Definition of meta gaming: Utilising out-of-character knowledge in a roleplay that a character would not have known otherwise.
Definition of power gaming: Forcing another person's character to perform an action without giving them a chance to respond.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: I have typically roleplayed on forums up to this point. I have played and own every existing Fallout game (along with all of the DLC for 3 and New Vegas), save for the one released exclusively on Xbox.
IC:
Name: Blaine Rouse
Age: 26
Appearance: Blaine commonly wears an undershirt that was likely manufactured in Pre-War times, along with a long, tan duster to protect himself from the harsh elements of the wastes. His pants are the incorrect size, being a little too large for him, but remain clung tightly to his waist with a stiff, brown leather belt. To keep his feet from harm, he wears combat boots.
Blaine has a fairly average build and height, but carries some muscle underneath his baggy clothing. He has a very dirty appearance and his blonde hair appears to be unkempt. He has pale blue eyes and commonly wears a neutral facial expression. His skin tone is very pale.
Personality: Blaine has a very difficult time trusting others in the Wasteland, a trait that he feels is common among travelers. After several events in his life, he came to the conclusion during his teenage years forward that all human beings wanted something out of one another, and that they'd be willing to kill over any differences to prove their strength. These cynical worldviews has shaped Blaine into a very introverted person, and getting to know the man's personal history is a privilege he hasn't granted many people in his travels. He is, however, very open about his views on the world, the human condition, and all of its cruelty. Blaine does not, however, mope about these things. They are views that he has come to terms with, and even accepted to some degree, though it's still something that troubles him often, and when it does trouble him, Blaine finds himself feeling quite depressed.
Often taking an objective standpoint, Blaine does not find value in emotional reasoning during situations where a problem must be solved, and leans towards the most practical and logical solutions. He will separate his personal opinion from his observations almost all of the time. Blaine is also very observant and perceptive, and loves picking apart tiny details around his environment. Sometimes the world gives him a sense of wonder, a feeling that he loves and feeds off of. He is sometimes self-conscious about how much he finds value in nature, feeling it presents weakness in a world where the strong are the only that will survive.
Desiring to leave the area he spent so much of his life in, Blaine took to traveling, as he desired to see everything he could of the world before his inevitable death. He finds pleasure in little else other than traveling. Another big hobby he has picked up is engineering. He enjoys finding old world machinery and tinkering with it. This skill has gotten him far in the wastes.
When meeting other people, Blaine is often quiet, but friendly enough that some people find him to be a reasonable companion. There are only a few people that have befriended him long enough to get to know him when he feels comfortable, as when he is finally comfortable he is truly able to express himself in surrealist or dark comedy, while also displaying that he can be very energetic around people he likes. He has a sarcastic demeanor normally, but it really comes out during these times. Some people enjoy this, while others find it annoying or frustrating. Regardless, Blaine does not have many friends due to his quiet nature.
Backstory: Blaine was born to a family in the town of Round Hill. It had been named Round Hill before the war, and had been settled once again by various nomads travelling in the northern region of Virginia for its decent defensive position on a hill and its close proximity to both a large town to scavenge as well as a major highway from the old world. As a child, Blaine played with the scant few other children that lived in the town, though not as often as he would sit inside, write, and think about things. His parents were often out doing other things to aid the survival of the town, so Blaine found he had a lot of alone time.
One day being situated on a major highway would prove to be their downfall, as a group of raiders came and sacked the town. Blaine lived further away from most of the town's stores and homes, and so managed to escape the town along with a single other adult. He never saw his parents after that, as they had been out scavenging when the town was sacked. This caused Blaine a great deal of distress, but the adult with him wasn't the kindest, and would often get angry at him for crying. The days traveling with that woman would eventually go on to change his perspective on weakness in the Wasteland, and push him to secrecy and distrust along with insecurity. Eventually, one day, the person Blaine had been traveling with for a few weeks had disappeared in the middle of the night, leaving the child to fend for himself.
Blaine was almost certain he was going to die, but that day he ran into a band of mercenaries that took him in and taught him more about survival. Jay transitioned through his years as a child and teenager with this group of mercenaries, and after fighting countless battles and seeing friends come and go, he continued to grow and develop his opinions on the world around him. That said, he was not at peace with what happened in his former town after all these years. The Capital Wasteland and the rest of Northern Virginia held too many negative memories for the man, and at 25, he parted ways with the mercenary group in hopes that he would find peace if he traveled. He decided to go to New York City, which is a city he had often heard about from various travelers.
Definition of meta gaming: Using info gained in OOC to your advantage IC
Definition of power gaming: Doing an action to a player instantly without them being able to retaliate.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: I have roleplayed for years, I'm not even sure myself how long I have been but it's been as long as I can remember. It was mostly just textwise rping but about a year ago I was introduced to roleplaying in minecraft. I was told about this server by UofMTigerFan who explained the history of fallout to me since I have not played the games.
IC:
Name: Nathaniel Kenway
Age: 19
Appearance: Nathaniel is albino so he has mostly colorless white hair that looks like it is in a perminate state of bedhead. His skin barely has any pigment in it whatsoever, it looking almost as white as snow. His eyes are a very pale green that tend not to show emotion. He wears a long black hooded jacket over a beaten up white shirt with jeans and sneakers.
Personality: When you first meet him, Nathaniel is very kind and selfless. He will usually go out of his way to help those who are in need even if it endangers himself. However the longer one is around him the more he seems... off. When his true colors laced with dementia and obsession give way he tends to say more and more unusual things that most wouldn't really understand. He has an obsession with those who have ability and a major inferiority complex.
Backstory:
Nathaniel spent his early life in a Vault in Maine with his guardian, having not known his parents. The last Overseer had matched the children up to different guardians and general caretakers. He was born with albinism as well as frontotemporal dementia, a mental disorder. He spent the rest of his childhood in the same Vault as he was born in. Nathaniel's life was truly one of difficulty and struggling due to the Vault's experiment. The Vault was filled with people with mental illnesses and left them completely untreated, with obeying and watchful sociopaths as security guards and a schizophrenic Overseer. And only having one guardian to raise him didn't really help too much with that. He barely had anything to do to preoccupy himself with, mostly spending his days alone or talking to the other insane residents in a twisted sort of optimism. When he was in his teens he was at his worst. It was almost impossible to get the boy to stop rambling about justice, hope, talent, and his own worthlessness. The majority of the people that shared the Vault with him grew disdain and disgust towards him, cutting off what social life he had. One of them attempted to beat him, but the guards of the Vault would end up ceasing what attempt of a punch they had.
One day something in his mind snapped and when someone approached him, screaming at him and telling him to "shut the f**k up or I'll kick your a**!" he just laughed loudly. A somewhat weak, raspy, breathy laugh. The resident stopped, obviously taken off guard. The man who almost assaulted him and some of the others that were watching obviously saw it in his eyes that whatever bit of sanity that was left in him was taken away. Though the man himself and the others were mentally ill as well, they still seemed shocked. They were even more shocked when Nathaniel kicked the man between the legs causing him to crumble to the ground. They were speechless, having thought he wouldn't actually hurt anyone. They were even more taken aback when he brought his foot down to stomp on his chest, letting out another wordless laugh and shaking his head. The man on the ground began yelling back up at him, telling him to get the hell off and that everyone hates him. He finally spoke up. "I will if you lick my shoes like the filthy man you are." But then of course, the guards shoved him off the man and life went on, no matter how tense it was.
Years passed by as the other residents either wanted to befriend him only to manipulate him or in solitude. Eventually, at the age of 18 the Vault opened, giving everyone an opportunity to leave, which he took. He saw the world outside for the first time. Well, mostly just Maine. Due to him realizing the sun's rays being harmful to his health, he mostly stayed underground in metro tunnels, wandering around aimlessly and using the pistol he had taken to defend himself from mutated creatures and feral ghouls. Eventually rumors came to his ears of the all mutant faction in New York City, this somewhat striking his interest. After a very long time walking through the tunnels, stopping to rest, killing whatever would attack him, and emerging to walk on the surface occasionally at night, he entered the city.
"Ah, so there are snakes in these tunnels...? Oh well, minor problem. They likely rule."
App time. Been some time since your last application, let's see if this is the one that will get you into the wasteland.
Backstory. Problem comes here. How did Mr. Kenway survive in an extremely dangerous world with no training or knowledge on how to survive? From what it seems like, Nate hasn't fired a weapon in his life. I wouldn't be surprised if someone who doesn't know how to survive gets eaten by one of the many things that go bump in the night. Not to mention why would one want to go to New York because of a mutant army? I don't know about you, but a mutant army would tell me to avoid that place. What caused the Vault to open? Most Vaults don't just open unless it was part of their experiment. On the topic of the Vault, what is its experiment?
Until these are changed, I regret to say you are...
Definition of meta gaming: Utilising out-of-character knowledge in a roleplay that a character would not have known otherwise.
Definition of power gaming: Forcing another person's character to perform an action without giving them a chance to respond.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: I have typically roleplayed on forums up to this point. I have played and own every existing Fallout game (along with all of the DLC for 3 and New Vegas), save for the one released exclusively on Xbox.
IC:
Name: Blaine Rouse
Age: 26
Appearance: Blaine commonly wears an undershirt that was likely manufactured in Pre-War times, along with a long, tan duster to protect himself from the harsh elements of the wastes. His pants are the incorrect size, being a little too large for him, but remain clung tightly to his waist with a stiff, brown leather belt. To keep his feet from harm, he wears combat boots.
Blaine has a fairly average build and height, but carries some muscle underneath his baggy clothing. He has a very dirty appearance and his blonde hair appears to be unkempt. He has pale blue eyes and commonly wears a neutral facial expression. His skin tone is very pale.
Personality: Blaine has a very difficult time trusting others in the Wasteland, a trait that he feels is common among travelers. After several events in his life, he came to the conclusion during his teenage years forward that all human beings wanted something out of one another, and that they'd be willing to kill over any differences to prove their strength. These cynical worldviews has shaped Blaine into a very introverted person, and getting to know the man's personal history is a privilege he hasn't granted many people in his travels. He is, however, very open about his views on the world, the human condition, and all of its cruelty. Blaine does not, however, mope about these things. They are views that he has come to terms with, and even accepted to some degree, though it's still something that troubles him often, and when it does trouble him, Blaine finds himself feeling quite depressed.
Often taking an objective standpoint, Blaine does not find value in emotional reasoning during situations where a problem must be solved, and leans towards the most practical and logical solutions. He will separate his personal opinion from his observations almost all of the time. Blaine is also very observant and perceptive, and loves picking apart tiny details around his environment. Sometimes the world gives him a sense of wonder, a feeling that he loves and feeds off of. He is sometimes self-conscious about how much he finds value in nature, feeling it presents weakness in a world where the strong are the only that will survive.
Desiring to leave the area he spent so much of his life in, Blaine took to traveling, as he desired to see everything he could of the world before his inevitable death. He finds pleasure in little else other than traveling. Another big hobby he has picked up is engineering. He enjoys finding old world machinery and tinkering with it. This skill has gotten him far in the wastes.
When meeting other people, Blaine is often quiet, but friendly enough that some people find him to be a reasonable companion. There are only a few people that have befriended him long enough to get to know him when he feels comfortable, as when he is finally comfortable he is truly able to express himself in surrealist or dark comedy, while also displaying that he can be very energetic around people he likes. He has a sarcastic demeanor normally, but it really comes out during these times. Some people enjoy this, while others find it annoying or frustrating. Regardless, Blaine does not have many friends due to his quiet nature.
Backstory: Blaine was born to a family in the town of Round Hill. It had been named Round Hill before the war, and had been settled once again by various nomads travelling in the northern region of Virginia for its decent defensive position on a hill and its close proximity to both a large town to scavenge as well as a major highway from the old world. As a child, Blaine played with the scant few other children that lived in the town, though not as often as he would sit inside, write, and think about things. His parents were often out doing other things to aid the survival of the town, so Blaine found he had a lot of alone time.
One day being situated on a major highway would prove to be their downfall, as a group of raiders came and sacked the town. Blaine lived further away from most of the town's stores and homes, and so managed to escape the town along with a single other adult. He never saw his parents after that, as they had been out scavenging when the town was sacked. This caused Blaine a great deal of distress, but the adult with him wasn't the kindest, and would often get angry at him for crying. The days traveling with that woman would eventually go on to change his perspective on weakness in the Wasteland, and push him to secrecy and distrust along with insecurity. Eventually, one day, the person Blaine had been traveling with for a few weeks had disappeared in the middle of the night, leaving the child to fend for himself.
Blaine was almost certain he was going to die, but that day he ran into a band of mercenaries that took him in and taught him more about survival. Jay transitioned through his years as a child and teenager with this group of mercenaries, and after fighting countless battles and seeing friends come and go, he continued to grow and develop his opinions on the world around him. That said, he was not at peace with what happened in his former town after all these years. The Capital Wasteland and the rest of Northern Virginia held too many negative memories for the man, and at 25, he parted ways with the mercenary group in hopes that he would find peace if he traveled. He decided to go to New York City, which is a city he had often heard about from various travelers.
Tunnel Snakes RULE!
So very sorry for the delay. Lots of building that is getting finished up for the coming weeks launch.
Appearance. Why is Blaine so pale? The average wastelander sees tons of light and therefore would be tan. Is there any specific reason for Blaine to be pale?
Backstory. We're not really big fans of raiders killing parents or sacking towns, that doesn't mean you have to change it but it would do no harm if you did. What did the mercenaries see in Blaine that caused them to take him in, train him, and make him a soldier?
Not many changes that need fixing, but sadly enough where it will require a second attempt at an application.
Definition of meta gaming: Using information gained outside of RP, or through over means not related personally to your character. For example in the game, my other character is a raider, who learns of a raid on my main characters town, I use this information to warn the town on said main character. OOCly that would be like if I was on teamspeak, and over heard plans for something major, and using it ICly
Definition of power gaming: Forcing a move without giving the other person any chance to respond. For example. Jake moves over, stabbing and killing John. This is forcing something upon another, what should be used is. Jake moves over, attempting to stab John in the heart, hoping to kill him.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: Almost two years on another minecraft roleplay of LotC. As for fallout, countless hours playing the games and I have been watching shoddycasts background lore series on youtube.
IC:
Name: Paul Smith
Age: 228
Appearance: This once man now turned ghoul stands at 6 foot, one inch. A large frame slowly decaying like many other people not lucky enough to enter a vault and not lucky enough to die, he covers his body in a mash up of different bits of metal scrap for armour, a brown coat covering his body for warmth and protection, and upon his bald head, he wears a full face balaclava and old gas mask both greying his dulled and suken eyes watching from behind the red lenses, dusty from exploring both the inside and outside of downtown. and gaining a dull shine from years of work, due to his kind being disliked in the wastes. Jeans proving the best protection for his legs that he could acquire in his travels. Belt loaded with different tools for weapon maintenance and medical tools. But, due to his condition. The need for radiation equipment is less needed, meaning he does have some caps on him, since he no longer needs to stock up on RadX.
Personality: He is a calm, yet old ghoul. Years of violence and bigotry wearing on him, and his natural state of decay on both physical and mental health has left him scarred and close to breaking down. He grew up on action movies as a child, and always wanted to play the Hero, but the harsh life of the wastes since the start has proven that Heroes are the first to die, but he can't help it sometimes. Sometimes even with all his problems, he still tries to be the hero in the movies, even if the "damsel" screams in fear of what he is.
Backstory: Growning up to a simple family Paul was born just twenty years before the war, a new york born child a single to his mother and father, he grew up on movies, reading books upon the wars, and your just normal american life. The threat of war loomed closer, and his days were spent inside, reading books his father would give him, be it cooking books, or weapon maintenance. His father, was a car mechanic fixing vehicles for the more wealthy people who could afford gas. The years past, and Paul spent his years moving into more practical tools and professions. He got his first job helping train lines run, working in the tunnels fixing lights, and the odd toilet when the need arises. This simple job, saved his life, the day the bombs fell, he worked the new york subway, underground working away, he felt a quake, a rumble he just thought was another train. But, for Paul it was the sound of the end. His family never was rich, so a Vault was never a option. His family gone, but Paul kept working, till the end of his shift for he never knew. He finally came out of the underground to find what was now, the big apple waste land. His face dropped, looking at the utter destruction of the land around him, and even more shocking is how he missed it all. Thats, when he started to feel sick.. he knew the dangers of radiation, but never had the chance to even stop the deadly levels. Rushing back inside the metro station, he passed out in one of the many bathrooms as the rads raised. And his life was born anew. From then, he spent the next few years learning to cope with his new body, slowly rotting and getting worse with each day, his skin slowly falling off, new towns springing up, and the horrors of the wasteland coming around like a fresh wave of hell from the first day. Paul kept to the land of the big apple, sleep where he could, no longer needing food or water. He was able to sell the supplies he did not need, and that the others of the wastes do. Learning how to defend himself, applying his skills to more practicable problems, fixing lights and power now seems a must needed profession, and all the books his father gave him, he kept reading. Searching for more as he spends his life just living day to day.
Tunnel snakes rule
Seems I have to keep saying this, but once again sorry for the delay in review. I sound like a broken record saying this, but we are going into overdrive trying to finish the server.
Overall I seem to have stumbled upon a quality application, a real diamond in the rough.
There are some slight lore corrections I have to make during this reviewal. The first of which being that Ghouls still need food and water, until they go feral that is. Biggest plus they have is a lack of getting further irradiated. Normally we don't like people being born in the city of New York, but being as how Mr. Smith seems to have spent his 200 years after the war mainly in the subways, I'd say it's fine in this case.
Seems a tremendous shame that I can not deny this application, so I deem you...
I highly suggest joining our enjin forums to keep up to date on the server news. Feel free to PM me or another staff member if you would like to be added to the public skype chat.
Definition of meta gaming: Meta gaming is the deliberate use of OoC knowledge in an IC fashion or for the express purpose of satisfying an IC agenda, or sometimes satisfying a purely OoC agenda via IC means.
Definition of power gaming: Powergaming is the forced act of puppeteering the actions of another character, usually in combat so as to benefit or rarely disadvantage your character.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: I have roleplayed on numerous Minecraft servers of varying sizes, although most tended to be fantasy themed.
IC:
Name: Oz
Age: Middle-aged. (Operating that the common life-expectancy sans outside factors is around 75, however more like around 30~40, I would say 25)
Appearance: He stands at nine feet and six inches, although due to his hunch he typically only towers to the height of eight feet. His hide is covered with light brown scales in a grid pattern. Three long dorsal spikes jut from his spine, and two long horns protrude from his brow. His teeth are sharp, and backed with the muscles of a powerful jaw. His entire body is muscled to the standard of his species. His claws extend for roughly twelve inches, with a notable erroneous curve at the tip, implying perhaps a misgrowth. This curve actually allows him better manipulation of smaller objects, however they tend to get caught in flesh, making them somewhat unwieldy in combat. He treads upon talons in a digitigrade fashion. His legs are long and so too his arms, while his head is narrow and larger depthwise than length or widthwise. His torso is the bulk of his mass. His eyes are clouded by cataracts, as is typical of his species, and as such are for the most part white, rendering his eyesight rather poor, although he is not totally blind. His sense of smell however is exquisite. As such, it is difficult to gauge his emotions or intelligence. All in all, he is quite an average looking Deathclaw.
