Edit: Okay...um, well this is awkward but I won't be joining. Mainly because my attempt at building a B.o.S faction failed miserably. Someone else can create one if they want though.
Sorry about changing my mind on you like this.
That's ok. A roleplay isn't an obligation. Have fun doing whatever.
So I could potentially play as a former B.o.S Paladin who managed to escape from Hidden Valley with a few other's of his group and went into hiding before reforging his chapter in the mountains to the southwest of the Mojave?
I think if you want to be a B.O.S. group, you should be the West Coast Chapter proper, not a sad offshoot of the already crippled Mojave Chapter.
The Sons of Mars are an independent ally of Caesar's Legion. Once known colloquially in the Mojave Wasteland as the feared Vault 34 Boomers of Nellis Air Force Base, the prophesied arrival of the Courier, the subsequent raising of the Lady in the Water (a B-29 superfortress), and, lastly, their significant participation in the Second Battle of Hoover Dam on the side of the Bull circa 2281, heavily influenced the culturally isolated warlike tribe that previously had no contact with the outside world beyond sporadic artillery shellings of savages. William Harrell rose to power not long after the sickly elders, and with it their way of thinking, passed quietly away into the night, never to return. Under his benevolent dictatorship the Boomers quickly became a prosperous microcosm of Caesar's Legion, growing wealthy through the regular export of local foodstuffs. Home to a population of 615, the Sons of Mars possess combat armor, high quality weapons, military robots, trucks, eight howitzers, and a bomber.
Following the Legion's triumph at the Second Battle of Hoover Dam brought about by the Courier, (ideal F:NV ending) Caesar, having crossed his Rubicon, the Colorado River, made himself a Rome out of New Vegas. Legate Lanius resumed his savage campaign westwards not long after, and, greatly assisted by the cunning Vulpes Inculta, conquered much of the weakened New California Republic under the flag of the Bull in the years that followed, despite alarming territorial losses in the east. It is now 2287, six years after civilization, unforgiving as it was, finally came to the Mojave Wasteland, and Edward Sallow can no longer stave off his approaching death. With no clear heir, Caesar's Legion is at the precipice of bloody civil war between the tribes of which it was forged, a massive internal conflict that will surely embolden regional superpowers throughout the southwest, friends and foes alike, to carve up the empire.
With Caesar dead, the whole West Coast of the former Thirteen Commonwealths holds it's breath, aware of the impact the passing of this single man will have. For before his body will be fully cold, the legates will start to plot and wage over the ultimate price, that is the empire of the Legion. From the golden city of Nova Roma, forged from the debased hole that was New Vegas, the subjugated parts of the NCR, filled with hateful rebels to the far east, the homeland of the Legion, pretenders will rise and fall. These are the days of the legates!
In the west, the NCR, beaten and crippled by the onslaught of the legion, has turned into a monster born from Presidents Tandi's nightmares. Yet, the day of retribution is upon the Legion! With the death of Caesar, the head of the deathclaw has been taken off. For years, the Arsenal of Democracy has been build up, and the true heir of the American Dream is ready to unleash its vengeance onto the weakened Legion! These are the days of the Generalissimos!
Far in the north, the 80s heed the call of the holy highway, with tales of plunder and glory in the south! Old tribes and gangs heed the call of the death of the Bull! The invincible Legion, no longer looks all that threatening. Other powers, long forgotten, resting uneasy for years, now notice the chance to return to this world! These are the days of the Warlords!
The year is 2287, and a new kind of conflict is brewing in the West Coast of the land that once was the Thirteen Commonwealths. You have the choice to pick a side in the conflict to come, either as a Legate of the Legion, a player in the great game for mighty Caesar's legacy, an NCR Generalissimo, hardened by years of conflict and with potential ambitions for the presidency...or dictatorship, or the warlord/leader/king of a third kind of faction!
While united in name, both the NCR and Legion has splintered in a struggle for power and influence. The NCR is a shadow of its old ideas, with a weak show of democracy still holding congress, while the true power is in the hand of the cliques of Generalissimos. The Legion, held together by the pure willpower of its founder, now finds itself without a leader! With enemies approaching from all sides, this state could turn out deadly soon!
Minor factions, without any connection to the two major powers in this conflict, may enter the great game, yet should be fully aware, of the danger an ant faces, in a war of giants!
