Nexerus - You're good. Although as a warning I have received a personal complaint, but I don't want to treat it as grounds of refusal.
Boerd - Frankly after the events of Nuclear Armageddon it doesn't matter what the lineage of someone is. The ultimate decider of titles such as kings or Emperor - in a practical sense at least - is whether or not people are willing to recognize him as that. So he doesn't really *need* the records, nor does he *need* to claim the UK.
In the interests of imposing post-Feudal politics and 19th century romantic idealism you could try to go out of your way to say they're willing to take over stuff if there was a British flag planted there. But post-bombs the old monarchy would be so far removed from the new reality it wouldn't matter. They'd just want a leader at that point. So no use in trying to say he's a descendant of William the Conqueror.
Dinh AaronMk
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my beloved (french coded)
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THE SACRIFICE IS COMPLETE. THE BOILERMEN HAVE FRESH SOULS. THEY CAN DO SHIFT CHANGES.
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Bio
Harry Potter is not a world view, read another book or I will piss on the moon with my super laser piss.
Most Recent Posts
mfw only German.
Either one is fine by me. But I'd go a nation, unless it's inside NCR.
Name: William Hans Gröber vonKöln
Gender: Male
Nationality: German
Age: 37
Physical Appearance: A tall broad figure, he leans forward with a startling ferocity. His steep angular forehead and sharp jutting nose make him look more like some animal than a man. Something made only more apparent by his shaved hair.
Rank: Scharführer
Weapon and Ammunition: Luger P08 and MP41
Brief Background: William was born in the German city of Cologne in April of 1904 to the daughter of a factory manager and a locally respected doctor. With his two brothers and his sister he lived plush and fat in their serene townhouse in southern Cologne. As a youth, William would often run through the neighborhood streets, following the police officers about their duties. This later extended to following and watching soldiers by the outbreak of the First World War. The sight and manner of the army of the German Empire inspired young William, who would often spend much of his days playing army with his siblings.
Things soured at the end of the First World War however. With the surrender of Germany to the allied forced and the dissolution of the Empire and the rise of the Republic the national economy took a dive, taking with it the fortunes of William's family. Her father loosing money, William's mother was quickly cut off from any sort of allowance of formality from her father. And with so few people able to afford it, his father lost patients. Before his eyes his family grew destitute to the Republic's mismanagement. They often had to use Deutschmarks to heat their house at night. Literally burning money.
The destitution of the inter-war years served to radicalize William and he joined the NSDAP with his brothers in 1924. A year later his fervor for the Fascist principles of Adolf Hitler and his followers tempted him to join the newly formed Schutzstaffel.
In the Schutzstaffel he found honor among his brethren and grew close to much of the rank and file of the SS. So much so that William often hesitantly accepted promotion, or respectably declined if it meant promoting out of rank with his comrades. This action often put William in the line of fire many times as he stubbornly stayed in the rank and file, slowly advancing through the ranks and operating in a wide variety of theaters and operations. From a battle-field participant to a SS police officer on the beat, he did it all. Seeking out dangers to the glorious Reich and carrying out orders, never once questioning why.
He became storied and respected among many of the officers who saw promise in William if he simply accepted promotion. It became apparent to get him to move up his comrades would need to do the same. This small inconsequential faction began to petition for the promotion of William's partners to lighten the anchor. As his original squad-mates scattered across Nazi-occupied Europe he found himself easily sailing through the ranks.
As a Standartenjunker he was offered a mission he was told would make him a formal officer. A heavy financial package was attached as well. The case – the mission – was never disclosed to anyone but William and the commanders who issued it. In December of 1939 he abandoned his former identity of William Hans Gröber vonKöln and became Dougal McAffroy, a Scottish private. He was deployed to England for the rest of 1940 and on to May of 1941 returned to the European mainland, having finished his mission.
On return he did not immediately receive his package, and was quickly redeployed to Greece to back the offensive there.
Gender: Male
Nationality: German
Age: 37
Physical Appearance: A tall broad figure, he leans forward with a startling ferocity. His steep angular forehead and sharp jutting nose make him look more like some animal than a man. Something made only more apparent by his shaved hair.