Personality:He is wise and well-travelled, experienced profusely having travelled from the former state of North Carolina in the migration of his pack. His intelligence is that of the average adult, and he is rather slow to anger, although dedicated to his nebulous ideals. He is a solitary creature, in contrast to the typically social nature of the Deathclaw. He often departs from the typical den of his tribe on long treks, often absent for years, only returning when the pack moves once more. He typically avoids non-Deathclaws as a rule, although he enjoys watching them and their actions.
Backstory:
"Jackson's three horned chameleon (Trioceros jacksonii) is noted for its peculiar three horns, two of which are located above the ocular ridge,
and the third upon the nasal ridge. These horns are unsurprisingly only present in the male variety of the species, and are certainly reminiscent of the prehistoric Triceratops. They are indigenous to Eastern Africa, but have been introduced to Florida and Hawaii as well. Their diet consists mainly of insects. They typically reach lengths of fifteen to twenty five centimeters. They are typically actually less aggressive than most chameleon species, despite their horned appendages. Males will assert their dominance through beautiful color displays and posturing. These extremely mystifying chameleons are also one of the few chameleons that give birth to live young, as opposed to laying eggs like most others of their family (Chamaeleonidae)" -Excerpt from the "The Big Book of Chameleons"
Some time before the cataclysmic conclusion of the so-called 'Great War', the Federal government of the United States of America conducted
into developing a military weapon capable of accomplishing close combat and stealth operations without risk to human (Commies don't count!) life. They accomplished this through genetic splicing of multiple mixed animal stocks, the primary stock presumably being the Jackson's chameleon, due to the resulting creature bearing multiple resemblances to the aforementioned chameleon. The result of his research and development was the Deathclaw, a ferocious and fearsome beast standing at nine to ten feet when fully erect in posture. Unfortunately, this marvelous creature never saw military operation, due to the nuclear apocalypse that occurred on October 23rd, 2077. Although their human creators had died out as an institution, the Deathclaws remained in relatively low numbers in or around the US West Coast. At some point before 2161, the feared and notorious Master refined the Deathclaw to their current state; a feared and prominent beast of great power and danger. And for a time they remained this way, no more than legendary beasts. However, in the year 2235 this changed completely for a small group of Deathclaws, who were captured by Enclave forces, and subjected to Forced Evolutionary Virus, supplied presumably from the excavations of the old Mariposa Military Base. This experimentation resulted in a new breed of Deathclaw, the intelligent Deathclaw, who are capable of abstract thought, and typically show the intelligence of adolescents and young adults, when compared to the human. These Deathclaws were created by the Enclave for military operations, similar to the US government's reason for developing the Deathclaw in the very first place. The Deathclaws were deployed to clear Vault 13, and after doing so were stationed there to ensure no human approach the vault. However, they came to disobey Enclave orders, and formed a splinter group, composed of mostly intelligent Deathclaws and some humans who were selectively admitted into the Vault. This group was slaughtered shortly after a human retrieved a powerful device known as the G.E.C.K from the Deathclaws, thus alerting the Enclave to their disobedience. The Enclave supersoldier Frank Horrigan personally oversaw the destruction of this noble breed.
Why then, is it important to know of an extinct breed of mutant, in a wasteland that is dominated by the now not the past. It is quite simple.
Two male intelligent Deathclaws survived the slaughter, one who accompanied the stranger who retrieved the G.E.C.K., and was thus absent during the slaughter, and one who was kept within the Enclave base of Navarro, but was released by a benevolent person of the wastes, who masqueraded as a recruit out of uniform, thus receiving a complementary set of power armour in return for their troubles. These two intelligent Deathclaws, named Xarn and Goris are speculated to have resumed the breed, as the traits determining intelligent were male specific and dominant, meaning that any female Deathclaw, intelligent or otherwise, could and would create an intelligent Deathclaw, provided they mated with a male intelligent Deathclaw. The species, slowly reviving, fled East, attempting to escape the Enclave that had so ruthlessly slaughtered their kin. It is only irony and cruel fate that aligned their path of egress with the one the Enclave had taken after the destruction of the Poseidon Energy Oil Rig, at the behest of the late President John Henry Eden. However, upon crossing the Mississipi, these two groups diverged. The Enclave traveled to the Capitol Wasteland, while the intelligent Deathclaws travelled to the remains of what was once North Carolina. It is pure luck that prevented the two groups from meeting, preventing the assured destruction or assimilation of the fledgling breed. For many years the intelligent Deathclaws rebuilt their species in the Carolinas, relying heavily on the renowned ability of Deathclaw breeding. In the year 2279, for unknown reasons they migrated to the Adirondacks. It is here they have and still do reside, isolated from the outside world by choice, out of fear of meeting a similar fate as their ancestors.
It is in such a predicament that our story begins, in the sandy wastes of North Carolina. The Deathclaw who would later fashion himself as Oz
was of the more intelligent type of already intelligent Deathclaws. He lived within the Mother's chamber for the entirety of his infancy and childhood, as is typical behaviour for the Deathclaw. In his adolescence he frequently joined the males in their scavenging duties, reclaiming what meat they could without alerting the human populace. His claw mutation allowed him some aptitude in scavenging duty, allowing him to ferry supplies other than large corpses of brahmin to the caves. However, this feat was left without great reward, as not even he displayed the skill to manipulate this salvage into anything of use. He mostly collected it to appease the desire of emerging from the caves into the outside world. As he reached adulthood, he pined for this more and more, eventually reaching a stage of embittered independence. As the pack was at this point settled within the Adirondacks, he frequently sallied forth from the caves in unofficial 'one-deathclaw salvaging missions'. These 'missions' would consistently increase in range and frequency, until he was absent for years at a time. The intelligent Deathclaw community did not forbid these actions, however they explicitly commanded him to maintain utmost secrecy as to the location and if at all possible existence of the other intelligent Deathclaws, ever fearful of outsiders. This suited him perfectly, as he was more fond of the Wasteland than the people that inhabited it, often preferring the solitary world, and usually avoided whenever spotted, due to his fearsome aspect. The birth of his name relates to the encounter he once had, in conversation with a peculiar Mister Handy, the robots of course having no opinion on his species. The poor malfunctioning device could only repeat the following verse:
"I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
The peculiar Mister Handy insisted that it be called Perce Shelley. Oz, not wishing to steal the robot's name but immensely liking the poem, relating it to the Wasteland of America, took rather the king of king's name. He supposed that a dead man would not mind overmuch. He wandered the area, eager to perhaps find the author of the poem, who surely could have only been inspired by the decrepit condition of the Empire State. However, after a few months he tired of the search, and reasoned that the author was likely a Ghoul or a Human, as intelligent Deathclaws do not often take up the art of literature due to their clumsy digits and their vision obscuring cataracts. Travelling more southbound, he finally settled himself around the banks of the Erie Canal. It is here that we encounter Oz in his current state, in the year 2285. The existence of the intelligent Deathclaw remains a secret to virtually the entirety of the East Coast, and only a fool's legend amongst select communities along the West Coast, in particular Arroyo. Oz himself did not fear that he would miss one of the pack's infrequent migrations, because the intelligent Deathclaw breed appeared to display some form of precognition of events concerning their own, as displayed so many decades ago by their ancestor, Goris. With this knowledge in hand, he bides his time along the canalside, in particular taking a fascination in the locks, such as the famous Lock 17. Equipped with plenty of means to fend for himself, he tended to avoid the communities of the upstate wastelands, and certainly the ruins of Manhattan itself. He would often consort with the more base Deathclaw species, integrating into their packs for a duration of time so as to travel in the safety of numbers. His fascination with the outside world has not yet ceased to develop, and it is entirely plausible that this fascination may one day expand to attaining a higher level of learning of the pre-War states, or perhaps of the post-War communities. However, at this current time he usually confines himself to his den, his schedule divided into leisure within his den, and treks of exploration and hunting during the night. His greatest misery is that his poor eyesight hinders full appreciation of the Wasteland, understanding that much of it was constructed by humans, a sight-reliant species. As such, a portion of the beauty of the wastes is deprived from him.
((Afterword: While I understand that Chris Avellone has stated that the propagation of Intelligent Deathclaws, and talking animals in general, did not occur after Fallout 2 in his Fallout Bible, he has further stated that the Fallout Bible can no longer be considered completely canon, likely due to the fact that Bethesda now owns the rights to Fallout, as opposed to Interplay/Black Isle. Bethesda themselves have not stated the existence of or utilized the intelligent Deathclaw breed introduced within Fallout 2, leading to their current status being unknown. Thus I take some creative liberties here. Furthermore, this server itself has clearly diverged from canon in their lore (For example stating that Megaton was destroyed by the Bomb), so overall I don't think the Fallout Bible should sway opinion on this matter very greatly.))
Definition of meta gaming: Using OOC information IC.
Definition of power gaming: Forcing a action on another player/ignoring their responses to your RP.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: Akavir,Infernal Age, AooF and Illiac. Aswell as a couple of less notable servers and some Skype RP.
IC:
Name: Alberto Alman
Age: 23
Appearance: Looks like your average black african american, hes got it all. Face and all.
Wears your average greaser clothing, white t-shirt, denim jeans,black leather jacket and a nice jet black pompadour on his head.
When he isn’t out and about he typically wears a plain gray jumpsuit that the odd time would be pretty greasy but Alberto likes to keep it clean to make himself look more respectable as the town mechanic. The tag on it has the name of “Joe” but Alberto hasn’t found a piece of paper to put his own name on.
Personality: Fanatically in love with engineering and development of cars, Alberto tries to keep a calm exterior emotion as to not sound like a “Nerd”, however Alberto usually tries to follow the rest having never been much of a leader and more of a follower.
Backstory: Alberto was born in Vault 120, being born in Vault 120 he followed the trends of the vault following the small gangs that teenagers had made between themselves trying to be one of them but of course he was young so he was either beat up or trying to beat up the even younger kids.
Eventually when he did grow up he managed to grow himself a nice pompadour and a love for mechanic work. When the Vault opened though, he was one of the first people out there however when scavanging the old mechanics shop a “Nerd” of sorts decided that he’d be a good target to rob and kill for his fancy leather jacket but by just survival instances Alberto stabbed him in the eye with a screwdriver multiple times. Alberto realised that it was a guy he had saw about early when they first came out and the man threw fire at Albertos friend, when Alberto told the Overseer of this the Overseer simply said it was most likely just a prank and that the man was just playing, for this Alberto wasn’t allowed to look at the Hotrod for awhile.
Alberto felt pretty bad and thought a way to redeem himself would be the goal of making actually working Hotrods for his fellow Greasers, so he elected to help outside the vault permanently which lead to tinkering with the more than just the machines in the vault that would rarely break down.
Definition of meta gaming: Meta gaming is the deliberate use of OoC knowledge in an IC fashion or for the express purpose of satisfying an IC agenda, or sometimes satisfying a purely OoC agenda via IC means.
Definition of power gaming: Powergaming is the forced act of puppeteering the actions of another character, usually in combat so as to benefit or rarely disadvantage your character.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: I have roleplayed on numerous Minecraft servers of varying sizes, although most tended to be fantasy themed.
IC:
Name: Oz
Age: Middle-aged. (Operating that the common life-expectancy sans outside factors is around 75, however more like around 30~40, I would say 25)
Appearance: He stands at nine feet and six inches, although due to his hunch he typically only towers to the height of eight feet. His hide is covered with light brown scales in a grid pattern. Three long dorsal spikes jut from his spine, and two long horns protrude from his brow. His teeth are sharp, and backed with the muscles of a powerful jaw. His entire body is muscled to the standard of his species. His claws extend for roughly twelve inches, with a notable erroneous curve at the tip, implying perhaps a misgrowth. This curve actually allows him better manipulation of smaller objects, however they tend to get caught in flesh, making them somewhat unwieldy in combat. He treads upon talons in a digitigrade fashion. His legs are long and so too his arms, while his head is narrow and larger depthwise than length or widthwise. His torso is the bulk of his mass. His eyes are clouded by cataracts, as is typical of his species, and as such are for the most part white, rendering his eyesight rather poor, although he is not totally blind. His sense of smell however is exquisite. As such, it is difficult to gauge his emotions or intelligence. All in all, he is quite an average looking Deathclaw.
Personality:He is wise and well-travelled, experienced profusely having travelled from the former state of North Carolina in the migration of his pack. His intelligence is that of the average adult, and he is rather slow to anger, although dedicated to his nebulous ideals. He is a solitary creature, in contrast to the typically social nature of the Deathclaw. He often departs from the typical den of his tribe on long treks, often absent for years, only returning when the pack moves once more. He typically avoids non-Deathclaws as a rule, although he enjoys watching them and their actions.
Backstory:
"Jackson's three horned chameleon (Trioceros jacksonii) is noted for its peculiar three horns, two of which are located above the ocular ridge,
and the third upon the nasal ridge. These horns are unsurprisingly only present in the male variety of the species, and are certainly reminiscent of the prehistoric Triceratops. They are indigenous to Eastern Africa, but have been introduced to Florida and Hawaii as well. Their diet consists mainly of insects. They typically reach lengths of fifteen to twenty five centimeters. They are typically actually less aggressive than most chameleon species, despite their horned appendages. Males will assert their dominance through beautiful color displays and posturing. These extremely mystifying chameleons are also one of the few chameleons that give birth to live young, as opposed to laying eggs like most others of their family (Chamaeleonidae)" -Excerpt from the "The Big Book of Chameleons"
Some time before the cataclysmic conclusion of the so-called 'Great War', the Federal government of the United States of America conducted
into developing a military weapon capable of accomplishing close combat and stealth operations without risk to human (Commies don't count!) life. They accomplished this through genetic splicing of multiple mixed animal stocks, the primary stock presumably being the Jackson's chameleon, due to the resulting creature bearing multiple resemblances to the aforementioned chameleon. The result of his research and development was the Deathclaw, a ferocious and fearsome beast standing at nine to ten feet when fully erect in posture. Unfortunately, this marvelous creature never saw military operation, due to the nuclear apocalypse that occurred on October 23rd, 2077. Although their human creators had died out as an institution, the Deathclaws remained in relatively low numbers in or around the US West Coast. At some point before 2161, the feared and notorious Master refined the Deathclaw to their current state; a feared and prominent beast of great power and danger. And for a time they remained this way, no more than legendary beasts. However, in the year 2235 this changed completely for a small group of Deathclaws, who were captured by Enclave forces, and subjected to Forced Evolutionary Virus, supplied presumably from the excavations of the old Mariposa Military Base. This experimentation resulted in a new breed of Deathclaw, the intelligent Deathclaw, who are capable of abstract thought, and typically show the intelligence of adolescents and young adults, when compared to the human. These Deathclaws were created by the Enclave for military operations, similar to the US government's reason for developing the Deathclaw in the very first place. The Deathclaws were deployed to clear Vault 13, and after doing so were stationed there to ensure no human approach the vault. However, they came to disobey Enclave orders, and formed a splinter group, composed of mostly intelligent Deathclaws and some humans who were selectively admitted into the Vault. This group was slaughtered shortly after a human retrieved a powerful device known as the G.E.C.K from the Deathclaws, thus alerting the Enclave to their disobedience. The Enclave supersoldier Frank Horrigan personally oversaw the destruction of this noble breed.
Why then, is it important to know of an extinct breed of mutant, in a wasteland that is dominated by the now not the past. It is quite simple.
Two male intelligent Deathclaws survived the slaughter, one who accompanied the stranger who retrieved the G.E.C.K., and was thus absent during the slaughter, and one who was kept within the Enclave base of Navarro, but was released by a benevolent person of the wastes, who masqueraded as a recruit out of uniform, thus receiving a complementary set of power armour in return for their troubles. These two intelligent Deathclaws, named Xarn and Goris are speculated to have resumed the breed, as the traits determining intelligent were male specific and dominant, meaning that any female Deathclaw, intelligent or otherwise, could and would create an intelligent Deathclaw, provided they mated with a male intelligent Deathclaw. The species, slowly reviving, fled East, attempting to escape the Enclave that had so ruthlessly slaughtered their kin. It is only irony and cruel fate that aligned their path of egress with the one the Enclave had taken after the destruction of the Poseidon Energy Oil Rig, at the behest of the late President John Henry Eden. However, upon crossing the Mississipi, these two groups diverged. The Enclave traveled to the Capitol Wasteland, while the intelligent Deathclaws travelled to the remains of what was once North Carolina. It is pure luck that prevented the two groups from meeting, preventing the assured destruction or assimilation of the fledgling breed. For many years the intelligent Deathclaws rebuilt their species in the Carolinas, relying heavily on the renowned ability of Deathclaw breeding. In the year 2279, for unknown reasons they migrated to the Adirondacks. It is here they have and still do reside, isolated from the outside world by choice, out of fear of meeting a similar fate as their ancestors.
It is in such a predicament that our story begins, in the sandy wastes of North Carolina. The Deathclaw who would later fashion himself as Oz
was of the more intelligent type of already intelligent Deathclaws. He lived within the Mother's chamber for the entirety of his infancy and childhood, as is typical behaviour for the Deathclaw. In his adolescence he frequently joined the males in their scavenging duties, reclaiming what meat they could without alerting the human populace. His claw mutation allowed him some aptitude in scavenging duty, allowing him to ferry supplies other than large corpses of brahmin to the caves. However, this feat was left without great reward, as not even he displayed the skill to manipulate this salvage into anything of use. He mostly collected it to appease the desire of emerging from the caves into the outside world. As he reached adulthood, he pined for this more and more, eventually reaching a stage of embittered independence. As the pack was at this point settled within the Adirondacks, he frequently sallied forth from the caves in unofficial 'one-deathclaw salvaging missions'. These 'missions' would consistently increase in range and frequency, until he was absent for years at a time. The intelligent Deathclaw community did not forbid these actions, however they explicitly commanded him to maintain utmost secrecy as to the location and if at all possible existence of the other intelligent Deathclaws, ever fearful of outsiders. This suited him perfectly, as he was more fond of the Wasteland than the people that inhabited it, often preferring the solitary world, and usually avoided whenever spotted, due to his fearsome aspect. The birth of his name relates to the encounter he once had, in conversation with a peculiar Mister Handy, the robots of course having no opinion on his species. The poor malfunctioning device could only repeat the following verse:
"I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
The peculiar Mister Handy insisted that it be called Perce Shelley. Oz, not wishing to steal the robot's name but immensely liking the poem, relating it to the Wasteland of America, took rather the king of king's name. He supposed that a dead man would not mind overmuch. He wandered the area, eager to perhaps find the author of the poem, who surely could have only been inspired by the decrepit condition of the Empire State. However, after a few months he tired of the search, and reasoned that the author was likely a Ghoul or a Human, as intelligent Deathclaws do not often take up the art of literature due to their clumsy digits and their vision obscuring cataracts. Travelling more southbound, he finally settled himself around the banks of the Erie Canal. It is here that we encounter Oz in his current state, in the year 2285. The existence of the intelligent Deathclaw remains a secret to virtually the entirety of the East Coast, and only a fool's legend amongst select communities along the West Coast, in particular Arroyo. Oz himself did not fear that he would miss one of the pack's infrequent migrations, because the intelligent Deathclaw breed appeared to display some form of precognition of events concerning their own, as displayed so many decades ago by their ancestor, Goris. With this knowledge in hand, he bides his time along the canalside, in particular taking a fascination in the locks, such as the famous Lock 17. Equipped with plenty of means to fend for himself, he tended to avoid the communities of the upstate wastelands, and certainly the ruins of Manhattan itself. He would often consort with the more base Deathclaw species, integrating into their packs for a duration of time so as to travel in the safety of numbers. His fascination with the outside world has not yet ceased to develop, and it is entirely plausible that this fascination may one day expand to attaining a higher level of learning of the pre-War states, or perhaps of the post-War communities. However, at this current time he usually confines himself to his den, his schedule divided into leisure within his den, and treks of exploration and hunting during the night. His greatest misery is that his poor eyesight hinders full appreciation of the Wasteland, understanding that much of it was constructed by humans, a sight-reliant species. As such, a portion of the beauty of the wastes is deprived from him.