Following the Legion's triumph at the Second Battle of Hoover Dam brought about by the Courier, (ideal F:NV ending) Caesar, having crossed his Rubicon, the Colorado River, made himself a Rome out of New Vegas. Legate Lanius resumed his savage campaign westwards not long after, and, greatly assisted by the cunning Vulpes Inculta, conquered much of the weakened New California Republic under the flag of the Bull in the years that followed, despite alarming territorial losses in the east. It is now 2287, six years after civilization, unforgiving as it was, finally came to the Mojave Wasteland, and Edward Sallow can no longer stave off his approaching death. With no clear heir, Caesar's Legion is at the precipice of bloody civil war between the tribes of which it was forged, a massive internal conflict that will surely embolden regional superpowers throughout the southwest, friends and foes alike, to carve up the empire.
With Caesar dead, the whole West Coast of the former Thirteen Commonwealths holds it's breath, aware of the impact the passing of this single man will have. For before his body will be fully cold, the legates will start to plot and wage over the ultimate price, that is the empire of the Legion. From the golden city of Nova Roma, forged from the debased hole that was New Vegas, the subjugated parts of the NCR, filled with hateful rebels to the far east, the homeland of the Legion, pretenders will rise and fall. These are the days of the legates!
In the west, the NCR, beaten and crippled by the onslaught of the legion, has turned into a monster born from Presidents Tandi's nightmares. Yet, the day of retribution is upon the Legion! With the death of Caesar, the head of the deathclaw has been taken off. For years, the Arsenal of Democracy has been build up, and the true heir of the American Dream is ready to unleash its vengeance onto the weakened Legion! These are the days of the Generalissimos!
Far in the north, the 80s heed the call of the holy highway, with tales of plunder and glory in the south! Old tribes and gangs heed the call of the death of the Bull! The invincible Legion, no longer looks all that threatening. Other powers, long forgotten, resting uneasy for years, now notice the chance to return to this world! These are the days of the Warlords!
The year is 2287, and a new kind of conflict is brewing in the West Coast of the land that once was the Thirteen Commonwealths. You have the choice to pick a side in the conflict to come, either as a Legate of the Legion, a player in the great game for mighty Caesar's legacy, an NCR Generalissimo, hardened by years of conflict and with potential ambitions for the presidency...or dictatorship, or the warlord/leader/king of a third kind of faction!
While united in name, both the NCR and Legion has splintered in a struggle for power and influence. The NCR is a shadow of its old ideas, with a weak show of democracy still holding congress, while the true power is in the hand of the cliques of Generalissimos. The Legion, held together by the pure willpower of its founder, now finds itself without a leader! With enemies approaching from all sides, this state could turn out deadly soon!
Minor factions, without any connection to the two major powers in this conflict, may enter the great game, yet should be fully aware, of the danger an ant faces, in a war of giants!
Charlie Porter brewed a hot kettle of water mixed with chaga powder, adding a sizable dollop of honey for good measure. The resulting beverage, from what she could recall from prior knowledge she received from the lessons of her childhood tutors, closely resembled the coffee and tea of the ancients. Pouring herself a cup, she sat in her radbison leather chair, lit the beeswax candle atop the desk, and began to put the nib of her green fountain pen to paper, nursing the drink all the while. At the crack of dawn she cheerily finalized the wording of the proclamation needed to annex the squatter community just outside the western reaches of Fargo's walls into the fold. For decades their inhabitants have petitioned for legal citizenship, and today they would have just that. It might be an uphill battle at first to justify the sidestep of the council's authority, but she couldn't put it off any longer. There may have been a period of time when her people could keep to themselves, but she knew with a great certainty that it had since passed. And if they fail to change with it, they too will invariably pass from the world. She applied the golden horse head seal of the Porter Family to the document as soon as she had the wax nice and melted.
A light series of knocks sounded at her office door. Charlie neatly folded the paper and got up to answer her morning caller. "Ms. Porter? Do you happen to be busy at the present moment? Captain Taylor has at last returned from his hunting expedition and is here to see you now, as you've requested."
"The both of you can come on in," Charlie replied, unbolting the door and ushering the two men into the room, "I have a need of your services this hour, Mr. Dillon, but first things first," she clasped her hands together, "I trust the remaining deathclaw nesting sites of the badlands have been wiped out, Captain?"
"No casualties. Deathclaws predictably tried charging us when they realized where the shots were coming from. Minefields made short work of the bravest. Rest, mostly the young, broke for the open plains. I'd give the ones that managed to run our horses into the ground until winter to live." Captain Taylor said as he rummaged through his bag, producing two burlap sacks, one larger than the other, that he placed onto the desk just as Charlie went to sit back down. "Thought you might appreciate some souvenirs. I left a head with a taxidermist for stuffing and mounting, too, if you'll be interested in decor," he grinned.
