Chapter IV| Fallout RP | Alt-Timeline | IC

[Waztaskio]

Republics of Dust: Chapter IV War. War never changes. The Romans waged war to gather slaves and wealth. Spain built an empire from its lust for gold and territory. Hitler shaped a battered Germany into an economic superpower. But war never changes. In the 21st century, war was still waged over the resources that could be acquired. Only this time, the spoils of war were also its weapons: Petroleum and Uranium. For these resources, China would invade Alaska, the US would annex Canada, and the European Commonwealth would dissolve into quarreling, bickering nation-states, bent on controlling the last remaining resources on Earth. In 2077, the storm of world war had come again. In two brief hours, most of the planet was reduced to cinders. And from the ashes of nuclear devastation, a new civilization would struggle to arise. Will you serve humanity and help it rebuild? Or will you enslave and conquer? The world is yours, but you must always remember the simplest truth known always to mankind. No matter what side you take and what battles you fight, war...war never changes. OOCMAPAPPLICATIONDISCORD CHATBOARD OF ROLEPLAY MANAGEMENTMISCELLANEOUS INFORMATIONROSTER Welcome to Republics of Dust! If you are a returning player, you're here because you heard Waztaskio has grown a pair of fallout lore and is ready to unleash it upon the unsuspecting roleplayers of our fallout world. If you are a new player, you're here because you're bored, and want to create a story within the Fallout universe. Republics of Dust is a fallout nationstates roleplaying community, with it's own lore and backstory that differs significantly from the established fallout canon of Fallout One, Two, Three, New Vegas, and Four. Our fallout canon universe becomes different after the year 2077, due to the fact that we allow our players and members of our community to create new nations and bring in new ideas. We have all probably heard of Fallout Van Buren, or Fallout Tactics, etc that are not considered fully canon in the fallout universe. But this is exactly why Republics of Dust exists. We wish to give you the tools to create Fallout the way you wish to play fallout, within reason. If you truly wish to have Caesars Legion in our universe, it can be accomplished by filling out an application for them with their new history. If you want something in our universe that came from your mind, then bring that on down too in an application and we'll take care of you. Let your imagination flow, and have fun. Players are encouraged to remain civil, and take any concerns to either the co-ops, or board of roleplay management, before talking directly to the OP. Again, welcome to Republics of Dust and I hope you enjoy your time here. We are going to be based in the year 2266, and our playing area will be the State of Texas.

[Elerian]

“All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle”
- St. Francis of Assisi

It was a unremarkable season in Fort Worth. Merchants ran their stores, fishers were out on Lake Worth, farmers ran their co-ops, and there was little in the way of trouble. Fort Worth was a safe, stable little wasteland in so far as Texas was concerned. The Feds and townspeople scattered across Fort Worth got along just fine, unified by their belief in the American Dream and glued together by the stout leadership that the Council provided. It certainly helped that the local raider population had been decimated through the combined efforts of the FBI and local Militias. It wasn't a particularly populous region, before the war Fort Worth had been a metropolis, but now it only held pockets of cloistered communities. Still, it was a nice place, the lack of residents meant it was relatively quiet but even still they managed to be quite prosperous. Not only were there a fair few productive farms, Caravans from far and wide frequently passed through Fed territory, seeing as the Central Plains of Texas were both stable and prosperous, bringing wealth and economic activity to the region. All said it was a good place for business.

There were communities in the wasteland with all manner of fortes, for FEDRA, it was wisdom. They had a great deal of knowledge to pull from, both from the old world and the new. And as the old adage goes, knowledge is power. Of course, the Feds never really ran into many particularly notable threats, they had garnered a great deal of credence among merchants and cap brokers both far and wide, and were known for offering a great deal of clemency even to those that would do them harm. There weren't many people with strong animosities against them. They were among the precious few who would treat with their partners as equals and freely offer aid to those who needed it most, which certainly didn't work towards fostering much hostility towards them. Their small state had been built through diplomacy and negotiation. The Federal Agencies had come together and agreed to create a unified people for the sake of mutual benefit, whereas so many empires in the wasteland had been forged through coercion and conquest. They were a relatively peaceful people, and their neighbors were often content to leave them in peace.