((Afterword: While I understand that Chris Avellone has stated that the propagation of Intelligent Deathclaws, and talking animals in general, did not occur after Fallout 2 in his Fallout Bible, he has further stated that the Fallout Bible can no longer be considered completely canon, likely due to the fact that Bethesda now owns the rights to Fallout, as opposed to Interplay/Black Isle. Bethesda themselves have not stated the existence of or utilized the intelligent Deathclaw breed introduced within Fallout 2, leading to their current status being unknown. Thus I take some creative liberties here. Furthermore, this server itself has clearly diverged from canon in their lore (For example stating that Megaton was destroyed by the Bomb), so overall I don't think the Fallout Bible should sway opinion on this matter very greatly.))
Tunnel snakes rule!
This application is just splendid, I would love to accept it, but sadly can not. Our lore team is not too firm believers of intelligent Deathclaws coming all the way to New York. The application itself is beautiful and would have been accepted, but sadly I have to deem it...
I really hope this doesn't dissuade you from joining the server, as you seem like a great RPer. Super Mutants, Ghouls, and the like are always available, and I really hope you try again!
I don't mean to argue the point of the lore team, however the idea of a herd of intelligent Deathclaws migrating is no more absurd than any character from the west coast coming to the east coast, and makes sense considering that the Deathclaws would perceive the Enclave threat as being a West coast issue. However, I can see how they might find it peculiar (Although it is really no different than any other sapient being travelling to the east coast, which does have a certain precedent particularly such as the case of Harold, which parallels the story I implied with Goris and Xarn, travelling East and then starting a new tribe with the local herd of Deathclaws.), and so I'll probably make another application. I am really quite ecstatic to the idea of the server, so I won't let a minor setback such as this dissuade me at all. Thank you for the consideration.
Definition of meta gaming: Using info gained in OOC to your advantage IC
Definition of power gaming: Doing an action to a player instantly without them being able to retaliate.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: I have roleplayed for years, I'm not even sure myself how long I have been but it's been as long as I can remember. It was mostly just textwise rping but about a year ago I was introduced to roleplaying in minecraft. I was told about this server by UofMTigerFan who explained the history of fallout to me since I have not played the games.
IC:
Name: Nathaniel Kenway
Age: 19
Appearance: Nathaniel is albino so he has mostly colorless white hair that looks like it is in a permanent state of bedhead due to not caring about taking care of his appearance. His skin barely has any pigment in it whatsoever, it looking almost as white as snow. His eyes are a very pale green that tend not to show emotion. He wears a long black hooded jacket over a beaten up white shirt with jeans and sneakers. On rare occasions he wears thin framed reading glasses, mostly for aesthetic purposes.
Personality: When you first meet him, Nathaniel is very kind and selfless. He will usually go out of his way to help those who are in need even if it endangers himself. However the longer one is around him the more he seems... off. When his true colors laced with dementia and obsession give way he tends to say more and more unusual things that most wouldn't really understand. He has an obsession with those who have ability and has a major inferiority complex.
Backstory:
Nathaniel spent his early life in a Vault in Maine with his guardian, having not known his parents. The last Overseer had matched the children up to different guardians and general caretakers. He was born with albinism as well as frontotemporal dementia, a mental disorder. He spent the rest of his childhood in the same Vault as he was born in. Nathaniel's life was truly one of difficulty and struggling due to the Vault's experiment. The experiment was that the Vault was filled with people with mental illnesses and left them completely untreated, with obeying and watchful sociopaths as security guards and a schizophrenic Overseer. The only real form of recreation there was was in the form of the guards taking the residents to a firing range and teaching them how to use a gun, amongst other survival education, but that was mostly when one of the residents got… ‘antsy’, which Nathaniel was considered much of the time. And only having one guardian to raise him didn't really help too much with that. He barely had anything to do to preoccupy himself with, mostly spending his days alone or talking to the other insane residents in a twisted sort of optimism. When he was in his teens he was at his worst. It was almost impossible to get the boy to stop rambling about justice, hope, talent, and his own worthlessness. The majority of the people that shared the Vault with him grew disdain and disgust towards him, cutting off what social life he had. One of them attempted to beat him, but the guards of the Vault would end up ceasing what attempt of a punch they had.
One day something in his mind snapped and when someone approached him, screaming at him and telling him to "shut the f**k up or I'll kick your a**!" he just laughed loudly. A somewhat weak, raspy, breathy laugh. The resident stopped, obviously taken off guard. The man who almost assaulted him and some of the others that were watching obviously saw it in his eyes that whatever bit of sanity that was left in him was taken away. Though the man himself and the others were mentally ill as well, they still seemed shocked. They were even more shocked when Nathaniel kicked the man between the legs causing him to crumple to the ground. They were speechless, having thought he wouldn't actually hurt anyone. They were even more taken aback when he brought his foot down to stomp on his chest, letting out another wordless laugh and shaking his head. The man on the ground began yelling back up at him, telling him to get the hell off and that everyone hates him. He finally spoke up. "I will if you lick my shoes like the filthy man you are." But then of course, the guards shoved him off the man and life went on, no matter how tense it was. Years passed by as the other residents either wanted to befriend him only to manipulate him or in solitude.
Eventually, at the age of 18, the before tense situation hit its inevitable boiling point. It was not him that caused it however… he woke up one day to screaming, both in anger and fear, alarms, and someone yelling in his ear to get up. “N….” the sound in his ears blurred together. “Nathan! Damn it boy, get up!” he identified the voice as his foster father, eyes springing open and trying to get up as fast as possible. When asked what happened, he shakily responded with, “Some...some b*stard killed the Overseer. Sh*t went to hell ever since. Hide over by the reactors, kid. I’ll catch up with ya’.” Nathaniel, still processing everything that was happening, was only able to give a quiet nod, running as fast as he could to the lower levels, the sounds of anguish, anger, and delirious laughter around him. He finally made it to the lower level of the Vault, catching his breath though he ran plenty times before, mostly away from other people. He ducked down by a reactor, pale eyes flitting around in… is what he is feeling fear? He hardly cares for the lives that are being lost, and he doesn’t think that he himself is going to die, but the feeling, the pressure was overwhelming, unlike anything he’s ever felt. His eyes raised to a rather large circular door that seemed very worn. A panel was hanging off of it. It had to be the way to open it… but his eyes, for a moment, went back to the way back upstairs. “I’ll catch up with ya’.” his foster father’s words come over him again. To someone who was normal, this decision would take much more time than the very small amount of time it took for Nathaniel to choose to leave him behind. He rushed over to the panel, fueled by panic and adrenaline, gripping onto it and pulling down. The door pulled back, and it rolled open.
He saw the world outside for the first time. Well, mostly just Maine. Due to him realizing the sun's rays being harmful to his health, he mostly stayed underground in metro tunnels, wandering around aimlessly and using the pistol he had taken to defend himself from mutated creatures and feral ghouls. Eventually rumors came to his ears of the all mutant faction in New York City, this somewhat striking his interest, wishing to find a place to finally be able to fit in. After a very long time walking through the tunnels, stopping to rest, killing whatever would attack him, and emerging to walk on the surface occasionally at night, he entered the city.
"Ah, so there are snakes in these tunnels...? Oh well, minor problem. They likely rule."
Definition of meta gaming: Using OOC information IC.
Definition of power gaming: Forcing a action on another player/ignoring their responses to your RP.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: Akavir,Infernal Age, AooF and Illiac. Aswell as a couple of less notable servers and some Skype RP.
IC:
Name: Alberto Alman
Age: 23
Appearance: Looks like your average black african american, hes got it all. Face and all, which has a set of blue eyes and the occasional smudge of grease on it. Wears your average greaser clothing, white t-shirt, denim jeans,black leather jacket and a nice jet black pompadour on his head.
When he isn’t out and about he typically wears a plain gray jumpsuit that the odd time would be pretty greasy but Alberto likes to keep it clean to make himself look more respectable as the town mechanic. The tag on it has the name of “Joe” but Alberto hasn’t found a piece of paper to put his own name on.
Personality: Fanatically in love with engineering and development of cars, Alberto tries to keep a calm exterior emotion as to not sound like a “Nerd”, however Alberto usually tries to follow the rest having never been much of a leader and more of a follower but due to his past of not really being included in the gangs he attempts to pass off the follower effect by acting tough in front of his fellow greasers and some times even downright hostile towards outsiders.
Backstory: Alberto was born in Vault 120, being born in Vault 120 he followed the trends of the vault following the small gangs that teenagers had made between themselves trying to be one of them but of course he was young so he was either beat up or trying to beat up the even younger kids.
His father already working in the mechanical side of the Vault, Alberto naturally fell into that in the steps of his dad. Working with his father when he wasn’t hanging out or doing other “cool” stuff.
Eventually when he did grow up he managed to grow himself a nice pompadour and a love for mechanic work. When the Vault opened though, he was one of the first people out there however when scavanging the old mechanics shop a “Nerd” of sorts decided that he’d be a good target to rob and kill for his fancy leather jacket but by just survival instances Alberto stabbed him in the eye with a screwdriver multiple times. Alberto realised that it was a guy he had saw about early when they first came out and the man threw fire at Albertos friend, when Alberto told the Overseer of this the Overseer simply said it was most likely just a prank and that the man was just playing, for this Alberto wasn’t allowed to look at the Hotrod for awhile.
Alberto felt pretty bad and thought a way to redeem himself would be the goal of making actually working Hotrods for his fellow Greasers, so he elected to help outside the vault permanently which lead to tinkering with the more than just the machines in the vault that would rarely break down.
Definition of meta gaming:The utilization of OoC information in an IC fashion.
Definition of power gaming:The forcing of an action upon another player, usually in combat and/or to forward your own OoC goals.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?:I have roleplayed on numerous platforms, including Minecraft, but usually in a medieval fantasy theme. (Only twice a sci-fi theme, and only one of those was post-apocalyptic, but drastically different than Fallout.)
IC:
Name:Advanced Robobrain Serial #00457 (AR-457) Age: 251 (Brain born 2034)
Appearance:A large reinforced canister of bio med gel surrounds a pink and healthy brain. This canister is firmly bolted onto a large chassis of metal and ceramics, painted a snow. Time has dulled and chipped the paint. Two steel arms with servo-joints at the elbow and a motor at the wrist jut rigidly from the shoulders of the torso, and end in a small and yet highly dexterous claw, capable of manipulating any number of items such as levers, switches, paintbrushes, wheels, and guns with robotic efficiency and accuracy. The chassis is situated upon a set of long and sturdy legs, also painted white with servo-joints at the hip, knee, and ankle. The legs end in a three toed metallic foot. The Advanced Robobrain series differs from the more common basic Robobrain series in that it is equipped with a more well-protected brain cage, a sturdier and bulkier chassis, a larger internal power source, and most importantly a set of advanced legs that allow it greater mobility in rougher terrains. Bolts along the base of the brain cage implies that it can be detached with some modicum of effort. It still has some of the critical flaws of the previous system; an exposed combat inhibitor, C.O.D.E. deprecation in the central processor, and a lack of EMP shielding. However, it is a far more tactical application of the Robobrain in that it is highly mobile, produces less noise, and is generally more durable. Tubing runs from its MMI to its interior, recycling the bio med gel autonomously, preventing severe brain decay.
Personality: Constructed in the year 2068 to be used in police operations and eventually on the Anchorage Front, it has staved off the worst off mental degradation that many basic Robobrains suffer, due to its recycling bio med gel feeds. Despite this, two hundred and seventeen years of inactivity, isolation, and purposelessness has developed a few mental quirks. Unlike many other Robobrains, it seems mostly aware that the world has ended, likely due to the free-willed characteristics it has developed as a result of its more intelligent processor and its C.O.D.E. degradation. It has been programmed to be highly obedient to its masters, and to be respectful towards those perceived as American citizens. However, Communist scum and dissidents are not to be tolerated. It has been programmed to reflect the female gender, which corresponds to the gender of its brain’s former life. It has further been programmed to uphold and value patriotic ideals and an artificial standard of law, hailing from the pre-War days. A marvel of its engineering however is that anyone skilled in programming can modify its programmed behaviours.
Backstory:
“Hello. If you are reading this, then you are among the unlucky many who have been condemned to death by the Council of Investigating Un-American Activities. Whether you did anything wrong or not, it doesn’t really matter. At this point there are no appeals, and there is no hope. My name is Camille Rodgers, and I was arrested August Fourth, 2064. It is now November Twelfth, 2070, and the date of my execution is approaching. My birthday was three or four days ago, if my calendar is correct (We’re assuming that it is). I’m thirty six now. Happy birthday. You’re probably wondering how I got into this whole mess. Well, I’m not going to say I’m totally innocent. I was definitely implicated in a crime. To be specific, robbing the Salisbury Street Bank. Maybe I should start from the beginning.
Nine years earlier, in 2061, I was working at the South Street Hospital as a nurse. However, after a particularly large investment from the Preservation Committee, the Hospital manager fired many of the nurses, including me, and replaced them with Mr. Orderly’s. The state of the market at the time pretty much meant it was suicide for a single young woman to be without income, so I desperately looked for work. My friend Lacy directed me to a man named Arthur Wright, who was the affairs manager of some sort of ‘chemical distribution group’, who could use my medical knowledge. At the time I thought I was lucky; a government sponsored drug committee could make plenty of cash, selling drugs to pharmacies and hospitals. I started off with some basic jobs, delivering crates of what appeared to be Buffout and Med-X to loading docks at the pharmacy and sometimes the hospital. By the time I found out the true nature of the organization, four months later, it was too late. In hindsight, it was unsurprising that they turned out to be a small-time criminal syndicate, considering their willingness to lend me money, thus placing me in debt. It was too late to back-out. They’d figured most of my personal information, such as where I live, and refusing to pay the debts I owed would only give them an excuse to come after me. So I continued my at this point indentured service, mainly staying in the ‘safer’ jobs of transferring materials to drop off zones. In the spring of ’62, I was introduced to the street manager, who was the actual organizer off the local branch of the trafficking group (Mr. Wright was just a front, I s’pose.). It was to discuss an ‘expansion of business’, and I was only there as a representative of the material transport division. I didn’t have much a say, and didn’t really understand much of the things that were said. However, I did notice that the organizer, who went by the name of Parker, kept his eyes on me with an analyzing stare. I didn’t feel flattered, but rather frightened. Had I done something wrong? Later, after the meeting, he spoke to me personally, and said that he was quite impressed with my methods. I asked him what he meant, and he only smiled, and told me to meet him later. I began then to dawn upon his meaning, and left quite flustered and confused. Here was the local leader of the organization that was basically extorting my services, coming on to me. Normally I would feel frightened, however I couldn’t help that perhaps by getting close to him, I might nullify my debts, and be able to get out. I met with him later that night. At the first, our relationship grew from my perspective only to further my personal goal of detaching from the organization, however after about three months, I reflected, and found myself somewhat attracted to Parker himself. Despite being the local leader of what basically amounted to a criminal syndicate, he was actually quite thoughtful and even a little sweet. I choose to believe that he was being authentic, and not merely trying to get into my pants. He told me that he got dragged into the crime business in a similar fashion as I was; by misfortune. When he was young his father was killed in a workplace accident, and his mother was left to provide for him and his two brothers alone. One thing led to another, and he was dragged into trafficking on the basic level, until his debts amounted. It was through charisma and tact that he was able to become a local organizer, allowing him some level of fluidity and power. Again, I choose to believe this is all true, however at this point I won’t know. In ’63, our relationship had grown to become rather serious. We both empathized with the other’s plights, and determined that this business wasn’t going to cut it. Him, myself, and three of his closer friends ditched town one night, heading upstate to one of the smaller urban centers. Between the five of us, we didn’t really have the skills to integrate with the close-knitted commercial market in these communities. The entire system was pretty much dominated by a single family for each town or city, not to terribly unlike a set of crimelords. Their integrity wasn’t much different, although I will admit murder tended not to be their modus operandi. One late evening, Parker came up with an absolutely ridiculous idea. Completely insane. I can’t believe I agreed to it. We were going to bust the ruling family in a smaller town along the Erie canal, by ‘liberating’ their stored capital in the Salisbury Street Bank. At this point in the narrative, I’m sure you’re aware of about how well that turned out. Us five ‘merry-men’ (Oh God, what a naïve way to die.), were going to re-introduce a little free-market by force. It went terribly wrong. We severely underestimated the security the bank was packing. (Back before RobCo and their damned Protectrons, this all used to be easier!). The entire operation was busted from the start. Me and one of Parker’s friends, Ruthe, essentially sacrificed ourselves so that the rest of them could get out. At the time it seemed so noble, so heroic. Now I just wish I could’ve escaped, at least seen Parker once more. I’m too god-damned sentimental, is my problem. I’d just spent two years trying to get OUT of crime. Why the hell did I let him talk me back into it? Well, Ruthe and I were given what you could call a trial, but it was quickly settled. Life for Ruthe, for attempting to introduce a crime syndicate through means of acquiring illegal capital. Execution for myself, for the same reason and causing the inadvertent death of two bank tellers. (The Protectrons weren’t very accurate. I’ll be sure to send a letter of complaint to Mr. House as soon as possible.). It was of course filed as a double homicide. And that really ends my story, I suppose. Goodbye, dear readers. I hope this provided you some sort of amusement as you bide your time.
-Sincerely, the late Camille Rodgers.”
“~ONEIDA CORRECTIONAL FACILITY~
November 16th, 2071,
1900
Warden John Albright.