Rank: Scharführer
Weapon and Ammunition: Luger P08 and MP41
Brief Background: William was born in the German city of Cologne in April of 1904 to the daughter of a factory manager and a locally respected doctor. With his two brothers and his sister he lived plush and fat in their serene townhouse in southern Cologne. As a youth, William would often run through the neighborhood streets, following the police officers about their duties. This later extended to following and watching soldiers by the outbreak of the First World War. The sight and manner of the army of the German Empire inspired young William, who would often spend much of his days playing army with his siblings.
Things soured at the end of the First World War however. With the surrender of Germany to the allied forced and the dissolution of the Empire and the rise of the Republic the national economy took a dive, taking with it the fortunes of William's family. Her father loosing money, William's mother was quickly cut off from any sort of allowance of formality from her father. And with so few people able to afford it, his father lost patients. Before his eyes his family grew destitute to the Republic's mismanagement. They often had to use Deutschmarks to heat their house at night. Literally burning money.
The destitution of the inter-war years served to radicalize William and he joined the NSDAP with his brothers in 1924. A year later his fervor for the Fascist principles of Adolf Hitler and his followers tempted him to join the newly formed Schutzstaffel.
In the Schutzstaffel he found honor among his brethren and grew close to much of the rank and file of the SS. So much so that William often hesitantly accepted promotion, or respectably declined if it meant promoting out of rank with his comrades. This action often put William in the line of fire many times as he stubbornly stayed in the rank and file, slowly advancing through the ranks and operating in a wide variety of theaters and operations. From a battle-field participant to a SS police officer on the beat, he did it all. Seeking out dangers to the glorious Reich and carrying out orders, never once questioning why.
He became storied and respected among many of the officers who saw promise in William if he simply accepted promotion. It became apparent to get him to move up his comrades would need to do the same. This small inconsequential faction began to petition for the promotion of William's partners to lighten the anchor. As his original squad-mates scattered across Nazi-occupied Europe he found himself easily sailing through the ranks.
As a Standartenjunker he was offered a mission he was told would make him a formal officer. A heavy financial package was attached as well. The case – the mission – was never disclosed to anyone but William and the commanders who issued it. In December of 1939 he abandoned his former identity of William Hans Gröber vonKöln and became Dougal McAffroy, a Scottish private. He was deployed to England for the rest of 1940 and on to May of 1941 returned to the European mainland, having finished his mission.
On return he did not immediately receive his package, and was quickly redeployed to Greece to back the offensive there.
Lennon79 said
Let's plays on Youtube. And try as one of the larger Japanese states because it's like tutorial Ireland V2.
Nah, France is.
It's one of those European nations that's too big too fail unless you're a glorious fuck up. After the tutorial it was the first nation I picked up and played.
I feel people should stop trying to use complex custom icons. They don't always turn out great when I shrink them!
Imagination - You're good, although I have to point something out.
On mention of Tesla armor going into the vault I had to double-check if such a things were pre-war or a post-war Enclave invention. They turned out to be pre-war so you're safe. However when double checking I did notice something about the pre-war Tesla armor...
http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Tesla_armor#Tesla_armor
Though it might deflect the odd round from a old .38 or some small arms it's not as balanced between energy attacks or bullets and stuff as the Enclave's post-war models of Tesla Armor. High powered weapons and most standard military gear will probably still be able to damage it.
Despite that though, I can see some people being intimidated if someone basically crawls out of the ground with electrical sparks arcing across their shoulders or something and then proceeds to vaporize a few people. Slings and spears may not be able to take 'em down still but the pre-war Tesla suits wouldn't take kindly to a wall-place rifle or assault rifle bullet.
Boerd - I'm going to have to agree with Hugs here. And you can go ahead and convert them to sailing ships, at least the smaller ones.
Their primitive weapons could only do so much to put a dent in their plating,
On mention of Tesla armor going into the vault I had to double-check if such a things were pre-war or a post-war Enclave invention. They turned out to be pre-war so you're safe. However when double checking I did notice something about the pre-war Tesla armor...