Like all communes, however, the Feds had ambitions, things they strove hard to achieve. Chief among those goals was the re-establishment of the United States Government. Though, diplomacy was preferable to achieve this rather than war and destruction. The Feds had been sowing the seeds of unification throughout the wastes for decades, making very frequent attempts to assimilate neighboring communities and tribes. Even if FEDRA’s borders had remained largely static since 2077, the Feds had been able to expand their influence much farther than the city itself. Accumulating rapport from neighboring communities and tribes, and had established reliable streams of revenue from levies gathered from many surrounding towns. In exchange for FEDRA’s umbrella network of contacts and protection, they would pay a small price, creating a mutually beneficial relationship. Some called it an organized racket, but the Feds would call it Symbiosis, whatever that means. The re-establishment of pre-war America was the biggest motivation for FEDRA; and they worked hard, day and night, to make this goal realized by the wider wasteland.

* * *

A Giant Awakes

It was early into the tenure of Deputy Director Zachary Eckerson, head of the National Catastrophe Relief Auxiliary (NCRA) and ostensibly the leading member of the Directorate's Council. In reality, he was little more than a figure piece for the real powerhouse behind their regime, pulling the strings like Gepetto, was Dave Bowman, also known as ZAX-39. Dave Bowman was as much an enigma to Zachary as he was to everyone else in the Council. But in many ways Dave was not as changeable as people are, and not quite so transparent; and they preferred him for it.

Their little universe ran on Dave's clock, a closed world, a structured world. And Dave knew many ways of making the time pass, keeping himself comfortably certain of the security of things. Like “retiring” the head of the NCRA. The very way in which Zachary had found his way into this very position as the Deputy Director. They had told Zachary he would be insane to willingly take the position, but Zachary knew what he was doing. Or at least he believed he did.

He was a snake to the core, having spent his entire adult life working his way up the ladder, and was extremely devoted to pursuing his thirst for power. Everyone else saw his move from Assistant Attorney General under Ephram McCarran to the Deputy Director of the NCRA as a lateral move. Everyone but him. Outwardly, his job made him the most powerful man on the Council. It was through him that FEDRA policy was ordained to the general public.But in reality, his duties as the Deputy Director of the NCRA essentially meant he was subservient to Dave, and a mouthpiece for the Council. This meant that oftentimes, NCRA Deputies were selected for their charisma, which Zachary certainly possessed, but more importantly for their ignorance in the great game of politics. Zachary wasn’t ignorant, but he could have won an Oscar for playing the part.

Zachary had foreseen the hardest part of his job to be dealing with notoriously aloof Dave, and yet Zach found the rumors to be just that; hearsay. Dave had doggedly tried to draw him out of his shell with innocuous questions, asking him about music, films, games, his previous positions. Not about his family, and not about his intentions or ambitions; certainly not about politics or religion, which quickly made it better than many conversations over coffee with his previous colleagues. In comparison with plenty of people he knew, Dave seems nothing but socially astute and charming. The two of them discussed Homer versus Virgil, a 400-year-old French treatise on instrumentation, the composition of the ideal cup of coffee, the film Frankenstein, even the Gulf Stream. After that, their ongoing conversation steered itself back to the subject of logic, which is both comfortably within Dave's wheelhouse and most of all; emotionally neutral. The ZAX always had plenty of things to say, even when Zachary didn’t; he operated in a state of conscientious restraint that reminds him of a favorite tutor he'd once had. Regardless of where his opinions come from, if they're fished out of a massive pre-provided database somewhere or strung together out of buzzwords, they're diverting enough to still be worth listening to. It must be diverting for Dave as well; he might crave the distraction.

Still, Zachary couldn’t help the feeling that Dave was trying to sound something out, that he was trying to coax something out of him. Dave wanted his complete attention and he'd get it.

* * *

Ashes to Ashes

Patience, Sam's mother had always told him, back when she was stout and gentle and smelled of New Mexico chilies, was a virtue. She had said this often, and it was one of the few things that Sam remembered well about her, and so he had held it close in all the long years since his mother's death. It was a better memory than the horror her face had formed when she’d been murdered by raiders. And in time, the advice had become ingrained deep within him. Sam could wrap himself in his coat, and let his eyes scan the street for clues and let his mind wander towards better memories. Memories of his mother, her smell, and her hand reassuringly on his shoulder. Then the words would return to him.

Patience is a virtue.

Special Agent Samuel Clemens sat on the entrance steps of a burned out pawn shop across the street from the abandoned saloon that his skittish acquaintance chose as their meeting place. He was wrapped in his old trench coat, a small man with hair the color of ash, clearly a Fed, probably dangerous, nursing a bowl of noodles from a pushcart just around the corner. A man with a mission, stoic, conspicuous. But still apart of the furniture of life in the Warrens. Hood rats dressed in rags hurried past him, in and out of the many storefronts just down the street, none of them giving him a second glance.

