ApocalypseJumper
New Member
Name:
Age:
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.: (Your special score is mainly for us to visualize your character's specialties. I will not be saying "well in the games with a strength score of five you can't use a mini gun, therefore you can't pick that up," it won't be that strict. Spread 35pts however fits your character best)
Strength: 5
Perception: 5
Endurance: 5
Charisma: 5
Intelligence: 5
Agility: 5
Luck: 5
Appearance:
(I highly recommend using bing's AI image creator. Any face claim is acceptable, as well as a description)
History:
Personality:
Abilities: (please include WHY they have these abilities if it is not apparent in your history. As a base level character, you are already more impressive than your average person in any one or two skills. Don't be, say, the leader of the most accomplished mercenaries in the state or anything. Think "slightly unbelievable," in terms of human ability. Let's tread that line. I would love to explore the idea of someone with a drug addiction actually being more superhuman, however)
Age:
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.: (Your special score is mainly for us to visualize your character's specialties. I will not be saying "well in the games with a strength score of five you can't use a mini gun, therefore you can't pick that up," it won't be that strict. Spread 35pts however fits your character best)
Strength: 5
Perception: 5
Endurance: 5
Charisma: 5
Intelligence: 5
Agility: 5
Luck: 5
Appearance:
(I highly recommend using bing's AI image creator. Any face claim is acceptable, as well as a description)
History:
Personality:
Abilities: (please include WHY they have these abilities if it is not apparent in your history. As a base level character, you are already more impressive than your average person in any one or two skills. Don't be, say, the leader of the most accomplished mercenaries in the state or anything. Think "slightly unbelievable," in terms of human ability. Let's tread that line. I would love to explore the idea of someone with a drug addiction actually being more superhuman, however)
Name: "Wes," Morgan, The Hunter
Age: 26
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:
Strength: 5
Perception: 10
Endurance: 4
Charisma: 2
Intelligence: 5
Agility: 7
Luck: 2
History: Wesley Morgan was born in the wilderness near Boulder. While not many people have cabins in the harsh tundra, there are some loners and hunters who remember the old ways of the land. Morgan's father was one such personality. His mother had come from the Valleys of Boulder, but always found life there crowded and stressful. Higher populations mean more thieves and beggars. When she set out on her own, the two met and built a cabin to the west towards the Rockies. They taught Morgan to hunt, fish, trap, and especially, to defend himself. Morgan found himself at home in the snowy foothills, and eventually when he grew wanted to see more of them. Life in the wasteland isn't easy anywhere, but he had been given a more peaceful childhood than most.
It was adulthood that began his sorrows. While he explored the Backcountry, shortly after leaving home for the first time, a group of raiders came through and decimated the old homestead. He returned to ash and two dead parents. Not an uncommon story at all, and one he'd heard from many traveling traders himself. Still, the sting of lost loved ones is never easy for any generation. It only makes one callous.
Though Wes didn't know it at the time, he was already one of the most accomplished hunters in the Rockies. He'd bagged two Elk before he turned eighteen, and in the following four years had taken an Elk and a Grizzly. The Grizzly being the closest he'd ever come to death, when his first magazine didn't kill the thing and he had to scramble up a cliff to escape. It mangled his leg, and by chance there was a ledge big enough to sit and return the favor. The scar is still prevalent, and he runs with a slight limp these days because he administered the stimpac a bit late.
When he came to Boulder for the first time with the thing's pelt, every trader he consulted was amazed. The fur paid for a brand new, military grade rifle. Without a doubt the highest quality gun he'd ever laid eyes on. It is now his prized possession, and he named it "Spruce," because of it's wooden finish.
While in Boulder, Wes decided to check out the town. He'd never had a reason to go, before now. He quickly found out why his parents had never bothered to take him, too. Turns out he hated crowds like his mother. In addition, someone tried to rob him of his rifle, twice. They quickly found out why he also kept his father's .357 on him, and that dear old dad had taught him to use it. This gave him a reputation, as the thugs were apparently part of "The Grizzlies," a gang giving trouble to the people of the Valleys. What followed became a two week street war in which he was head hunted by their group. They didn't stop coming for him until he had picked off nearly six more from various hiding spots he easily found amongst the abandoned buildings. Though the gang decided he was more trouble than he was worth, he left town shortly after anyways. Not before picking up a slight chem habit, however.
A man named Knoxville was apparently grateful for the public service Wes put forward. No one else cared to thank him, so Wes accepted when the man offered a drink. Knoxville soon offered more substances, as it turned out he was a bit of an entrepreneur. The Grizzlies had largely been putting him out of business by threatening all of his customers into buying from them. Wes's resistance was sure to weaken their operation, at least for a little while. Wes declined at first, but the conversation continued. Knoxville didn't seem like a strung out degenerate, more like a guy trying to make a living. Therefore Wesley remained curious. Eventually the conversation got to what each of these compounds actually do, and Mentats piqued his interest.
