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T H E C U L T O F U G - Q U A L T O T H

Iron-Jaw Indianapolis

The attack of the Cult, had been like a wave hitting the shore during a storm. It appeared fast, crushing everything in its path, yet now as losing power quickly. With the charge gone and the shock of their attack passed, the lack of numbers and tactic quickly showed. A second wave, planning to assault from a new direction, meanwhile was fighting for dear life in the tunnels, as the mechanic fury of the brotherhood overcame flesh and teeth.
In the Chaos, the miasma fueled militants fought with fanatical devotion. When their Cutter-guns ran out of bullets, they stormed into the fight with their blades. Men having lost limbs, roared with laughter as they hacked blindly around them, while others, howling with fury, pulled out bonnets of MFC-grenades from below their armor. "PH´NGLUI SOTH!". Gore and shrapnel rained down onto the surrounding combatants, as one particularly brave militant tossed the separated head of a legionary at the arriving knights in power armor. "SHOW ME YOUR FUR..." His words were cut short, as he disintegrated into dust, before being blown away by the wind.
The monolith, the eldritch manifestation of the will of a dreaming god, had burned all fear for death from the Militants minds, yet their bodies still were mere flesh. The wave had hit the beach, its water sinking into the sand.

Iron-Jaw circled his opponent for just a second, before his gigantic riding beast reared up, snarling loudly. "I will build a second skull monolith with the legions SKULLS!" Then the two were charging at each other, the world around them turning into a chaotic mess. A horse was being mauled to death by a rat, a Bodyguard of Iron-Jaw was wrestling with a Pretorian on the ground, another bodyguard fell from his saddle as a lance had been buried into his chest by a fast rider, who in turn was jumped at by the now master less molerat-mount. It was utter chaos, and Iron-Jaw adored every single glorious detail of the surrounding slaughter. His howl tunred into the growling warcry, as he turned his mouth, stopping the charge, before jumping out of his saddle, leaping onto the horse Wrestling it to the ground, he snapped the beast neck, before stepping back. "Go on beast...feast to your hearts content!" Growling, the molerat climbed over the horse, where Iron-Jaw suspected Vulpes to be helplessly trapped below his own mount. Yet a whimpering scream, and a cut on the head of the molereat clearly showed, that he had been in the wrong. Spitting out, the Warleader pulled out two grim looking blades from his belt. "Should have just remained..." Doging from a charing Pretorian, who had lost his horse, before ramming his blade below the guard of the helmet. The mask betrayed no emotion, as the red blood of the guard flew down. Tossing the body aside, Iron Jaw spat out again, before licking the blood of the blade. "I will carve out your heart with this very blade later on...Vulpes abandoned Son of Mars!"


Captain Franklin "Franky" Kowalski Stonecroft Inn - Lobby

It all had happened in mere seconds. An order was an order, and the arrest did not seem so unrealistic, with all the madness that was going on in the IRD at the time. Securing the first floor, the men had taken position, with Kowalski even having been offered a cup of hot coffee, the first hot drink he had in weeks. Neither he, nor his men knew what to make of the situation, yet they all knew General Stone, as a man with a reputation. There could be no doubt about the truth of these allegations...or could it?

One of his men, turning on the radio in a seating area, had hoped for some music to lighten up the mood, and Sergant Miller already was making his way to deal with the man, as the News came, hitting the Lobby with more force, then a direct hit with a bomb could cause. For a few seconds, there was not a sound, as Kowalski dropped his coffee. Then his eyes moved onto the nearby policemen. He wanted to see shock on the face, the same helpless fear as he felt inside himself...yet he could see that the policemen knew!
"YOU BASTARDS!" He screamed out in fury, as the two reached for their weapons, yet the soldiers were faster. Firing quickly, before hitting the deck, the men quickly had cleared out the lobby. "Miller! Secure the door! Nobody is entering this building! Shoot, then ask questions.." Realizing the sound of fire from upstairs, Kowalski quickly rallied a handful of man, before pushing towards the stairwell.

"Hold you goddamn fire... Jackson, give me that cane...yes, that damn towel as well!" Waving the makeshift flag, the captain waited for the response, before entering the stairway. It was a risk, yet by now, he simply was to tired to care. Too much betrayal had been in the last week. "I am Captain Kowalski! Former 23th Toledo Rifles, now 3rd Windsor emergency Brigade..." A sound of steps came in behind, and in a quick turn, Kowalski raised his gun once more, aiming at one of the young troopers that been placed under his command during the long retreat north. Normally, Kowalski did his best to remember the name of all his men, yet the chaos had made it an impossible task. "Sir,HQ its gone! They blew it up.." The mouth of the captain felt dry, as for just a moment, he turned, facing the wall. His mind, soul and spirit had taken a blow, that this time was close to shattering it. They would lose the city...