Sam guzzled down more of his quickly cooling noodles and kept his eyes open and smelled again the green-chili smell of his mother in the kitchen. Patience is a virtue, Sam. She always made him wait before he could eat dinner. Patience is a virtue.

More people passed by on the street. None of them wanted to look him in the eyes.

There was a man, older than Sam, he didn't look like he belonged in the Warrens. He kept glancing around, alert, wary. Sam didn't think that the man noticed him. Just another vagrant huddling out of the cold. The man went into the saloon.

Wonderful, some rando was going to ruin this whole exchange.

Sam finished his noodles. He drew his coat tighter around him. Fort Worth was chilly this March. Patience is a virtue. Patience is a virtue. There was warmth and safety in that, in the memory.

Sam sighed softly to himself. He would have to move soon. It was a pity. This was a fine place to spend an afternoon: watching people, learning the rhythms of the district, putting the pieces together. Sam would gladly have sat a while longer.

But he had not come to the Warrens to people watch.

* * *

Hiraeth

Many of Fort Worth's streets had been cordoned off. Along the sides, spectators from all over the city watched and cheered. They came in thick clothing and the frosty air turned their cheeks a rosy pink. The cold of winter was waning, but this Spring was still unseasonably cold. From Stockyard Station the wild cheers could be heard like the sounds of a distant battle. Eleven robots of different makes and models raced down the streets. One robot for every major town within FEDRA. It could be a reckless tradition but one the Council, and interesting enough that Dave Bowman, refused to not be upheld this Spring Equinox. The robots careened around corners with the skill only a calibrated machine could achieve. But the race was not without its dangers. One town’s robot, the one from Saginaw, malfunctioned and went careening into a market stall.

Directors Byron Anders and Oliver Powell were watching together from the balcony of one of the downtown skyscrapers. This was a heated competition they had both enjoyed for as long as they could remember. They caught glimpses of the robots, bedecked in neon decorations, as they appeared on different streets. As the robots got closer, they were able to tell which was which.

"There!" Byron pointed. "Damn! The Warrens are in eighth!" Naturally, Byron cheered on the eyebot, dubbed Piece o’ Junk by the other teams, from his home city. The Warren robot almost always lost. Byron was only twelve the last time they had won.

"I wouldn't mind the bot from Mansfield winning. They're in second." Oliver replied, watching intently himself.

"My money's on Deadwood. The bot has been catching up after being in seventh. Good bot, just got off to a rough start." Byron replied.

Another roar came from the city signifying another crash.

"Looks like Arlington is out. Who will it be?" Byron asked. He felt a rush as he always did during the race. One that could only be matched by the rush he’d felt as a Gutter Rat in his youth. There would be many fortunes won and lost in Fort Worth after this race.

It was the last leg of the race. The robots could now be seen kicking into high gear coming straight at the gate to the Business District. Deadwood was now in second and Mansfield fell to third. Though the robots were so close the conclusion of the race still balanced on a knife's edge. Both men leaned on the railings to cheer their bots then cursed when the Bedford bot crossed the threshold first.

"Bullshit!" Byron cursed while tossing his wine over the edge of the railing. Oliver also had a look of distaste on his face though was able to compose himself far better. It was strange how much everybody in Fort Worth cared so much for this race. In the days leading up to it, the most popular discussion was on who would win. Oliver remembered walking into the Council’s chamber before they began that day and found they were arguing over the trivial topic. Along with his own advisers and agents in his office.

"It appears that I owe Carmona a few caps" Byron grumbled.

“The Director of the Treasury shouldn’t be gambling Byron. It isn't ethical." Oliver reprimanded him with a grin. It was hypocritical because he had placed some bets in private with Carmona as well. Hardly anybody could resist betting on the races. Even the hardliner Brian Foss had lost his prized laser pistol to a collegue. Director Witlow had lost his prized luxury skiff one year. Oliver now owed Carmona dinner and some caps.

"I was so sure it was going to be Deadwood this year! They were underdogs, sure, but they should have had it in the bag." Byron said disappointed.

The two walked down from the apartments chatting. There was still an air of tension from the heated argument they’d had in the council chambers the day before, but for now they seemed to be getting along. They ended up in the building’s courtyard before the statue of Mark Twain. He was one of the greats, a pre-war colossus in the realm of literature. Despite their wildly different upbringings, both men had read the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn religiously in their youth. The two stood quietly for a while studying it, and in a strange sort of way the statue only made them sad. Back before the pre-war this figure likely elicited pride and perhaps hope. But now, it was as if the greatness that humanity had once known had been lost, never to be found again. This was perhaps the hundredth time they had found themselves standing in the same spot before this same statue, but the first that this feeling had crept over them.

