Accepted Characters
Jacobson ~ The Critic
Name: Jacobson
Race: Caucasian
Age: 24
Physical Description: lean build; not-quite-chiseled jaw; has a scar on his right cheekbone; short dark brown hair and beard and blazing green eyes
Weapon of Choice: hunting rifle with a scope
Armor: leather armor with a light brown duster over; a tan leather cowboy hat to protect skin from the elements; gold rimmed aviator sunglasses
Race: Caucasian
Age: 24
Physical Description: lean build; not-quite-chiseled jaw; has a scar on his right cheekbone; short dark brown hair and beard and blazing green eyes
Jacobson had a childhood growing up with the Crimson Caravan Company based in New Vegas. After reaching the age of 18, he was given the option to leave the CC to find his own path, which he took. With nothing more than the clothes on his back, an extra 9mm pistol offered to him, and a knapsack of water and potatoes and carrots, he set off for Freeside, the 'border town' of The Strip. Once there, he ended up as a guard at Silver Rush, Freeside's premier energy weapons vender. Having to constantly wear combat armor and hold a laser rifle, Jake soon came to the conclusion that he didn't like the somewhat bulky armor and heavier energy weapons. After two years, he offered to escort a caravan of Silver Rush weapons heading into Mexico City. It was an escape from standing in a store almost 12 hours a day, and he was given his wish.
Skip ahead eight months, and the caravan was close to ten miles out of the city, a mercenary group that had been hired to attack the caravan did so, and with more than enough firepower. Instead of focusing on taking out everyone in the caravan, the group decided to use a mini nuke to take out everything. Jacobson, being the rear-most guard, wasn't caught in the main blast, but was still thrown away from the caravan and knocked unconscious. He woke up in the middle of the night and stumbled upon a small homestead and passed out again in the front yard. To this day, he doesn't remember the people who lived in the house that tended to him and treated his radiation, but he still thanks them and keeps an eye over their home. After recovering, he decided to head to Mexico City and figure out who had attacked his caravan. Once a year passed in the city, Jacobson decided that, "If you can't beat them, be like them."
Skip ahead eight months, and the caravan was close to ten miles out of the city, a mercenary group that had been hired to attack the caravan did so, and with more than enough firepower. Instead of focusing on taking out everyone in the caravan, the group decided to use a mini nuke to take out everything. Jacobson, being the rear-most guard, wasn't caught in the main blast, but was still thrown away from the caravan and knocked unconscious. He woke up in the middle of the night and stumbled upon a small homestead and passed out again in the front yard. To this day, he doesn't remember the people who lived in the house that tended to him and treated his radiation, but he still thanks them and keeps an eye over their home. After recovering, he decided to head to Mexico City and figure out who had attacked his caravan. Once a year passed in the city, Jacobson decided that, "If you can't beat them, be like them."
Weapon of Choice: hunting rifle with a scope
Armor: leather armor with a light brown duster over; a tan leather cowboy hat to protect skin from the elements; gold rimmed aviator sunglasses
Garry Gilbert ~ rocketrobie2
Name: Garry Gilbert
Race: Caucasian Ghoul
Age: Born 2046
Physical Description: Garry is your averge ghoul, faded blue eyes, sickly brown flesh and no nose. He lacks any kind of hair and is taller than most people standing at 6'10" but often appears smaller as he hunches quite a bit. One odd thing about his anatomy is that he still has pearly white teeth.
Bio:
Weapon of Choice: Fire-axe and Laser-rifle
Armor: He wears a mercenary vetran get up but the pants are replaced fire-fighter's pants.
Race: Caucasian Ghoul
Age: Born 2046
Physical Description: Garry is your averge ghoul, faded blue eyes, sickly brown flesh and no nose. He lacks any kind of hair and is taller than most people standing at 6'10" but often appears smaller as he hunches quite a bit. One odd thing about his anatomy is that he still has pearly white teeth.
Bio:
Garry was born 2046 and grew up with a fairly normal life and family with nothing out of the ordinary. Garry wasn't the jock type growing up and got bullied quite a bit by those bigger and smaller than him but he tried to always keep an upbeat attitude whenever he could. Garry preferred to draw rather than do sports which also lead to some of his bullying growing up. Even though Garry would usually get a good beating from the bullies he would never not fight back which made him rather tough but not tough enough to get the bullies to stop bulling him. After final graduating from high school Garry decided to become a full time fire fighter due to his hatred of school and not wanting to go to college. Garry did this job all the way up to when the bombs dropped which he thought was the end for him.