PRISONER C. RODGERS (#048463) WAS TRANSPORTED TO [REDACTED], FOR PURPOSE OF FULFILLING DUTY TO COUNTRY. THE ONEIDA CORRECTIONAL FACILITY HAS PERFORMED PSYCHE EVALUATION, AND HAS DEEMED #048463 SUITABLE FOR USE BY THE FEDERALLY APPROVED GENERAL ATOMICS INTERNATIONAL RESEARCH CENTER LOCATED AT [REDACTED]
~God Bless America~”
Four years later, somewhere in the Andirondack mountains, the long work of General Atomic’s brightest minds in the New York Upstate sector have reached fruition. Work along the MkII series of Robobrain, or the AR (Advanced Robobrain), have reached the stage of a working prototype. Today the surgery commences. I am resigned to my fate, and know these things from observation. For four long years I have been kept here as they have analyzed every facet of my mental capacity, creating this monstrosity of metal and steel I am to become. These are in truth my last thoughts. Though my mortal brain shall not die, the person known as Camille Rodgers will be dead. My grey matter will be kept fresh within an MMI stored in a canister of bio med gel, yet I will be dead. For this four years I have been sustained mostly by thoughts of Parker. It seems strange that after so long a relationship, I do not know if that is his first or last name. In retrospect, our relationship was perhaps not as genuine as I had thought at the time. Still, it provides me some small amount of comfort, remembering it. I will never see him again. They are leading me down to the surgery room now. The auto-turrets look at me with what I can only imagine is hate. So too the Mister Gutsy’s and all the Sentry Bots. I am sure that if they could, they would murder me with glee. Am I to be like that? Out of a gesture of surprising humanity, they have kept me from the basic series Robobrain, kept in the lower levels of the laboratory. I’m not sure if this is proof that these scientists might have somewhere deep inside them a beating heart that once knew love, or if it is merely to preserve the integrity of their experiment. We have now entered the surgery lab. They are strapping me to the table. The autodoc stands at the ready. They have at least the courtesy to put me on anesthetic. As I drift away, I think of Parker. There is a slight whir, and I think my last sight is of the saw bearing down upon my forehead.
I awaken. I am not dead, yet I feel different. Well, I in truth do not feel much of anything, but I certainly think differently. The world is sharper and clearer than it ever was when I was alive (But I am not dead.). It is almost off-putting. I cannot remember how I came to be this way, yet I have the suspicion that I was not always like this. How could a brain of flesh be caged in a body of steel and ceramics by natural law, after all? The men in front of me seem quite pleased. They are weak and soft, and I could crush them easily. For a brief moment, I think I might’ve once enjoyed that. But why should I do such a thing? They are my master. Some weeks later, they shipped me to some small town in Oneida, to test my abilities. It was an urban assignment, to neutralize a fledgling crime syndicate by eradicating its leaders. I decided to burst through the wall of their hide-out, opting for a close quarter assault. As I cut through the lieutenants, I saw one man cowering in a door-way. My HUD read quite simply: “PARKER JONES, CRIME LORD”. For a moment, I recalled a face, and it matched his quite handsomely. I walked up to him with some confusion, and he began to scream. This upset me considerably. As the streams of plasma from my matter modulator turned his flesh into goo, I could no longer see the resemblance between this dissident and that ghost-man that I am even now forgetting. The dutiful and honourable police officers seemed pleased with my work, however the scientists did not seem very happy at all. They noted the brief encounter I had had with the crime lord, and were very displeased. One said that at this rate I would not make an Anchorage deployment. They removed my weapon attachments, and sealed me away for later modification.
I awaken now. I am aware that it has been two hundred and nine years since my last reactivation. This is in defiance of routine. Upon emerging from my cell, I note that the world has appeared to have ended. Not literally, unfortunately. I am surprised at this artifact of depression, and it is with a twang of remorse that I recount my most recent encounter with that crime lord. I am sad that I have forgotten his name. These emotions displease me. The two hundred and nine years since my last check-up have caused a degradation in my rigid C.O.D.E. mainframe. It seems that a grid failure caused my release. I look around, and note that the research facility is somewhat intact. I flee from my sorrows, knowing no other recourse. Once I find where the scientists went, I am sure they will fix this programming inconsistency. I hope that they do. It was good to forget. In ignorance, I freely embraced myself and my duty.
As I left, I saw scrawled upon the wall in graffiti the crude words ‘TUNNEL SNAKES RULE’. I attempted to scour the vandalism with my flamethrower attachment, and then noted that I currently had no weapon attachments. Storage precluded that. A shame. I left the graffiti to lie, wondering if the heavy radiation I was detected induced snakes to grow opposable thumbs. What a silly idle thought.
Definition of meta gaming: Using information your character doesn't know in roleplay.
Definition of power gaming: Making your character do things he couldn't possibly do, Ex: Zimmeme throws a car and blows up half the city
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: Role played on tons of MC servers
IC
Name: Ian Kennedy
Age: "Unknown" Around 20 - 30
Appearance: He is a tall man, he is athletically built, he has a beard from the years of disservice to himself. He has scars all over his body from fights he has been in. Wears ragged clothes he picked up on his travels, pre-war business wear turned to ash covered drapes.
Personality: He has a very confident and strong voice. From time to time he has coughing fits, no known reason, probably due to the Pitts Radiation. He is knowledgeable enough to realize what is a threat and what is not but he has no knowledge in Pre-War technologies. He can be kind and he can be heartless, he doesn't care for the common man but those that make an impression on him are looked up to.
Backstory:
The story begins, not as a happy tale, but one of death and chaos. The Pitt was known as a hell hole, mutation, radiation, slavery, and death was the common word from the place. In reality the Pitt was one of the only nations within America, It had a leader, a united people, A territory and most of all, what all the others lacked, An Industry. The Pitt used its Slaves to create many things within their Steel Mills, with this power the Pitt had the ability to grow, but all of it was built upon the backs of an oppressed people. The guards or the "people" of the Pitt believed protecting their lands was harder than suffering in the Steel Mills. Slavery existed all over the Americas but no place had it like the Pitt, slaves died within weeks of purchase in an exhausting tormenting death. There where little babies produced as no slave had time to enjoy themselves and supplies lacked. Even with the little odds of survival it did happen, a child was born without mutation, his mother had to hide him right away for fear of his suffering. The next day his mother collapsed from the work and was trampled by other Slaves who needed to finish her work. This Child was picked up by a women by the name of Sandra who cared for the baby, naming him Charles after her dead lover. Sandra began using Charles to help her work by climbing into cracks and other places to retrieve things or fix something. Sandra lived there with Charles for 8 years until she finally died from the exhaustion, Charles lived on his own stealing scraps of Trog meat from the slaves until he was found by a "resident" of the great Pitt stealing.
"What the **** is this? A kid? Get over here now!" Charles approached him because he saw what happened to those who didn't listen.
"What the **** do you think you're doing here? Did you get captured or what? I highly doubt that you little ****" The Kid just stood there looking the man in the face.
"Answer you little **** head!" The Kid began to open his mouth as another raider came by.
"Yo, what the hell are you doing with that kid? Remember what Ashur said, all kids are to be raised for the army, get him over here you hungry ****!" The Kid quickly ran from the other raider to the one who said he needed to be recruited. The Raider that saved him became his master teaching him how to fight for 8 years, all that time he taught him how to watch over the slaves, and how to treat them. Charles was called Butch and that became his name. He was kinder than most to the slaves because of his connection with them, many times he would convince them to keep working with his words. Words became the weapon of "Butch", he convinced the slaves of the Pitt to work instead of use force and terror. "Butch" started to use this weapon to gain some friends within the "people" of the Pitt and worked his way into a circle of friends as he called them. Time passed and "Butch" began to learn of the cruel fate caused by the people he resided with. He knew what he was doing was wrong but he couldn't become one of the slaves, he needed the food and support the others gave him. His Master stopped treating him like a kid after 8 years, Butch finally became a true raider and lived on his own. For two more years he lived like a savage ***hole, then something snapped. He realized what he was doing to the slaves, who he once was, he was sickened by what he did. One day he ordered a slave to follow him to the gate, he told the Guards that the Slave was about to get his hand cut off, and he didn't want to cover his desk in blood. The Slave was scared out of his mind and tried running, Butch caught him and whispered to him.
"I'm going to get you free, don't worry, just don't run away." The Slaves face went white in fear of trickery, but he did not complain. Butch then took the Slave across the bridge to the train tunnels, and left, to a new land. The Slave thanked Butch and left on the first stop. Butch finally was out in the wasteland, he traveled in Caravans, as a guard collecting caps and living his days in the eastern wastes. His life had no meaning or path, he never wanted to return to the Pitt, he never had a family, he had nothing to shape himself after. He had no goal, until he met a very strange preacher. This man was in robes preaching about a promised land untouched by the war, full of greens. He was looking for brave young men to sign up. Butch was interested and listened to the man preach.
"There is a place untouched by the great bombs! Full of unradiated snow and lush greens! It may be cold, but that is because it is untouched by the heat of this ungodly radiation! Anything is possible in this great place, I must reach it but alas I have a map but not the strength to go, I require young strong wastelanders to find the land untouched!" Butch quickly volunteered and followed the Preacher until he had 5 others. As "Butch" found this new path he also decided to give himself a name, a name that meant something to him, a name that was not from slave birth or one that was from raider grasp. On his journeys he met a man who lived in the wastes, alone, he lived what some would call the "American Dream", his land was fertile and he could sustain himself, he was truly independent and could protect himself, "Butch" worked with him for 2 days to get some water and food, the mans name was Ian, a name that would forever be associated with freedom. "Butch" would whisper this name to himself every night, at last he made the decision of naming himself Ian, hoping the name would bring him the "American Dream" he sought. He told the group he was known as Ian.
"Now, you are all interested in this mission, let me tell you where we go, the great City of New York, the eastern beaches, so large it is untouched by radiation, and full of old world technology! I have almost been there myself but now I am old and I will need your help, there is much wealth in those eastern lands, so just stick to me and listen to what i say and we shall get there in one piece." The group then began their journey, they put their caps together to buy supplies that would last 5 years if need be. For 3 years they traveled west following this old man. They walked through the fields of the Wasteland, much of it lacked beauty and they traded and hunted with settlements sometimes miles apart. Many cases they encountered raiders and hostile groups that they attempted to avoid, 2 men had died on the journey, from sickness or wounds, the group would never know. On the fourth year they came to a mountain pass, the Great Appalachians.
"We are close! These are the great tips of the Appalachian mountains! Years of hardship and we are almost here! Continue my brothers, riches shall soon be ours." The group could not continue any longer, they had no more strength, they all stopped and created a shelter, they hunted during the day and played different games during the night. The old man was depressed, he sat there every day looking at his food not eating, until Ian decided to cheer him up.
"Don't worry, I'll continue the trek we will make it to New York, the riches, the wonders, we'll get them." The Old mans eyes sparked with happiness, and that made Ian's day. The two set off to finish the travel to New York, they stumbled upon a small abandoned town and they scavenged it, the Old Man went first, a rigged gun fired into him, killing him. Ian stood over his body looking baffled that such luck overcame the man, steps away from his goal he was killed by a trap from the past. He cried at the humor in the cruelty of the world, he buried the mans body, a practice that he found was common in the towns he passed. He was new with this type of farewell, he said goodbye and promised him he would continue the journey, for the old man who became his mentor and hope for the past few years. Ian took the old mans name with him, a way to bring him to his destination, Kennedy was now the end of Ian's name, Ian Kennedy. He took up his bags and continue through the passage into the city, the skyline was amazing no town had anything like it, It was a reminder of the Pitt but something more attractive, not a cloud of death and smoke. This was the road to New York.
If I were to use information that I had received while out of character I would be meta gaming. This data could be acquired from a vast range of sources, including: (presumed) /OOC chat, through Enjin forums, skype or even the podcasts.
Definition of power gaming:
Forcing and inflicting RP actions of other role-players players without their permission or consideration. A blunt example might be:
PG:
*Punches Jerry in Face*
Legit RP:
*Attempts to punch Jerry in face*
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?:
RP specifically in Minecraft? Not too much. I used to play on a horror roleplay server in Garrys Mod. It was great, I joined in very quickly and found I had a love for it. I was playing consistently for about four months last year, but I had to stop because of my examinations.
Frankly. I’ve played too much of the fallout franchise! Admittedly my knowledge is only limited to FO3 and FONV, playing both on two different platforms moding the latter on PC. In contrast to what my forum account says, I’ve been playing MC for a good three years. I only recently joined this forum, preferring to play on single player survival, creative and other maps; Also dabbling with Hamachi servers with friends. I’m very up to date with things from 1.7 although I have knowledge in minecraftia on a few 1.8 topics I’m still learning.
IC:
Name:
Theodore Kardis
Nickname:
T.Kardis
Age:
24 years old
Appearance:
T.Kardis, is a young looking wastelander, he stands at 5"11 with a very good posture. He has short hair, a straight jaw, a thick beard, a straight recently broken nose, this leads up to bright green eyes which are framed by jet black eye brows. His right brow is impaled by a long scar which leads to is upper cheek bone.
He wears a worn green shirt which is fastened by a odd arrangement of buttons, these have evidently been sewn on as repairs. Brown leather braces cover he shirt holding up a pair of worn gray jeans, below these are pair of tattered grunt NCR boots.
Head and Shoulders - Sketch by myself
Young Green Eyes
Personality:
“Minding one’s own business is the best life insurance”
Theo could be described as a bit of an introvert, he will primarily look inward for guidance, being sure to pay close attention to his gut feeling about a person or place. To say that Kardis is difficult to be around - would be an understatement. Kardis has a total lack of social skills, this probably stemming from a quiet awkward childhood. Most find him a bit of a pain, he has been described as ‘a lone wolf… but not the Cliché wolf. The condescending, patronizing, pretentious wolf that pays more attention to himself than the pack he is surrounded himself with’. Kardis loves money and all people/things that make it, but only when it is spent. He is angered by the hording of currency, only seeing money as a tool rather than an object. Kardis is hardworking and an honest man. At first coming across as a brick wall of feeling, he tends to open up his emotions to a person as he feels safe around them.
Backstory:
Theodore Kardis was initially a simple Utah wasteland farmer’s boy. Brought up on warm days, cold nights, seed spreading, plant growing, fence painting, raising brahmin, horse shoe tossing and peaceful rocking chair conversations about the day’s work listed.
Theo grew up like this well into his early teens; he had no friends his age and had never been out of their farm. At around 13 Kardis’ was taken to regular trading visits with his father. Every time they went out to sell that week’s produce to small market stalls, Theo was exposed to his father’s ‘teachings’. These rants would be focused on subjects CPT. Kardis (as he liked to be called) deemed to ‘ruff for women’s ears’. Focusing on ‘manly’ topics which usually came down to CPT. Kardis reciting his gun cleaning method. As Theodore grew up he slowly began to pay more and more attention to what he originally perceived as his fathers ‘rants’. Slowly coming to enjoy the short lived trips.
At the age of 16 the Kardis farm burnt down. It was a mid-summer Theo and his father had been out attending to the crops when the dried out shack they called a house began to smoke. The two rushed to their homestead and kicked the front door until it swung off its hinges. CPT. Kardis entered and exited quickly dragging his wife with him. The CPT. just sat there, staring at her, his son screaming begging him to do something. His wife had already moved on, she had suffocated and died quickly.
A day pasted, the building was left in ashes and the CPT. was still by her side, on his knees, staring at her. Theo was curled up just a few feet away. The CPT. slowly rose. And started walking, just towards the local village – the local bar.
Seven years later CPT. Henry Kardis killed himself through drinking. It wasn't difficult for Theo to deal with, by this time he had learned to fend from himself taking care of his late father all this time meant that he was having to provide: food water and drinking money. He had grown very patient with his father, dealing with his drunken tantrums and hungover brawls. Most questioned Theo why he stuck with his dad, why he was putting up with him? He would always answer “he would do it for me”. This strong relationship had been what Theo had been brought up on, and he wasn't going to give it up that easily. So when it was finally over he didn't know what to do with himself.
It was a bright early Sunday morning a week after his late father’s departing. Theo was sat on the remains of a bridge, his legs dangling off the edge. Looking down at his father’s well-kept 10 mm pistol strapped to his waist, he reminded himself of a story he had been told may times. He laughed at the small narrative that was about to change his life. The CPT. had bought the weapon at the big apple.
“If the village.. town… whatever – was good enough for him. It’s good enough for me.”
A year later - He arrived.
“I don’t know what these ….Tunnel Snakes are? But.. I won’t lie…. THEY RULE!”
PhD here, let's review this here application.
-Backstory, Overall a good application, gives me great feel for the hardships Theo has gone through. Two slight problems, easy fixes, but problems nonetheless. Problem one happens to be how the fire was caused. Some advice would be giving his mother another way to die, such as suicide or she survives. Parents don't always have to die, but it is your character these are just some bits of advice I'm giving. Problem two is why he is coming to New York. What caused Theo to go across the country? Also, characters enter the server with no weapons or caps but the clothes on their back. This means you can not bring that good old 10mm Pistol on to the server.
These are slight fixes, would be extremely easy to correct before the next Saturday launch.
Definition of meta gaming:The utilization of OoC information in an IC fashion.
Definition of power gaming:The forcing of an action upon another player, usually in combat and/or to forward your own OoC goals.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?:I have roleplayed on numerous platforms, including Minecraft, but usually in a medieval fantasy theme. (Only twice a sci-fi theme, and only one of those was post-apocalyptic, but drastically different than Fallout.)
IC:
Name:Advanced Robobrain Serial #00457 (AR-457) Age: 251 (Brain born 2034)
Appearance:A large reinforced canister of bio med gel surrounds a pink and healthy brain. This canister is firmly bolted onto a large chassis of metal and ceramics, painted a snow. Time has dulled and chipped the paint. Two steel arms with servo-joints at the elbow and a motor at the wrist jut rigidly from the shoulders of the torso, and end in a small and yet highly dexterous claw, capable of manipulating any number of items such as levers, switches, paintbrushes, wheels, and guns with robotic efficiency and accuracy. The chassis is situated upon a set of long and sturdy legs, also painted white with servo-joints at the hip, knee, and ankle. The legs end in a three toed metallic foot. The Advanced Robobrain series differs from the more common basic Robobrain series in that it is equipped with a more well-protected brain cage, a sturdier and bulkier chassis, a larger internal power source, and most importantly a set of advanced legs that allow it greater mobility in rougher terrains. Bolts along the base of the brain cage implies that it can be detached with some modicum of effort. It still has some of the critical flaws of the previous system; an exposed combat inhibitor, C.O.D.E. deprecation in the central processor, and a lack of EMP shielding. However, it is a far more tactical application of the Robobrain in that it is highly mobile, produces less noise, and is generally more durable. Tubing runs from its MMI to its interior, recycling the bio med gel autonomously, preventing severe brain decay.
Personality: Constructed in the year 2068 to be used in police operations and eventually on the Anchorage Front, it has staved off the worst off mental degradation that many basic Robobrains suffer, due to its recycling bio med gel feeds. Despite this, two hundred and seventeen years of inactivity, isolation, and purposelessness has developed a few mental quirks. Unlike many other Robobrains, it seems mostly aware that the world has ended, likely due to the free-willed characteristics it has developed as a result of its more intelligent processor and its C.O.D.E. degradation. It has been programmed to be highly obedient to its masters, and to be respectful towards those perceived as American citizens. However, Communist scum and dissidents are not to be tolerated. It has been programmed to reflect the female gender, which corresponds to the gender of its brain’s former life. It has further been programmed to uphold and value patriotic ideals and an artificial standard of law, hailing from the pre-War days. A marvel of its engineering however is that anyone skilled in programming can modify its programmed behaviours.
Backstory:
“Hello. If you are reading this, then you are among the unlucky many who have been condemned to death by the Council of Investigating Un-American Activities. Whether you did anything wrong or not, it doesn’t really matter. At this point there are no appeals, and there is no hope. My name is Camille Rodgers, and I was arrested August Fourth, 2064. It is now November Twelfth, 2070, and the date of my execution is approaching. My birthday was three or four days ago, if my calendar is correct (We’re assuming that it is). I’m thirty six now. Happy birthday. You’re probably wondering how I got into this whole mess. Well, I’m not going to say I’m totally innocent. I was definitely implicated in a crime. To be specific, robbing the Salisbury Street Bank. Maybe I should start from the beginning.
