Dinh AaronMk

Fallout: The Long Haul (ALWAYS OPEN TO NEW PLAYERS)

Name: SB-6069 "Sweet Gin"

Age: 8

Appearance: I'd post the drawing I did but looking at it now it's shit-tier, so I'mm pass that up for written:

Short red hair, pale complexion and a small frame. Brown Eyes. Cybernetic arms and legs. Small-breasted.

Race: Android

Skills:
Small Guns, Melee, Speech

SPECIAL - 7, 6, 7, 8, 5, 8, 3

Perks:
Android
Guess what sweaty, you're an android! Your physical state of being giving you a +9 Rad resistance bonus and a +30 poison resistance! Although, chems are notably useless.

Swift Learner
You gain an additional 10% whenever experience points are earned.

Equipment: Institute android clinic gown.

Bio: SB-6069 was originally designed by the Institute of Commonwealth fame to act as an escort to its human members and other locals as commisioned by one 'Scrap Daddy' of central Boston. Her design was a symbol of artificial perfection at the time as well as to attract both those with a robot fetish and normal clientele.

As expected, SB-6069 performed admirable in her duties. But Scrap Daddy soon found that an identification number was hardly marketable and even dissuaded many clients he wished to rent her out to. So in a bid for marketability he changed her name to Sweet Gin, promising a "taste smoother than any skinny drink in the wasteland and a hundred times safer". Under this new moniker, Sweet Gin continued to perform with the expected perfection designed into her, becoming a star of her own institution.

However, after eight years of esteemed service to Scrap Daddy, was hardly physically safe. Chem use was common in the Commonwealth - as it is elsewhere - and the android was routinely in harm's way be chemically enraged clients. Most of the time the issues were minor. Other times, they were more complex. One ocassion proved fateful and even near fatal to the robot.

Her systems flashed her warnings of a chemical imbalance in the client. Initial readings suggested a high mix of methamphetamine and psycho traces in the client's blood. Agitation in his behavior only likewise confirmed his status. But Scrap Daddy is a man who serves anybody, and he paid well claiming rather irritably she'd help him "come down".

And he came down alright. But not before breaking her limbs, breaking the artificial bones and crippling the servos in the shoulder and hip joints. Emergency parameters shut her down and the confrontation forced the pimp's men to shoot down the client in an effort to restore peace and rescue the android.

SB-6069 was quickly shuttled off back to the institute for repairs. However, the workmen were lacking in the needed parts at that time. Restoring her fluid levels and repairing the minor damage to her spine they outfitted Sweet Gin with a set of clearly artificial legs hoping Scrap Daddy would take her back while they worked on producing a new, correct set matching her model and production type. An issue made more complicated given her original engineer had gone missing two years prior.

The night before she was returned to her master though, a member of the Railroad broke into the lab. Picking at random, he settled on an attempt to rescue Sweet Gin, and accessing her neural processors managed to break the coding that put her in a state of emergency shutdown, as well as unlocking cognitive freedom; a feature included in "newer" models to lessen the risk of escape. But by this nature, the man discovered Sweet Gin's true purpose, and in animal desire - of lust - lead her not to freedom, but a new dungeon.

Fallout: The Long Haul [Sign-ups ALWAYS OPEN]

TheEvanCat said
Salt Lake City battle bus, powered by otherworldly technology.

Where'd we plan to include Salt Lake City? Are we going to convert the bus to Mormonism?

The New Order(Post WW3 RP)

You should be fine. The most you'll probably have to do is some retconning.

What's certainly on the table is application simplification. I also feel like I should sweep through the lore to both get this to stand apart from other nation RPs - especially Precipice - and to clarify the war. I'll also most certainly clamp down on nation mergers so we still got room in the political landscape for more players and to prevent bullshit "we're afraid of some arbitrary threat so now we're one" situations.

You could use this thread until I produce the new IC.

The New Order(Post WW3 RP)

Expect some altercations if/when I make a new thread.

The World of Races (Realistic RP with races)

If ya'll want to know Padshi's inspiration.

Fallout: The Long Haul [Sign-ups ALWAYS OPEN]

TheEvanCat said
Aaron and I had some plans to get us from one place to another very quickly.

Battle Bus best to-do thing 2013/2014.

