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by Shadowwell » Sun Dec 31, 2017 1:55 pm
Turkducken wrote:Can I ask what the state of the Followers of the Apocalypse are? With a more aggressive corrupt NCR, have they been chased out of California?
by Turkducken » Sun Dec 31, 2017 2:23 pm
by Anowa » Sun Dec 31, 2017 2:50 pm
Turkducken wrote:Shadowwell wrote:Though would need a weigh in from anowa, I think they could still exist, just witha tighter leash on them, so to speak?
Well I’m considering making a Follower, but depending on how they’ve been treated or whether or not they’re formally apart of the NCR might effect that.
by Turkducken » Sun Dec 31, 2017 3:00 pm
Anowa wrote:Turkducken wrote:Well I’m considering making a Follower, but depending on how they’ve been treated or whether or not they’re formally apart of the NCR might effect that.
They're still around and doing their thing, though formally they're their own entity. Old Mormon Fort in Vegas is srill under the mailwoman's protection. So you got a few avenues.
by Arengin Union » Sun Dec 31, 2017 4:12 pm
by United Imperial Systems » Sun Dec 31, 2017 4:19 pm
by Shadowwell » Sun Dec 31, 2017 4:23 pm
United Imperial Systems wrote:Can I know what happened to the Enclave in this RP? Because, I seriously doubt they lost, even after losing the Mobile Base.
by Vacif » Sun Dec 31, 2017 4:35 pm
Shadowwell wrote:United Imperial Systems wrote:Can I know what happened to the Enclave in this RP? Because, I seriously doubt they lost, even after losing the Mobile Base.
as the Op has said before, Enclave are gone, DC taken out by the LW, mostly, west coast by Chosen one, then the NCR, Midwest BoS cleaned out and took over most established enclave bases, only some pockets left, i believe.
by Ormata » Sun Dec 31, 2017 4:56 pm
Name: Whisper
Age: 63
Gender: Male
Physical Description:Standing at 6’3”, Whisper’s body is like that of a professional boxer if the gloves were filled with lead and capped with knives. Scars cover his body, especially the upper portion with the arms and chest, along with a rather nasty one near his neck. While the man has a small limp from the amount of pain he’s received over the years, Whisper still manages to move with nearly not a sound. White hair covers his head, grown long due to inattention.
Birthplace: Astoria, Oregon
Occupation: Raider
Level: 1
EXP: 0/200
Skills:SPECIAL
- Barter: 15
- Energy Weapons: 15
- Explosives: 15
- Guns: 38 [!]
- Lockpick: 15
- Medicine: 15
- Melee Weapons: 30 [!]
- Repair: 15
- Science: 15
- Sneak: 38 [!]
- Speech: 15
- Survival: 13
- Unarmed: 13
Perks: N/A
- S: 5
- P: 5
- E: 4
- C: 5
- I: 5
- A: 9
- L: 7
Equipment:- Colt Official Police, .38 Special
Biography:
- “Cert”; flanged mace w/ 3” long wooden shaft with 1” steel head.
- Combat Knife
- Fragmentation Grenade x1
- Leather Armor
- Winter Coat, Fur
- Pouch
- Wrapped Boots
- Packed Fish, Salted x7
- Radstag Meat, x1
- Stimpak x6
- Bandages x2
- Caps x20
- .38 Special x21Born in Astoria, the creaky Old Town as it had come to be known, Whisper’s parents were of the breed one would usually find in that area. The town had, decades before, fallen to raiders and bandits, to slavers of the most colorful variety. They were always fractured, though, always bits and pieces with different gangs aiming to perform as they may and only a fragile truce suspended over the entire tinderbox. His father was a weaponsmith, one of the few to be universally found useful in the region and one who was but moderately good at his job, and Whisper’s mother was of the sort to hold a stature few found interesting. Put simply, she was a whore of the more domineering variety for those of the most perverse tastes. In his eyes she was a strong woman, one who took pleasure in her job and joy in how she did it. As she said, it was like owning slaves without the hassle, something only a raider would state.
Do Not Remove: 2299
He had a dozen brothers and sisters, a most rambunctious lot to have him be a part of, and Whisper was youngest of the lot. They would play fight often, quarrel and quibble over little things, hunt and fish as a gang of maundering children. The bunch always had to watch-out, however, to watch in case the slavers came-about to the docks for a bit of food or for the more rapacious raiders taking a stroll. The group watched-out for one another, stayed safe in their own dangerous ways. Whisper was the youngest, along with the smallest, a child with calm hands and a little voice who was often employed in the more silent ploys of the family. His was the knife that cut several throats, that held garrotes and stretched them taut, and Whisper’s upbringing was one without morals. He grew up doing what he could if he should, having only siblings, parents, and witnesses to hold him accountable. It was an interesting thing to be sure.