Wes liked the idea that his range with his rifle could be extended even further by a drug that could grant hyper perception. Not to mention an increase in calculating bullet drop, wind resistance, and distance. Knoxville offered him a sample, warned him of the side effects, and the rest is history. According to his new friend, if he only took the drug at an average dose once or twice a month, he'd never become addicted or feel side effects. This has seemed to be true, as about two years has passed and Wes hasn't gone through withdrawals from not using Mentats.
Oh boy, does he like them, though. The temptation has been there, but he only gets the opportunity to hunt so often. You don't see an animal for weeks in the barren, frozen tundra of Colorado. Why take Mentats otherwise? So this natural rhythm to his hunting has kept him from abusing the drug, as he doesn't feel the need to take it for any other reason. Not at this point, anyways.
He has gone out looking for Bull Elk two years in a row, and come back with two Elk. Making him the second most consistent hunter of Elk in recent years. Only the Cheyenne tribe beat him out for best hunters, and they work in a pack, so to speak. The meditative practice of taking an animal, the sport of tracking and killing, has been heightened for him by Mentats. He now thinks of them as almost sacred to the act. Part of the ritual, at the end of which is a trophy for his efforts.
Personality: The loss of his family has made Wes sad beyond his years. He seems worn out, and bitter at times. Cynical at others. Yet, one would have to actually get to know him to know any of that. He has few friends, outside of Knoxville and "Crow," the member of the Cheyenne tribe who runs their trading stand. Wes even keeps his Mentats habit a secret from the latter of the two. To strangers Wes is completely aloof, unless they particularly seem worth talking to. Most of the time that is a fellow hunter or explorer. Hearing news on the trail is not only entertainment, but necessary to avoid raiders or Legion scouting parties.
Wes has a sense of humor, but it's mostly sarcasm. That being said he appreciates a wit on others, and tends to keep company who can keep up with a conversation. Overall he is solitary by nature, but all people have a waxing and a waning side. His trips into Boulder have included more and more sharing if his hunting stories over drinks. In particular, the unbelievable shots he can make now that he's on Mentats. He conveniently leaves out the performance enhancing drugs, of course. Even Knoxville keeps their dealings private, as he's not one to ruin a good story with the facts either.
Wesley doesn't have many dreams, or aspirations, though very recently has thought about starting a hunting lodge of sorts. Maybe something worth looking into. The Cheyenne do a good job of policing the wilderness of the National Park area, but the rest of the Rockies are untamed. Having a group in agreement to make sure raiders don't go firing missile launchers into herds of Elk would be a good start.
Abilities: With a sniper rifle, Morgan is on par with anyone else in Colorado. Especially when on Mentats. As a gunslinger, his skills are slightly less polished. He's had to use it on short notice when attacked by big cats or tree cats, so his reaction time is nothing to sneeze at. Still, an accomplished duelist might beat him one on one. His specialty is his ability to sneak (not too hindered from his old injury, either). Set up a shot, and execute it. He once helped the Cheyenne drive off poachers from the park. This is one of the few times he's taken to war instead of hunting with his skills, but they certainly proved to translate over.
He can stalk an Elk up to twenty yards without being detected, not that he would need to. Raiders and wild men are far less perceptive than Game. Because of his time in the wilderness, he's an expert survivalist. Tracking, cooking, herbal medicine, first aid, he has an advanced guide to each in his head. Not encyclopedia worthy, but enough to keep him and others alive in a pinch that's to be sure.
Age: 26
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:
Strength: 5
Perception: 10
Endurance: 4
Charisma: 2
Intelligence: 5
Agility: 7
Luck: 2
It was adulthood that began his sorrows. While he explored the Backcountry, shortly after leaving home for the first time, a group of raiders came through and decimated the old homestead. He returned to ash and two dead parents. Not an uncommon story at all, and one he'd heard from many traveling traders himself. Still, the sting of lost loved ones is never easy for any generation. It only makes one callous.
Though Wes didn't know it at the time, he was already one of the most accomplished hunters in the Rockies. He'd bagged two Elk before he turned eighteen, and in the following four years had taken an Elk and a Grizzly. The Grizzly being the closest he'd ever come to death, when his first magazine didn't kill the thing and he had to scramble up a cliff to escape. It mangled his leg, and by chance there was a ledge big enough to sit and return the favor. The scar is still prevalent, and he runs with a slight limp these days because he administered the stimpac a bit late.
When he came to Boulder for the first time with the thing's pelt, every trader he consulted was amazed. The fur paid for a brand new, military grade rifle. Without a doubt the highest quality gun he'd ever laid eyes on. It is now his prized possession, and he named it "Spruce," because of it's wooden finish.
