, the young child had to sustain on begging by day, or at the service of charitist organizations operated by the NCR government in Shady Sands or any group who could help him out. The young Rodney as well often went for several days without his mother and lived rough on the streets.
At the age of thirteen Rodney began working the streets full time and picked up sustenance on the streets of former LA by being a pickpocket or low-level thief for local crime bosses. At some times, going as far to work as an escort. With fortunes so poor, his education was stunted and he had several run ins with the law. And such a lifestyle wasn't bound to last.
At the age of sixteen while attempting to rob a middle-class Boneyard resident's house his victims returned home from a night in post-apocalyptic LA. Fearing for himself, Rodney escaped with only a fistful of NCR dollars, but was unfortunate enough to run into the local police. Not looking where he was going the young black kid collided with an officer.
The meeting flared immediate suspicion and the officer immediately began a line in questioning. Stunned and panicked he attempted to flee, quickly attracting to the pursuit several more Boneyard officers and nearby off-duty NCR MPs who chased him for several blocks into a dead-end alley. Panicked and afraid, Rodney tried to fight his way out to no avail as the officers threw him down and began beating him with their re-purposed cattle rods. The beating brought him near the brink. The assailants eventually left him be sometime during a black out.
Passerbys eventually heard his cries for help and brought him to the Followers of the Apocalypse, where the young Rodney recovered in the Boneyard library.
Without any home to return to, Rodney was invited to remain in the Follower's headquarters as a long-term guest, recieving a proper education at the hands of numeroud volunteers who recognized the inteligence he had long stunted. Or so they thought.
As well as being educated and housed with the Followers Rodney met one Andranik Kabardian, who was in a similar situation. The two young boys - 11 and 16 - soon formed a good friendship, one which carried on when Rodney left the Followers at 18 and joined the military soon after, given he didn't want to be on the streets more than he needed.
Joining the NCR Army Aviation corp as a Vertibird pilot, Rodney flew several missions and remained on the corp for a seasonably long time, becoming an officer himself and earning the privilege to fly his own bird. When he heard his childhood friend Andranik Kabardian joined he worked his influence to have the younger Boneyard urchin reassigned to his unit, and his crew.
Rodney and his friend are now currently stationed out of Camp McCarrin running flight patrols over the Mojave and resupply missions for the Ranger outposts and beyond.
While deployed to Vegas Rodney picked up a reputation of luck after discovering gambling as well as Caravan. Often playing with off-duty Rangers on his spare time and winning a variable supply of caps. As well as, to some extent, alcohol and mentats.
Vault Dweller(Yes/No)- No
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.- 5, 6, 5, 7, 6, 5, 8
City/Location- Camp McCarrin, New Vegas
Inventory(11 Items or Less)- Combat knife, 10mm pistol with ammo, canteen, deck of cards, caps, NCR dollar bills, snack cakes, Mentats.
Other- If I may have two characters in this Fallout RP.
Clyde stood at the outskirts of Primm, the town looking more and more ramshackle and dilapidated the more he looked. Over to his right there was the signs of what was probably a camp. All that stood there now was a handful of spent rifle rounds and an overturned picnic bench, punctuated with bullet holes. Whoever it was that had camped here, they didn't leave without a fight. Clyde turned back to the overpass leading to Primm. He'd heard a lot of things about the town. Some said a masked man swept through in a blaze of glory, wiping a band of over 50 raiders off the face of the earth. Others say he was like a shadow in the dark, one minute he was there, gone the next. Some NCR guys even talked about how he'd saved a handful of rookies from certain death at the hands of 20 super mutants who were using the town as a base of operations.
It was obvious from the moment he laid eyes on the town that if anything had happened, it hadn't lasted. Clyde steeled himself, crossing the border into town. There were obvious signs of a fight here and there. A handful of warm bullet casings, a discarded gun, splashes of still drying blood. A dead man face down, the back of his skull missing. Clyde quickly frisked him. There was little on his person, just a couple of old bottle caps and an unopened bottle of sarsaparilla. Clyde moved on, looking for a place to grab a map or even some directions. In front of him, the old hotel loomed, windows cracked and paint peeling.