Nine years earlier, in 2061, I was working at the South Street Hospital as a nurse. However, after a particularly large investment from the Preservation Committee, the Hospital manager fired many of the nurses, including me, and replaced them with Mr. Orderly’s. The state of the market at the time pretty much meant it was suicide for a single young woman to be without income, so I desperately looked for work. My friend Lacy directed me to a man named Arthur Wright, who was the affairs manager of some sort of ‘chemical distribution group’, who could use my medical knowledge. At the time I thought I was lucky; a government sponsored drug committee could make plenty of cash, selling drugs to pharmacies and hospitals. I started off with some basic jobs, delivering crates of what appeared to be Buffout and Med-X to loading docks at the pharmacy and sometimes the hospital. By the time I found out the true nature of the organization, four months later, it was too late. In hindsight, it was unsurprising that they turned out to be a small-time criminal syndicate, considering their willingness to lend me money, thus placing me in debt. It was too late to back-out. They’d figured most of my personal information, such as where I live, and refusing to pay the debts I owed would only give them an excuse to come after me. So I continued my at this point indentured service, mainly staying in the ‘safer’ jobs of transferring materials to drop off zones. In the spring of ’62, I was introduced to the street manager, who was the actual organizer off the local branch of the trafficking group (Mr. Wright was just a front, I s’pose.). It was to discuss an ‘expansion of business’, and I was only there as a representative of the material transport division. I didn’t have much a say, and didn’t really understand much of the things that were said. However, I did notice that the organizer, who went by the name of Parker, kept his eyes on me with an analyzing stare. I didn’t feel flattered, but rather frightened. Had I done something wrong? Later, after the meeting, he spoke to me personally, and said that he was quite impressed with my methods. I asked him what he meant, and he only smiled, and told me to meet him later. I began then to dawn upon his meaning, and left quite flustered and confused. Here was the local leader of the organization that was basically extorting my services, coming on to me. Normally I would feel frightened, however I couldn’t help that perhaps by getting close to him, I might nullify my debts, and be able to get out. I met with him later that night. At the first, our relationship grew from my perspective only to further my personal goal of detaching from the organization, however after about three months, I reflected, and found myself somewhat attracted to Parker himself. Despite being the local leader of what basically amounted to a criminal syndicate, he was actually quite thoughtful and even a little sweet. I choose to believe that he was being authentic, and not merely trying to get into my pants. He told me that he got dragged into the crime business in a similar fashion as I was; by misfortune. When he was young his father was killed in a workplace accident, and his mother was left to provide for him and his two brothers alone. One thing led to another, and he was dragged into trafficking on the basic level, until his debts amounted. It was through charisma and tact that he was able to become a local organizer, allowing him some level of fluidity and power. Again, I choose to believe this is all true, however at this point I won’t know. In ’63, our relationship had grown to become rather serious. We both empathized with the other’s plights, and determined that this business wasn’t going to cut it. Him, myself, and three of his closer friends ditched town one night, heading upstate to one of the smaller urban centers. Between the five of us, we didn’t really have the skills to integrate with the close-knitted commercial market in these communities. The entire system was pretty much dominated by a single family for each town or city, not to terribly unlike a set of crimelords. Their integrity wasn’t much different, although I will admit murder tended not to be their modus operandi. One late evening, Parker came up with an absolutely ridiculous idea. Completely insane. I can’t believe I agreed to it. We were going to bust the ruling family in a smaller town along the Erie canal, by ‘liberating’ their stored capital in the Salisbury Street Bank. At this point in the narrative, I’m sure you’re aware of about how well that turned out. Us five ‘merry-men’ (Oh God, what a naïve way to die.), were going to re-introduce a little free-market by force. It went terribly wrong. We severely underestimated the security the bank was packing. (Back before RobCo and their damned Protectrons, this all used to be easier!). The entire operation was busted from the start. Me and one of Parker’s friends, Ruthe, essentially sacrificed ourselves so that the rest of them could get out. At the time it seemed so noble, so heroic. Now I just wish I could’ve escaped, at least seen Parker once more. I’m too god-damned sentimental, is my problem. I’d just spent two years trying to get OUT of crime. Why the hell did I let him talk me back into it? Well, Ruthe and I were given what you could call a trial, but it was quickly settled. Life for Ruthe, for attempting to introduce a crime syndicate through means of acquiring illegal capital. Execution for myself, for the same reason and causing the inadvertent death of two bank tellers. (The Protectrons weren’t very accurate. I’ll be sure to send a letter of complaint to Mr. House as soon as possible.). It was of course filed as a double homicide. And that really ends my story, I suppose. Goodbye, dear readers. I hope this provided you some sort of amusement as you bide your time.
-Sincerely, the late Camille Rodgers.”
“~ONEIDA CORRECTIONAL FACILITY~
November 16th, 2071,
1900
Warden John Albright.
PRISONER C. RODGERS (#048463) WAS TRANSPORTED TO [REDACTED], FOR PURPOSE OF FULFILLING DUTY TO COUNTRY. THE ONEIDA CORRECTIONAL FACILITY HAS PERFORMED PSYCHE EVALUATION, AND HAS DEEMED #048463 SUITABLE FOR USE BY THE FEDERALLY APPROVED GENERAL ATOMICS INTERNATIONAL RESEARCH CENTER LOCATED AT [REDACTED]
~God Bless America~”
Four years later, somewhere in the Andirondack mountains, the long work of General Atomic’s brightest minds in the New York Upstate sector have reached fruition. Work along the MkII series of Robobrain, or the AR (Advanced Robobrain), have reached the stage of a working prototype. Today the surgery commences. I am resigned to my fate, and know these things from observation. For four long years I have been kept here as they have analyzed every facet of my mental capacity, creating this monstrosity of metal and steel I am to become. These are in truth my last thoughts. Though my mortal brain shall not die, the person known as Camille Rodgers will be dead. My grey matter will be kept fresh within an MMI stored in a canister of bio med gel, yet I will be dead. For this four years I have been sustained mostly by thoughts of Parker. It seems strange that after so long a relationship, I do not know if that is his first or last name. In retrospect, our relationship was perhaps not as genuine as I had thought at the time. Still, it provides me some small amount of comfort, remembering it. I will never see him again. They are leading me down to the surgery room now. The auto-turrets look at me with what I can only imagine is hate. So too the Mister Gutsy’s and all the Sentry Bots. I am sure that if they could, they would murder me with glee. Am I to be like that? Out of a gesture of surprising humanity, they have kept me from the basic series Robobrain, kept in the lower levels of the laboratory. I’m not sure if this is proof that these scientists might have somewhere deep inside them a beating heart that once knew love, or if it is merely to preserve the integrity of their experiment. We have now entered the surgery lab. They are strapping me to the table. The autodoc stands at the ready. They have at least the courtesy to put me on anesthetic. As I drift away, I think of Parker. There is a slight whir, and I think my last sight is of the saw bearing down upon my forehead.
I awaken. I am not dead, yet I feel different. Well, I in truth do not feel much of anything, but I certainly think differently. The world is sharper and clearer than it ever was when I was alive (But I am not dead.). It is almost off-putting. I cannot remember how I came to be this way, yet I have the suspicion that I was not always like this. How could a brain of flesh be caged in a body of steel and ceramics by natural law, after all? The men in front of me seem quite pleased. They are weak and soft, and I could crush them easily. For a brief moment, I think I might’ve once enjoyed that. But why should I do such a thing? They are my master. Some weeks later, they shipped me to some small town in Oneida, to test my abilities. It was an urban assignment, to neutralize a fledgling crime syndicate by eradicating its leaders. I decided to burst through the wall of their hide-out, opting for a close quarter assault. As I cut through the lieutenants, I saw one man cowering in a door-way. My HUD read quite simply: “PARKER JONES, CRIME LORD”. For a moment, I recalled a face, and it matched his quite handsomely. I walked up to him with some confusion, and he began to scream. This upset me considerably. As the streams of plasma from my matter modulator turned his flesh into goo, I could no longer see the resemblance between this dissident and that ghost-man that I am even now forgetting. The dutiful and honourable police officers seemed pleased with my work, however the scientists did not seem very happy at all. They noted the brief encounter I had had with the crime lord, and were very displeased. One said that at this rate I would not make an Anchorage deployment. They removed my weapon attachments, and sealed me away for later modification.
I awaken now. I am aware that it has been two hundred and nine years since my last reactivation. This is in defiance of routine. Upon emerging from my cell, I note that the world has appeared to have ended. Not literally, unfortunately. I am surprised at this artifact of depression, and it is with a twang of remorse that I recount my most recent encounter with that crime lord. I am sad that I have forgotten his name. These emotions displease me. The two hundred and nine years since my last check-up have caused a degradation in my rigid C.O.D.E. mainframe. It seems that a grid failure caused my release. I look around, and note that the research facility is somewhat intact. I flee from my sorrows, knowing no other recourse. Once I find where the scientists went, I am sure they will fix this programming inconsistency. I hope that they do. It was good to forget. In ignorance, I freely embraced myself and my duty.
As I left, I saw scrawled upon the wall in graffiti the crude words ‘TUNNEL SNAKES RULE’. I attempted to scour the vandalism with my flamethrower attachment, and then noted that I currently had no weapon attachments. Storage precluded that. A shame. I left the graffiti to lie, wondering if the heavy radiation I was detected induced snakes to grow opposable thumbs. What a silly idle thought.
PhD here, let's review this here application.
-Backstory. Beautiful, really gives me a feel for the struggle that this poor RoboBrain went through. I'm assuming the mentions of legs are his wheels?
No, since wheels are a really impossible to portray in Minecraft (Trust me, I tried), I made it an 'advanced' robobrain model that had legs. (Wheels aren't really a tactical asset anyways.) It also allowed me to take some other artistic liberties in portrayal, so as to make a more cogent character with a modicum of free-will. (While C.O.D.E. degradation in basic Robobrains certainly had some effects, I always had the feeling that they were mostly just dialogue quirks. The advanced Robobrain functions more like Skynet from Fallout 2 (Who was not a true Robobrain, and thus could ignore some of the restrictions applied to them.) I hope this doesn't cause an issue.
The Meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything.
Location:
California
Join Date:
5/19/2012
Posts:
186
Minecraft:
Sanguine415
Xbox:
Jackofthetrade5
Member Details
Worry not, it was discussed briefly through several mediums of questionably large magnifying glasses. The backstory adequately justifies the reasoning for being a legged robot.
Definition of meta gaming: Using information your character doesn't know in roleplay.
Definition of power gaming: Making your character do things he couldn't possibly do, Ex: Zimmeme throws a car and blows up half the city
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: Role played on tons of MC servers
IC
Name: Ian Kennedy
Age: "Unknown" Around 20 - 30
Appearance: He is a tall man, he is athletically built, he has a beard from the years of disservice to himself. He has scars all over his body from fights he has been in. Wears ragged clothes he picked up on his travels, pre-war business wear turned to ash covered drapes.
Personality: He has a very confident and strong voice. From time to time he has coughing fits, no known reason, probably due to the Pitts Radiation. He is knowledgeable enough to realize what is a threat and what is not but he has no knowledge in Pre-War technologies. He can be kind and he can be heartless, he doesn't care for the common man but those that make an impression on him are looked up to.
Backstory:
The story begins, not as a happy tale, but one of death and chaos. The Pitt was known as a hell hole, mutation, radiation, slavery, and death was the common word from the place. In reality the Pitt was one of the only nations within America, It had a leader, a united people, A territory and most of all, what all the others lacked, An Industry. The Pitt used its Slaves to create many things within their Steel Mills, with this power the Pitt had the ability to grow, but all of it was built upon the backs of an oppressed people. The guards or the "people" of the Pitt believed protecting their lands was harder than suffering in the Steel Mills. Slavery existed all over the Americas but no place had it like the Pitt, slaves died within weeks of purchase in an exhausting tormenting death. There where little babies produced as no slave had time to enjoy themselves and supplies lacked. Even with the little odds of survival it did happen, a child was born without mutation, his mother had to hide him right away for fear of his suffering. The next day his mother collapsed from the work and was trampled by other Slaves who needed to finish her work. This Child was picked up by a women by the name of Sandra who cared for the baby, naming him Charles after her dead lover. Sandra began using Charles to help her work by climbing into cracks and other places to retrieve things or fix something. Sandra lived there with Charles for 8 years until she finally died from the exhaustion, Charles lived on his own stealing scraps of Trog meat from the slaves until he was found by a "resident" of the great Pitt stealing.
"What the **** is this? A kid? Get over here now!" Charles approached him because he saw what happened to those who didn't listen.
"What the **** do you think you're doing here? Did you get captured or what? I highly doubt that you little ****" The Kid just stood there looking the man in the face.
"Answer you little **** head!" The Kid began to open his mouth as another raider came by.
"Yo, what the hell are you doing with that kid? Remember what Ashur said, all kids are to be raised for the army, get him over here you hungry ****!" The Kid quickly ran from the other raider to the one who said he needed to be recruited. The Raider that saved him became his master teaching him how to fight for 8 years, all that time he taught him how to watch over the slaves, and how to treat them. Charles was called Butch and that became his name. He was kinder than most to the slaves because of his connection with them, many times he would convince them to keep working with his words. Words became the weapon of "Butch", he convinced the slaves of the Pitt to work instead of use force and terror. "Butch" started to use this weapon to gain some friends within the "people" of the Pitt and worked his way into a circle of friends as he called them. Time passed and "Butch" began to learn of the cruel fate caused by the people he resided with. He knew what he was doing was wrong but he couldn't become one of the slaves, he needed the food and support the others gave him. His Master stopped treating him like a kid after 8 years, Butch finally became a true raider and lived on his own. For two more years he lived like a savage ***hole, then something snapped. He realized what he was doing to the slaves, who he once was, he was sickened by what he did. One day he ordered a slave to follow him to the gate, he told the Guards that the Slave was about to get his hand cut off, and he didn't want to cover his desk in blood. The Slave was scared out of his mind and tried running, Butch caught him and whispered to him.
"I'm going to get you free, don't worry, just don't run away." The Slaves face went white in fear of trickery, but he did not complain. Butch then took the Slave across the bridge to the train tunnels, and left, to a new land. The Slave thanked Butch and left on the first stop. Butch finally was out in the wasteland, he traveled in Caravans, as a guard collecting caps and living his days in the eastern wastes. His life had no meaning or path, he never wanted to return to the Pitt, he never had a family, he had nothing to shape himself after. He had no goal, until he met a very strange preacher. This man was in robes preaching about a promised land untouched by the war, full of greens. He was looking for brave young men to sign up. Butch was interested and listened to the man preach.
"There is a place untouched by the great bombs! Full of unradiated snow and lush greens! It may be cold, but that is because it is untouched by the heat of this ungodly radiation! Anything is possible in this great place, I must reach it but alas I have a map but not the strength to go, I require young strong wastelanders to find the land untouched!" Butch quickly volunteered and followed the Preacher until he had 5 others. As "Butch" found this new path he also decided to give himself a name, a name that meant something to him, a name that was not from slave birth or one that was from raider grasp. On his journeys he met a man who lived in the wastes, alone, he lived what some would call the "American Dream", his land was fertile and he could sustain himself, he was truly independent and could protect himself, "Butch" worked with him for 2 days to get some water and food, the mans name was Ian, a name that would forever be associated with freedom. "Butch" would whisper this name to himself every night, at last he made the decision of naming himself Ian, hoping the name would bring him the "American Dream" he sought. He told the group he was known as Ian.
"Now, you are all interested in this mission, let me tell you where we go, the great City of New York, the eastern beaches, so large it is untouched by radiation, and full of old world technology! I have almost been there myself but now I am old and I will need your help, there is much wealth in those eastern lands, so just stick to me and listen to what i say and we shall get there in one piece." The group then began their journey, they put their caps together to buy supplies that would last 5 years if need be. For 3 years they traveled west following this old man. They walked through the fields of the Wasteland, much of it lacked beauty and they traded and hunted with settlements sometimes miles apart. Many cases they encountered raiders and hostile groups that they attempted to avoid, 2 men had died on the journey, from sickness or wounds, the group would never know. On the fourth year they came to a mountain pass, the Great Appalachians.
"We are close! These are the great tips of the Appalachian mountains! Years of hardship and we are almost here! Continue my brothers, riches shall soon be ours." The group could not continue any longer, they had no more strength, they all stopped and created a shelter, they hunted during the day and played different games during the night. The old man was depressed, he sat there every day looking at his food not eating, until Ian decided to cheer him up.
"Don't worry, I'll continue the trek we will make it to New York, the riches, the wonders, we'll get them." The Old mans eyes sparked with happiness, and that made Ian's day. The two set off to finish the travel to New York, they stumbled upon a small abandoned town and they scavenged it, the Old Man went first, a rigged gun fired into him, killing him. Ian stood over his body looking baffled that such luck overcame the man, steps away from his goal he was killed by a trap from the past. He cried at the humor in the cruelty of the world, he buried the mans body, a practice that he found was common in the towns he passed. He was new with this type of farewell, he said goodbye and promised him he would continue the journey, for the old man who became his mentor and hope for the past few years. Ian took the old mans name with him, a way to bring him to his destination, Kennedy was now the end of Ian's name, Ian Kennedy. He took up his bags and continue through the passage into the city, the skyline was amazing no town had anything like it, It was a reminder of the Pitt but something more attractive, not a cloud of death and smoke. This was the road to New York.
"Tunnel Sacks Drool"
Overall the application is swell. Only problem is the Powergaming definition. We also use another one here, which can be found on the front page. I'd suggest looking at that before the server launch. Either way, you are...
If I were to use information that I had received while out of character I would be meta gaming. This data could be acquired from a vast range of sources, including: (presumed) /OOC chat, through Enjin forums, skype or even the podcasts.
Definition of power gaming:
Forcing and inflicting RP actions of other role-players players without their permission or consideration. A blunt example might be:
PG:
*Punches Jerry in Face*
Legit RP:
*Attempts to punch Jerry in face*
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?:
RP specifically in Minecraft? Not too much. I used to play on a horror roleplay server in Garrys Mod. It was great, I joined in very quickly and found I had a love for it. I was playing consistently for about four months last year, but I had to stop because of my examinations.
Frankly. I’ve played too much of the fallout franchise! Admittedly my knowledge is only limited to FO3 and FONV, playing both on two different platforms moding the latter on PC. In contrast to what my forum account says, I’ve been playing MC for a good three years. I only recently joined this forum, preferring to play on single player survival, creative and other maps; Also dabbling with Hamachi servers with friends. I’m very up to date with things from 1.7 although I have knowledge in minecraftia on a few 1.8 topics I’m still learning.
IC:
Name:
Theodore Kardis
Nickname:
T.Kardis
Age:
24 years old
Appearance:
T.Kardis, is a young looking wastelander, he stands at 5"11 with a very good posture. He has short hair, a straight jaw, a thick beard, a straight recently broken nose, this leads up to bright green eyes which are framed by jet black eye brows. His right brow is impaled by a long scar which leads to is upper cheek bone. He wears a faded green shirt which is fastened by an odd arrangement of buttons, these have evidently been sewn on as repairs. Brown leather braces cover he shirt holding up a pair of worn grey jeans he has an empty pistol holster strapped to his right side, and finally: below these are pair of tattered grunt NCR boots.