But it was only the beginning.
After waking up in the ruins of his fire hall he quickly scrambled to get out using his fire-axe to cut away debris. He then saw to starting out his life in the irradiated wasteland of his home town of Las Vegas. Garry wandered for a long time meeting lots of people, but when he began to realize that he wasn't aging but instead starting to look like a zombie he realized that something changed him. He went to see a local doctor in a new settlement based out of Boston and the doctor told him that his same case had begun being seen since the bombs dropped but many cases have been reported lately. The doctor called it Ghoulification and basically said he wouldn't be dying of natural causes any time soon. At first Garry was crushed, knowing that the only way he was gonna die was by most likely some painful experience but then his chipper attitude kicked in and he realized he would be able to see the rebirth of mankind.
If he lived long enough that is.
As Garry's Ghoulification continued to fester making him look more grotesque and morbid, Garry continued to try to survive in the wastelands of America but after a few decades Garry began losing his memory. At first he thought it was the Ghoulification making him loose his memory and making him go feral like it had done to others with his condition but it turned out to actually be a irradiated tumour Garry's brain that made him forget a lot of things from his past and even things that he had heard a day prior. With this knowledge of his irradiated tumour, Garry reluctantly decided to continue to go about living his everyday life of scavenging and making caps anyway he could as he had no one to treat his condition. One day while scavenging in an old city Garry came upon a company of traders that were looking for a guard for their trading compound so Garry happily applied and got the job thanks to the fact that no one else had applied. Garry worked there for quite a long time but quit after finding out his employer was criminal in more ways than one after seeing him shoot a man before his eyes for doing nothing more than be intoxicated. One day while scavenging, Garry came upon a compound around a large hill and within the hill was an almost completely destroyed BoS bunker. It had been raided quite a bit but there was still quite a few thing inside such as a few micro fusion cells, some strange books and a few caps.
Eventually though Garry got this tumour taken out by a team of scientists and doctors that he had managed to befriend while on his travels. These scientists were border-line psychopaths as one of them had tried to kill Garry on multiple occasions (though not all of them were intentional) and they had used their own stash of F.E.V to transform a man into their personal super mutant lab rat. In the end though they turned out to be a very good ally to Garry and even gave Garry refuge on a few occasions. The first meeting of Garry and the scientists was a fairly normal one, Garry had been walking through a nearby trading post when he saw a man buying some supplies from the trader so Garry decided to say hi and thats how his friendship with the first scientist began. The first scientist who Garry knew as Oli introduced him to Han (the scientist that would attempt to kill him later on) and the person that Garry just called ’the other science guy’ due to him never actually bothering to learn his name as he didn’t see him very often. During Garry's recovery from having his tumour taken out Han, once again, tried to kill Garry via placing a piece of jagged metal in his head while it was split open from his surgery. This would have succeeded in killing Garry but Han decided against it for reasons still unknown to Garry. Now being able to remember just about everything he had done for the past few decades he began his journey in the wastelands once again watching the re-advancements of the human race.
Garry eventually decided it was time to go home so he bought a brahmin and used it to transport his stuff from his stash and bring it back to Nevada. After traveling around for another decade or so, Garry came back to his home town of Las Vegas, Nevada with the hopes of settling down and starting a new life but old habits die hard and soon he found himself perusing the adventures of mercenary work in Mexico City.
But it was only the beginning.
After waking up in the ruins of his fire hall he quickly scrambled to get out using his fire-axe to cut away debris. He then saw to starting out his life in the irradiated wasteland of his home town of Las Vegas. Garry wandered for a long time meeting lots of people, but when he began to realize that he wasn't aging but instead starting to look like a zombie he realized that something changed him. He went to see a local doctor in a new settlement based out of Boston and the doctor told him that his same case had begun being seen since the bombs dropped but many cases have been reported lately. The doctor called it Ghoulification and basically said he wouldn't be dying of natural causes any time soon. At first Garry was crushed, knowing that the only way he was gonna die was by most likely some painful experience but then his chipper attitude kicked in and he realized he would be able to see the rebirth of mankind.
If he lived long enough that is.