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One of Barston's men was first out onto the residential street. Nothing moved as he strode out onto the cracked and broken asphalt. The wind sweeping down through the blasted out remains and empty houses creating a low whistling. An eerie moaning that dug coldly at all those in attendance. But it bode nothing. But crouching and huddled behind the splintered fence as she watched the man stand in the middle of the road between the collapsing walls of the two houses bode a cold omen for the android. Chased twice, she figured that rarely was the ruins ever this quiet.
Hand on the hilt of his crude sword the man turned on his heels, facing one way, and then the next. Then turning towards him he wove one heavy glove of his towards the rest, summoning them out onto the street. So far as he was concerned, it was safe.
"Now the synth cunt knows how hard it is to travel this city." cackled the other as they walked up into the road.
"Welcome to the Worm." sneered Barston, stealing a cautious, stern stare down the road.
The suburban neighborhood they stood in was a tight cluster of houses built of brick and vinyl plating. Low angled roofs had collapsed to been torn off, subjecting the interior to the harsh sunlight or choking them with piles of milky debris. On many, torn and falling awnings shaded glassless windows and smashed doors. Each home was orderly and evenly spaced between each other. The gnarled remains of picket fences or hedges remained, marking the divide between each unit of property; coupled with the same twisting hulks of trees that defined the sky-line.
Lining the road the meaty red hulks of rusting automobiles choked the side, creating a congested funnel that marched the entire length of the road up and down its lengths. Semi regular spaces had been left between each car. Sweet Gin figured that at the time their owners had to flea to avoid the curses that the Bancroft men spoke of their chariots were inoperable. "Stripped of their horses" Barston crooned.
"We'll follow this road to the end." Barston said in a hushed voice, "Meet with the east-west bisector and Boston Long. Afterwards, we're only half way there."
"If we're caught by ghouls?" Sweet Gin asked.
"Well you can show us your run or stand with us." Barston sneered, laughing.
The nature of Barston's insult feel deftly on Sweet Gin and she nodded, taking the suggestion seriously. Barston's company grinned and laughed softly under their breaths before turning to march south. Throwing a cautious, curious look behind her, the android followed with the haste of a young child.
The four kept on the road, navigating the twists and turns as it bent about between the abandoned homes that defined this region. Meeting a intersection were the path split further north or sharply south-west they stood and looked about themselves. Staring into the darkness of each abandoned home that dotted the road and looked to still bare support. Support enough to house hostility. They only moved out again when they felt comfortable, moving warily as they went. Sweet Gin analyzing them closely; watching them sneak.
Their voyages quickly did bring them out of the silent nesting of homes that made the suburban net and into a choked jungle of high-rising apartments and clustered old-world businesses. The mortar and cement of their construction burnt as black as the shadows that resided inside their spartan exteriors. Deep cracking spider-webbing leading up and flowing through the still-remaining glass that clung weakly in the frames.
As the slipped into the alleys where the ground caked itself with the slimy stubborn residue of an age's past each foot step echoed and amplified against the towering and crooked walls that bowed and knelt over them over head. A cavern of glass and steel. Fire escapes and the spindly wires of urban clothes lines sprawling down on them like stalactites in a cave. It was like passing through the throat of a great beast, and the experience visibly troubled the knights, their hands gently brushing to their hilts.
Sweet Gin copied them, her hands drifting to the side of her pistol strapped to her hip. Her eyes wide as she scanned the vicinity. Mice ran circles in her chest. She was racing inside and out. Breath drawn coarse.
"Looks like we've been through here." whispered one of the guards as they crept along.
"And I don't like it." Barston scowled, "There's something to it. A silence here.
"I dare say, we got some rottin' cocksuckers about."
"You think?" the other asked.
As if to answer him a groaning noise rolled down at them above. Flesh and steel grinding against brick. The four looked up just in time to see a mangy and ragged figure dive-bomb down at them. Its bony fingers extended in a rapid and excited grab as he snarled and snapped through the air. Disregarding gravity as he was launched the several stories to the delectable morsels that walked below.