"Don't worry Byron, we can come back." Oliver said as Byron stared at the statue of Mila.

"I’m not so sure." Byron responded right away. "How could things ever return to the way they were?." He paused deep in thought before turning to his friend. “Having faith is believing in something you just know ain't true" Byron recited from Huck Finn, a morose smile plastered across his face, before stepping away to rejoin the festivities.

[Theyra]

South Plains Council

Things were looking well for Lubbock and the rest of the Council territory. Lubbock in the decades after the formation of the Council had became a safe and stable place in the region. Due to the leadership of the Council and the numbers of the military. Which has aided the city in rebuilding and the SPC being stable enough to be expanding their territory to nearby counties. Though expanding efforts have been slow due to manpower concerns. The South Plains region has always been lightly populated before the bombs hit. Though Lubbock was the biggest city in the region and is the source of most of the SPC's population. Still SPC is growing both in Lubbock and it's towns. From Littlefield in the north to Brownfield in the south. Plus, spirits were high after the annual South Plains Fair. A tradition that dates back before the bombs and managed to survive thanks to both humans and ghouls.

Though not everything has been smooth recently. The settlement of Littlefield was starting to begin expand their cotton fields when a tornado formed near the town and tore thought it. The town was devastated and a military force was sent ahead of the relief effort when the new reached Lubbock. Due to Littlefield being near the edge of SPC territory, it was a priority to secure the town from bandits now that it is weaken. The military force got to Littlefield just in time to prevent bandits from raiding what was left of the town and it's people. Now the town has to be guarded by the army till the town is rebuilt. Plus, cotton which were the main export of the town were destroyed by the tornado and it will take time to grow again.

Then there was the issue with the election of the recent Chief Councillor Emma Underhill. The last Chief Councillor died two months ago and for the the council was not sure of who among them would replace him. So a election by the people was organized and Emma was elected as the new Chief Councillor. The election itself was a close one and Emma barely winning against councilor Ezekiel Fairchild. Even though she was elected fairly, there were concerns that since she not fit for being Chief Councillor. Because, she has only been on the council for a short time and her opponents think it was the Underhill's legacy that got her elected. Emma has made said that is not the case and she is fully capable of leading the Council. Whether she can only be told by time and how she reacts to other problems the SPC encounters.

Brownfield
Roland Underhill's house

Roland after resigning from the Council has decided to move away from Lubbock and to Brownfield to get away from politics. Though it is hard to do that when you are a founder of a nation and the first one to lead the council. He prefers to be left alone but sometimes helps out around Brownfield. Today Roland had a unexpected visitor appear after he came back from visiting the market place. "You know that visiting me right now is not the best thing you could to? Roland was leaning against a wall while holding a drink.

"I know Grand but, I wanted to talk to you and it is good to see you". Emma said while sitting down on a couch. Grand is what the Underhills called Roland mainly because it is easier to say than saying great-great-great grandfather.

"Hmmm, so what did you want to talk about? "I am guessing politics and about the claims that being related to me got you elected?

"Yes, I wanted to talk about that and I know that despite moving out here that you still keep tabs on what happens on the council".

"Yeah and I know that Fairchild was not happy about losing". "Plus, Councilor Wells did supported Fairchild's bid before it went to the people to decide". "Are you worried about them?

"I just wonder if they will try and hinder my ability to lead the Council since you did play on the idea that I was only in the bid because I am a Underhill". "Not even considering that I got on the council in the first place on my own merit and I know I am ready for it".

"Hmmm, you have to admit that being on the Council for a short time and then becoming Chief Councillor does not help". "Though you have shown to be good in your own right and you do not get on the council because of my name alone". "If that was true then Harrison would not been the last Chief Councillor". "Still a shame that he died to a heart-attack".

"Grand, how do you feel about me leading?

"You asking me because we as because family or because I was both the founder and the first leader of the council?

"Both".

Roland signed.......,"I think you can". "For what your father wrote to me about and from what I heard from Lubbock". "You are skilled and driven in seeing the SPC thrive in the wasteland". "You got people to see that during the election and I think in time, you will show the rest". "Just focus on doing what is best for the SPC and you should not have problems".

Emma got up from the conch, "Thanks for the talk Grand and I will be heading back to Lubbock".

"No problem and tell the family that I say hi".

"Will do, Grand" and Emma left his house and began heading back to Lubbock.