As Garry's Ghoulification continued to fester making him look more grotesque and morbid, Garry continued to try to survive in the wastelands of America but after a few decades Garry began losing his memory. At first he thought it was the Ghoulification making him loose his memory and making him go feral like it had done to others with his condition but it turned out to actually be a irradiated tumour Garry's brain that made him forget a lot of things from his past and even things that he had heard a day prior. With this knowledge of his irradiated tumour, Garry reluctantly decided to continue to go about living his everyday life of scavenging and making caps anyway he could as he had no one to treat his condition. One day while scavenging in an old city Garry came upon a company of traders that were looking for a guard for their trading compound so Garry happily applied and got the job thanks to the fact that no one else had applied. Garry worked there for quite a long time but quit after finding out his employer was criminal in more ways than one after seeing him shoot a man before his eyes for doing nothing more than be intoxicated. One day while scavenging, Garry came upon a compound around a large hill and within the hill was an almost completely destroyed BoS bunker. It had been raided quite a bit but there was still quite a few thing inside such as a few micro fusion cells, some strange books and a few caps.
Eventually though Garry got this tumour taken out by a team of scientists and doctors that he had managed to befriend while on his travels. These scientists were border-line psychopaths as one of them had tried to kill Garry on multiple occasions (though not all of them were intentional) and they had used their own stash of F.E.V to transform a man into their personal super mutant lab rat. In the end though they turned out to be a very good ally to Garry and even gave Garry refuge on a few occasions. The first meeting of Garry and the scientists was a fairly normal one, Garry had been walking through a nearby trading post when he saw a man buying some supplies from the trader so Garry decided to say hi and thats how his friendship with the first scientist began. The first scientist who Garry knew as Oli introduced him to Han (the scientist that would attempt to kill him later on) and the person that Garry just called ’the other science guy’ due to him never actually bothering to learn his name as he didn’t see him very often. During Garry's recovery from having his tumour taken out Han, once again, tried to kill Garry via placing a piece of jagged metal in his head while it was split open from his surgery. This would have succeeded in killing Garry but Han decided against it for reasons still unknown to Garry. Now being able to remember just about everything he had done for the past few decades he began his journey in the wastelands once again watching the re-advancements of the human race.
Garry eventually decided it was time to go home so he bought a brahmin and used it to transport his stuff from his stash and bring it back to Nevada. After traveling around for another decade or so, Garry came back to his home town of Las Vegas, Nevada with the hopes of settling down and starting a new life but old habits die hard and soon he found himself perusing the adventures of mercenary work in Mexico City.
Weapon of Choice: Fire-axe and Laser-rifle
Armor: He wears a mercenary vetran get up but the pants are replaced fire-fighter's pants.
Jackson Jones ~ Stitchblades
Name: Jackson Jones
Race: Human
Age: 25
Physical Description
Bio: Jackson Jones was born a wrecker- meaning he Enjoyed going through old buildings and caves to look for tech that he could break down for the valuable or fix up nearly working tech and guns to sell on. He wasn't the strongest or best shot nor could he talk his way out of a sticky situation but what he could do well is open locked doors or by-pass security systems. Also spending as much time in radio active buildings and caves he has a slightly higher tolerance to Rad's.
His Father was the one who showed him the ways and the skills that was needed to do this job. He showed him how to make RadX and rad-away from local plants, while these where not as strong as pre-war Supplies they was better than nothing.His mother from what he father would tell him was nothing but a whore and is where she belongs.
He is the key to get in and out of any building no matter how radiated. Use this skill as you will.
Weapon of Choice: Hunting Pistol (with scope) Hunting Shotgun and Flare gun (For those dark ruins)
Race: Human
Age: 25
Physical Description
Bio: Jackson Jones was born a wrecker- meaning he Enjoyed going through old buildings and caves to look for tech that he could break down for the valuable or fix up nearly working tech and guns to sell on. He wasn't the strongest or best shot nor could he talk his way out of a sticky situation but what he could do well is open locked doors or by-pass security systems. Also spending as much time in radio active buildings and caves he has a slightly higher tolerance to Rad's.
His Father was the one who showed him the ways and the skills that was needed to do this job. He showed him how to make RadX and rad-away from local plants, while these where not as strong as pre-war Supplies they was better than nothing.His mother from what he father would tell him was nothing but a whore and is where she belongs.
He is the key to get in and out of any building no matter how radiated. Use this skill as you will.