Sweet Gin acted quick on training instinct and raised her handgun up to fire on the ghoul as it soared through the air. Its report echoed loud off of the walls and the flash briefly illuminating the darkened space as she fired, a bullet catching the inside of its leg. But even in her speed the guard it fell on was equally quick and in a flash he sword was unsheathed and sailing through the air in one long arc. It met the monster mid-swing and with a fleshy whistle cleaved through the ghoul's gut.
It fell at its side in two halves, collapsing with a met smack in the gutters and flipping head over guts. Red and black ichor bathed the cold slimy cement as the remains of the beast fell with a lazy thud. Low wet gurgled rumbling from its throat as it made its last enraged breath.
"Good swing, Sir Marshal!" one of Barston's escorts cheered. The grin on his bony face illuminating him as he casual retired his half-drawn sword to his sheath.
The man marked marshal, as skinny and badly tempered by the city as any other resident but with a messier mop of hair, kept his tongue as he stared down at the fallen ghoul. His face cold and attentive. "There's more coming." he grumbled low. And distantly high-pitched screams and roars echoed from the sepulcher din of the apartments about them.
"Shit!" Barston swore.
"It was the android's fire-arm!" the other guard shouted.
"No use arguing it, move!" Barston ordered, drawing his own blade. It was a long vicious sword, knocked and curved in every brutal way possible. Excitement and rage bubbled on his face as he looked out above him as the black, skeletal figures of amassing ghouls showed in the windows. The sound of bare feet smacking on cold cement and steal echoed about them as they ran out from underneath of the teetering apartments, breaking out into the middle of a wide-thoroughfare.
Sweet Gin turned to stop in the open, but intent on moving Barston reached out and grabbed her by the nape of her neck and yanking her back with him as she turned to fire on the amassing hordes dropping from the upper floors of the ruined structure. Either collapsing dead or crippled in the cement, or reeling from impact and shuffling after them with a rabid determination.
Sweet Gin was dragged between and over stalled automobiles to the far side of the road and a metal door was slammed shut behind them. Metal clanged and the door was sealed.
The android was dropped on her ass in the middle of the large, cold room. A dusty darkness hung around her as Barston and his companions flitted about the building. The only light to shed the darkness flowed from the windows, which were slowly becoming choked by ghouls as they pressed themselves against the glass.
"What are we doing?" she asked, looking up at Barston and his companions as they darted about.
"I just checked," shouted his guard from somewhere in the back, "still sealed tight!"
"Got it." sir Marshal's low gruff voice grumbled as he flipped over a box and throwing a bundle of disc-like objects to Barston.
"What are we doing?" Sweet Gin repeated again.
"Get back, synth." Barston growled as he tossed the pile to the ground. Hitting it, there was a soft beep. A familiar amber light glowed in front of the door as the mine clattered on the floor in front of it. The door itself beginning to shake violently as ghouls slammed and scratched at it.
Sweet Gin nervously backed herself up across the floor as the prince threw done mine after mine. Hastening behind the man as the trail grew long.
"What are we doing?" Sweet Gin said with a panicking waver. The mines weren't spelling good things to her.
"Unless you want to suck our cocks you'll get up off the floor and hand me your gun." Barston ordered crudely, stuffing the rest of the fragmentation mines in a satchel at his side, and holding out his hand.
And figuring now wasn't an opportune time for head the android scrambled up. The sight of the mines stirring her more than the alley had. Magnifying it past expanding combat instinct and into relunctance and fear with the flashing amber lights.
She hesitantly handed the man her pistol. He training it on the door with more route practice than any machine she had known. He compressed the trigger and fired off several bursts of fire. The bullets sparked and clashed off the metal lock on the door, but jimmied it enough it bolted and rattled at the growing force of ghouls behind it. The shots acted as a signal and Barston's heavy hand wrapped around Sweet Gin's shoulders and she was dragged forcefully back as the front door rattled more and more off of its hinges. Wheeling around into a backroom there called a scream of metal as the door was torn open, and soon after, an explosion.