Wiki said This armor is designed to deflect energy weapons. However, its protection against impact attacks falls far short of what its military designers were looking for.
http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Tesla_armor#Tesla_armor
Though it might deflect the odd round from a old .38 or some small arms it's not as balanced between energy attacks or bullets and stuff as the Enclave's post-war models of Tesla Armor. High powered weapons and most standard military gear will probably still be able to damage it.
Despite that though, I can see some people being intimidated if someone basically crawls out of the ground with electrical sparks arcing across their shoulders or something and then proceeds to vaporize a few people. Slings and spears may not be able to take 'em down still but the pre-war Tesla suits wouldn't take kindly to a wall-place rifle or assault rifle bullet.
Boerd - I'm going to have to agree with Hugs here. And you can go ahead and convert them to sailing ships, at least the smaller ones.
Missy said
especially the part about extra coding help, since Mahz has been struggling. Shutting down that thread seemed somewhat counterproductive i must say, but it was degrading so hush my mouth i suppose.
He opened the forum's code up for people with technical knowledge to submit community patches for him to test and implement. So he's on the right track.
So Boerd - I appreciate the possibility of being something akin to a non-American Enclave on the East Coast. However I feel that for something of this size having warships to the sizes you propose are a little bit overpowering, and I am concerned. Especially when the bulk of naval operation in the area is usually presented as being ships the size of the Duchess Gambit. Other plot-device ships are usually presented as being on their very last leg, and to keep such things in working order you need a well built industrial complex, which in this world doesn't exist, putting a lot of them on the fast-track to becoming a Rivet City. Even with knowledgeable ghouls on hand that still doesn't make a well-kept navy and you'd be lucky to keep one in working order (let alone capable of firing).
CourierSix - Looking better! My only qualm is probably leaving out some of the things the canonical games have confirmed about Denver even after VanBuren's failure to launch. But those can be brushed up in IC and don't need to be strictly addressed in the app.
And I do hope you meant 2187 and not 2087.
CourierSix - Looking better! My only qualm is probably leaving out some of the things the canonical games have confirmed about Denver even after VanBuren's failure to launch. But those can be brushed up in IC and don't need to be strictly addressed in the app.
And I do hope you meant 2187 and not 2087.
New York
The vestiges and trophies of extinguished tribes and conquered raider kings hung draped from the walls of the open chamber. Alongside bent and twisted pipes from whence hung lanterns, bathing the ornaments in a broken rainbow of pale electrical blues and greens, or the warm brazen oranges of open lamp fire. Curaisses made of human bone, hauberks of toughened tanned leather. Plates of mangled steel reforged to masks. There was a baseball bat, a bundle of old beer bottles wrapped together at the neck by rigid steel wire. A cool wind crawled through the open windows, the trophies and ornaments danced in the breeze. The swaying dance of the loot rattled out broken notes from glass and dull metal. The sound was hollow, soulless. Heralding the death of their owners passed, or their own enslavement or conversion to the proper way.
It was a sign of purity.
At the heart of the room atop a red rug stained by centuries of irradiated rainwater, blood, grime, and other refuse stood a bowl of fire, propped atop a cone of spears and rifles slung and branded together to form the cup which the bowl sat atop of. The fire inside burned low but hot. The red coals bathing the chamber in a dull glow, joining with the rest of the lights. Putting aside silky shadows. Despite the cool ocean breeze the entire room glowed as if it were the height of a summer afternoon.
A man stood at the fire's side. Broad of shoulder and towering above the brazier much like the city did its residents. Though far more full than the skyscrapers that surrounded him, he gazed down into the licking tongues of flame. His face a dance between contempt and meditative calmness. He frowned into the fire from underneath his great chocolate beard, hand held out over the lapping blades of flame.
He watched the iron rings on his fingers glow with the captured light of the illuminating fire underneath. He felt the beating heat of the flames bleed through the metal, warming it against his thick scarred fingers. More than a few old tattoos shone dimly in the light. Many he had tried to remove himself. Some with more success than others. White blotches and lines ran crisscrossed across the back and palm of his hand. Some scars though were less precise, being more gouges deep into the skin.
He had found the light. For once his eyes were open to the world. He could see and he could understand. This ancient city was his kingdom, and he could see it all. He was no longer shrouded by the veil of his next hit. Or the consuming desire for whiskey. The old tattoos that had been buried into his skin was too great a reminder of those days, and he had sought for years to remove them. But many more remained.