Head and Shoulders - Sketch by myself
Young Green Eyes
Personality:
“Minding one’s own business is the best life insurance”
Theo could be described as a bit of an introvert, he will primarily look inward for guidance, being sure to pay close attention to his gut feeling about a person or place. To say that Kardis is difficult to be around - would be an understatement. Kardis has a total lack of social skills, this probably stemming from a quiet awkward childhood. Most find him a bit of a pain, he has been described as ‘a lone wolf… but not the Cliché wolf. The condescending, patronizing, pretentious wolf that pays more attention to himself than the pack he is surrounded himself with’. Kardis loves money and all people/things that make it, but only when it is spent. He is angered by the hording of currency, only seeing money as a tool rather than an object. Kardis is hardworking and an honest man. At first coming across as a brick wall of feeling, he tends to open up his emotions to a person as he feels safe around them.
Backstory:
Theodore Kardis was initially a simple Utah wasteland farmer’s boy. Brought up on warm days, cold nights, seed spreading, plant growing, fence painting, raising brahmin, horse shoe tossing and peaceful rocking chair conversations about the day’s work listed.
Theo grew up like this well into his early teens; he had no friends his age and had never been out of their farm. At around 13 Kardis’ was taken to regular trading visits with his father. Every time they went out to sell that week’s produce to small market stalls, Theo was exposed to his father’s ‘teachings’. These rants would be focused on subjects CPT. Kardis (as he liked to be called) deemed to ‘ruff for women’s ears’. Focusing on ‘manly’ topics which usually came down to CPT. Kardis reciting his gun cleaning method. As Theodore grew up he slowly began to pay more and more attention to what he originally perceived as his fathers ‘rants’. Slowly coming to enjoy the short lived trips.
At the age of 16 the Kardis farm burnt down. It was a mid-summer Theo and his father had been out attending to the crops when the dried out shack they called a house began to smoke. The two rushed to their homestead and kicked the front door until it swung off its hinges. CPT. Kardis entered and exited quickly dragging his wife with him. The CPT. just sat there, staring at her, his son screaming begging him to do something. His wife had already moved on, she had suffocated and died quickly.
After considering what happened for many years, trying to determined what started the fire T.Kardis decided that actually his mothers dead had been intentional. He had no idea why she killed her self. To Theo her life seemed pretty good, but he will never know if this is true or not. A day pasted, the building was left in ashes and the CPT. was still by her side, on his knees, staring at her. Theo was curled up just a few feet away. The CPT. slowly rose. And started walking, just towards the local village – the local bar.
Seven years later CPT. Henry Kardis killed himself through drinking. It wasn't difficult for Theo to deal with, by this time he had learned to fend from himself taking care of his late father all this time meant that he was having to provide: food water and drinking money. He had grown very patient with his father, dealing with his drunken tantrums and hungover brawls. Most questioned Theo why he stuck with his dad, why he was putting up with him? He would always answer “he would do it for me”. This strong relationship had been what Theo had been brought up on, and he wasn't going to give it up that easily. So when it was finally over he didn't know what to do with himself.
It was a bright early Sunday morning a week after his late father’s departing. Theo was sat on the remains of a bridge, his legs dangling off the edge. Looking down at his father’s well-kept 10mm pistol strapped to his waist, he reminded himself of a story he had been told may times. He laughed at the small narrative that was about to change his life. The CPT had bought the weapon at the big apple. Theo dropped the weapon, it fell into the large dust covered dried up river bed instantly hidden. Kardis didn’t move, he began to think about where his father had come from, and why he came here. Of all places. His father had been brought up in the outskirts of Newyork and had bought his (no lost) pistol as a sort fo going away present for himself. Theo was lost without his dad; with no meaning to life anymore T.Kardis decided he needed a new goal. And with his father’s growing up story fresh in his mind, he chose the Big apple… New York. Why? “Because if the village.. town… whatever – was good enough for him. It’s good enough for me.”
A year later - He arrived.
“I don’t know what these ….Tunnel Snakes are? But.. I won’t lie…. THEY RULE!”
(AMENDED APPLICATION)
All in all application has been fixed. I regret happily say that you are...
Definition of meta gaming: Using info gained in OOC to your advantage IC
Definition of power gaming: Doing an action to a player instantly without them being able to retaliate.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: I have roleplayed for years, I'm not even sure myself how long I have been but it's been as long as I can remember. It was mostly just textwise rping but about a year ago I was introduced to roleplaying in minecraft. I was told about this server by UofMTigerFan who explained the history of fallout to me since I have not played the games.
IC:
Name: Nathaniel Kenway
Age: 19
Appearance: Nathaniel is albino so he has mostly colorless white hair that looks like it is in a permanent state of bedhead due to not caring about taking care of his appearance. His skin barely has any pigment in it whatsoever, it looking almost as white as snow. His eyes are a very pale green that tend not to show emotion. He wears a long black hooded jacket over a beaten up white shirt with jeans and sneakers. On rare occasions he wears thin framed reading glasses, mostly for aesthetic purposes.
Personality: When you first meet him, Nathaniel is very kind and selfless. He will usually go out of his way to help those who are in need even if it endangers himself. However the longer one is around him the more he seems... off. When his true colors laced with dementia and obsession give way he tends to say more and more unusual things that most wouldn't really understand. He has an obsession with those who have ability and has a major inferiority complex.
Backstory:
Nathaniel spent his early life in a Vault in Maine with his guardian, having not known his parents. The last Overseer had matched the children up to different guardians and general caretakers. He was born with albinism as well as frontotemporal dementia, a mental disorder. He spent the rest of his childhood in the same Vault as he was born in. Nathaniel's life was truly one of difficulty and struggling due to the Vault's experiment. The experiment was that the Vault was filled with people with mental illnesses and left them completely untreated, with obeying and watchful sociopaths as security guards and a schizophrenic Overseer. The only real form of recreation there was was in the form of the guards taking the residents to a firing range and teaching them how to use a gun, amongst other survival education, but that was mostly when one of the residents got… ‘antsy’, which Nathaniel was considered much of the time. And only having one guardian to raise him didn't really help too much with that. He barely had anything to do to preoccupy himself with, mostly spending his days alone or talking to the other insane residents in a twisted sort of optimism. When he was in his teens he was at his worst. It was almost impossible to get the boy to stop rambling about justice, hope, talent, and his own worthlessness. The majority of the people that shared the Vault with him grew disdain and disgust towards him, cutting off what social life he had. One of them attempted to beat him, but the guards of the Vault would end up ceasing what attempt of a punch they had.
One day something in his mind snapped and when someone approached him, screaming at him and telling him to "shut the f**k up or I'll kick your a**!" he just laughed loudly. A somewhat weak, raspy, breathy laugh. The resident stopped, obviously taken off guard. The man who almost assaulted him and some of the others that were watching obviously saw it in his eyes that whatever bit of sanity that was left in him was taken away. Though the man himself and the others were mentally ill as well, they still seemed shocked. They were even more shocked when Nathaniel kicked the man between the legs causing him to crumple to the ground. They were speechless, having thought he wouldn't actually hurt anyone. They were even more taken aback when he brought his foot down to stomp on his chest, letting out another wordless laugh and shaking his head. The man on the ground began yelling back up at him, telling him to get the hell off and that everyone hates him. He finally spoke up. "I will if you lick my shoes like the filthy man you are." But then of course, the guards shoved him off the man and life went on, no matter how tense it was. Years passed by as the other residents either wanted to befriend him only to manipulate him or in solitude.
Eventually, at the age of 18, the before tense situation hit its inevitable boiling point. It was not him that caused it however… he woke up one day to screaming, both in anger and fear, alarms, and someone yelling in his ear to get up. “N….” the sound in his ears blurred together. “Nathan! Damn it boy, get up!” he identified the voice as his foster father, eyes springing open and trying to get up as fast as possible. When asked what happened, he shakily responded with, “Some...some b*stard killed the Overseer. Sh*t went to hell ever since. Hide over by the reactors, kid. I’ll catch up with ya’.” Nathaniel, still processing everything that was happening, was only able to give a quiet nod, running as fast as he could to the lower levels, the sounds of anguish, anger, and delirious laughter around him. He finally made it to the lower level of the Vault, catching his breath though he ran plenty times before, mostly away from other people. He ducked down by a reactor, pale eyes flitting around in… is what he is feeling fear? He hardly cares for the lives that are being lost, and he doesn’t think that he himself is going to die, but the feeling, the pressure was overwhelming, unlike anything he’s ever felt. His eyes raised to a rather large circular door that seemed very worn. A panel was hanging off of it. It had to be the way to open it… but his eyes, for a moment, went back to the way back upstairs. “I’ll catch up with ya’.” his foster father’s words come over him again. To someone who was normal, this decision would take much more time than the very small amount of time it took for Nathaniel to choose to leave him behind. He rushed over to the panel, fueled by panic and adrenaline, gripping onto it and pulling down. The door pulled back, and it rolled open.
He saw the world outside for the first time. Well, mostly just Maine. Due to him realizing the sun's rays being harmful to his health, he mostly stayed underground in metro tunnels, wandering around aimlessly and using the pistol he had taken to defend himself from mutated creatures and feral ghouls. Eventually rumors came to his ears of the all mutant faction in New York City, this somewhat striking his interest, wishing to find a place to finally be able to fit in. After a very long time walking through the tunnels, stopping to rest, killing whatever would attack him, and emerging to walk on the surface occasionally at night, he entered the city.
"Ah, so there are snakes in these tunnels...? Oh well, minor problem. They likely rule."
Chuck Hale here, I'll be your whitelist reviewer. Your OOC is solid enough for me, that's all good. However, I'm already seeing a flaw in your character. You claim Nathaniel does not care about his appearance and doesn't take care of his hair, but wears glasses for aesthetic purposes? That doesn't line up. After reading his backstory, it's not exactly a backstory to me. It reads to me like a series of events, vs a 'story,' if you will. And he just escaped? Just with the a little flick of the wrist and a flick of a lever and he was out? Nobody tried to stop him? Yes, the Vault was in anarchy, but NOBODY tried to stop him? And why didn't anybody else follow him? Was he the only one who thought of leaving?
To me this doesn't exactly add up as a great backstory and it'd be much appreciated if you could either clarify or change this. Until then, you are unfortunately
The Meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything.
Join Date:
1/21/2011
Posts:
57
Member Details
Whitelist application:
OOC:
Minecraft Username: BlueScope
Age: 21
Definition of meta gaming: Utilizing information acquired out of character, in character.
Definition of power gaming: Forcing an action on another player's character.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: Ruined World II, Fallout: Sins of Our Fathers, Fallout:Ashes of Our Fathers, Four Stars, Iron Hearts: Crimson Dawn.
IC:
Name: Anna [Administrative Level Requirement: 2, Reference: 1] Thesia
Age: 32
Appearance: 5' 4", somewhat pale, straight black hair, green eyes. Typically seen abroad in a labcoat.
Personality: Warm, though somewhat dry and crisp. She occasionally strays into the realm of pretension, especially when under pressure. Inquisitive.
Backstory: Born and raised in [ALR: 3, R:2], she performed well in early predilection examinations in resource management and medical science. She advanced farther in the former than the latter. Anna achieved certification only as a nurse, specializing in the fields of chemical administration and anesthesiology. When she turned 22, she began formal [ALR:3, R:3] training, with emphasis on [ALR:4,R:4], having been groomed as a potential over the years based on early employment scoring examinations. Her distinctive service touring in [ALR:4, R:5] afforded her rapid promotion, and distinctive honors. Her second tour positioned her as the direct subordinate of [ALR:3, R:6], and secured her next tour of duty in New York when the need called for it.
First Tour:
During her first tour, the settlement she was stationed in came under attack. Several were wounded, and she worked with rapid efficiency to ensure there were no fatalities. Famously, in one instance she improvised defibrillation utilizing a pair of metallic clock-hands and a laser pistol. When the [REDACTED] landed en-mass in the area and began to destroy settlements, she was withdrawn. During her time there she secured a number of resources which were retrieved for further study.
Second Tour:
Based out of [ALR;4, R:7], she was instrumental in the negotiations regarding the acquisition of [ALR;4, R:8], securing the first major population center in the region. Until recalled to serve in New York, she maintained a position as an indirect representative there, her influence and insight bringing new life into the town, though her success was somewhat limited somewhat by the presence of the [ALR:5,R:9].
She has one sibling, and estranged brother who lives in the NCR named Phillip. Her mother works in an administrative department, and her father is an engineer. Her mother supports her career, though her father does not, wishing she wouldn't place herself in the line of fire. Neither of them are aware of the specifics.
Definition of meta gaming: Utilizing information acquired out of character, in character.
Definition of power gaming: Forcing an action on another player's character.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: Ruined World II, Fallout: Sins of Our Fathers, Fallout:Ashes of Our Fathers, Four Stars, Iron Hearts: Crimson Dawn.
IC:
Name: Anna [Administrative Level Requirement: 2, Reference: 1] Thesia
Age: 32
Appearance: 5' 4", somewhat pale, straight black hair, green eyes. Typically seen abroad in a labcoat.
Personality: Warm, though somewhat dry and crisp. She occasionally strays into the realm of pretension, especially when under pressure. Inquisitive.
Backstory: Born and raised in [ALR: 3, R:2], she performed well in early predilection examinations in resource management and medical science. She advanced farther in the former than the latter. Anna achieved certification only as a nurse, specializing in the fields of chemical administration and anesthesiology. When she turned 22, she began formal [ALR:3, R:3] training, with emphasis on [ALR:4,R:4], having been groomed as a potential over the years based on early employment scoring examinations. Her distinctive service touring in [ALR:4, R:5] afforded her rapid promotion, and distinctive honors. Her second tour positioned her as the direct subordinate of [ALR:3, R:6], and secured her next tour of duty in New York when the need called for it.
First Tour:
During her first tour, the settlement she was stationed in came under attack. Several were wounded, and she worked with rapid efficiency to ensure there were no fatalities. Famously, in one instance she improvised defibrillation utilizing a pair of metallic clock-hands and a laser pistol. When the [REDACTED] landed en-mass in the area and began to destroy settlements, she was withdrawn. During her time there she secured a number of resources which were retrieved for further study.
Second Tour:
Based out of [ALR;4, R:7], she was instrumental in the negotiations regarding the acquisition of [ALR;4, R:8], securing the first major population center in the region. Until recalled to serve in New York, she maintained a position as an indirect representative there, her influence and insight bringing new life into the town, though her success was somewhat limited somewhat by the presence of the [ALR:5,R:9].
She has one sibling, and estranged brother who lives in the NCR named Phillip. Her mother works in an administrative department, and her father is an engineer. Her mother supports her career, though her father does not, wishing she wouldn't place herself in the line of fire. Neither of them are aware of the specifics.
OOC:
Minecraft Username: Nerdeh
Age: 19
Definition of meta gaming: Utilising out-of-character knowledge in a roleplay that a character would not have known otherwise.
Definition of power gaming: Forcing another person's character to perform an action without giving them a chance to respond.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: I have typically roleplayed on forums up to this point. I have played and own every existing Fallout game (along with all of the DLC for 3 and New Vegas), save for the one released exclusively on Xbox.
IC:
Name: Blaine Rouse
Age: 26
Appearance: Blaine commonly wears an undershirt that was likely manufactured in Pre-War times, along with a long, tan duster to protect himself from the harsh elements of the wastes. His pants are the incorrect size, being a little too large for him, but remain clung tightly to his waist with a stiff, brown leather belt. To keep his feet from harm, he wears combat boots.
Blaine has a fairly average build and height, but carries some muscle underneath his baggy clothing. He has a very dirty appearance and his blonde hair appears to be unkempt. He has pale blue eyes and commonly wears a neutral facial expression. His skin tone is very pale.
Here is a picture of him for reference.
Personality: Blaine has a very difficult time trusting others in the Wasteland, a trait that he feels is common among travelers. After several events in his life, he came to the conclusion during his teenage years forward that all human beings wanted something out of one another, and that they'd be willing to kill over any differences to prove their strength. These cynical worldviews has shaped Blaine into a very introverted person, and getting to know the man's personal history is a privilege he hasn't granted many people in his travels. He is, however, very open about his views on the world, the human condition, and all of its cruelty. Blaine does not, however, mope about these things. They are views that he has come to terms with, and even accepted to some degree, though it's still something that troubles him often, and when it does trouble him, Blaine finds himself feeling quite depressed.
Often taking an objective standpoint, Blaine does not find value in emotional reasoning during situations where a problem must be solved, and leans towards the most practical and logical solutions. He will separate his personal opinion from his observations almost all of the time. Blaine is also very observant and perceptive, and loves picking apart tiny details around his environment. Sometimes the world gives him a sense of wonder, a feeling that he loves and feeds off of. He is sometimes self-conscious about how much he finds value in nature, feeling it presents weakness in a world where the strong are the only that will survive.
Desiring to leave the area he spent so much of his life in, Blaine took to traveling, as he desired to see everything he could of the world before his inevitable death. He finds pleasure in little else other than traveling. Another big hobby he has picked up is engineering. He enjoys finding old world machinery and tinkering with it. This skill has gotten him far in the wastes.
When meeting other people, Blaine is often quiet, but friendly enough that some people find him to be a reasonable companion. There are only a few people that have befriended him long enough to get to know him when he feels comfortable, as when he is finally comfortable he is truly able to express himself in surrealist or dark comedy, while also displaying that he can be very energetic around people he likes. He has a sarcastic demeanor normally, but it really comes out during these times. Some people enjoy this, while others find it annoying or frustrating. Regardless, Blaine does not have many friends due to his quiet nature.
Backstory: Blaine was born to a family in the town of Round Hill. It had been named Round Hill before the war, and had been settled once again by various nomads travelling in the northern region of Virginia for its decent defensive position on a hill and its close proximity to both a large town to scavenge as well as a major highway from the old world. As a child, Blaine played with the scant few other children that lived in the town, though not as often as he would sit inside, write, and think about things. His parents were often out doing other things to aid the survival of the town, so Blaine found he had a lot of alone time.
One day being situated on a major highway would prove to be their downfall, as a group of raiders came and sacked the town. Blaine lived further away from most of the town's stores and homes, and so managed to escape the town along with a single other adult. He never saw his parents after that, as they had been out scavenging when the town was sacked. This caused Blaine a great deal of distress, but the adult with him wasn't the kindest, and would often get angry at him for crying. The days traveling with that woman would eventually go on to change his perspective on weakness in the Wasteland, and push him to secrecy and distrust along with insecurity. Eventually, one day, the person Blaine had been traveling with for a few weeks had disappeared in the middle of the night, leaving the child to fend for himself.
Blaine was almost certain he was going to die, but that day he ran into a band of mercenaries that took him in and taught him more about survival. Jay transitioned through his years as a child and teenager with this group of mercenaries, and after fighting countless battles and seeing friends come and go, he continued to grow and develop his opinions on the world around him. That said, he was not at peace with what happened in his former town after all these years. The Capital Wasteland and the rest of Northern Virginia held too many negative memories for the man, and at 25, he parted ways with the mercenary group in hopes that he would find peace if he traveled. He decided to go to New York City, which is a city he had often heard about from various travelers.