Fallout: The Long Haul [Sign-ups ALWAYS OPEN]

Terminal said
Is the Enclave even still a thing after the events of Broken Steel? I don't doubt that there's probably a few bunkers left here and there, but East Coast/West Coast/Central America Enclave has pretty much had its command structure stomped flatter than all the soda lying around the wastes, and both the NCR and the Brotherhood of Steel have shoot-on-site policies concerning them.

In addition to what Peppermints said, there's also a lot of places a group like the Enclave could survive in to some degree. The events of the first Fallouts and Fallout 3 only cover a tiny area of America. There are no doubt a thousand places in the lower 48 for the Enclave to hide. And don't forget, in this world the US annexed Canada which'd roughly double the landmass to chunk down US government bunkers for surviving elements of the Congress, White House, or Military to hide in. Not all of them could have fled out to a oil platform in the middle of the Pacific.

There's enough room to apply hearty fanon. And ultimately in a game as morally open as Fallout (more-so given I don't think any events from Fallout 3 or New Vegas are confirmed canon as Fallout 1 and 2 are) there's a lot of room for fan-based alteration to make a more "custom" world, even if based in the themes, images, and over-all story of Fallout.

For all we know, Dearborn could just as well have spawned a satirical version of an Islamic state in Michigan, south of Detroit. Given Fallout's habit for dark humor it could be a thing. And the closest that area is ever mentioned is from a slaver in The Pitt who I remember asking you if you could possibly be "From the Eeries" (which I take a references to Lake Eerie).

The World of Races (Realistic RP with races)

Tibiruz, Ghoriaid Shahzada

Tibiruz, the high cloud city of the Ghoriash dynasty. Carved in stone atop the crown of mountains over the Tibir valley the city itself was shrouded almost all year long by thick clouds that washed from the sea. To mingle between the fingers and claws of the jagged mountain desert. To never drop its rain much further than the dynastic leadership could enthrall itself to rule. Besides, though the family may lay claim to far-flung settlements beyond the olive green groves and fields below there was nary enough to make their claims worth it. Dry rocks and brightly banded clay with the few snaking yards of string that were rivers.

Out there, the stench of the air was reputed to be like sulfur. Smoke could often be seen rising from the inner most distant mountains. And even the ground rumbled and shook as if scratching some itch too deep between its shoulders to reach properly. Even from the air that land was noxious and offensive. And when the wind was right the rotting smell of its salt and the distant gurgling of something hot could be heard in hot dry winds.

To many of the Kharkuz Pegasi, the land beyond the civilized expanse of their king's rule was a land their God, Manzada Mura left to abandon in creation. Where the cool wet salts of the sea could not reach and wish to soften and tame the Land of Drusj. Even closer to the surface, the safety of the green valley pastures where the soft, clean glacial melt fed the soil it was considered better. Where there were yet mountains so tall that water came trapped, frozen. Melting down the side over the years into long silver water falls that cascaded into forests of low lying mist. Here was heaven. Here it was said the promise of the afterlife could be seen for all. Here was the land of well-tended Ashja. Even to the Paspud of the Parsjik. In the north. Or the Aspanjid of the Parsid in the low green stoney hills, cradled between the barbarians and the Coast Lands.

But the illusion of heaven was to no degree twisted within the court of the Ghoria dynasty. Whose stone carved palace had gutted completely the peak of the city's highest crown. Beaten by hooves and picks stone columns thicker than any tree trunk help up the carved domed peak of the high mountain. A wide walk-way and flight deck encircled the columned complex, running out and in like the morning star. Brazers burned night and day at the tips and wearing paint trimmed and outlined the shape of the star in bold clear lines.

The columns themselves were painted over in broad geometric shapes. Painted in colored clays and mineral mixes where repeating tessellations of swirling, dancing fractals that shrunk and grew from central stalks like strange plants before ending in circles the size of a hoof. Bright blues, soft greens, and vibrant reds adorned the columns.

Under the roof of the carved peak the palace was a carved set of rooms, and a single chamber opened from end to end to the outside, cool mountain air. With a low enclosed wall locked by weighty iron rods sat a throne, raised on a stone platform. Within the curling, crudely carved feathers of its granite nest sat perched the slouched figure of the agape Shah of the Ghoriaid.