Weapon of Choice: Hunting Pistol (with scope) Hunting Shotgun and Flare gun (For those dark ruins)
Mordecai ~ Saarebas
Name
M.E.P. Subject 002097
Marshall
Race
Human, Psyker
Age
19
Physical Description
Marshall is a lanky fellow, standing at 6'4 in height and at the most weights 130 pounds. He has shaggy pitch black hair the hangs down to the back of his neck. His skin is incredibly pale as if he has never been outside a day of his life. His eyes, or rather eye as he only has his right one, is a unsettling color of green and what should be the whites of his eye is actually pitch black.
Bio
Marshall's beginnings are unusual even by the standards of the Wasteland, which is really saying something. In laymen's terms he was a science experiment for a bunch of brains in jars, if you want to be more specific that will take a bit more time. It all started in the large crater that the inhabitants of the Mojave call the Big Empty, but all of those who have ever entered that crater it is everything but empty. For the Big Empty is actually The Big Mountain Research and Development Center, a privately owned pre-War defense contractor and research center and home to some of the wildest and most inhuman experiments the Wastelands have ever seen. Big Mountain is controlled by a group of pre-war scientists who cheated death by placing themselves in high-tech robotic spheres and becoming a type of robobrain called Think Tanks. The Think Tanks conducted countless experiments, one of which was the Mental Enhancement Program or M.E.P. where they sought to increase the human brain power beyond what was thought previously possible.
This is where Marshall comes in. Like all of the other subjects of the M.E.P. experiment he was the child of a pair of Lobotomites, the mindless humans that wander Big MT, and had spent his whole life at the facility as the equivalent of a human lab rat. But unlike the others he was the only successful member of the M.E.P. experiments, though not in the way the Think Tanks intended. Though he did develop amazing mental strength, developing an intellect on par with the Think Tanks themselves, he also gained psychic abilities. Though it was a unattended side effect the Think Tank wanted to try to reproduce this psychic development, but to do that they would have to kill and dissect Marshall. You can imagine that he was not all for that plan, so with the help of a renegade Think Tank Marshall managed to escape Big Mountain and has been wondering the Wastelands for the past few months.
Weapon of Choice
Marshall is pretty crap when it comes to physically defending himself, he isn't strong enough to win a up close fight and when you only have one eye you aren't all to good at aiming so firearms are kind of out. Marshall's real strength lays in his brain, literally. Though he is a master hacker, can repair almost any damaged weapon, and patch up some of the worst injuries what really keeps him alive in the wastes is the mere fact he is a Psyker. When you can lift things with your mind or mess with other people's brains you can kind of go with out gun.
Armor
Marshall doesn't wear armor, he isn't strong enough so he would have to basically crawl if he wore any. So he makes do with a black hooded trench coat, a pair of black pants and boots, some black gloves, and his gas mask and eye patch.
Leo Lows ~ Stitchblades
Name: leo Lows
Race: Human
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Appearance: Leo Lows is 6ft3 muscular build, Pale faced but the dirt and grime of the wastes gives him a darker tone, He has small blue eye and one blind eye. Leo has a shaved head due to the fact he found having hair got in the way of his shooting and a goatee. He has a bullet wound on his Neck and the side of his face (the cause of his blinded eye).
Bio: leo was born and raised in New Canaan, But due to his lack of belief in “god” he left at the age of 17, after 3 years working as a gun for hire he joined up with the gun runners in New Vegas and worked as a caravan guard till the age of 24. He came into disagreement with the section manager, which resulted in the death of 4 men and the loss of over 13,000 caps worth of gear.
Leo fled. He knew that his life would now be spent on the run from bounty hunters.
Weapon of Choice: Anti material rifle (Custom bolt mod for faster reload) and 9mm Pistol
Armor:Park ranger Armor painted black with black duster and sunglasses with black beret
Race: Human
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Appearance: Leo Lows is 6ft3 muscular build, Pale faced but the dirt and grime of the wastes gives him a darker tone, He has small blue eye and one blind eye. Leo has a shaved head due to the fact he found having hair got in the way of his shooting and a goatee. He has a bullet wound on his Neck and the side of his face (the cause of his blinded eye).
Bio: leo was born and raised in New Canaan, But due to his lack of belief in “god” he left at the age of 17, after 3 years working as a gun for hire he joined up with the gun runners in New Vegas and worked as a caravan guard till the age of 24. He came into disagreement with the section manager, which resulted in the death of 4 men and the loss of over 13,000 caps worth of gear.
Leo fled. He knew that his life would now be spent on the run from bounty hunters.