The decision came, with the grim determination of a man who simply no longer had anything to lose. Turning back to the stairwell, he shouldered his rifle. "We are in this together it take...fuck it! TO HELL WITH IT!" Glaring at the door, he raised his hand to his head. "I respectfully request permission to attach myself and my men to your commander!"

"Raven Rock, this is Grand Zealot Richter with the Children of Atom. Do you copy?"

"Raven Rock, on behalf of the Children of Atom, I must speak to a representative of the Brotherhood of Steel regarding your order's return to the Capital Wasteland and your proximity to Fort Constantine. Will you comply?"

"Tell him to go to hell.." The Lioness crossed her arms, as she glared at the holo-table, watching the dots approaching. Her fingers tapped on the surface, while in the background the knight picked up the vox. "This is Knight Wong of the Brotherhood of Steel! You are entering a restricted airspace! Remove yourself from the area or we will open fire on you!" Cutting off the contact, the knight turned, as he looked at the Lioness, who picked up her own headset.

"Lance One, fire a warning shot! If the cultist keep coming, blow them up!" Her voice was cold, as her other hand kept tapping on the table below. "It will be done, Madame!" Taking a deep breath, the Lioness turned to face the monitor, waiting for the sound of the AA-Gun to fire. Deep in the bunker, it was just a muffled mumble, a the four barrels would turn from the hidden emplacement, giving way for a hail of fire onto the approaching aircraft. The fire was close, yet far enough to cause no damage, yet to underline the clarity of this warning. Knight Wong once more picked up his headset, dialing in the contact. "This is Knight Wong, this is your last warning, Grand Zealot Richter! Correct your course now, or we will blow you to kingdom come! Over and out!"

Vagari the Slave Interstate 80 -one mile east from Salt Lake City - The Sacred High-Way

The charcoal was brittle, yet still would easily move over the asphalt, as the slave was drawing the lines, muttering once more to himself, as the outline of the mid-west slowly appeared on the asphalt. "You really do it just out of your mind?" The slave did not answer for a while, before getting back on his knees and turning his rotting face to Thunderfoot. "Yes, my boy! But then again, i spend the entire first half of my life looking at books and maps. Discit in animum, etsi non anima!" Bending forward again, the slave drew the bull onto the land, before filling out the lines, marking the border of the territory of the legion. "Yo have been there! Seen coat to coast! How was it?" The slave turned, before taking a break as he got up, leaving the charcoal on the ground. "Impressive, i may say! The pacific is far larger then the Atlantic, yet you do not know that, when you look at the latter!" Thunderfoot walked past the slave, onto the map, careful not to step on the lines. "I have seen the ocean you call the pacific! It goes from horizon to horizon, yet it is a mere fraction of the size of the eternal highway in the sky! The highway my ancestors and my father roam right now, their eyes focused on me! I am scared, Vagari! I am so fucking scared of failing them..." It was not the voice Thunderfoot had, when he had rallied the 80s after his duel! It was not the voice he had when he had sat on the white-steel throne, commanding the subjugated and conquered. It was the voice of the boy he was!

"You are scared...this good!" Vagari picked up his charcoal, as he walked next to Thunderfoot, before giving him a pat on the shoulder. "How is it good to be afraid, Vagari? My father was never afraid! How can i be like him when i am scared?" For just a moment, Vagari looked at the young warchiefs face, his hand resting on his shoulder. He had his fathers hair, broad shoulders and nose, yet her eyes. "Your father, Thunderbird, was never afraid! Yet he also never cared for his men, like you do! You are the greater man, Thunderfoot, for you were afraid when you mounted your bike to the one-mile duel, yet did master you fear! There is no shame in being afraid...just in surrendering to you fear!" For a moment, Thunderfoot, did looked nothing like the moster that had his father been, but like the man Vagari had hoped, he would become! Then, the War-chief scrowled and stepped away, breaking one of the coal pieces below his boot. "No sense in talking about bravery with a slave anyway...get the damn map finished!" Walking back to his bike, Vagari looked after the boy, even as he vanished back to the smoking city, the roaring bike fading. "There is so much of you in him! I swore to you, that i would not let him become like his father...please, i am trying my best! Give me time.."

