Gender:Male

Name:Moses

Age: 32

Appearance: Moses

Specialization: Demolition

Personality: Despite the harshness of the tattered wasteland Moses kept a good sense of humor, even about his name, and a semi-positive attidude. Towards others he is trusting and it has gotten him into trouble a multitude of time. Luckily he has always found a way to pull something out of his ass to save his skin.

History: Moses was born to a religious couple in the Mojave desert who were the chiefs of a small nomadic tribe. His name was given because his parents prayed for a child to lead their tribe out of the desert and to the holy land, Vegas. He did when he grew older and took up the mantle of Chief; although the land quickly corrupt the naive desert folk. The fall of his people stripped Mose of his faith and left him with depressed for months before he found a calling. He found himself drinking away his sorrows with a company of mercenaries called the Apaches and it seems that he signed away 8 years of his life at 20 while intoxicated. The little kick he needed to get himself straight was a group of kick ass mercenaries who had a soft spot for alcoholic. As he went through basic that the Mercs set up for him he showed an aptitude for pulling things, pressing buttons, and most of all following the formulaic process of creating explosives. After an eight year tour with the Apaches Moses took leadership for two before the deaths of his original group took their toll on him and he stepped down. After a year wallowing in death Moses once again took to wandering and it took him to the north where he used the last 11 years worth of skills to make the area a slightly better place.

Weapon of choice: Bolt Action .357 Rifle and the "Chieftan's Knife" which is a kitchen knife blade, regularly sharpened, refitted with a bone handle.

Clothing/Armor: A red headband with two hawk feathers is worn on the head while an olive Parka is on over a long sleeved thermal. For pants olive cargo pants paired with work boots.

Other: Due to his nomadic life Moses is an expert survivor.

Name: Perro

Gender: Male

Age: 31

Appearance: Tall. Stringy. Wide white teeth in a face that look like it was carved from something harder n' older n' darker than stone. Not big, but he's got big shoulders, big wrists.

Specialized In: Tracking

Personality: Quiet. Would rather drink than fight, would rather fight than shoot, would rather shoot than talk. He's looking for something, though he couldn't tell you what that is. But if you've got the money, you've got his attention. For a little while, at least.

History: Not much in the telling, I reckon. Born the night a comet streaked overhead, though you wouldn'ta seen it what with all the dust in the air n' the clouds like a darker, meaner ocean hovrin' above you. Killed his ma when he came out of her, killed something in his old man too that his pa never seemed to get back. Ran away when he was twelve, all bones and raw wounds and still without a name, went south.

Fell in with a group of vaqueros come up from what they used to call Mexico, learned to shoot, ride, hunt for food n' bounties n' such. (They didn't need to teach the kid to brawl, though. That was somethin' he learned just fine fendin' off his pa when the old man took it in his head every so often to try and kill the creature that killed his wife.) Got damn good at trackin' too, whether it be a single proud buck through the broken streets of the abandoned cities or some bandit turned fugitive squirreled away in a tin shack halfway across the country. So they gave him a name. Perro. Means 'dog', they said.

It sat him well enough. Seemed as good a name as any.

Weapon of choice: A beat up but reliable .45 semi-auto he picked up when one of his vaquero buddies came down with a sudden case of dead. The old cowboy called it 'Maria'. The young dog thought that was just about the prettiest name he ever heard.

Clothing/Armor: Nothin' fancy, mind you. Good boots, faded corduroys, and a denim shirt that keeps the sun off a dog's back. A long leather duster for the open road, and a heavy black armored vest with 'LAPD' written on the back for when the lead starts flyin'.