Weapon of Choice: Anti material rifle (Custom bolt mod for faster reload) and 9mm Pistol
Armor:Park ranger Armor painted black with black duster and sunglasses with black beret
Elayne King ~ Zordon
Name:
Elayne King
Nickname:
Laney, King
Race:
Caucasian
Age:
20
Physical Description:
Elayne has a somewhat thin face with slightly gaunt cheeks. Her skin appears pale and her complexion fair. She sports mid-back length brunette locks that she tends to keep pulled back either sporting a partial braid or fully braided. Her eyes are a pale green with flecks of orange and brown. Standing at about 5 feet 6 inches tall, Elayne is of average build. Though, sporting only about 147 lbs of weight, she is actually quite lanky and can appear somewhat awkward.
Bio:
A stale wind blew through the expanse of the wastes, a slight bristle of damaged fur filling her ears from the tattered hood that rest on her shoulders. Her hands felt on her waist band for the canteen she carried and she raised it to her lips, taking a long calculated swig of purified water. 'Better than liquor, if ya ask me', she though to herself securing the lid and returning it to her belt. She took another step closer to the board, the kind that thriving towns would post notices of upcoming events on though, this one had seen much better days. In the center lie a small pile of papers, clinging to dear life under the blazing sun with the support or a single thumbtack. She smirked, thinking of how much hell the owner must have gone through to find a usable thumbtack, then immediately thought the owner foolish for trusting a thumbtack to the population and weather of the wastes. Her thoughts drifted to how this mystery person printed on paper to post on the board in the first place. Not just any person had those kind of resources available, after all.
She stepped closer, idly folding back the flap of her right gloves, revealing her slender fingers to the air. Slowly, she skimmed through the notice, thanking her time in the vault for the ability to read at all before reaching for an application. Standing alone in the arid wastes, she finds herself considering joining this group of mercenaries, this nameless group of potential allies. Memories of taking the G.O.A.T. in the vault fill her mind, that feeling of deflation upon hearing that she could either be the next Jukebox Technician or Tattoo Artist, either of which should have been considered a privilege. The tension weeks later when food stores were eliminated and the madness that ensued as slowly, vault dweller turned against vault dweller for food. She had been forced to grow up fast and fend for herself in a vault of developing cannibals. Of course there had been a select few that decided to leave the vault early on, but that decision was not without bloodshed of its own. There were only 12 of them left when she had decided to sneak out in the middle of the night. Who knew that with so many dead, it'd be so much easier to loot their possessions? A few months later, she would find herself on the New Vegas strip, her time as a prostitute blurred and dulled from an addiction to chems and alcohol. Those were the worst two years of her life, most of which she can't even remember.
And yet all things led her to this moment: a year of recovery from her addictions and fending for herself as a makeshift mercenary presented with a gift from whatever f-cked up, all knowing, sadistic being -- in the form of a sheet of paper. Calculatingly, she folded the paper, sliding it into the outside pocket of her jacket. She folded down the flap of her glove once more before pulling her hood up over deep brown locks and heading towards the Swooning Cazador in search of this Jacobson.
Weapon of Choice:
Due to her petite frame, Elayne tends to favor small guns and light weight blunt weapons. She is as agile as she is lithe and has an uncanny way of getting out of close quarters encounters.
She is quite fond of her .44 magnum and any blunt weapon she can find under 5 pounds. Anything more than that, and her girly arms are useless. Out of all the various blunt weapons she has encountered. Elayne favors the baseball bat she carries on her backpack, slid into the two side straps for easy holstering.
Armor:
Elayne sports a worn parka-esque coat, the fur trimming the hood nearly non existent. She carries a light weight leather heat with a small brim on her head, mostly to shield her eyes from the sun. Her pants are loose in the upper area and are tighter around her ankles, granting herself easier movements. She treads on combat boots and carries a large backpack on her back. If you pay enough attention, you'll also notice the pair of dogtags that hang from her neck beneath the coat.
Elayne King
Nickname:
Laney, King
Race:
Caucasian
Age:
20
Physical Description:
Elayne has a somewhat thin face with slightly gaunt cheeks. Her skin appears pale and her complexion fair. She sports mid-back length brunette locks that she tends to keep pulled back either sporting a partial braid or fully braided. Her eyes are a pale green with flecks of orange and brown. Standing at about 5 feet 6 inches tall, Elayne is of average build. Though, sporting only about 147 lbs of weight, she is actually quite lanky and can appear somewhat awkward.