[Zepplien]

Brownsville Imperial Docks, January of 189 Imperial Calendar
"Mis amigos!" Specialist Alexis de Vichy called out to her group of compatriots, all highschool friends who had studied many late nights together to pass the GOAT. They were all in khaki uniforms now, half a year older and seemingly a lifetime more mature. While Alexis had her plain rifle, Jimmy had a fine banner on his rifle that his Grandmother had handed down to him upon his graduation, Kim had her officer's sword, and Kevin cradled his father's hand-me-down rifle. Jimmy put one arm around his old highschool friend as she approached, pulling her tightly against him "I was hoping we would see you again, after boot ya know." the little group was all smiles as they were finally reunited, Alexis bowing slightly to one of her schoolmates as she joked "I never thought Kim would end up being jefe, but como es the will of los Dioses." "Mis Dioses! You know that I was also number uno del classe." Kim countered, a chuckle on her lips as she put her hand upon her sword. "Now that you are all aqui, vamos a estar patrullando, to insure the safety of our honored guests."

The patrol was as dull as anyone could imagine, the simple marching of the young men and women as a show of power to those who would trade with them. They remained silent, disciplined and strict as to not dishonor their nation, simple cranes moving large crates to and from ships. Brownsville was a shadow of its pre war self, yet it still had docks filled to the brim with everything from weapons to beef, corn, and textiles. The mighty steamships of Caesareum slid into their position alongside the far more common sailing ships that plowed the waves of the Caribbean, even the smallest trade ships finding docks to sell their wares. The bulky cargo robots, and the Communist overseers of the Cuban Central Committees offloaded tobacco and sugarcane in trade for beef and some of the comparatively cheap Imperial Clothing. This city, like Venice or Genoa of the old world, it sat as a crossroads of a dozen nations, and a world that was rebuilding after utter catastrophe. Humanity had survived the Plagues, they had survived the World Wars, and they had survived the Bomb, and as the Heavenly Emperor stated, each thing that humanity endured only made it stronger!

Imperial Army Training Field, Heavenly Vault Empire
Drill Instructor Jose Fink moved away from the soldier in front of her, indicating her boot "Límpiela up your mess!" the dirt on her boot had been kicked up during her last beating of another student. It didn't matter the order, it mattered who ordered the soldier around, that was the lesson of the day. The soldier in front of her was a smarter one, taking a knee and immediately taking a cloth to shine his DI's boots just as ordered. She stepped back, looking over the ranks of soldiers with their bolt action rifles at rest. "Which one of your ungrateful putas can tell me lo más importante thing on the battlefield?" one of the recruits snapped to attention, demanding "Permission?" "Speak!" "Our rifles so we may fire upon the primitive bárbaro beyond our Emperor's tierras?" the DI didn't even entertain it for a second, indicating the course around camp "RUN, DOS LAPS! RAPIDAMENTE!" the young man wisely not arguing as he picked up his long rifle and began his jog. Another recruit chose to speak up, her voice equally as crisp "Permission?" the DI once again nodding "I have all day for idiotas." "It is the Imperial Mentalidad! That we might morir antes de la derrota if it means that our Empire shall find Victory! Diez Mil Years for our Emperor!" she raised her rifle, the other students following her example and raising their rifles for a unified cry of "Diez Mil Years!" even their DI joining in with the cry, a small smile on her face "It is glad to see even you all might see that! One lap! Vámonos correr!"

[Verore]

The Kingdom of Odessa

As the morning sun rose over the Kingdom of Odessa bells could be heard chiming across the region. Sleepy towns, built around the long since inoperable and empty oil wells, awoke as they began to start their day. Each knowing their place with many of them set to farm duty while others when off into the morning mist to resume salvaging abandoned settlements and wreckages of pre-war structures whose purpose has been lost in nuclear fire. In the city of Odessa, the sound of the tolling bells was drowned out by the marching of slaves as they were gathered in the square and inspected for illness as well as counted to ensure no one escaped. After this morning routine, they would begin their lives. Those that were not under the thumb of the slave system also use these bells to indicate that it was time to begin their day as well. Freshly rested soldiers replaced those who spent the night, merchants began to open their stores to sell their wares the slaves gathered or made to passing travellers, and supervisors began to walk among the slaves to make sure every slave was in good condition and working productively.