He turned over his hand, sighing. His wide barrel chest rising under his loose fitting clothes. A mismatched series of animal hides and old-world clothes. It was hard to tell – if impossible – to know if the patches was an attempt to fill in damage inflicted on one set or the other. Were the dark-gray patches of an old suit the repair job for a suit of fur? Or was the fur the attempt to fix a once gray business suit?
Outside a roll of thunder echoed in the distance. The powerful figure looked up to watch the sky between the towers light up. Scattering bands of electricity shot through the clouds. Creating a white spiderweb against the dark gray of a storm. The air was already smelling salty and wet. The storm wasn't unexpected.
Against the glowing neon of the storm the skeleton network of scaffolds and cables flashed. The slow deconstruction of old New York. To clear it out, and build for the new. Somewhere in the far distance men should be surveying the streets outside of the great Central Park, now a desolate desert in the heart of an ancient city, it had become a glorified shanty town. The Central Boulevard they called it. New Jerusalem some others referred to it by. To this man, the first King Solomon in many a millennium it was the front yard, and the great boulevard for a grand design to tower the generations and signal a great rebirth in his adoptive kin. Even from his vantage point he could look out into the darkness and see the flickering bonfires that marked that community.
The thunder cracked again. From the far-side of the room there was a hard knock against metal. Solomon looked up to the chamber entrance, two heavy slabs of sheet metal.
“Come in.” Solomon boomed. His voice was as wispy as the wind, dry as the dust that blew from the inland.
The large steel doors swung open, letting in a small scrawny figure. A tattered and greasy black suit clung tightly to his pale flaking skin. A patchy beard fell from his skin in much the same way flakes of skin peeled back to show the tough leathery muscle underneath. His whole body looked and felt to be giving off a dull heat. A large heavy hat crowned his head, sharp eyes peered out from underneath in sunken, wide sockets.
“Milton.” Solomon said, nodding his head to the slouching ghoul. His mangled feet plodding along the floor as he walked across to the appointed king.
“What do I need to know now?” Solomon asked, looking back into the fire. Pulling his hand back.
“I'm merely hear to schmooze, don't get too anxious.” the old ghoul said, his voice dry as he cracked a waning smile. His sunken eyes looked up to Solomon, a mystified expression of sorrow and pride glowed within them. All the same, he kept his distance, keeping Solomon beyond the edge of his dull aura.
“Then talk.” Solomon bid.
The old ghoul nodded. Yet he kept silent. His jerky tongue licked the roof of his mouth as he looked slack jawed into the fire.
“I've been reminiscing.” he said finally. His tone low and darkened, “I walk the streets these days and look up at the sky-scrapers and apartments I once walked between as a boy on my home from home to the synagogue. They were so clear and crystal in those days, the sun would shine off the glass and for a time you could forget the world was shit. And I suppose I was one of a rarity of New Yorkers then, I looked up. Or maybe we all did, but it just took the world to crumble for us to notice that the city we knew went missing from the second-floor up.
“Now when I look up I see blocks covered in a tangle of scaffolding as we take the city apart piece by piece, with whatever we got. I understand full well why we do it. But I'm over two-hundred years old now shim-shin, so I can't help but kvetch.”
“Well why? Why not look ahead?” Solomon asked.
Milton smiled, “You may have adopted us to you, and the rest of the community has adopted you. But there's a lot haven't learned. You're not fully Jewish.”
Solomon shot the old ghoul a offended look. “Don't worry about it!” Milton said, laughing, “It's not like I'm not used to it. I find your choice to convert endearing and attempts at keeping us alive a compliment.
“But have you heard the story of the old Jew?”
Solomon rose an eyebrow, looking at him with piercing brown eyes. “There are hundred of stories I've heard of old Jews. Which one?”
“Yes, the one with the old man. We're a people of many old men. It comes with being an old race!” Milton laughed, “But there was once an old Jew taking a long voyage. On the voyage he complained: 'Oy vey, oy vey am I thirsty. Am I thirsty!'