Charlie put the burlap bags aside for later, failing to hide her growing smile at her friend's curious, and thoughtful gifts. She would have to return the favor when the opportunity came along to catch him pleasantly unaware with a present. "Thank you, but do please keep the other trophy you've taken. It's your kill; so it's your story to tell, not mine to appropriate. Now, you must be wondering why I brought you here, so I won't keep you in suspense any longer. Are you familiar with the KVLY-TV mast by any chance? It's a little ways north of here, halfway to Grand Forks, taller than anything you could possibly imagine."
"My father used to take me up that way when I was still fresh to the saddle. Every fall we made the trip without incident. It's beautiful, quiet country, an area where you can easily forget the apocalypse ever happened, aside from overgrown old world ruins. At least, that's how I remember it." He informed.
"I need someone I can depend on to escort a work crew up there so we can restore the structural integrity of the facility and install some radio equipment. We'll be able to establish communications with civilizations across what's left of the Thirteen Commonwealths. Feel up for the job?" She spoke.
Camila Winona stood in the center of the airlock as the room around her slowly drained. Once the water level was down to her knees, she removed the helmet of her atmospheric diving suit with both gloved hands and transferred it to a loose hold against her side; nestled safely in the crook of her left arm. She adjusted her hold as she went to remove the rest of the bulky uniform with her free hand, moving to stow said articles in a repository concealed inside the wall, leaving her as good as naked in a regulation wear skintight white jumpsuit. Often working maintenance duty alone, at the beginning of every month she routinely volunteered to evaluate and preserve the structural integrity of the modified submersible platform that shielded their fledgling colony from the crushing icy depths of the ocean ever since their expedition's arrival two months ago. Besides the obvious protection the electrified armored hull of the vessel offered as a presently non-lethal deterrent to the occasional overly curious native, it also served to dampen seismic disturbances and provide appreciable insulation as well as allowing their ever expanding community to tap into an inexhaustible source of water and most importantly, oxygen. Not long after only her ankles remained fully immersed, a stinging antibacterial aerosol suddenly shot over her body to the floor, cleansing herself and the enclosed module alike of foreign contaminants as it propelled excess moisture down the drains in a great rush of air that made her ears pop.
Dr. Baxter greeted her the very moment the inner doors to the outpost proper opened up before her. "I trust your swim was uneventful?" She inquired, tilting her head at a curious angle.
Winona took a moment to regard her before answering. It never ceased to amaze her how the woman could manage to look so composed after her long supervisory shifts in the factory, fluttering between work stations for hours on end as she did. She casually shrugged her shoulders, attempting to come across as noncommittal. "Nothing much happened," she began to sign, "locals usually keep a respectable distance, and the external systems have held together pretty well as of yet."
"A shame for the former," Baxter replied. "I've been running myself ragged cataloging all the scrap we pulled from those six United Nations wrecks that sank from the battle at the gate. If we could just initiate diplomatic relations with the natives we wouldn't have to resort to such lowly scavenging." She grimaced. "At least we've hit the three hundred mark today for the robots. We're only at eighty percent efficiency on the assembly line for now I'm afraid, but I took a trip to the mines to set up some charging stations so they don't have to make a trek to the nearest industrial electrical outlet every time they're low on power, and I have to say, they've made quite some progress down there since I last checked. Soon we won't have to rely on what salvage we can dredge up and what's left of our three dismantled submarines for resources."
"Maybe some of the automatons that need to come back for repairs can start fashioning building materials and simple tools out of the rubble we discard before returning to their duties so that we have something to trade for the day we do open ourselves up to first contact." Winona excitedly signed.
Baxter nodded at the sentiment, allowing herself a rare smile. "We need to start making a good impression somewhere. I can't fathom a better place to begin than quality exports."
Hanger module (3x): Capable of holding three submarines. Nuclear module (1x): Reactor with one month power reserves. Electrocution module (1x): Reinforced electrified hull plating.
SUBMARINE #1
Production module (1x): Multipurpose manufacturing room.
SUBMARINE #2
Desalination module (1x): Purifies salt water for consumption.
SUBMARINE #3
Hydroponics module (1x): Contains various potato varieties to be processed after harvest into a highly nutritious food paste.
Technology: Self-sufficient, the F.F.C.E.'s expedition possesses the facilities to rapidly understand the new world it now occupies, in addition to providing state of the art medical services.
Military: Composed of a small competent ten soldier security detail armed with low recoil heavy hitting combat shotguns.
History: The F.F.C.E. is a loose confederation of maritime city states that have been largely neutral (and insignificant) in world affairs until as of late. Their objective is simple in the new world - to maintain and expand existent knowledge to further civilization.