A simpleton in nature, the Shah Padshi was a young stallion of twenty-five. His eyes were glazed over in deep incompetence, ignorant to the world or even his own awareness. What would be the bright energetic gleaming of blue eyes of the sharpest caret of sapphires was instead a murky glow of a faded, stormy sky. His lids hung low over them as his mouth wide open, occasionally spilling out droplets of saliva as he listened – without knowing – the pleads of his court.

He lacked any and all attention span to think of. He swayed in his throne, gently kept in place by the warm sunset-yellow hoof of his aunt who stood by as regent. Her long golden hair was a hypnotizing mystery to the shah, as his eyes crawled sluggishly up the long brushed strings of thick mane. Wrapped in braids that fell across her thick feminine neck he felt an almost warm glow under his many ceremonial robes, tucked safely between his legs. Though he understood not what it was.

“Yes, we shall remember your request and take it with me to the treasury.” the Shah's aunt said in a soft voice. Her bright shimmering sky-blue eyes looked down from the throne to the distant subject far from their platform. She wore a smile always, even when addressing the common pegasi that came to seek some ruling from their lord.

“I-is this what the Shah says?” the farmer said, shocked. In recent weeks he had claimed outlaws were stealing his crop. He wished for some manner of protection. He wished to not pay exorbitant protection from the very outlaws who stole from him. He was a dirty buck, with a wild patchy mane and a desperate gleam in his eyes. He was not well fed, though he was not starving. He was a lean worker.

The shah's agent – Regent Faria – merely looked down at her nephew, still wearing the sad smile she wore through the days. The attentions of court had long waned on the young Shah as he gazed down as a beetle scurrying across the granite and marble that made his throne.

“C'ush, c'ush.” he said quietly as he rose a jeweled hoof, “C'ush, c'ush.” he repeated, bringing his hoof down on the small helpless beetle. With a loud crunch it was crushed under the the young stallion's hoof as he stared down at it like a infant foal. Or even more empty.

Faria could not help but pity him. She herself had not managed to bear foals, many of her attempts having been aborted in miscarriage. For a time she had sired a living son, though he had passed from illness. Had he lived, and had her brother sired more than daughters before he passed the empty vessel that sat on the throne would not have risen to power. It was humiliating to say the least, and it dug her greatly. The Queen-Mother had even abandoned the child when the effect of his accident had become fully realized. Having fallen from the cliffs he had hit his head. He survived, but he was greatly stunted and was still – in full adulthood – an unfortunate child.

All the same, he was the closest Faria had to son; as much as he was a joke. And he was blood. By blood she was bound to defend him. By blood, perhaps she'd at least find a means to save her brother's line and to pray that his retardation was not rolled on another by their God.

“Yes, that is an absolute.” Faria called back. Her confidence wavered, and she was afraid if it would be sniffed out by the hounds that inhabited the court. She saw it throughout the days. The hunting prying looks of the adept nobility. The unfortunate Shah they served wasn't just a burden. But to the court he was too many a means to exercise their way. If any of them could take advantage of the Shah there would be disastrous effects. Especially to his kin. There was no killer swifter to a kingdom than the greed of its own nobility. In stronger kings they could be held at a hoof's length, or by the point of a spear. But they hovered. They hovered too close around Padshi.

“Oh...” the farmer stammered uncertain, “Well, thank you, m'lady.” he bowed. But he was still uncertain, or cautious. He was hesitant as he left. Before turning to trot briskly for the cavernous exit.

The hollow clapping of his hooves echoed off the great vaulted central chamber. Stepping out into the sunlight he unfurled his wings, and threw himself into the air and taking flight for home.

“Your majesty, and regent,” the court crier decreed loudly. He was a middle-aged stallion, of minimal nameless pursuit. But he had a loud voice. There was debate within the court if he might perhaps call out to the entire city from the palace stoop, though it had never been made good on. “If we may proceed we have appointments for Nawab-Marshall of Ti-”

“I do not think it'll be needed.” Faria called back to the crier, cutting him off. Wrapping a gentle hoof around the wide stocky shoulders of her nephew she added, “Padshi is feeling tired, and we might be best to retire for a moment for him to regain his breath.”

“Certainly Shahzada-Regent Faria, if it is your wish. For how long?”

