[hider=Fortune's Sons][center][h1][/h1][h3]"What doesn't kill you, kill it dead!"[/h3] [img]http://img11.deviantart.net/17be/i/2014/008/7/3/soldier_3_by_proxygreen-d71d3yv.jpg[/img][/center] [hr][hr] [h2][b][u]OVERVIEW[/u][/b][/h2] [indent]The Wasteland has a funny way of treating people. As a general rule, if you let up on it for even a moment, you're as good as dead. If it ever lets up on you, then you just might get by. But there's always those sorts that the Waste does its damnedest to break, to burn, to really put through the ringer, and they suffer more than anyone else. Hardly uncommon, there are scads of unfortunate souls left dead for bad luck and little else, in spite of all their efforts. And for all these sorts, more unfortunate are those that have to deal with those that survived every misfortune the Wasteland had to offer. The March wasn't always known as such. It used to be the far less glamorous Rust Bin. A radioactive stretch of meaningless scrap and rubble in the general vicinity of an Australian nuclear silo, picked over by the boldest and stupidest salvagers. This was to the constant detriment of the miserable near-mutant locals, who were beaten, robbed, shot and butchered without end. That they survived for so long is no small wonder, being the descendants of flash burn victims, the diseased, ruined and unwanted, sired by the apocalypse proper, little known to the Waste. This would have surely gone on until they all perished if not for the arrival of The Major. Lo, he came from the smoke astride a beast of steel, spitting fury and hate, come from the tower of death down under. He came with a simple message, a deliverance and a commandement in one; "Kill the fuckers!" So were the people of the March touched to the heart, that they wept and bled in joy. And The Major led them unto the place of marching boots, to clad them with jackets of flak, that they might never fear bullet or blade again. He gave to them bat, bayonet, and carbine, to beat and butcher and shot as they had been beaten and butcher and shot. He brought them into the bellies of the diesel-beasts, roaring silent, where naught but thunder could hope to touch them. And lo, they went forth, and did kill the fuckers.[/indent] [h2][b][u]CULTURE[/u][/b][/h2] [indent]The peoples of yesteryear might have described the Fortunes' Sons as jingoes par excellence. The present wastelanders would refer to them as trigger-happy assholes. Being drawn from some of the most miserable stock of the waste in both quality of life and quality of living, their outlook can be summarized as 'fuck everybody or get fucked by everybody.' As far as their experience is concerned, that's everyone elses' outlook, too. And so they do strive to be the ones doing the fucking at all times, though compared to other raiders, their no-nonsense style is rather peculiar. They shoot those that need to be shot, beat those that need to be beat, take what they need, and leave behind dust and death. Internally and to some degree externally, the Sons are a demented military comedy. Ranks are promoted and self-adopted without measure or meaning, medals are worn and venerated as magical charms, and vehicle operations manuals are read aloud as holy texts. Between members, there is all manner of yessir-ing, stand-tos, saluting and carrying on with all-too-serious formality. They goosestep to and fro and peacock in front of 'civilian' settlers subjected to their materiel siezures. In spite of the seeming absurdity of this professionalist veneer- these eccentricities being par for raiders- this is not at all illustrative of their actual competence and unity, which is a cut above the usual rabble.[/indent] [h2][b][u]RESOURCES[/u][/b][/h2] [indent]The Sons are unlike many of the more modern fortress ensettled raiders groups essentially nomadic, with only a few home depots in the deep sections of the March, these being well-defended if skeletally manned supply dumps deep in the fields of rust and ruin. Life takes place on the Campaign, revolves around the Campaign, and ever and always serves the aims of the Campaign. And the Campaign is a yearning thing, for food, water, bullets, and guzzoline, of which the March has none to spare, for it must range far and wide. Thankfully, the Wasteland is willing to oblige with a subtle aplication of force. In other words, a kleptomaniac economy, well understood and well applied by raider groups across the wastes. This is not to say that it is without supplement, mind, as if there is anything the Sons are good at, it is creating and exploiting a tremendous amount of both near-intact vehicles and recyclable waste metal. Nevermind the March, which is a smorgaschbord of vehicles killed and planes crashed by the initial EMP burst far overhead; the Sons are surgical in their destruction, attacking wheels, drivers, gas tanks, and anything on a hinge be it hood or door to get mobility kills. And when a vehicle ends up totally slagged, they either drag the hulk behind, or chop it on the spot, loading up the best pieces onto their scrap trucks. This highly efficient workshop train is the means by which the Sons keep their technicals in the rather fine condition that they do and how they keep their surplus vehicles in at least running condition, and also how they manage to barter with those parties willing to deal with them. Plate metal is easy to come by, but a running and freshly-tuned V8 liberated from some poor bandits' souped-up jalopy is a treasure.