At the age of fourteen, the truce was broken. Like the old adage was, no one knew who fired the first shot or even if that first shot was fired at another, but accusations were flung across fences like shit and war was declared. A gang war broke-out, molotovs burning the old docks. Like a wolf, Whisper made the great attempt to take advantage of this chaos, turning his knife towards the important folks where he might, as they slept, or with less finesse turning his gun towards their heads in any battle he might find them. One by one the leaders of each gang died and while new ones were elected they were nearly always of a lesser quality. He would choose one gang, the Hounds who lived about the Astoria Column, as his ‘own’, taking none of their lives and helping them wherever he might. Of course, Whisper’s aid likely did little save for the normal thing of killing people; he did chose them for a reason.
After three bloody years, the Hounds took Astoria as their own and Whisper continued with his plan. A subtle threat of poison, a knife in the throat in the middle of the night, and promises of friends who would act in retribution were the tools he chose to threaten their leader, a man by the name of Jakobs, and the Hounds became his. As the young boy grew older he would challenge Jakobs openly and kill the man, something of no little feat and leaving him with around five bleeding wounds. After being patched-up in a vaguely medieval manner with fire and a hot iron, Whisper took the measures he thought necessary to secure his rule, to bring-about a stable time, measures one might liken to Caesar’s.
It was like the Reign of Terror, with executions day after day for a week straight of those lieutenants and captains of the other gangs, placing his own in charge, all the while gathering his family together and keeping them hidden away. Love and compassion could seem to be alien in their own ways, yet these qualities were displayed in the young man and he tried his best in those regards. The best was not enough and upstarts, as always, occurred. A fragmentation grenade thrown through a window was all it took to end the lives of those he loved. The executions began again, before Whisper decided to take things back to tradition.
He would, after the proclamation that any who would like leadership should do so openly, be challenged by several raiders who wished to be their own masters. Through his luck, skill, and light foot, fight tooth and nail and kill each of the four, one by one, over the course of two days. As it stood in the end, Whisper was bleeding yet was quite victorious. That course would be the one he would chose for the rest of his reign, that any challenger would do so openly, for the duration of near fifty years. At the age of 63 Whisper’s eyesight would be going yet the man still held his ground against all newcomers.
That is, all newcomers except for the New California Republic. In the year 2289 the Old Town would be assaulted by their waves of brown-clad soldiers, from afar shot by the snipers, and the raiders there would be defeated. Whisper took flight in a rudimentary rowboat, the Astoria Bridge having fallen long before, and landed north in the ruins of McGowan with but a small entourage of survivors. Since then, he’s traveled on The Road North to find a better home, though his followers have long since died.
by True Christopia » Sun Dec 31, 2017 5:19 pm
Ormata wrote:Yo, The Assorted Saharan Outposts, True Christopia, could you guys like...chill?
by The Assorted Saharan Outposts » Sun Dec 31, 2017 5:21 pm
by Ormata » Sun Dec 31, 2017 5:24 pm
The Assorted Saharan Outposts wrote:Sorry. We posting too much?
by Arengin Union » Sun Dec 31, 2017 5:58 pm
by Ormata » Sun Dec 31, 2017 6:01 pm
Arengin Union wrote:Ormata wrote:
Just a little. Is OK. I heavily recommend using a Google Docs document shared between you two for writing-out posts where it's mostly dialogue.
I mean. Yeah docs are always useful. But I kind of like the very improvised and life like dynamic they're going with in all honesty.
by True Christopia » Sun Dec 31, 2017 6:31 pm
by Arengin Union » Sun Dec 31, 2017 6:36 pm
True Christopia wrote:It might be useful if, eventually, we got a discord up. I get it lowers activity in the OOC, but it seriously helps with any disputes and planning any character arcs. Just my suggestion - it's worked for the Hogwarts RP, anyways.
by Anowa » Sun Dec 31, 2017 7:01 pm
Ormata wrote:Name: Whisper(Image)
Age: 63
Gender: Male
Physical Description:Standing at 6’3”, Whisper’s body is like that of a professional boxer if the gloves were filled with lead and capped with knives. Scars cover his body, especially the upper portion with the arms and chest, along with a rather nasty one near his neck. While the man has a small limp from the amount of pain he’s received over the years, Whisper still manages to move with nearly not a sound. White hair covers his head, grown long due to inattention.
Birthplace: Astoria, Oregon
Occupation: Raider
Skills: Sneak, Melee Weapons, Guns
SPECIALEquipment:
- S: 5
- P: 5
- E: 4
- C: 5
- I: 5
- A: 9
- L: 7
- Colt Official Police, .38 Special
Biography:
- “Cert”; flanged mace w/ 3” long wooden shaft with 1” steel head.