"There is a clear path for our mighty host!" The map was lightened by a fire, as twenty men glared at Thunderfoot, as he stood in the middle of the map. "By sacking Salt-Lake-City, we have truly woken the wrath of the Khan! One day, we will face him, and crush his armies..." A loud cheer rose from the men, with Shinji even letting out a long war-cry in excitement. The victory in Salt-Lake-City had woken an idea of invincibility in them, yet Thunderfoot knew better! "But this day is not today! Our host needs to grow, and like a the cunning coyote, we need to wait for the right moment to strike!" It felt like a hiss, going through the men watching him, yet Vagari could tell, that only a quarter of them really were eager for the fight, as the rest simply had to keep up the show of the warriors, not to lose face in front of their fellows. "The Khan can mobilize 15.000 men before the month reaches its end! I do not doubt your abilities as warriors...yet we will run out of ammunition before they run out of men!" A grim laughter went through the 80s, as Thunderfoot pointed at the map. "Utah and Colorado! Land of the sister of the holy I80, the I70! There, my brothers, i want to lead our horde! Into the land of the legion!"

An 80 displayed his fear differently then a normal man did. Vagari had learned how to easily read it, by watching the eyes and the hands. For it was clear to tell, that even the most veracious 80 feared the legions cross. Too bitter were the defeats of Shatter-Road who had challenged the Bull and payed the bloody price for it. "Warchief! You do not want us to fight both the Khans AND the Legion?" Thunderfoot shakes his head at the Road-Captain, as he knelt down. "The Bull is at war, and the 80s chapters at his border sniff the wind, when the bull has turned his gaze from them! We will not come as an enemy, but offer our hand in friendship...and pay tribute!" Now it was really a hiss that followed, as Shinji stepped up. "Pay tribute to the bull? Brother, do you wish us to walk down and kneel as well?" The man easily towered over the war-chief, yet Thunderfoot held firm, as he stood back up. "Sit down and let me speak, Shinji! Or have you forgotten about the hostages i have taken? For i will not kneel before the Bull, but offer him a deal of honor! Tribute in slaves and caps...for us to pass through his land, and deal with the problem of the 80s that will soon rise for them! If they accept, we will release our hostages one by one...if not, we will nail them to crosses for all of the legion to see!"

There was a silence among the 80s, staring at Thunderfoot in the light of the fire. "Pack up what you can find in the city, then burn the rest! I want that the Khans will have nothing to re-supply on, when they come past here! We will leave before the week ends! You..." His eyes moved towards Vagari. "You and ten of my best warriors will ride towards the border! The Legion has a chief at Redmond, who was born as one of us, yet became legion when he was taken! You speak their tongue and i trust you more with your skills in rhetoric then anyone else in the world!"

The ghoulish crew of the Eisernes Grab, earned little more then a glare, as they marched through the crowded streets of the harbor city of Bermuda, nor did their good Kapitän. Roaring men and women, chanting, drinking and cursing, pushes past them, from and to the countless ships at the water. It was a mixed and rowdy bunch, a wild spectrum of the scum of the sea, the pirates of the post-apocalypse, the children of the new golden age of piracy, with nations spread all over the map, rich trade and lacking navies!
Dark skinned Caribbean Cosairs, pushed shoulder to shoulder, with grim slavers of the monolith, who crossed paths with Freebooters of the Key republic. Island Hoppers, mixed with Scrappers and Scavangers, pilgrims and whores...all who traveled the sea up to no good, ended washing up in Bermuda.

Yet the Kaptain was not looking for what every other pirate would come to Bermuda. And while his men tickled away behind him, his pace steady, as the imposing figure, in the ancient attire had little trouble making himself a way. "If Herr Kaptiän does not mind the question..." The first mate, Johann Wagners rough voice, had trouble reaching the Kaptiäns ear, who did not slow his pace. " does look like a trap to me! Besides it has been more then 200 years." The Kapitän did not bother to respond, as the two remained, the rest of the crew having left them, to enjoy their rewards and spoils on shore leave! For it was not their revenge, for only the two had been there, down in the depth, cursing the name of the traitor who had sold them so long ago. "It could have been two thousand years, Johann! I have made my peace with the British, i have my peace with the Hansa...Gott, i even made my peace with the bloody Frogs! But there will be a cold day in hell, Herr Kaleun, that i will forgive a traitor!"