“It was so heavy that the people with him gave him water and he was satisfied. As they continued he complained again, “Oy vey, oy vey was I thirsty! Oy, was I thirsty!
“You see shim-shin, it's a thing we all do. We all kvetch.”
“I don't get it.” Solomon replied.
“Get what?”
“Why did the old man not carry his own water?”
The ghoul sighed, “Because who the fuck knows.” he chuckled, “Obviously it is no longer the era such stories will be funny.”
“What was the time like before the bombs?” asked Solomon.
Milton smirked, “Pretty great.” he said, “They said we owned everything.”
“Everything?”
“Well that's what they said.” Milton shrugged, “It depends on who you asked back then. To us, well we were just trying to live like everyone else and not get beat by the cops. Or shot by Communists. We had fears like everyone else.
“My great-grandfather came to this country to escape pogroms and assured death in Europe. You don't know what Europe is, do you?”
Solomon shook his head.
“Eh, it's probably better you don't know. In any case, I imagine there's no Europe left to go back too anyways. Or as much Europe as there is America. Don't fret over it Shim-Shin.”
The vestiges and trophies of extinguished tribes and conquered raider kings hung draped from the walls of the open chamber. Alongside bent and twisted pipes from whence hung lanterns, bathing the ornaments in a broken rainbow of pale electrical blues and greens, or the warm brazen oranges of open lamp fire. Curaisses made of human bone, hauberks of toughened tanned leather. Plates of mangled steel reforged to masks. There was a baseball bat, a bundle of old beer bottles wrapped together at the neck by rigid steel wire. A cool wind crawled through the open windows, the trophies and ornaments danced in the breeze. The swaying dance of the loot rattled out broken notes from glass and dull metal. The sound was hollow, soulless. Heralding the death of their owners passed, or their own enslavement or conversion to the proper way.
It was a sign of purity.
At the heart of the room atop a red rug stained by centuries of irradiated rainwater, blood, grime, and other refuse stood a bowl of fire, propped atop a cone of spears and rifles slung and branded together to form the cup which the bowl sat atop of. The fire inside burned low but hot. The red coals bathing the chamber in a dull glow, joining with the rest of the lights. Putting aside silky shadows. Despite the cool ocean breeze the entire room glowed as if it were the height of a summer afternoon.
A man stood at the fire's side. Broad of shoulder and towering above the brazier much like the city did its residents. Though far more full than the skyscrapers that surrounded him, he gazed down into the licking tongues of flame. His face a dance between contempt and meditative calmness. He frowned into the fire from underneath his great chocolate beard, hand held out over the lapping blades of flame.
He watched the iron rings on his fingers glow with the captured light of the illuminating fire underneath. He felt the beating heat of the flames bleed through the metal, warming it against his thick scarred fingers. More than a few old tattoos shone dimly in the light. Many he had tried to remove himself. Some with more success than others. White blotches and lines ran crisscrossed across the back and palm of his hand. Some scars though were less precise, being more gouges deep into the skin.
He had found the light. For once his eyes were open to the world. He could see and he could understand. This ancient city was his kingdom, and he could see it all. He was no longer shrouded by the veil of his next hit. Or the consuming desire for whiskey. The old tattoos that had been buried into his skin was too great a reminder of those days, and he had sought for years to remove them. But many more remained.
He turned over his hand, sighing. His wide barrel chest rising under his loose fitting clothes. A mismatched series of animal hides and old-world clothes. It was hard to tell – if impossible – to know if the patches was an attempt to fill in damage inflicted on one set or the other. Were the dark-gray patches of an old suit the repair job for a suit of fur? Or was the fur the attempt to fix a once gray business suit?
Outside a roll of thunder echoed in the distance. The powerful figure looked up to watch the sky between the towers light up. Scattering bands of electricity shot through the clouds. Creating a white spiderweb against the dark gray of a storm. The air was already smelling salty and wet. The storm wasn't unexpected.