City of Midland

Once the bells ceased to sound, a youthful man with an aura of command resumed his education on the systems of governance that his father and his father’s father had worked to create. He was the heir to the Kingdom of Odessa and would be expected to learn the persuasion and intimidation tactics his predecessors used to ensure the utmost loyalty of their lords. Alongside learning these and other valuable skills as a leader of a slave driven society, his purpose in Midland was also a key part of his education. This region was recently absorbed into the kingdom after a compromise between the leadership of both cities and though they accepted the slave system, albeit the general populace didn’t have a say in it, there was still the issue of cultural differences between Odessa and Midland that needed to be bridged. This divide was something that prince Joseph Turner had decided to try to bridge. He spends his time learning midland customs from the Pioneers he oversaw as well as from recently made lords that incessantly visit to try to gain his favour. Though their conversations border on being repetitive Joseph is still more than happy to learn the courtesies of Midland and try to teach them to other Odessan supervisors to make sure the servants don’t get too upset. However, at the end of the day, the prince slowly works to try to integrate both cultures into the identity of the kingdom.

Around the area of Odessa

The sounding bells were the indicator that the flood of servants who lived in the cramped barracks of the city would be dispersed throughout the surrounding area. Some slaves stayed at the farther off locations for multiple days but most went back and forth from their assigned tasks every day. Two main tasks given to the servants is farming on the vast plantations owned and supervised by their free owners or being put to work dismantling the long since abandoned oil wells that dot the landscape. These workers help to bring Odessa the two main resources it produces, scrap metal and food. The scrap metal was brought to the furnaces within the city, usable equipment that barely survived the bombs being dropped, and began to melt the resources down into usable metal sheets.

[Zelent]

The National Commonwealth of Texas

Prologue: The NCT had grown monumentally over the course of its existence, to becoming definitely the most populous nation-state in the Texan wasteland, with a immense economy capable of supplying its self of food and other resources in true Autarkic fashion, partly thanks to the purified water of Aqua Trinity, the most important project of the Bureau of Science but now managed by the Ministry of Infrastructure, this project used a GECK along with a advanced filtration system to purify most all of Trinity Bay, this purified water slowly spreading out into Galveston Bay, Pipelines ship this water to various Pumping Stations situated at the confluences of communities and farmland. With various important trade routes , even including over-sea routes as far away as Havanna or Tampa, flowing through her borders, given relatively lax taxation laws and a exceptionally good safe environment along the roads, free of raiders thanks to the services provided by a powerful military protecting her borders and garrisoning strategic points across the land and the efforts of the National Police Force instrumented by the Ministry of Justice. These factors create a infused societal structure that makes The National Commonwealth of Texas the hegemonic force on the Texan coast, and one of the most powerful if not the most powerful state in the Texan wasteland. Her destiny now was to carve out an empire along the wide expanse of the wastes.

The Presidents Campaign
Beaumen Tribe's Borders at China, West of Beaumont, TX
The notably well armed caravan neared the checkpoint that established the entrance into this tribes territory. The caravan was carrying President Maddox, his small party of his most trusted advisors including a representative from the Ministry of Diplomatic Affairs, protected by the roving teams of TF Beaumont, a platoon of Rangers assigned to escort the President on his mission to Beaumont. The intrigue of the Presidents affairs lay with the Chief of the relatively civilized Beaumen Tribes. Maddox recognized the potential for annexation provided by the Beaumens. The Beaumens had rather high toll road taxes and were relatively unstable outside of Beaumont, meaning the surrounding savage tribes at war with them were having easy time harassing Beaumen territory. The caravan came down into sight of the first Beaumen checkpoint. A boy no older than 19, bare chested except for a bandolier half full of bullets and wearing military fatigue pants, with his football helmet pulled down over his face, and a ramshackle post-war bolt rifle in his hands watched intently from a tree just 5 yards off the side of the road, another 20 yards down, a boarded up gas station was off the side of the road, another sniper seen vigilant on the roof of the building. Railroad barriers were laid across the road, operated by hand-crank lever. The guards at this outpost seemed to be unnerved at the sight of such a well-armed and numerous group, surly not traders, but surly not an Oiler war party. A set of two men exited from the gas station doors, one carrying a respectable hunting shotgun, and the other a simple but well kept long knife sheathed at his belt.
"Ayy, Ayy?" the obvious commander of the garrison, the one approaching with the sheathed knife asked without elaborating at first, but then continuing to the now stopped group "You men, from Comwealth, peas?" inquired the man in broken English.

Maddox hopped down from his carriage slowly, in a unthreathening manner. His boots thudded against the pavement, he approached the middle aged border guard, hands open as he reached to his carriage driver, who handed him down a string that was pushed through a Alligator molar.
"We come peacefully from the land of Houston, guided by the mark,of Le Roy of Beaumont. I am Maddox, leader of the National Commonwealth of Texas" Maddox announced, clearly. The guards seemed pleased enough with this explanation, and sent the convoy on further.