Heat bellowed on the nap of Sweet Gin's neck and. She screamed in shock as the compressing blast chased her and the rest out the back door. Several more followed as the ghouls charged blindly forward through the track of explosives Barston had laid behind. The theater playing itself over in the android's concious as she was released from Barston's grip. The doubled explosions of memory and present crashing with the force of a train as she wrapped her hands around her head and raced down the back alley with the rest of Barston's guards. The prince himself on her tail tossing mines out like disks.
Sweet Gin charged blindly a tense wreck. Eyes shut closed she didn't notice as she ran into the two other men. Their arms wrapping around her and spinning her about. The awkward uncomfortable shock of being handled snapping her out as Barston through out the last mine. His cap riding on the front of the blast-wind from the echoing explosions as they tore out of the narrow alley as he himself joined them in the middle of the road.
"Here's your gun back." he said coldly, tossing Sweet Gin's 10mm pistol at her and turning on his heels, sword drawn and raised as he waited for the shambling hordes to catch up.
The ghoul horde screamed in rage and fiery agony from the blackened and dusty cavern of the stripped store they had busted through. The frame where the back door had hung was splintered and shattered, hanging on a few loose timber as maimed and crippled ghouls sauntered and swayed beyond. Collapsing confused and stunned over wooden supports. Turning their milky eyes upwards and gurgling in spite as they tried to pull themselves forward.
Turning to see the mines work their intended purpose successfully was morbidly surreal and profound as the ghouls continued to move forward. Blinded by their own hunger and innate bestial spite. The explosives erupting upwards and outwards, sending the starved, naked, skeletal figures flying in sprawling arcs overhead. Whole limbs tore from their bodies and landing with indelicate thuds on the ground around them.
The clouds and shrapnel tore through their bodies and cut them down even more. Even a safe distance away the echoing explosions forced Sweet Gin to flinch and whimper under each roaring burst of cloud and metal.
As the front-most ghoul charged forward, his body dressed in blood caked armor he landed and tripped on the last mine. His torso flipped over his head as he cartwheeled and both his legs detached from his body at sickening angles, fanning blood in a low arcs through the warm dry air.
There was a dull silence after. The wind moaned down the street, brushing away the clouding smoke and dust. Weak shambling plodded in the midst of the debris and a handful of ghouls ran towards the four, their bodies pocked and torn by the shrapnel and fragments of the mines.
"Your heads and cocks are mine!" Barston jeered as he bound on the ghouls. Dropping his sword with a energetic force that cleaved through the front most ghoul, parting his skull in two and sending it into a tumble to Barston's feet. With a subtle snap of his wrist Barston turned the sword about and swung to his side, cutting through the gut of the nearby two. They reeled back clutching at their un-stitched stomachs.
"What the matter, afraid to see your own blood?" Barston laughed maniacally as he thrust his bloodied blade forward, skewering the last blabbering beast between his ribs and forcing him to the ground.
Sweet Gin could only stand to watch with a dark fascination. A fearful mouse squeaked inside her as it backed up against the bars of its cage at the display of martial ability.
"Marshal, how many would you say we slew here?"
"Too many." Sir Marshal said with a cold, if proud laugh, "Too many."
"Shame we can't collect every trophy." the prince laughed, standing in his circle of dropped ghouls.
"Who was it?" Lauren asked eyeing the mound. "Just a friend." I said "Hm." Thomas mumbled. I looked at the sky, the sun was setting. "Lets set up camp." 2 hours later... "Want a smoke?" Thomas inquired. "Sure." I said. He tossed me a cigarette box and a lighter. I pulled one out and lit up. I motioned at Lauren. She raised her hand and i tossed her the cogs and the lighter. She lit up. I smirked realizing that we were in a pefect circle. It was a bizarre scene. "Where to next?" Lauren asked. "I'd say Primm and from ther goodsprings and then back to base." We all seemed to blow out the smoke simutanously. Bizarre.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
The Fires Of Eastern Europe still rage. Will you stop them, or will you burn Europe?