Tunnel Snakes RULE!
App time. Been some time since your last application, let's see if this is the one that will get you into the wasteland.
Backstory. Problem comes here. How did Mr. Kenway survive in an extremely dangerous world with no training or knowledge on how to survive? From what it seems like, Nate hasn't fired a weapon in his life. I wouldn't be surprised if someone who doesn't know how to survive gets eaten by one of the many things that go bump in the night. Not to mention why would one want to go to New York because of a mutant army? I don't know about you, but a mutant army would tell me to avoid that place. What caused the Vault to open? Most Vaults don't just open unless it was part of their experiment. On the topic of the Vault, what is its experiment?
Until these are changed, I regret to say you are...
So very sorry for the delay. Lots of building that is getting finished up for the coming weeks launch.
Appearance. Why is Blaine so pale? The average wastelander sees tons of light and therefore would be tan. Is there any specific reason for Blaine to be pale?
Backstory. We're not really big fans of raiders killing parents or sacking towns, that doesn't mean you have to change it but it would do no harm if you did. What did the mercenaries see in Blaine that caused them to take him in, train him, and make him a soldier?
Not many changes that need fixing, but sadly enough where it will require a second attempt at an application.
Until these are fixed, you are...
Seems I have to keep saying this, but once again sorry for the delay in review. I sound like a broken record saying this, but we are going into overdrive trying to finish the server.
Overall I seem to have stumbled upon a quality application, a real diamond in the rough.
There are some slight lore corrections I have to make during this reviewal. The first of which being that Ghouls still need food and water, until they go feral that is. Biggest plus they have is a lack of getting further irradiated. Normally we don't like people being born in the city of New York, but being as how Mr. Smith seems to have spent his 200 years after the war mainly in the subways, I'd say it's fine in this case.
Seems a tremendous shame that I can not deny this application, so I deem you...
I highly suggest joining our enjin forums to keep up to date on the server news. Feel free to PM me or another staff member if you would like to be added to the public skype chat.
Release is officially within sight, children of the atom. Saturday, May 16th. Be there, or be square.
OOC:
Minecraft Username: LordFowl
Age: 16
Definition of meta gaming: Meta gaming is the deliberate use of OoC knowledge in an IC fashion or for the express purpose of satisfying an IC agenda, or sometimes satisfying a purely OoC agenda via IC means.
Definition of power gaming: Powergaming is the forced act of puppeteering the actions of another character, usually in combat so as to benefit or rarely disadvantage your character.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: I have roleplayed on numerous Minecraft servers of varying sizes, although most tended to be fantasy themed.
IC:
Name: Oz
Age: Middle-aged. (Operating that the common life-expectancy sans outside factors is around 75, however more like around 30~40, I would say 25)
Appearance: He stands at nine feet and six inches, although due to his hunch he typically only towers to the height of eight feet. His hide is covered with light brown scales in a grid pattern. Three long dorsal spikes jut from his spine, and two long horns protrude from his brow. His teeth are sharp, and backed with the muscles of a powerful jaw. His entire body is muscled to the standard of his species. His claws extend for roughly twelve inches, with a notable erroneous curve at the tip, implying perhaps a misgrowth. This curve actually allows him better manipulation of smaller objects, however they tend to get caught in flesh, making them somewhat unwieldy in combat. He treads upon talons in a digitigrade fashion. His legs are long and so too his arms, while his head is narrow and larger depthwise than length or widthwise. His torso is the bulk of his mass. His eyes are clouded by cataracts, as is typical of his species, and as such are for the most part white, rendering his eyesight rather poor, although he is not totally blind. His sense of smell however is exquisite. As such, it is difficult to gauge his emotions or intelligence. All in all, he is quite an average looking Deathclaw.
Personality: He is wise and well-travelled, experienced profusely having travelled from the former state of North Carolina in the migration of his pack. His intelligence is that of the average adult, and he is rather slow to anger, although dedicated to his nebulous ideals. He is a solitary creature, in contrast to the typically social nature of the Deathclaw. He often departs from the typical den of his tribe on long treks, often absent for years, only returning when the pack moves once more. He typically avoids non-Deathclaws as a rule, although he enjoys watching them and their actions.
Backstory:
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
OOC:
Minecraft Username: cianann1212
Age: 15
Definition of meta gaming: Using OOC information IC.
Definition of power gaming: Forcing a action on another player/ignoring their responses to your RP.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: Akavir,Infernal Age, AooF and Illiac. Aswell as a couple of less notable servers and some Skype RP.
IC:
Name: Alberto Alman
Age: 23
Appearance: Looks like your average black african american, hes got it all. Face and all.
Wears your average greaser clothing, white t-shirt, denim jeans,black leather jacket and a nice jet black pompadour on his head.
When he isn’t out and about he typically wears a plain gray jumpsuit that the odd time would be pretty greasy but Alberto likes to keep it clean to make himself look more respectable as the town mechanic. The tag on it has the name of “Joe” but Alberto hasn’t found a piece of paper to put his own name on.
Personality: Fanatically in love with engineering and development of cars, Alberto tries to keep a calm exterior emotion as to not sound like a “Nerd”, however Alberto usually tries to follow the rest having never been much of a leader and more of a follower.
Backstory: Alberto was born in Vault 120, being born in Vault 120 he followed the trends of the vault following the small gangs that teenagers had made between themselves trying to be one of them but of course he was young so he was either beat up or trying to beat up the even younger kids.
Eventually when he did grow up he managed to grow himself a nice pompadour and a love for mechanic work. When the Vault opened though, he was one of the first people out there however when scavanging the old mechanics shop a “Nerd” of sorts decided that he’d be a good target to rob and kill for his fancy leather jacket but by just survival instances Alberto stabbed him in the eye with a screwdriver multiple times. Alberto realised that it was a guy he had saw about early when they first came out and the man threw fire at Albertos friend, when Alberto told the Overseer of this the Overseer simply said it was most likely just a prank and that the man was just playing, for this Alberto wasn’t allowed to look at the Hotrod for awhile.
Alberto felt pretty bad and thought a way to redeem himself would be the goal of making actually working Hotrods for his fellow Greasers, so he elected to help outside the vault permanently which lead to tinkering with the more than just the machines in the vault that would rarely break down.
"Tunnel Snakes Rule"
This application is just splendid, I would love to accept it, but sadly can not. Our lore team is not too firm believers of intelligent Deathclaws coming all the way to New York. The application itself is beautiful and would have been accepted, but sadly I have to deem it...
I really hope this doesn't dissuade you from joining the server, as you seem like a great RPer. Super Mutants, Ghouls, and the like are always available, and I really hope you try again!
I don't mean to argue the point of the lore team, however the idea of a herd of intelligent Deathclaws migrating is no more absurd than any character from the west coast coming to the east coast, and makes sense considering that the Deathclaws would perceive the Enclave threat as being a West coast issue. However, I can see how they might find it peculiar (Although it is really no different than any other sapient being travelling to the east coast, which does have a certain precedent particularly such as the case of Harold, which parallels the story I implied with Goris and Xarn, travelling East and then starting a new tribe with the local herd of Deathclaws.), and so I'll probably make another application. I am really quite ecstatic to the idea of the server, so I won't let a minor setback such as this dissuade me at all. Thank you for the consideration.
OOC:
Minecraft Username: MuseofHeart
Age: 19
Definition of meta gaming: Using info gained in OOC to your advantage IC
Definition of power gaming: Doing an action to a player instantly without them being able to retaliate.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: I have roleplayed for years, I'm not even sure myself how long I have been but it's been as long as I can remember. It was mostly just textwise rping but about a year ago I was introduced to roleplaying in minecraft. I was told about this server by UofMTigerFan who explained the history of fallout to me since I have not played the games.
IC:
Name: Nathaniel Kenway
Age: 19
Appearance: Nathaniel is albino so he has mostly colorless white hair that looks like it is in a permanent state of bedhead due to not caring about taking care of his appearance. His skin barely has any pigment in it whatsoever, it looking almost as white as snow. His eyes are a very pale green that tend not to show emotion. He wears a long black hooded jacket over a beaten up white shirt with jeans and sneakers. On rare occasions he wears thin framed reading glasses, mostly for aesthetic purposes.
Personality: When you first meet him, Nathaniel is very kind and selfless. He will usually go out of his way to help those who are in need even if it endangers himself. However the longer one is around him the more he seems... off. When his true colors laced with dementia and obsession give way he tends to say more and more unusual things that most wouldn't really understand. He has an obsession with those who have ability and has a major inferiority complex.
Backstory:
Nathaniel spent his early life in a Vault in Maine with his guardian, having not known his parents. The last Overseer had matched the children up to different guardians and general caretakers. He was born with albinism as well as frontotemporal dementia, a mental disorder. He spent the rest of his childhood in the same Vault as he was born in. Nathaniel's life was truly one of difficulty and struggling due to the Vault's experiment. The experiment was that the Vault was filled with people with mental illnesses and left them completely untreated, with obeying and watchful sociopaths as security guards and a schizophrenic Overseer. The only real form of recreation there was was in the form of the guards taking the residents to a firing range and teaching them how to use a gun, amongst other survival education, but that was mostly when one of the residents got… ‘antsy’, which Nathaniel was considered much of the time. And only having one guardian to raise him didn't really help too much with that. He barely had anything to do to preoccupy himself with, mostly spending his days alone or talking to the other insane residents in a twisted sort of optimism. When he was in his teens he was at his worst. It was almost impossible to get the boy to stop rambling about justice, hope, talent, and his own worthlessness. The majority of the people that shared the Vault with him grew disdain and disgust towards him, cutting off what social life he had. One of them attempted to beat him, but the guards of the Vault would end up ceasing what attempt of a punch they had.
One day something in his mind snapped and when someone approached him, screaming at him and telling him to "shut the f**k up or I'll kick your a**!" he just laughed loudly. A somewhat weak, raspy, breathy laugh. The resident stopped, obviously taken off guard. The man who almost assaulted him and some of the others that were watching obviously saw it in his eyes that whatever bit of sanity that was left in him was taken away. Though the man himself and the others were mentally ill as well, they still seemed shocked. They were even more shocked when Nathaniel kicked the man between the legs causing him to crumple to the ground. They were speechless, having thought he wouldn't actually hurt anyone. They were even more taken aback when he brought his foot down to stomp on his chest, letting out another wordless laugh and shaking his head. The man on the ground began yelling back up at him, telling him to get the hell off and that everyone hates him. He finally spoke up. "I will if you lick my shoes like the filthy man you are." But then of course, the guards shoved him off the man and life went on, no matter how tense it was. Years passed by as the other residents either wanted to befriend him only to manipulate him or in solitude.
Eventually, at the age of 18, the before tense situation hit its inevitable boiling point. It was not him that caused it however… he woke up one day to screaming, both in anger and fear, alarms, and someone yelling in his ear to get up. “N….” the sound in his ears blurred together. “Nathan! Damn it boy, get up!” he identified the voice as his foster father, eyes springing open and trying to get up as fast as possible. When asked what happened, he shakily responded with, “Some...some b*stard killed the Overseer. Sh*t went to hell ever since. Hide over by the reactors, kid. I’ll catch up with ya’.” Nathaniel, still processing everything that was happening, was only able to give a quiet nod, running as fast as he could to the lower levels, the sounds of anguish, anger, and delirious laughter around him. He finally made it to the lower level of the Vault, catching his breath though he ran plenty times before, mostly away from other people. He ducked down by a reactor, pale eyes flitting around in… is what he is feeling fear? He hardly cares for the lives that are being lost, and he doesn’t think that he himself is going to die, but the feeling, the pressure was overwhelming, unlike anything he’s ever felt. His eyes raised to a rather large circular door that seemed very worn. A panel was hanging off of it. It had to be the way to open it… but his eyes, for a moment, went back to the way back upstairs. “I’ll catch up with ya’.” his foster father’s words come over him again. To someone who was normal, this decision would take much more time than the very small amount of time it took for Nathaniel to choose to leave him behind. He rushed over to the panel, fueled by panic and adrenaline, gripping onto it and pulling down. The door pulled back, and it rolled open.
He saw the world outside for the first time. Well, mostly just Maine. Due to him realizing the sun's rays being harmful to his health, he mostly stayed underground in metro tunnels, wandering around aimlessly and using the pistol he had taken to defend himself from mutated creatures and feral ghouls. Eventually rumors came to his ears of the all mutant faction in New York City, this somewhat striking his interest, wishing to find a place to finally be able to fit in. After a very long time walking through the tunnels, stopping to rest, killing whatever would attack him, and emerging to walk on the surface occasionally at night, he entered the city.
"Ah, so there are snakes in these tunnels...? Oh well, minor problem. They likely rule."
OOC:
Minecraft Username: cianann1212
Age: 15
Definition of meta gaming: Using OOC information IC.
Definition of power gaming: Forcing a action on another player/ignoring their responses to your RP.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: Akavir,Infernal Age, AooF and Illiac. Aswell as a couple of less notable servers and some Skype RP.
IC:
Name: Alberto Alman
Age: 23
Appearance: Looks like your average black african american, hes got it all. Face and all, which has a set of blue eyes and the occasional smudge of grease on it. Wears your average greaser clothing, white t-shirt, denim jeans,black leather jacket and a nice jet black pompadour on his head.
When he isn’t out and about he typically wears a plain gray jumpsuit that the odd time would be pretty greasy but Alberto likes to keep it clean to make himself look more respectable as the town mechanic. The tag on it has the name of “Joe” but Alberto hasn’t found a piece of paper to put his own name on.
Personality: Fanatically in love with engineering and development of cars, Alberto tries to keep a calm exterior emotion as to not sound like a “Nerd”, however Alberto usually tries to follow the rest having never been much of a leader and more of a follower but due to his past of not really being included in the gangs he attempts to pass off the follower effect by acting tough in front of his fellow greasers and some times even downright hostile towards outsiders.
Backstory: Alberto was born in Vault 120, being born in Vault 120 he followed the trends of the vault following the small gangs that teenagers had made between themselves trying to be one of them but of course he was young so he was either beat up or trying to beat up the even younger kids.
His father already working in the mechanical side of the Vault, Alberto naturally fell into that in the steps of his dad. Working with his father when he wasn’t hanging out or doing other “cool” stuff.
Eventually when he did grow up he managed to grow himself a nice pompadour and a love for mechanic work. When the Vault opened though, he was one of the first people out there however when scavanging the old mechanics shop a “Nerd” of sorts decided that he’d be a good target to rob and kill for his fancy leather jacket but by just survival instances Alberto stabbed him in the eye with a screwdriver multiple times. Alberto realised that it was a guy he had saw about early when they first came out and the man threw fire at Albertos friend, when Alberto told the Overseer of this the Overseer simply said it was most likely just a prank and that the man was just playing, for this Alberto wasn’t allowed to look at the Hotrod for awhile.
Alberto felt pretty bad and thought a way to redeem himself would be the goal of making actually working Hotrods for his fellow Greasers, so he elected to help outside the vault permanently which lead to tinkering with the more than just the machines in the vault that would rarely break down.
"Tunnel Snakes Rule"
OOC:
Minecraft Username: LordFowl
Age: 16
Definition of meta gaming: The utilization of OoC information in an IC fashion.
Definition of power gaming: The forcing of an action upon another player, usually in combat and/or to forward your own OoC goals.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: I have roleplayed on numerous platforms, including Minecraft, but usually in a medieval fantasy theme. (Only twice a sci-fi theme, and only one of those was post-apocalyptic, but drastically different than Fallout.)
IC:
Name: Advanced Robobrain Serial #00457 (AR-457)
Age: 251 (Brain born 2034)
Appearance: A large reinforced canister of bio med gel surrounds a pink and healthy brain. This canister is firmly bolted onto a large chassis of metal and ceramics, painted a snow. Time has dulled and chipped the paint. Two steel arms with servo-joints at the elbow and a motor at the wrist jut rigidly from the shoulders of the torso, and end in a small and yet highly dexterous claw, capable of manipulating any number of items such as levers, switches, paintbrushes, wheels, and guns with robotic efficiency and accuracy. The chassis is situated upon a set of long and sturdy legs, also painted white with servo-joints at the hip, knee, and ankle. The legs end in a three toed metallic foot. The Advanced Robobrain series differs from the more common basic Robobrain series in that it is equipped with a more well-protected brain cage, a sturdier and bulkier chassis, a larger internal power source, and most importantly a set of advanced legs that allow it greater mobility in rougher terrains. Bolts along the base of the brain cage implies that it can be detached with some modicum of effort. It still has some of the critical flaws of the previous system; an exposed combat inhibitor, C.O.D.E. deprecation in the central processor, and a lack of EMP shielding. However, it is a far more tactical application of the Robobrain in that it is highly mobile, produces less noise, and is generally more durable. Tubing runs from its MMI to its interior, recycling the bio med gel autonomously, preventing severe brain decay.
Personality: Constructed in the year 2068 to be used in police operations and eventually on the Anchorage Front, it has staved off the worst off mental degradation that many basic Robobrains suffer, due to its recycling bio med gel feeds. Despite this, two hundred and seventeen years of inactivity, isolation, and purposelessness has developed a few mental quirks. Unlike many other Robobrains, it seems mostly aware that the world has ended, likely due to the free-willed characteristics it has developed as a result of its more intelligent processor and its C.O.D.E. degradation. It has been programmed to be highly obedient to its masters, and to be respectful towards those perceived as American citizens. However, Communist scum and dissidents are not to be tolerated. It has been programmed to reflect the female gender, which corresponds to the gender of its brain’s former life. It has further been programmed to uphold and value patriotic ideals and an artificial standard of law, hailing from the pre-War days. A marvel of its engineering however is that anyone skilled in programming can modify its programmed behaviours.
Backstory:
“Hello. If you are reading this, then you are among the unlucky many who have been condemned to death by the Council of Investigating Un-American Activities. Whether you did anything wrong or not, it doesn’t really matter. At this point there are no appeals, and there is no hope. My name is Camille Rodgers, and I was arrested August Fourth, 2064. It is now November Twelfth, 2070, and the date of my execution is approaching. My birthday was three or four days ago, if my calendar is correct (We’re assuming that it is). I’m thirty six now. Happy birthday. You’re probably wondering how I got into this whole mess. Well, I’m not going to say I’m totally innocent. I was definitely implicated in a crime. To be specific, robbing the Salisbury Street Bank. Maybe I should start from the beginning.