Beaumont, TX, Mairie de Beaumen
Maddox was given the free audience of Le Roy de Beaumont, what a foolish way to put it, Le Roy had begged Maddox to take his time to come speak with him about this matter of utmost importance. The two men though, had met a couple times before to discuss trade tariffs and economic investment plans of NCT business between the two nations. But now, the Beaumen had came under such a substantial threat from the Oilers out of Port Arthur, and other smaller tribes in the area. The conflict began some months ago, partly at the instigation of Beaumen troops, who had become too aggressive against Oiler chem smuggling operations, given the Oilers refusal to pay Beaumen taxes and their habit to cause disruption in Beaumen villages as they moved through, often times marching their Brahmin pack animals straight through Beaumen Punga-fruit fields as they dodged the main roads on the way to Orleans (Oilers were well known regionally for their chem production of enormous proportions.) After just a couple months of direct conflict, Beaumen forces were exhausted by the well-funded enemy who had teamed up with the smaller clans farther North in Jasp and Woodville. The rest of his house, the reigns of his brothers back east in Lake Charles and Lafayette and smaller confederated clans in Lousisana under this collective dynasty had sent little in the form of aid to their cousin here in Texas, given their own internal affairs. The begging of Le Roy went on for almost 45 minutes, before the two men reached a agreement, if it could be called that. Le Roy, out of desperation more or less sold his people off as the new Vassal state of the NCT. The Commonwealth would defeat the Oilers decisively, and then get to annex Port Arthur (The Oiler stronghold) and keep Beaumont as a vassal state, paying tribute in the form of 15% of their taxes to the NCT, while also allowing the NCT Army to recruit Auxillary troops from Beaumen territory. Additionally, the Texas Commonwealth Gazette (A major public news organization in NCT, in which the Government has a 35% share in) would start a Cajun-English single page publication in Beaumont, and reserves the right to, if successful, construct and operate a news and music radio station in the territory.

[NewLakotah]

Abilene, Texas
Commonwealth of Texas

The town of Abilene had never been a very large one, even before the war. It had been a decent sized center, however, it paled in comparison to the larger metros of Texas. Because of this, it had been spared much of the devastation that wrecked the other larger metros. It certainly wasn't pristine, but it wasn’t entirely destroyed either. It was certainly dirty, and broken down, with many of the homes buildings in ruins. That is except for the Royal Quarter. Centered around the former Wooten Hotel, the Royal Quarter was at one time the center and hub of the city. Once the bombs had fell and the people either killed or fighting for survival, the area fell into the same disrepair that befell every other section of the city. However, once the Royalists had entered the city and claimed for their own the Royal family quickly looked for a place to call theirs. One that would stand out and make them truly stand out. The Wooten Hotel with its grandeur and its stature quickly became the new home of the Royal family.

It had taken years. Years of hard work, thousands of caps, and dozens of workers to refurbish the new Royal Home. However, slowly but surely, the tower was a bright and shining light in the depths of the wastelands and ruins of post-apocalyptic Texas. The Royals put their royal quarters in the top Penthouse floors as their own, with the other remaining floors given out to the other members of the extended royal family, key advisors, government and royal officials, all according to their status; the bigger you were, and the more liked, the higher you were. The next door Paramount Theatre become the Royal Ballroom and Royal Theatre. In the area around the Royal Palace, other aristocrats, nobles, and rich businessmen soon took over the buildings directly around the Royal Palace wanting to be close to the seat of power, fashioning them and rebuilding and refurbishing them in their own way, wanting to look impressive in their own right. With lights, businesses, high class restaurants and more, the area in the Royal Quarter took on a life of its own, one that made it seem like a dream or a fantasy in contrast to the area around it.

Abilene, Texas
Commonwealth of Texas
St. Margaret’s Quarter
“Rag-Town”

The sharp contrast between the Royal Quarter and St. Margaret’s Quarter was as drastic as it was abrupt. St. Margaret’s quite literally bordered the Royal district with a one long road acting as the dividing line. However, the visual aspect was clear. The nickname “Rag-Town”, as many chose to call it, came from the fact that since most people were unable to afford to rebuild the buildings their, most had to make do with what they had, leading to many using large awnings, tarps, blankets, towels, quite literally anything to cover up holes, gaps and leaks in the roofs of the buildings, as well as the large open market that covered the middle of the main road.