Sweet Gin's ears were still ringing with an electrical hum as Barston made his way back to the group. Sheathing his sword with a satisfied grin. The rocking explosions still rocked against her tense skin as phantom feeling. She still felt the heat. And the smell of cordite and plastic was still strong in the air. Blowing out onto the street not as thinning, weak veils: but as a whole wall of sensory feedback. It was thick. Choking. The fumes of the explosives lingering in the back of her throat and causing it to itch.
"The bitch is scared!" Barston laughed. He clopped her on the shoulder with a heavy glove splashed with ghoul blood. Clenching his fingers and rubbing her shoulder.
Somehow, the grip made her tense up more. It wasn't friendly, it felt cold. A tough tease. She wheeled on Barston, her face twisted in an angry grimace. Barston stepped back, his hands held in the air. A mocking look of innocence lay plastered on him, dripping like wet paint, or the blood on his hands.
"No need to get mean." the prince crooned.
Sweet Gin glared at him from behind frowning eyes. She looked at his companions, and then at the ruins of the buildings and back at him. Her hands rose gently to her shoulders, caressing them gently. Assuring herself she was still whole. Still the same. Despite his unfriendly touch. Her eyes dropped down, silent.
"When you're out here you're going to need to deal with what frightens you." Marshal spoke up, "You're going to be burned, shot, stabbed, and blown up. Nothing cares where you're from, or who you are. It will kill you, brutally.
"So you either get brutal, or you get over your fear."
"The man has a point." Barston whispered, kneeling tentatively close to Sweet Gin. "And frankly, I want to live as much as you do, Synth. If I need to blow something up, I will. It's all part of the fight."
"People keep using that word..." Sweet Gin mumbled, "Live... What is it?"
"It doesn't matter, we're wasting time anyhow." the other unidentified knight said annoyed, "No doubt the rest of the neighborhood will be sweeping in to check it out. As well, Logan will no doubt we curious and sweep some of his bastards this way to see what they can pick apart. That explosion would have rolled across the entire city."
"And that bastard has a point." Barston conceded, but not without his own sting to the words. Holding out a gloved hand he continued invitingly, "So let's go, before we're turned into something's lunch and someone's barbecue."
Sweet Gin looked at his hand, and then him. She felt uneasy about it. But the propositions he made didn't sound very good to her. So apprehensively she held out her hand.
Barston's hand clenched tightly around her as he pulled her over and on her feet. With a quick swing and a pat on the ass she her running ahead, her cheeks glowing a bright red. He and his companions giggled softly as they moved along.
"We should pass to the next street over." Marshal grumbled, "And take that north several blocks. Logan's men I bet will move directly to the explosion, and if we detour we can evade the university and lake all together."
Age: 16 Gender: Male Race: Human
Ethnicity: Asian Physical Appearance: About 5"8, 120 pounds, Dark skin, Black hair, Brown eyes, Slim build, Scars covering a good amount of his right arm. Clothing:Leather Jacket, Cloth Bandana covering his face, Worn Jeans, and Black Boots. Personality: Rebellious, Tenacious, Aggressive, Thieving, Sly, etc Karma: Neutral Biography: Mark was born deep in an experimental vault in California, barely escaping with his family following the events. He was a troubled child and teen, always causing trouble and being rowdy wherever he was. His mother and father got into the caravan business after the vault incident, so he was constantly on the move. He hated traveling, and he hated the wastes. This combination was surely not good for him at all. He suffered in the heat, sweating and starving for most of his days as a child. At the age of 13, he went independent, saying farewell to his parents and the caravan business, and moving on his own path. He moved to a bustling settlement outside of what was Los Angeles. He was a thief, and very infamous and in this town, eventually being evicted from his home and being exiled from the town in whole. He decided to travel on, even though he hated it, and find out what he REALLY wanted to in life. Vault Dweller: Yes Faction: None S.P.E.C.I.A.L. Strength:2 Perception: 7 Endurance:7 Charisma: 2 Intelligence: 8 Agility: 15 Luck: 3
City/Location- Somewhere in the Mojave desert Inventory: Stimpaks, Bowie Knife, Pistol, Dirty Water, Pip Boy, Canned foods Other-