- Combat Knife
- Fragmentation Grenade x1
- Leather Armor
- Winter Coat, Fur
- Pouch
- Wrapped Boots
- Packed Fish, Salted x7
- Radstag Meat, x1
- Stimpak x6
- Bandages x2
- Caps x20
- .38 Special x21Born in Astoria, the creaky Old Town as it had come to be known, Whisper’s parents were of the breed one would usually find in that area. The town had, decades before, fallen to raiders and bandits, to slavers of the most colorful variety. They were always fractured, though, always bits and pieces with different gangs aiming to perform as they may and only a fragile truce suspended over the entire tinderbox. His father was a weaponsmith, one of the few to be universally found useful in the region and one who was but moderately good at his job, and Whisper’s mother was of the sort to hold a stature few found interesting. Put simply, she was a whore of the more domineering variety for those of the most perverse tastes. In his eyes she was a strong woman, one who took pleasure in her job and joy in how she did it. As she said, it was like owning slaves without the hassle, something only a raider would state.
Do Not Remove: 2299
He had a dozen brothers and sisters, a most rambunctious lot to have him be a part of, and Whisper was youngest of the lot. They would play fight often, quarrel and quibble over little things, hunt and fish as a gang of maundering children. The bunch always had to watch-out, however, to watch in case the slavers came-about to the docks for a bit of food or for the more rapacious raiders taking a stroll. The group watched-out for one another, stayed safe in their own dangerous ways. Whisper was the youngest, along with the smallest, a child with calm hands and a little voice who was often employed in the more silent ploys of the family. His was the knife that cut several throats, that held garrotes and stretched them taut, and Whisper’s upbringing was one without morals. He grew up doing what he could if he should, having only siblings, parents, and witnesses to hold him accountable. It was an interesting thing to be sure.
At the age of fourteen, the truce was broken. Like the old adage was, no one knew who fired the first shot or even if that first shot was fired at another, but accusations were flung across fences like shit and war was declared. A gang war broke-out, molotovs burning the old docks. Like a wolf, Whisper made the great attempt to take advantage of this chaos, turning his knife towards the important folks where he might, as they slept, or with less finesse turning his gun towards their heads in any battle he might find them. One by one the leaders of each gang died and while new ones were elected they were nearly always of a lesser quality. He would choose one gang, the Hounds who lived about the Astoria Column, as his ‘own’, taking none of their lives and helping them wherever he might. Of course, Whisper’s aid likely did little save for the normal thing of killing people; he did chose them for a reason.
After three bloody years, the Hounds took Astoria as their own and Whisper continued with his plan. A subtle threat of poison, a knife in the throat in the middle of the night, and promises of friends who would act in retribution were the tools he chose to threaten their leader, a man by the name of Jakobs, and the Hounds became his. As the young boy grew older he would challenge Jakobs openly and kill the man, something of no little feat and leaving him with around five bleeding wounds. After being patched-up in a vaguely medieval manner with fire and a hot iron, Whisper took the measures he thought necessary to secure his rule, to bring-about a stable time, measures one might liken to Caesar’s.
It was like the Reign of Terror, with executions day after day for a week straight of those lieutenants and captains of the other gangs, placing his own in charge, all the while gathering his family together and keeping them hidden away. Love and compassion could seem to be alien in their own ways, yet these qualities were displayed in the young man and he tried his best in those regards. The best was not enough and upstarts, as always, occurred. A fragmentation grenade thrown through a window was all it took to end the lives of those he loved. The executions began again, before Whisper decided to take things back to tradition.
He would, after the proclamation that any who would like leadership should do so openly, be challenged by several raiders who wished to be their own masters. Through his luck, skill, and light foot, fight tooth and nail and kill each of the four, one by one, over the course of two days. As it stood in the end, Whisper was bleeding yet was quite victorious. That course would be the one he would chose for the rest of his reign, that any challenger would do so openly, for the duration of near fifty years. At the age of 63 Whisper’s eyesight would be going yet the man still held his ground against all newcomers.
That is, all newcomers except for the New California Republic. In the year 2289 the Old Town would be assaulted by their waves of brown-clad soldiers, from afar shot by the snipers, and the raiders there would be defeated. Whisper took flight in a rudimentary rowboat, the Astoria Bridge having fallen long before, and landed north in the ruins of McGowan with but a small entourage of survivors. Since then, he’s traveled on The Road North to find a better home, though his followers have long since died.
by Fascist Russian Empire » Sun Dec 31, 2017 7:59 pm
by Arengin Union » Sun Dec 31, 2017 9:04 pm
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