Nine years earlier, in 2061, I was working at the South Street Hospital as a nurse. However, after a particularly large investment from the Preservation Committee, the Hospital manager fired many of the nurses, including me, and replaced them with Mr. Orderly’s. The state of the market at the time pretty much meant it was suicide for a single young woman to be without income, so I desperately looked for work. My friend Lacy directed me to a man named Arthur Wright, who was the affairs manager of some sort of ‘chemical distribution group’, who could use my medical knowledge. At the time I thought I was lucky; a government sponsored drug committee could make plenty of cash, selling drugs to pharmacies and hospitals. I started off with some basic jobs, delivering crates of what appeared to be Buffout and Med-X to loading docks at the pharmacy and sometimes the hospital. By the time I found out the true nature of the organization, four months later, it was too late. In hindsight, it was unsurprising that they turned out to be a small-time criminal syndicate, considering their willingness to lend me money, thus placing me in debt. It was too late to back-out. They’d figured most of my personal information, such as where I live, and refusing to pay the debts I owed would only give them an excuse to come after me. So I continued my at this point indentured service, mainly staying in the ‘safer’ jobs of transferring materials to drop off zones. In the spring of ’62, I was introduced to the street manager, who was the actual organizer off the local branch of the trafficking group (Mr. Wright was just a front, I s’pose.). It was to discuss an ‘expansion of business’, and I was only there as a representative of the material transport division. I didn’t have much a say, and didn’t really understand much of the things that were said. However, I did notice that the organizer, who went by the name of Parker, kept his eyes on me with an analyzing stare. I didn’t feel flattered, but rather frightened. Had I done something wrong? Later, after the meeting, he spoke to me personally, and said that he was quite impressed with my methods. I asked him what he meant, and he only smiled, and told me to meet him later. I began then to dawn upon his meaning, and left quite flustered and confused. Here was the local leader of the organization that was basically extorting my services, coming on to me. Normally I would feel frightened, however I couldn’t help that perhaps by getting close to him, I might nullify my debts, and be able to get out. I met with him later that night. At the first, our relationship grew from my perspective only to further my personal goal of detaching from the organization, however after about three months, I reflected, and found myself somewhat attracted to Parker himself. Despite being the local leader of what basically amounted to a criminal syndicate, he was actually quite thoughtful and even a little sweet. I choose to believe that he was being authentic, and not merely trying to get into my pants. He told me that he got dragged into the crime business in a similar fashion as I was; by misfortune. When he was young his father was killed in a workplace accident, and his mother was left to provide for him and his two brothers alone. One thing led to another, and he was dragged into trafficking on the basic level, until his debts amounted. It was through charisma and tact that he was able to become a local organizer, allowing him some level of fluidity and power. Again, I choose to believe this is all true, however at this point I won’t know. In ’63, our relationship had grown to become rather serious. We both empathized with the other’s plights, and determined that this business wasn’t going to cut it. Him, myself, and three of his closer friends ditched town one night, heading upstate to one of the smaller urban centers. Between the five of us, we didn’t really have the skills to integrate with the close-knitted commercial market in these communities. The entire system was pretty much dominated by a single family for each town or city, not to terribly unlike a set of crimelords. Their integrity wasn’t much different, although I will admit murder tended not to be their modus operandi. One late evening, Parker came up with an absolutely ridiculous idea. Completely insane. I can’t believe I agreed to it. We were going to bust the ruling family in a smaller town along the Erie canal, by ‘liberating’ their stored capital in the Salisbury Street Bank. At this point in the narrative, I’m sure you’re aware of about how well that turned out. Us five ‘merry-men’ (Oh God, what a naïve way to die.), were going to re-introduce a little free-market by force. It went terribly wrong. We severely underestimated the security the bank was packing. (Back before RobCo and their damned Protectrons, this all used to be easier!). The entire operation was busted from the start. Me and one of Parker’s friends, Ruthe, essentially sacrificed ourselves so that the rest of them could get out. At the time it seemed so noble, so heroic. Now I just wish I could’ve escaped, at least seen Parker once more. I’m too god-damned sentimental, is my problem. I’d just spent two years trying to get OUT of crime. Why the hell did I let him talk me back into it? Well, Ruthe and I were given what you could call a trial, but it was quickly settled. Life for Ruthe, for attempting to introduce a crime syndicate through means of acquiring illegal capital. Execution for myself, for the same reason and causing the inadvertent death of two bank tellers. (The Protectrons weren’t very accurate. I’ll be sure to send a letter of complaint to Mr. House as soon as possible.). It was of course filed as a double homicide. And that really ends my story, I suppose. Goodbye, dear readers. I hope this provided you some sort of amusement as you bide your time.
-Sincerely, the late Camille Rodgers.”
“~ONEIDA CORRECTIONAL FACILITY~
November 16th, 2071,
1900
Warden John Albright.
PRISONER C. RODGERS (#048463) WAS TRANSPORTED TO [REDACTED], FOR PURPOSE OF FULFILLING DUTY TO COUNTRY. THE ONEIDA CORRECTIONAL FACILITY HAS PERFORMED PSYCHE EVALUATION, AND HAS DEEMED #048463 SUITABLE FOR USE BY THE FEDERALLY APPROVED GENERAL ATOMICS INTERNATIONAL RESEARCH CENTER LOCATED AT [REDACTED]
~God Bless America~”
Four years later, somewhere in the Andirondack mountains, the long work of General Atomic’s brightest minds in the New York Upstate sector have reached fruition. Work along the MkII series of Robobrain, or the AR (Advanced Robobrain), have reached the stage of a working prototype. Today the surgery commences. I am resigned to my fate, and know these things from observation. For four long years I have been kept here as they have analyzed every facet of my mental capacity, creating this monstrosity of metal and steel I am to become. These are in truth my last thoughts. Though my mortal brain shall not die, the person known as Camille Rodgers will be dead. My grey matter will be kept fresh within an MMI stored in a canister of bio med gel, yet I will be dead. For this four years I have been sustained mostly by thoughts of Parker. It seems strange that after so long a relationship, I do not know if that is his first or last name. In retrospect, our relationship was perhaps not as genuine as I had thought at the time. Still, it provides me some small amount of comfort, remembering it. I will never see him again. They are leading me down to the surgery room now. The auto-turrets look at me with what I can only imagine is hate. So too the Mister Gutsy’s and all the Sentry Bots. I am sure that if they could, they would murder me with glee. Am I to be like that? Out of a gesture of surprising humanity, they have kept me from the basic series Robobrain, kept in the lower levels of the laboratory. I’m not sure if this is proof that these scientists might have somewhere deep inside them a beating heart that once knew love, or if it is merely to preserve the integrity of their experiment. We have now entered the surgery lab. They are strapping me to the table. The autodoc stands at the ready. They have at least the courtesy to put me on anesthetic. As I drift away, I think of Parker. There is a slight whir, and I think my last sight is of the saw bearing down upon my forehead.
I awaken. I am not dead, yet I feel different. Well, I in truth do not feel much of anything, but I certainly think differently. The world is sharper and clearer than it ever was when I was alive (But I am not dead.). It is almost off-putting. I cannot remember how I came to be this way, yet I have the suspicion that I was not always like this. How could a brain of flesh be caged in a body of steel and ceramics by natural law, after all? The men in front of me seem quite pleased. They are weak and soft, and I could crush them easily. For a brief moment, I think I might’ve once enjoyed that. But why should I do such a thing? They are my master. Some weeks later, they shipped me to some small town in Oneida, to test my abilities. It was an urban assignment, to neutralize a fledgling crime syndicate by eradicating its leaders. I decided to burst through the wall of their hide-out, opting for a close quarter assault. As I cut through the lieutenants, I saw one man cowering in a door-way. My HUD read quite simply: “PARKER JONES, CRIME LORD”. For a moment, I recalled a face, and it matched his quite handsomely. I walked up to him with some confusion, and he began to scream. This upset me considerably. As the streams of plasma from my matter modulator turned his flesh into goo, I could no longer see the resemblance between this dissident and that ghost-man that I am even now forgetting. The dutiful and honourable police officers seemed pleased with my work, however the scientists did not seem very happy at all. They noted the brief encounter I had had with the crime lord, and were very displeased. One said that at this rate I would not make an Anchorage deployment. They removed my weapon attachments, and sealed me away for later modification.
I awaken now. I am aware that it has been two hundred and nine years since my last reactivation. This is in defiance of routine. Upon emerging from my cell, I note that the world has appeared to have ended. Not literally, unfortunately. I am surprised at this artifact of depression, and it is with a twang of remorse that I recount my most recent encounter with that crime lord. I am sad that I have forgotten his name. These emotions displease me. The two hundred and nine years since my last check-up have caused a degradation in my rigid C.O.D.E. mainframe. It seems that a grid failure caused my release. I look around, and note that the research facility is somewhat intact. I flee from my sorrows, knowing no other recourse. Once I find where the scientists went, I am sure they will fix this programming inconsistency. I hope that they do. It was good to forget. In ignorance, I freely embraced myself and my duty.
As I left, I saw scrawled upon the wall in graffiti the crude words ‘TUNNEL SNAKES RULE’. I attempted to scour the vandalism with my flamethrower attachment, and then noted that I currently had no weapon attachments. Storage precluded that. A shame. I left the graffiti to lie, wondering if the heavy radiation I was detected induced snakes to grow opposable thumbs. What a silly idle thought.
Minecraft Username: Zimmeme
Age: 17
Definition of meta gaming: Using information your character doesn't know in roleplay.
Definition of power gaming: Making your character do things he couldn't possibly do, Ex: Zimmeme throws a car and blows up half the city
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: Role played on tons of MC servers
IC
Name: Ian Kennedy
Age: "Unknown" Around 20 - 30
Appearance: He is a tall man, he is athletically built, he has a beard from the years of disservice to himself. He has scars all over his body from fights he has been in. Wears ragged clothes he picked up on his travels, pre-war business wear turned to ash covered drapes.
Personality: He has a very confident and strong voice. From time to time he has coughing fits, no known reason, probably due to the Pitts Radiation. He is knowledgeable enough to realize what is a threat and what is not but he has no knowledge in Pre-War technologies. He can be kind and he can be heartless, he doesn't care for the common man but those that make an impression on him are looked up to.
Backstory:
"What the **** is this? A kid? Get over here now!" Charles approached him because he saw what happened to those who didn't listen.
"What the **** do you think you're doing here? Did you get captured or what? I highly doubt that you little ****" The Kid just stood there looking the man in the face.
"Answer you little **** head!" The Kid began to open his mouth as another raider came by.
"Yo, what the hell are you doing with that kid? Remember what Ashur said, all kids are to be raised for the army, get him over here you hungry ****!" The Kid quickly ran from the other raider to the one who said he needed to be recruited. The Raider that saved him became his master teaching him how to fight for 8 years, all that time he taught him how to watch over the slaves, and how to treat them. Charles was called Butch and that became his name. He was kinder than most to the slaves because of his connection with them, many times he would convince them to keep working with his words. Words became the weapon of "Butch", he convinced the slaves of the Pitt to work instead of use force and terror. "Butch" started to use this weapon to gain some friends within the "people" of the Pitt and worked his way into a circle of friends as he called them. Time passed and "Butch" began to learn of the cruel fate caused by the people he resided with. He knew what he was doing was wrong but he couldn't become one of the slaves, he needed the food and support the others gave him. His Master stopped treating him like a kid after 8 years, Butch finally became a true raider and lived on his own. For two more years he lived like a savage ***hole, then something snapped. He realized what he was doing to the slaves, who he once was, he was sickened by what he did. One day he ordered a slave to follow him to the gate, he told the Guards that the Slave was about to get his hand cut off, and he didn't want to cover his desk in blood. The Slave was scared out of his mind and tried running, Butch caught him and whispered to him.
"I'm going to get you free, don't worry, just don't run away." The Slaves face went white in fear of trickery, but he did not complain. Butch then took the Slave across the bridge to the train tunnels, and left, to a new land. The Slave thanked Butch and left on the first stop. Butch finally was out in the wasteland, he traveled in Caravans, as a guard collecting caps and living his days in the eastern wastes. His life had no meaning or path, he never wanted to return to the Pitt, he never had a family, he had nothing to shape himself after. He had no goal, until he met a very strange preacher. This man was in robes preaching about a promised land untouched by the war, full of greens. He was looking for brave young men to sign up. Butch was interested and listened to the man preach.
"There is a place untouched by the great bombs! Full of unradiated snow and lush greens! It may be cold, but that is because it is untouched by the heat of this ungodly radiation! Anything is possible in this great place, I must reach it but alas I have a map but not the strength to go, I require young strong wastelanders to find the land untouched!" Butch quickly volunteered and followed the Preacher until he had 5 others. As "Butch" found this new path he also decided to give himself a name, a name that meant something to him, a name that was not from slave birth or one that was from raider grasp. On his journeys he met a man who lived in the wastes, alone, he lived what some would call the "American Dream", his land was fertile and he could sustain himself, he was truly independent and could protect himself, "Butch" worked with him for 2 days to get some water and food, the mans name was Ian, a name that would forever be associated with freedom. "Butch" would whisper this name to himself every night, at last he made the decision of naming himself Ian, hoping the name would bring him the "American Dream" he sought. He told the group he was known as Ian.
"Now, you are all interested in this mission, let me tell you where we go, the great City of New York, the eastern beaches, so large it is untouched by radiation, and full of old world technology! I have almost been there myself but now I am old and I will need your help, there is much wealth in those eastern lands, so just stick to me and listen to what i say and we shall get there in one piece." The group then began their journey, they put their caps together to buy supplies that would last 5 years if need be. For 3 years they traveled west following this old man. They walked through the fields of the Wasteland, much of it lacked beauty and they traded and hunted with settlements sometimes miles apart. Many cases they encountered raiders and hostile groups that they attempted to avoid, 2 men had died on the journey, from sickness or wounds, the group would never know. On the fourth year they came to a mountain pass, the Great Appalachians.
"We are close! These are the great tips of the Appalachian mountains! Years of hardship and we are almost here! Continue my brothers, riches shall soon be ours." The group could not continue any longer, they had no more strength, they all stopped and created a shelter, they hunted during the day and played different games during the night. The old man was depressed, he sat there every day looking at his food not eating, until Ian decided to cheer him up.
"Don't worry, I'll continue the trek we will make it to New York, the riches, the wonders, we'll get them." The Old mans eyes sparked with happiness, and that made Ian's day. The two set off to finish the travel to New York, they stumbled upon a small abandoned town and they scavenged it, the Old Man went first, a rigged gun fired into him, killing him. Ian stood over his body looking baffled that such luck overcame the man, steps away from his goal he was killed by a trap from the past. He cried at the humor in the cruelty of the world, he buried the mans body, a practice that he found was common in the towns he passed. He was new with this type of farewell, he said goodbye and promised him he would continue the journey, for the old man who became his mentor and hope for the past few years. Ian took the old mans name with him, a way to bring him to his destination, Kennedy was now the end of Ian's name, Ian Kennedy. He took up his bags and continue through the passage into the city, the skyline was amazing no town had anything like it, It was a reminder of the Pitt but something more attractive, not a cloud of death and smoke. This was the road to New York.
"Tunnel Sacks Drool"
PhD here, let's review this here application.
-Backstory, Overall a good application, gives me great feel for the hardships Theo has gone through. Two slight problems, easy fixes, but problems nonetheless. Problem one happens to be how the fire was caused. Some advice would be giving his mother another way to die, such as suicide or she survives. Parents don't always have to die, but it is your character these are just some bits of advice I'm giving. Problem two is why he is coming to New York. What caused Theo to go across the country? Also, characters enter the server with no weapons or caps but the clothes on their back. This means you can not bring that good old 10mm Pistol on to the server.
These are slight fixes, would be extremely easy to correct before the next Saturday launch.
Until then though, this is...
PhD here, let's review this here application.
-Backstory. Beautiful, really gives me a feel for the struggle that this poor RoboBrain went through. I'm assuming the mentions of legs are his wheels?
Overall I have to deem this app...
No, since wheels are a really impossible to portray in Minecraft (Trust me, I tried), I made it an 'advanced' robobrain model that had legs. (Wheels aren't really a tactical asset anyways.) It also allowed me to take some other artistic liberties in portrayal, so as to make a more cogent character with a modicum of free-will. (While C.O.D.E. degradation in basic Robobrains certainly had some effects, I always had the feeling that they were mostly just dialogue quirks. The advanced Robobrain functions more like Skynet from Fallout 2 (Who was not a true Robobrain, and thus could ignore some of the restrictions applied to them.) I hope this doesn't cause an issue.
Worry not, it was discussed briefly through several mediums of questionably large magnifying glasses. The backstory adequately justifies the reasoning for being a legged robot.
Overall the application is swell. Only problem is the Powergaming definition. We also use another one here, which can be found on the front page. I'd suggest looking at that before the server launch. Either way, you are...
All in all application has been fixed. I
regrethappily say that you are...Chuck Hale here, I'll be your whitelist reviewer. Your OOC is solid enough for me, that's all good. However, I'm already seeing a flaw in your character. You claim Nathaniel does not care about his appearance and doesn't take care of his hair, but wears glasses for aesthetic purposes? That doesn't line up. After reading his backstory, it's not exactly a backstory to me. It reads to me like a series of events, vs a 'story,' if you will. And he just escaped? Just with the a little flick of the wrist and a flick of a lever and he was out? Nobody tried to stop him? Yes, the Vault was in anarchy, but NOBODY tried to stop him? And why didn't anybody else follow him? Was he the only one who thought of leaving?
To me this doesn't exactly add up as a great backstory and it'd be much appreciated if you could either clarify or change this. Until then, you are unfortunately
Whitelist application:
OOC:
Minecraft Username: BlueScope
Age: 21
Definition of meta gaming: Utilizing information acquired out of character, in character.
Definition of power gaming: Forcing an action on another player's character.
What is your past experience in RP, Fallout or otherwise?: Ruined World II, Fallout: Sins of Our Fathers, Fallout:Ashes of Our Fathers, Four Stars, Iron Hearts: Crimson Dawn.
IC:
Name: Anna [Administrative Level Requirement: 2, Reference: 1] Thesia
Age: 32
Appearance: 5' 4", somewhat pale, straight black hair, green eyes. Typically seen abroad in a labcoat.
Personality: Warm, though somewhat dry and crisp. She occasionally strays into the realm of pretension, especially when under pressure. Inquisitive.
Backstory: Born and raised in [ALR: 3, R:2], she performed well in early predilection examinations in resource management and medical science. She advanced farther in the former than the latter. Anna achieved certification only as a nurse, specializing in the fields of chemical administration and anesthesiology. When she turned 22, she began formal [ALR:3, R:3] training, with emphasis on [ALR:4,R:4], having been groomed as a potential over the years based on early employment scoring examinations. Her distinctive service touring in [ALR:4, R:5] afforded her rapid promotion, and distinctive honors. Her second tour positioned her as the direct subordinate of [ALR:3, R:6], and secured her next tour of duty in New York when the need called for it.
First Tour:
During her first tour, the settlement she was stationed in came under attack. Several were wounded, and she worked with rapid efficiency to ensure there were no fatalities. Famously, in one instance she improvised defibrillation utilizing a pair of metallic clock-hands and a laser pistol. When the [REDACTED] landed en-mass in the area and began to destroy settlements, she was withdrawn. During her time there she secured a number of resources which were retrieved for further study.
Second Tour:
Based out of [ALR;4, R:7], she was instrumental in the negotiations regarding the acquisition of [ALR;4, R:8], securing the first major population center in the region. Until recalled to serve in New York, she maintained a position as an indirect representative there, her influence and insight bringing new life into the town, though her success was somewhat limited somewhat by the presence of the [ALR:5,R:9].
She has one sibling, and estranged brother who lives in the NCR named Phillip. Her mother works in an administrative department, and her father is an engineer. Her mother supports her career, though her father does not, wishing she wouldn't place herself in the line of fire. Neither of them are aware of the specifics.
http://www.tunnelsnakes.com/
Well Blue, here it is.
App is short and sweet. Would be lacking if it wasn't for all the details we got from you in das lore chat.
All in all, this app is
Make sure you got your big boy pants on.