If the nickname Rag-Town wasn’t enough, the name St. Margaret itself was chosen more as a joke about the Quarter rather than anything else. St. Margaret is the Catholic Patron Saint of women, and Rag-Town was also known by another district; the red-light district. In contrast to the gleaming lights and flashy and sleek designs of the Royal Quarter, St. Margaret’s lights came from the gaudy neon lights of strip-clubs, gentlemen’s bars and brothels. It was the seedy side of town, a place were misfits, wanderers, adventurers, outcasts survived and huddled together in masses.
It was on this scene that Todd Westerly stepped out from his small ramshackle apartment. He made his way down the stairs and out into the street. The streets were lined with people, each going their own way. The sun was beginning to set over the town and the neon lights of the bars and strip clubs burned into the night, glaring into his eyes. He was used to it though. Walking past it all as if it wasn’t there. He had lived there his entire life, so the sounds and lifestyle around him was all he knew. However, while it was all he knew, he did know that it was not all that he wanted to know. He didn’t want to live out his existence, scrapping together whatever caps he could just to survive another day. No. That was not for him.

He had heard the stories. The ones about the Frontiers. The edges of the Commonwealth, where Royalist Forces manned their defences against all manners of enemies. The glorious victories from the King’s Own Rifles as the gunned down Super Mutants, Raiders and whatever else came across them. Stories of glorious conquests and the expansion of the ever growing territory of the Commonwealth. It was from those stories that he had known what he wanted to do with his life from then on. It wouldn’t be an easy journey. The Royal Army was a prestigious and difficult position. They didn’t let random nobodies just join. Instead he would have to really earn his way there. Starting with the Royal Militias. The St. Margaret’s Volunteer Regiment was hardly what you would call a top notch unit. It lacked discipline and morale that other units thrived on. However, it was a tough unit full of tough people. Vagabonds that already had lived through pain and hardship and fighting came naturally to them.

Westerly continued down the road a bit, working his way through the large centre market and past the merchants and buyers. He turned down one side street to what where a large white sign with black lettered designated where the Militia registry was. Westerly stops for a moment before heading into the building.

“The Frontiers”
H-Company, 2nd Battalion, King’s Own Rifles

The Frontiers was a desolate and rough area. Mutants, Raiders, and all manner of radiated beasts roamed the areas, making life difficult. There were only a few settlements out in this area. Only hardy folk with real determination would survive out here. And it was the job of the 2nd Battalion to secure this portion of the borders from any threat.
The base was small. A few adobe walls, 2 watch towers on either end, a rampart along the walls. 3 wood buildings in the middle of the compound. 2 were quarters, one for the officers, the other for the enlisted and the last was the Mess Hall and various defence positions. They weren’t much to look at, but they were good enough for the soldiers there to be able to survive and make something of a home there.

Nearby was the small settlement of, scrapped together in what was the rubble of some small town that was long forgotten and destroyed. The few homes that were there were mismatched pieces and bits from just about anything that would go together. The roads were dirt, if you could call them that at all. The one general store seemed to be the only business of any kind at all. It was in what used to be a junkyard, now with the junk acting as the walls for the store, and various planks and metal sheets acting as parts of the roof, but most of it remained an outdoor set-up.
Captain Hartwright stepped out of the Officer’s Quarters with a brisk step and wearing his sharp dress uniform. The assembled outfit looked a little more ragged, yet fit enough for duty and cleaner than most anything in this area. They all seemed a bit startled by the look of the Captain in Dress Uniform.

It was a dark blue shade, almost navy in colour. On his head rests a solid white beret with the King’s Own Rifles emblem, 2 crossed swords over dark blue background. Two white straps lay across his chest in perfect balance. A white sash across his stomach and white gloves complete the ensemble. Remarkably in nearly perfect condition despite the overall dirty surroundings.
“Company! Attention!” The Company Sergeant snaps out. The unit jumps to attention.

“Listen up.” Hartwright begins. “the 2nd Battalion is joining us here later today. Joining them is Prince Felix himself ahead the Royal Guards Detachment. I expect all of you to be in proper dress and in pristine conditions. No exceptions. I want a full display of Royal Army discipline for the Prince when he gets here. Those that are selected to be on guard duty will not be required to go into Dress Uniform, but will be required to polish up and look their absolute best. Is that clear? Good. Dismissed.” With that he does an about face and heads back inside as the remainder of the troops are dismissed. One of the Lieutenants follows inside.

“Why the hell is the Prince coming out this way, Captain?” The Lieutenant asks as he closes the door behind him. Hartwright looks over at him.


“From what I gathered, the Prince has organized an expedition beyond the borders to the west, to, apparently explore for potential targets for expansion.”

The Lieutenant’s eyebrows shoot up and nods.

“Well then, I’ll ensure that the troops are ready for when they arrive."