Bio:
A stale wind blew through the expanse of the wastes, a slight bristle of damaged fur filling her ears from the tattered hood that rest on her shoulders. Her hands felt on her waist band for the canteen she carried and she raised it to her lips, taking a long calculated swig of purified water. 'Better than liquor, if ya ask me', she though to herself securing the lid and returning it to her belt. She took another step closer to the board, the kind that thriving towns would post notices of upcoming events on though, this one had seen much better days. In the center lie a small pile of papers, clinging to dear life under the blazing sun with the support or a single thumbtack. She smirked, thinking of how much hell the owner must have gone through to find a usable thumbtack, then immediately thought the owner foolish for trusting a thumbtack to the population and weather of the wastes. Her thoughts drifted to how this mystery person printed on paper to post on the board in the first place. Not just any person had those kind of resources available, after all.
She stepped closer, idly folding back the flap of her right gloves, revealing her slender fingers to the air. Slowly, she skimmed through the notice, thanking her time in the vault for the ability to read at all before reaching for an application. Standing alone in the arid wastes, she finds herself considering joining this group of mercenaries, this nameless group of potential allies. Memories of taking the G.O.A.T. in the vault fill her mind, that feeling of deflation upon hearing that she could either be the next Jukebox Technician or Tattoo Artist, either of which should have been considered a privilege. The tension weeks later when food stores were eliminated and the madness that ensued as slowly, vault dweller turned against vault dweller for food. She had been forced to grow up fast and fend for herself in a vault of developing cannibals. Of course there had been a select few that decided to leave the vault early on, but that decision was not without bloodshed of its own. There were only 12 of them left when she had decided to sneak out in the middle of the night. Who knew that with so many dead, it'd be so much easier to loot their possessions? A few months later, she would find herself on the New Vegas strip, her time as a prostitute blurred and dulled from an addiction to chems and alcohol. Those were the worst two years of her life, most of which she can't even remember.
And yet all things led her to this moment: a year of recovery from her addictions and fending for herself as a makeshift mercenary presented with a gift from whatever f-cked up, all knowing, sadistic being -- in the form of a sheet of paper. Calculatingly, she folded the paper, sliding it into the outside pocket of her jacket. She folded down the flap of her glove once more before pulling her hood up over deep brown locks and heading towards the Swooning Cazador in search of this Jacobson.
Weapon of Choice:
Due to her petite frame, Elayne tends to favor small guns and light weight blunt weapons. She is as agile as she is lithe and has an uncanny way of getting out of close quarters encounters.
She is quite fond of her .44 magnum and any blunt weapon she can find under 5 pounds. Anything more than that, and her girly arms are useless. Out of all the various blunt weapons she has encountered. Elayne favors the baseball bat she carries on her backpack, slid into the two side straps for easy holstering.
Armor:
Elayne sports a worn parka-esque coat, the fur trimming the hood nearly non existent. She carries a light weight leather heat with a small brim on her head, mostly to shield her eyes from the sun. Her pants are loose in the upper area and are tighter around her ankles, granting herself easier movements. She treads on combat boots and carries a large backpack on her back. If you pay enough attention, you'll also notice the pair of dogtags that hang from her neck beneath the coat.
Rocket ~ Dragonbud
Name: Alex aka "Rocket"
Race: Human
Age: Seventeen
Physical Description:
Bio: For as long as Rocket could remember she was fighting with her fists. She was always punching, wether it be fore the best scraps of food or to teach someone a lesion about messing with her. Her father always joked that she even came out of the womb punching at the air. The young and horribly reckless Rocket decided to turn this skill into a livelihood. She left home at fifteen to go and become a 'professional' fighter. It was more like joining an illegal and underground fighting ring with men and women twice her age, but she fit in well. She would get herself tossed in the ring, beat the snot out of whoever was in front of her and then took all the prizes.
But like any young "celebrity" this fame began to go to her head. After loosing a few fights her sponsors threatened to pull out if she didn't toughen up. She found her next mistake in a chem called Hydra. Rocket didn't know what the stuff was made out of, or even what it did specifically but one day it was offered to her. The greasy, and clearly high, fighter promised her that it would make her arms and legs feel even stronger. It would reduce crippling.
And boy it sure did.