[/indent] [h2][b][u]LEADERSHIP[/u][/b][/h2] [indent](Describe your "government" style as well as your leader/s and their flagship if you want here. Flagship can also be put in military)[/indent] [h2][b][u]MILITARY[/u][/b][/h2] [indent](Boast about your boiz and their cars, obviously based on motor pool make up and special shit rolls. Feel free to expand on it with whatever else you can think of, but vehicles are the main attraction here, word descriptions are fine if you can't find a picture to match)[/indent][/hider] [hider=ROLLS] [u]Genetic Make Up [/u] [b]Wretched:[/b] Riddled with tumours and malformations, these poor sods are kept at an arm's length by everyone else. Ugly and deformed, think Hills have eyes. Very high infant mortality, and fewer still make it to adulthood. Always in need of breeders. [u]Cultural Meta-Group[/u] [b]Raiders:[/b] An unfortunate truth of the wastes is the prevalence of raider gangs. Savage and violent, they typically take more than they make but there are exceptions. Most don’t settle down in any place for too long, and tend to use up what they have quickly. Many treat the apocalypse as a sort of hedonistic paradise, murdering for fun, using homemade narcotics, and generally raping to their hearts content. [u]Leadership[/u] [b]Oligarchy:[/b] A small sect of the group lords over the rest. Similar to single leadership in their absolute power, but spread over a small group rather than one man. Almost as common. [u]Cultural Quirks[/u] [b]Motor Worship:[/b] In a world of vast blasted wastes and monstrous hazards, access to vehicles is the dividing line between life and death for most. Some take this a step farther and literally worship their rides as tools of divine salvation. Maybe they revere them like holy animals, wear garb that evokes them, or even take violent offense to those who mistreat them. [b]Old World Blues:[/b] A pervasive nostalgia about the old world runs through the group, even if they weren’t alive to see it. They might collect old world artifacts, try to take after what they think are old world values, or have an unrealistic drive to rebuild the old world somehow. [u]Distinctive Appearance[/u] [b]Punks:[/b] Purple mohawks, side cuts, hockey pads, and piercings. These are your stereotypical post apocalyptic raiders. Even if they aren’t actually raiders. [b]Uniforms:[/b] Standardized appearance across the group and it’s leadership. Makes your group seem more cohesive, but can be hard to maintain. [b]Unique Body Mod:[/b] Come in many forms, from filed teeth to a specific kind of tattoo to ritual branding. [u]Unique/Exclusive Resource[/u] [b]Scrap:[/b] Everyone wants it, everyone needs it, most people have it. This group has a specific type, or an extreme profusion of it, and they use it to barter for whatever else they need. [u]Equipment Quality[/u] [b]Military Grade:[/b] Exactly what you think. Military stockpiles of armor, guns, and gear. Usually live in military bunkers or other fortified locations. [u]Motor-Pool General Make Up[/u] [b]Armored:[/b] Old world military or post apocalyptic designs. Incredibly tough, dependable, and powerful. Not the absolute fastest, but if you need to be secure getting somewhere? There are non-better. [u]Special Vehicle Shit[/u] [b]Shiny and Chrome:[/b] The group takes exceptional care to polish their vehicles to a brilliant chrome shine. Blind your foes with your swag and the shiny paint seemingly correlates with higher skill among drivers. Choose to re-roll this or Black on Black if you get both. [b]Tesla coils:[/b] The cars have fucking tesla coils mounted on them. They can shock enemies that get to close, channel lightning into batteries from desert storms, and just look badass as fuck. [u]Flagship Vehicle[/u] [b]Legendary Car:[/b] It’s not a giant warmachine, or even all that impressive compared to some other things, but it’s the perfect blend of fast, tough, and reliable. This car is everything anyone could ever want and it’s certainly made a name for itself. When a group rolls up with this thing, people know who they are. Takes the form of whatever your generic type of vehicle is. [/hider]