The damp room was small, so that the Kapitän had to bow his head, even while sitting, as the bend over figure in front of him, dreamy turned the spoon in his tea. "You have returned sooner then i have expected, Captain! I take it you, you have what i desired to trade the information for?" The broker looked up, his eyes hidden behind the thick glasses, milky from the steam of the tea. Picking the mug up, he took a short sip, before letting out a long sigh. "A high price i asked for, yes, but this information is pre-war you see! Hard to come by, even for a man of my reach and abilities!" The frown on the Kapitäns face did not vanish, as he reached for the pocket of his coat, pulling out the papers, packed away in a envelope of leather. "You are a man of class, for you didnt even try to insult me, by offering money! So many make this mistake and wake my ire!" The small hands of the impish broker snatched the envelope from the Pirates hand. The eyes, most likely rushed over the papers, a wicked grin moving onto the impish brokers face. "Mhhh...moves in the great games of the old world! Answers to secrets yet to be asked...and truths that are to be denied for the good of all! Very well! But are you really sure, that you wish to follow this path? For it will lead you to a continent ripe with war and death!"
The Kapitän grunted, as he leaned closer to the impish broker. "I have send the last three years, hunting down your price! I do not fear death, nor war. The sole thing i fear, is that this man will have died, yet not by my hand! So...has be perished in the nuclear flames? Or is he still out there, a wretched figure of a century long gone? Tell me where Stanislav is, Broker and do it now! I have hold my part of the bargin!"

The smile faded from the brokers lips, as he placed the papers back on the table, then finished his tea. "He is alive. Like you, he has endured the centuries, like you, he was locked away in a coffin and like you, he has been liberated from it! The man you seek, is in the land that once was the USA! A wanderer, on the look for someone himself, has unleashed him back onto this world, yet where he is now...

"...gib mir deine ne Hand! Deine fleischige Hand! Leb wohl, mein Schatz, lebe wohl... The men of the Eisernes Grab were chanting loudly in the Tavern, roaring out in the rush of life that came into them, when ever they made it into Port, with their pockets full of cash and the ship filled with bounty! Few cared about their strange tongue, and outlandish attire, when they were so lavish in their spending and so eager to share a drink. ...den wir fahren...den wir fahren...gegen Engeland!" Glasses were raised and a loud cheer went through the mass of ghoul pirates, as the door suddenly was pushed open, and a huge silhouette appeared in the door. Then, the booming voice of the first mate broke the rejoice. "STAND AT ATTENTION YOU DOGS! SHORE LEAVE HAS BEEN CANCELLED! REPORT ALL TO THE SHIP....WE ARE SETTING COURSE FOR AMERICA!"
T H E C U L T O F U G - Q U A L T O T H

Iron-Jaw Indianapolis

The warriors that the cult now mustered, were as different from the raiders Iron-Jaw once had lead out of the Pitt against the Scrapper-Union, as steel was to copper. For Iron-Jaw had seen the army of the Cult turn from the very rabble that had fallen like flies in Indianapolis, into a force that did not need to hide from the legion or the brotherhood of steel! In Cleveland, the warriors of the cult had been fearsome, yet then they had been without the monolith. Nowaday, each and every warrior had layed his eyes on the black stone, heard the whispers in the back of their mind and taken deep breath of the Miasma.

For raiders could not lay hidden, while their gang was picked apart, tormented and broken on crosses. Fear would overtake them, stripping them of their will to fight. They would crush under the burden of war, like vermin facing a true beast. A strong enough master, willing to use exessive force, could hold them in place, yet in the end, they never would be reliable to fight or follow orders in a true war. They were rats, while a Cult warrior was a half-mad dog on a leash. Wild, mad and unbroken, yet only half so. He could march, follow orders and think like a soldier. It was only when he was cut lose, his lungs filled with the miasma and his fury would overtake him, that his commander was no longer his master. He was a wild beast at this point, yet also the most effective shock infantryman short of a man in power armor or a super mutant! With the Miasma in his lungs, he no longer cared about wounds, the concept of mercy as alien to him as any thought short of cutting his enemies throat.

Had Iron-Jaw five thousand, he knew he could retake this city! The narrow streets with its ruins and tunnels were familiar ground, their ground. The warriors would fall onto the Legionaries in ways that would make their discipline and formations nearly useless, before hacking them down like lambs to the slaughter. It would have been a mighty slaughter, bringing honor to the monolith and the prophet, yet Iron-Jaw had only four-hundred men...