Rocket was back to her fist swinging self, always drinking a hydra before entering the ring and slowly, as well as being unaware, her caps began to dwindle. And one day, right before a fight, Rocket discovered she was completely out of hydra. She returned to the fighter who got her hooked, desperate and begging for another dose, only to have him laugh his way to the slot machines. The results of the withdrawal were pretty crippling. She constantly has blown out pupils and sweats as well as shaky hands and a shortness of breath. So for awhile Rocket has been wandering Mexico City, trying to salvage through rubble to find anything that might make her enough caps for some more hydra.
Rocket discovered a flyer, recruiting people for who knows what. Rocket didn't care about what she was being hired for, but caps and food sounded nice. And hey, family was pretty good too.
Weapon of Choice: Rocket is all fists all the time. She has several pairs of unarmed weapons, spiked knuckles and brass knuckles, depending on the occasion. She also has a combat knife on her, but rarely uses it. She also has limited knowledge on guns, but only as far as loading and pulling the trigger.
Armor: Rocket wears Merc Explorers Armor, which she stripped off a rotting corpse. It's good, light, armor that still allows her to move her arms and legs. She also wears a headscarf that covers her head and neck from the sun.
Race: Human
Age: Seventeen
Physical Description:
Bio: For as long as Rocket could remember she was fighting with her fists. She was always punching, wether it be fore the best scraps of food or to teach someone a lesion about messing with her. Her father always joked that she even came out of the womb punching at the air. The young and horribly reckless Rocket decided to turn this skill into a livelihood. She left home at fifteen to go and become a 'professional' fighter. It was more like joining an illegal and underground fighting ring with men and women twice her age, but she fit in well. She would get herself tossed in the ring, beat the snot out of whoever was in front of her and then took all the prizes.
But like any young "celebrity" this fame began to go to her head. After loosing a few fights her sponsors threatened to pull out if she didn't toughen up. She found her next mistake in a chem called Hydra. Rocket didn't know what the stuff was made out of, or even what it did specifically but one day it was offered to her. The greasy, and clearly high, fighter promised her that it would make her arms and legs feel even stronger. It would reduce crippling.
And boy it sure did.
Rocket was back to her fist swinging self, always drinking a hydra before entering the ring and slowly, as well as being unaware, her caps began to dwindle. And one day, right before a fight, Rocket discovered she was completely out of hydra. She returned to the fighter who got her hooked, desperate and begging for another dose, only to have him laugh his way to the slot machines. The results of the withdrawal were pretty crippling. She constantly has blown out pupils and sweats as well as shaky hands and a shortness of breath. So for awhile Rocket has been wandering Mexico City, trying to salvage through rubble to find anything that might make her enough caps for some more hydra.
Rocket discovered a flyer, recruiting people for who knows what. Rocket didn't care about what she was being hired for, but caps and food sounded nice. And hey, family was pretty good too.
Weapon of Choice: Rocket is all fists all the time. She has several pairs of unarmed weapons, spiked knuckles and brass knuckles, depending on the occasion. She also has a combat knife on her, but rarely uses it. She also has limited knowledge on guns, but only as far as loading and pulling the trigger.
Armor: Rocket wears Merc Explorers Armor, which she stripped off a rotting corpse. It's good, light, armor that still allows her to move her arms and legs. She also wears a headscarf that covers her head and neck from the sun.
Grenaud Corbin ~ Lightning Fast
Name: Grenaud Corbin
Race: Caucasian
Age: 26
Physical Description: Corbin looks a little bit like a pre-war military officer, ridiculously enough. He wears a kevlar vest with a black shirt under it, a helmet modified to look like that of a European knight (minis the visor), and has a scabbard with an officer’s sword at his waist. His face is easy on the eyes, with a pencil-thin mustache and perpetually constant confident smirk. His shoulders each have an epaulette made out of an old hair brush and some duct tape, and both of his upper sleeves bear a red maple-leaf insignia. His hair is a light brown and his eyes are deep blue, and he stands at a fairly average 5’9.
Bio: In 2133, the Canadian Liberation Front (CLF) was established with the ultimate goal of ousting the U.S. soldiers who had turned former Canadian cities into Enclave-aligned military colonies. They succeeded in liberating Montreal, but efforts to take back the largest surviving bastion of Canadian culture, Ronto, failed miserably. Hundreds of years after their first attack on Ronto, Corbin led another ill-fated excursion against the Enclave’s superior technology and numbers, his Canadiens soundly defeated, and he himself captured. He and other Canadian militants were transported southward to prevent further attempts at liberation. He and other hostages escaped with the help of some well-placed explosives, but during his time in prison, he developed a deep resentment towards the Enclave. He is ecstatic to see that their influence has began to wane drastically even in the former Commonwealth of the United States.