“Let us cease the afternoon hearing for fifteen minutes for Padshi to dine.” Faria said, helping her nephew from his throne. He staggered and lingered – rear legs stretched lazily over the throne – onto the rough stone of the throne's plinth. She heard the soft crunch of the beetle's remnants under his hoof.

“As you wish.” the crier bowed. Whispered murmurs carried like a breath of wind as the nobility dispersed in the great hall and scattered to the many faces of the sky. Sneering down at them, Faria led her nephew from the platform. She scoured in cold disgust for his court. And they no doubt returned the favor in silent kind, hidden behind masks of emotional disassociation.

From the prying predatory gaze of the nobility Padshi was lead. Behind the columns of the throne chamber, and into one of the dozen side-halls. Leaving the glow of day light they both entered into a room lit by softly crackling brazers. A soft warmth filled the room, and the sweat smells of fruits. In the corner, a pair of shaved-mane eunuchs stood waiting for orders. Stacks of simply packed and embroidered cushions littered the floor by a great wooden table laden with exotic sweat fruits on silver coastal trays.

“Faria, is there anything we can assist with?” asked the servants as they came out from the corners.

“No, no, there is nothing.” Faria said, “Though I would have a rag if you have one.” she asked.

“Your honor.” bowed one, pulling from a saddle pouch at his side a plain white silken rag with his mouth.

“Thank you.” she smiled cordially before taking the piece of cloth. “You may wait outside the door, if we need anything I shall call.” she said as she passed the cloth from mouth to hoof, excusing them with the other as she sat back on her haunches.

The eunuchs bowed as one. They were loyal silent servants. But their one mindedness and their castration she found eerie. Being neither a stallion or a mare made them different, perhaps too different. They were to her something existing between life and death. They even looked ghostly, with paler coats and a hauntingly wise expression. They were pegasi who saw much, but spoke little.

As they left the room Faria turned back to her nephew, scooping up his hoof and holding it up into the fire light. Smeared underneath was the snotty broken remnants of what was once a beetle. Its yellow and white guts an indistinguishable mess from tip to frog.

“Oh Padshi, why do you do such things.” she said as she whipped the linen across her hoof delicately, cleaning off the smeared death from under neath. He gave no indication he was aware, simply opting to stare blankly into space, or into Faria.

Her eyes turned to her nephews and her smile grew back as a mother's, and not one keeping an act. “At least you are not crushing the heads of your kin.” she smiled weakly, “And it is only insects. But your hooves are none the cleaner.” she laughed.

Setting down his hoof she sighed, distressed and perturbed for her nephew. “I know you're in there.” she sighed, half pleading as she craned her head to look into those gray misty eyes of his. “You were there once. You were such a bright kid. Smart too. You had been blessed with all the wisdom of the Ashja, just as your grandfather had. But it's no doubt fragile, as the Magi profess.” she smiled weakly, “How is it?

“A stallion as handsome of you would be cursed so richly. If your feathers were far less ruffled, your blades sharper, and if we were all there mares the kingdom over would be seeking to court you. Yet...”

She gave a distressed sigh, shaking her head as Padshi slumped sluggishly to the side. He grunted incoherently as he looked up at the ceiling. Faria didn't know is he knew what was going on. The only thing left for her was to simply hope he knew.

Faria reached out a warm hoof, gently brushing it down the Shah's cheeck. “You will need to be taken to the river.” she laughed warmly, “There is a smell about you. I do doubt you have not been bathed in over two months.

“Clean waters do much. But I only hope they could return the sharp filly we knew.”

Fallout: The Long Haul [Sign-ups ALWAYS OPEN]

TheEvanCat said
Yeah, I'm with him. I had a character who spent time tooling around the Capital Wasteland (Enclave-related.) But no real interactions, even if I had plans.

Let our intentions reach their inevitable conclusion!

Fallout: The Long Haul [Sign-ups ALWAYS OPEN]

Most of what I have planned is fairly independent of what would be the RP "canon" for the Capital and Mojave wastelands. I'm mostly concerned with what's going on in New England and New York. More so since I never got far enough to get my RP'ing into the Capital Wasteland and eventually into the west. Beyond that if I do so lazily and selflessly port then I don't imagine there'll be any concern in doing it, I didn't interact with anyone else when I ran my own thing. The plans to be never transpired in time.

Given when and if I alert a friend of mine they probably will.