While in Boulder, Wes decided to check out the town. He'd never had a reason to go, before now. He quickly found out why his parents had never bothered to take him, too. Turns out he hated crowds like his mother. In addition, someone tried to rob him of his rifle, twice. They quickly found out why he also kept his father's .357 on him, and that dear old dad had taught him to use it. This gave him a reputation, as the thugs were apparently part of "The Grizzlies," a gang giving trouble to the people of the Valleys. What followed became a two week street war in which he was head hunted by their group. They didn't stop coming for him until he had picked off nearly six more from various hiding spots he easily found amongst the abandoned buildings. Though the gang decided he was more trouble than he was worth, he left town shortly after anyways. Not before picking up a slight chem habit, however.
A man named Knoxville was apparently grateful for the public service Wes put forward. No one else cared to thank him, so Wes accepted when the man offered a drink. Knoxville soon offered more substances, as it turned out he was a bit of an entrepreneur. The Grizzlies had largely been putting him out of business by threatening all of his customers into buying from them. Wes's resistance was sure to weaken their operation, at least for a little while. Wes declined at first, but the conversation continued. Knoxville didn't seem like a strung out degenerate, more like a guy trying to make a living. Therefore Wesley remained curious. Eventually the conversation got to what each of these compounds actually do, and Mentats piqued his interest.
Wes liked the idea that his range with his rifle could be extended even further by a drug that could grant hyper perception. Not to mention an increase in calculating bullet drop, wind resistance, and distance. Knoxville offered him a sample, warned him of the side effects, and the rest is history. According to his new friend, if he only took the drug at an average dose once or twice a month, he'd never become addicted or feel side effects. This has seemed to be true, as about two years has passed and Wes hasn't gone through withdrawals from not using Mentats.
Oh boy, does he like them, though. The temptation has been there, but he only gets the opportunity to hunt so often. You don't see an animal for weeks in the barren, frozen tundra of Colorado. Why take Mentats otherwise? So this natural rhythm to his hunting has kept him from abusing the drug, as he doesn't feel the need to take it for any other reason. Not at this point, anyways.
He has gone out looking for Bull Elk two years in a row, and come back with two Elk. Making him the second most consistent hunter of Elk in recent years. Only the Cheyenne tribe beat him out for best hunters, and they work in a pack, so to speak. The meditative practice of taking an animal, the sport of tracking and killing, has been heightened for him by Mentats. He now thinks of them as almost sacred to the act. Part of the ritual, at the end of which is a trophy for his efforts.
Personality: The loss of his family has made Wes sad beyond his years. He seems worn out, and bitter at times. Cynical at others. Yet, one would have to actually get to know him to know any of that. He has few friends, outside of Knoxville and "Crow," the member of the Cheyenne tribe who runs their trading stand. Wes even keeps his Mentats habit a secret from the latter of the two. To strangers Wes is completely aloof, unless they particularly seem worth talking to. Most of the time that is a fellow hunter or explorer. Hearing news on the trail is not only entertainment, but necessary to avoid raiders or Legion scouting parties.
Wes has a sense of humor, but it's mostly sarcasm. That being said he appreciates a wit on others, and tends to keep company who can keep up with a conversation. Overall he is solitary by nature, but all people have a waxing and a waning side. His trips into Boulder have included more and more sharing if his hunting stories over drinks. In particular, the unbelievable shots he can make now that he's on Mentats. He conveniently leaves out the performance enhancing drugs, of course. Even Knoxville keeps their dealings private, as he's not one to ruin a good story with the facts either.
Wesley doesn't have many dreams, or aspirations, though very recently has thought about starting a hunting lodge of sorts. Maybe something worth looking into. The Cheyenne do a good job of policing the wilderness of the National Park area, but the rest of the Rockies are untamed. Having a group in agreement to make sure raiders don't go firing missile launchers into herds of Elk would be a good start.
Abilities: With a sniper rifle, Morgan is on par with anyone else in Colorado. Especially when on Mentats. As a gunslinger, his skills are slightly less polished. He's had to use it on short notice when attacked by big cats or tree cats, so his reaction time is nothing to sneeze at. Still, an accomplished duelist might beat him one on one. His specialty is his ability to sneak (not too hindered from his old injury, either). Set up a shot, and execute it. He once helped the Cheyenne drive off poachers from the park. This is one of the few times he's taken to war instead of hunting with his skills, but they certainly proved to translate over.
He can stalk an Elk up to twenty yards without being detected, not that he would need to. Raiders and wild men are far less perceptive than Game. Because of his time in the wilderness, he's an expert survivalist. Tracking, cooking, herbal medicine, first aid, he has an advanced guide to each in his head. Not encyclopedia worthy, but enough to keep him and others alive in a pinch that's to be sure.