Corbin is an arrogant man with a penchant for drama, delusioned with the idea of reconquering the Great White North despite the fact that he’s currently in the southern deserts. Still, he is a capable commander, demolitionist, and mechanic, and has a way of rousing people to his cause using impassioned speeches. In summation, Grenaud is charismatic, eccentric, and patriotic without end. He hopes to strike it rich in Sierra Madre, and use these caps to pay an army of mercenaries to help him take Ronto and establish it as the capital of a New Canadian Confederation. Obviously, this is almost impossible from logistical and financial perspectives, but don’t tell him that.
Weapon of Choice: Grenaud loves spectacle and showmanship, and so has a deep affinity towards explosives of all kinds. His preferred weapon is a grenade launcher, and he is experienced with similarly large weapons. He also carries an assault rifle on his back similar to the ones that NCR rangers use, but with what looks like a bayonet hastily constructed from a combat knife mounted on the front.
In close combat, should his bayonet prove too unwieldy, Grenaud carries an officer’s sword to dispatch his opponents, and though its longer reach than a knife is advantageous, he is only moderately skilled in using it.
Armor: Not one for subtlety, Grenaud Corbin wears a kevlar vest and metal helmet modified slightly to resemble that of a European knight, minus the visor. His ridiculous get-up is completed by a piece of plywood strapped to his arm and reinforced it with bolted-on steel plates like some sort of shield. He wears it in a way that does not interfere with his aim... too much.
Race: Caucasian
Age: 26
Physical Description: Corbin looks a little bit like a pre-war military officer, ridiculously enough. He wears a kevlar vest with a black shirt under it, a helmet modified to look like that of a European knight (minis the visor), and has a scabbard with an officer’s sword at his waist. His face is easy on the eyes, with a pencil-thin mustache and perpetually constant confident smirk. His shoulders each have an epaulette made out of an old hair brush and some duct tape, and both of his upper sleeves bear a red maple-leaf insignia. His hair is a light brown and his eyes are deep blue, and he stands at a fairly average 5’9.
Bio: In 2133, the Canadian Liberation Front (CLF) was established with the ultimate goal of ousting the U.S. soldiers who had turned former Canadian cities into Enclave-aligned military colonies. They succeeded in liberating Montreal, but efforts to take back the largest surviving bastion of Canadian culture, Ronto, failed miserably. Hundreds of years after their first attack on Ronto, Corbin led another ill-fated excursion against the Enclave’s superior technology and numbers, his Canadiens soundly defeated, and he himself captured. He and other Canadian militants were transported southward to prevent further attempts at liberation. He and other hostages escaped with the help of some well-placed explosives, but during his time in prison, he developed a deep resentment towards the Enclave. He is ecstatic to see that their influence has began to wane drastically even in the former Commonwealth of the United States.
Corbin is an arrogant man with a penchant for drama, delusioned with the idea of reconquering the Great White North despite the fact that he’s currently in the southern deserts. Still, he is a capable commander, demolitionist, and mechanic, and has a way of rousing people to his cause using impassioned speeches. In summation, Grenaud is charismatic, eccentric, and patriotic without end. He hopes to strike it rich in Sierra Madre, and use these caps to pay an army of mercenaries to help him take Ronto and establish it as the capital of a New Canadian Confederation. Obviously, this is almost impossible from logistical and financial perspectives, but don’t tell him that.
Weapon of Choice: Grenaud loves spectacle and showmanship, and so has a deep affinity towards explosives of all kinds. His preferred weapon is a grenade launcher, and he is experienced with similarly large weapons. He also carries an assault rifle on his back similar to the ones that NCR rangers use, but with what looks like a bayonet hastily constructed from a combat knife mounted on the front.
In close combat, should his bayonet prove too unwieldy, Grenaud carries an officer’s sword to dispatch his opponents, and though its longer reach than a knife is advantageous, he is only moderately skilled in using it.
Armor: Not one for subtlety, Grenaud Corbin wears a kevlar vest and metal helmet modified slightly to resemble that of a European knight, minus the visor. His ridiculous get-up is completed by a piece of plywood strapped to his arm and reinforced it with bolted-on steel plates like some sort of shield. He wears it in a way that does not interfere with his aim... too much.