Against the glowing neon of the storm the skeleton network of scaffolds and cables flashed. The slow deconstruction of old New York. To clear it out, and build for the new. Somewhere in the far distance men should be surveying the streets outside of the great Central Park, now a desolate desert in the heart of an ancient city, it had become a glorified shanty town. The Central Boulevard they called it. New Jerusalem some others referred to it by. To this man, the first King Solomon in many a millennium it was the front yard, and the great boulevard for a grand design to tower the generations and signal a great rebirth in his adoptive kin. Even from his vantage point he could look out into the darkness and see the flickering bonfires that marked that community.
The thunder cracked again. From the far-side of the room there was a hard knock against metal. Solomon looked up to the chamber entrance, two heavy slabs of sheet metal.
“Come in.” Solomon boomed. His voice was as wispy as the wind, dry as the dust that blew from the inland.
The large steel doors swung open, letting in a small scrawny figure. A tattered and greasy black suit clung tightly to his pale flaking skin. A patchy beard fell from his skin in much the same way flakes of skin peeled back to show the tough leathery muscle underneath. His whole body looked and felt to be giving off a dull heat. A large heavy hat crowned his head, sharp eyes peered out from underneath in sunken, wide sockets.
“Milton.” Solomon said, nodding his head to the slouching ghoul. His mangled feet plodding along the floor as he walked across to the appointed king.
“What do I need to know now?” Solomon asked, looking back into the fire. Pulling his hand back.
“I'm merely hear to schmooze, don't get too anxious.” the old ghoul said, his voice dry as he cracked a waning smile. His sunken eyes looked up to Solomon, a mystified expression of sorrow and pride glowed within them. All the same, he kept his distance, keeping Solomon beyond the edge of his dull aura.
“Then talk.” Solomon bid.
The old ghoul nodded. Yet he kept silent. His jerky tongue licked the roof of his mouth as he looked slack jawed into the fire.
“I've been reminiscing.” he said finally. His tone low and darkened, “I walk the streets these days and look up at the sky-scrapers and apartments I once walked between as a boy on my home from home to the synagogue. They were so clear and crystal in those days, the sun would shine off the glass and for a time you could forget the world was shit. And I suppose I was one of a rarity of New Yorkers then, I looked up. Or maybe we all did, but it just took the world to crumble for us to notice that the city we knew went missing from the second-floor up.
“Now when I look up I see blocks covered in a tangle of scaffolding as we take the city apart piece by piece, with whatever we got. I understand full well why we do it. But I'm over two-hundred years old now shim-shin, so I can't help but kvetch.”
“Well why? Why not look ahead?” Solomon asked.
Milton smiled, “You may have adopted us to you, and the rest of the community has adopted you. But there's a lot haven't learned. You're not fully Jewish.”
Solomon shot the old ghoul a offended look. “Don't worry about it!” Milton said, laughing, “It's not like I'm not used to it. I find your choice to convert endearing and attempts at keeping us alive a compliment.
“But have you heard the story of the old Jew?”
Solomon rose an eyebrow, looking at him with piercing brown eyes. “There are hundred of stories I've heard of old Jews. Which one?”
“Yes, the one with the old man. We're a people of many old men. It comes with being an old race!” Milton laughed, “But there was once an old Jew taking a long voyage. On the voyage he complained: 'Oy vey, oy vey am I thirsty. Am I thirsty!'
“It was so heavy that the people with him gave him water and he was satisfied. As they continued he complained again, “Oy vey, oy vey was I thirsty! Oy, was I thirsty!
“You see shim-shin, it's a thing we all do. We all kvetch.”
“I don't get it.” Solomon replied.
“Get what?”
“Why did the old man not carry his own water?”
The ghoul sighed, “Because who the fuck knows.” he chuckled, “Obviously it is no longer the era such stories will be funny.”
“What was the time like before the bombs?” asked Solomon.
Milton smirked, “Pretty great.” he said, “They said we owned everything.”
“Everything?”
“Well that's what they said.” Milton shrugged, “It depends on who you asked back then. To us, well we were just trying to live like everyone else and not get beat by the cops. Or shot by Communists. We had fears like everyone else.
“My great-grandfather came to this country to escape pogroms and assured death in Europe. You don't know what Europe is, do you?”
Solomon shook his head.
“Eh, it's probably better you don't know. In any case, I imagine there's no Europe left to go back too anyways. Or as much Europe as there is America. Don't fret over it Shim-Shin.”
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