The North American Grizzly has been mutated to now have six legs, and about 400 more pounds of muscle. A larger, equally as mutated food source providing that chance at extra nutrition.
The Bull Elk has become a more muscular, and thicker furred creature than it used to be. Reflecting a nuclear winter, of course. These hulking creatures do not fear anything save their longtime rivals, the Grizzly Bear. Only the most skilled (and well equipped) hunters in Colorado can hope to fell one cleanly. Explosives risk ruining much of the meat, but raiders don't care about this most of the time. That is the only way for someone without a high caliber rifle and disciplined trigger finger to kill this walking tank. One shot won't do, either. A hunter must embed several in it's chest cavity over time to produce a kill. Avoiding its charging, all the while.
The Tree Cat is a descendant of the old world Bobcat. Given it's name because it almost exclusively dwells in trees in the irradiated woodlands. The Big Cats prey upon these creatures, but cannot climb as well as they can. They ambush lone wanderers throughout these forests from above.
Hank Henry is the Bartender and owner of "The Shack," the most respectable bar in The Valleys. Though the standard for this is low. Mr. Henry is the closest thing to a local leader the shanty towns have. He has been known to hold town meetings, settle disputes, and drum up a collection when something particularly pricey needs done in the community. Being a bartender, he's heard everyone's sob stories and personal drama. In return for being the people's therapist, and keeping their secrets, Hank is afforded respect when his opinion is given.
Another staple citizen of The Valleys, "Knoxville." No one is entirely sure of his real name, though several claim they've gotten it out of him on a particularly drunken night. Trouble is, they all report different ones. Knoxville is a solo operating narcotics dealer. In the modern wasteland, this is as legitimate a profession as any other. Knoxville is a nice guy, so he's mostly treated normally. He's also known to have information on the way the wind is blowing in the shanty towns, when it comes to the shadier side of life. The only real enemies the man has are The Grizzlies, who don't appreciate any amount of infringement on their operation. In general the man is about as honest as a drug dealer can be. Doesn't sell to kids, doesn't cut his product, and doesn't sell to addicts who are being eaten alive by their habit. The same cannot be said for The Grizzlies.
Three main skyscrapers in downtown Boulder make up what locals refer to as "The Peaks." Before the Great War, three private organizations had bunkers built in the suburbs. One such being the board of directors of the local Robco Branch, this being the largest. Two hundred years later, the descendants of these billionaires emerged from their familial vaults. They moved in their armored cars and transport vehicles, from the vaults to the hulking skeletons of old world office buildings.
Taking their places in the sun, they restored these husks of shelter to a semblance of their old glory. Shiny plate metal covers their outside now, and many of the glass windows at the top have been replaced. Bridges were constructed between them so that the different groups of wealthy elite could mingle. Their natural born privilege working for them perfectly two hundred years after the world has ended.
In the middle regions of these buildings dwell the servant class of peoples. After all, the CEOs and Bankers weren't going to do their own cooking, cleaning, and farming. They brought in people for that, and the descendants of those people also exist subservient to their masters as set up in days of old. This collection of lower floors is called "The Foothills,"
"The Valleys" are where the rest of society in Boulder takes place. The streets of the old city have become a scattered collection of shanty towns. Originally formed by wastelanders who came into contact with operators from The Foothills. Occasionally the skyscrapers do business with outsiders when extra supplies are needed. This has turned into full time contracts with caravan operators at times. It has become a highly sought after position, even today, to supply the towers.
Eventually an independent society of markets and households did spring up, so life in The Valleys is no longer totally dependent on The Peaks. However, the ladder still pays the best. There is a caravan company, multiple bars, merchants of many kinds, and unfortunately multiple gangs. The community is loose, with no strict control coming from any group or person. For a while, many citizens thought of the Peaks as a trusted authority. They assumed once they began a trade relationship with them, they were included in their greater society. The wastelanders assumed wrong.
Caesars Legion, a threatening, weighty name of the wasteland. They came from the south, towards Nevada. Only a single Garrison of 30 soldiers. Yet frightfully organized and ruthless. They robbed the town of it's food, medicine, weapons, and killed a massive portion of helpless people. They warned that the Legion can be less merciful, and that they were only a scouting unit sent to see if there was any land worth conquering north of the Empire. The legionary advised against retaliation for this reason, and then promptly left. They have not been seen in the Boulder area since, even in the wilds.
During this encounter, the Foothills shut their garages tightly and stayed quiet. Presumably they watched from a few floors up as the Legionaries slaughtered and robbed the townsfolk. When it was over, they simply opened the doors and asked if anyone wanted any work. As if nothing had happened. Since this time, rumors of rebellion, or rather, war, have circulated quietly amongst the population.
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