The Legonaries turned, yet not fast enough, as the giant molerat came upon them. A rain of claws and fangs came down on them, as the rider broke out behind it, from the rubble that had hidden the entrance to the tunnels below. ""PH´NGLUI SOTH! SLAUGHTER THEM ALL!"" A machete collided with the Warleaders armor, as Iron-Jaw turned, ramming his head against the Legonaries, the wet noise of a shattering nose filling the air, before he leaned over him, ripping open his throat with a ferocious bite of his iron jaw. The taste of blood send a shiver down his spine, as around him, his warriors broke out from the holes and tunnels. His hands twiched to join them, as he heard the screams, the warcries and the roaring of their cutter guns, unloaded on the ambushed. His own mount, snarlled as it feasted on the two corpses below it, ripping out pieces of bloody meat from the legonaries it had crushed below its paws. It would be so easy to join into the slaughter, fight and die with the warriors..

For Iron-Jaw had not taken the Miasma, his mind remaining cool and clear. There was no victory in Indiapolis, not for him, or his men. Their assault would take them by surprise, if none of the raiders had talked too early, which he was certain they would, but the moment their Miasma would run out, their exaughtion would set in and their momentum would be lost, their deaths were certain!

A grin moved over his bloodied lips, as he looked at his warriors, coming upon the legionaries and soldiers of the brotherhood from holes and rubble, tunnels and sinkholes. Firing down from the upper levels, while others charged forward, sharp machetes in hand. Others already had found themselves in bloody melee, their re-breathers filling their lungs with the blessed Miasma and their hearts with mindless fury. One was ramming his cutter, fixed with a bayonet over and over into the belly of a Brotherhood soldier, while another rider of a giant Molerat was breaking out from the entrance of a building, its beast snarling out loudly, while he lashed left and right. Across the street, he could see a bundle of grenades being tossed down, into a confused mass of soldiers, who were reduced to ash in the explosion of green fire.
For the first time in the war, both Legion and Brotherhood were facing the real soldiers of the cult. No mad cultists, fearful raiders or half-hearted raiders, but the warriors who had pledged their souls in front of the holy monolith itself. Armed and trained in the holy city itself and veterans of the war of the capital wasteland. More MFC grenades flew through the air, engulfing the ambushed enemy in flames of green fire, before more warriors broke out from a ruin, where the rabble had been placed to hide an opening to the sewers. Soldiers trying to pull their wounded comrades to safety were hacked down from behind, while two who tried to surrender in pure panic were beaten to death with their own weapons.

Iron-Jaw could watch the mayhem till its end, when the enemy would rally fully, and push back his men, where they would be isolated and cut down. It would be a triumphant death, a last show of force...yet he was not to die yet! The Prophet would need him, and fresh troops would wait for him with the main cult army! Wiping the blood from his face, Iron Jaw mounted his giant Molerat, before turning it over. He had chosen a handful of companions for his way back to the main army, a small guard of veteran warriors, reliable and seasoned, all on mounts . The beasts could easily make way over impassible rubble and so the group quickly vanished away from the madness, lead by the Warleader, who with a heavy heart cursed his duty to the prophet. A single, measly kill in such a battle, was nothing that would bring him any honor...

Rumbling down a slope, and through a burned out ruin, they once more were on a side street, yet Iron-Jaw could hear a noise above them. A noise he knew well from the campaign in the capital wasteland. "Watch the sky, brothers a..."

Then, for a moment, the incredible happened. Iron Jaws group, halted to watch the sky for the Vertibird, suddenly heard a noise near them and as they turned their heads, a group of horsemen came past them. The snarling of their own Molerat mounts made them easy to spot, and for just a moment, both groups just glared at each other. Then Iron Jaw broke out into a wide, bloody smile.. They were outnumbered by the horsemen, yet their mounts would not be used to the sight of gigantic, hairless rats, bloody and terrifying! Their riders were little less fearsome, their heavy metal armor decorated with spikes, skulls and other body parts, while their faces where half hidden behind rebreathers and helmets, equally decorated with spikes.


So they charged, howling like demons, waving their blades in an clear challenge, lead by Iron-Jaws blood smeared bold head.

Lieutenant Colonel Henry J. Stone Windsor - East Coast of the Detroit River

"Dear Natalia,
when you will hear this recording, i will had done a terrible, yet necessary deed, that will most likely will see my name forever become a synonym for treason. Future generations will denounce me as the man who stabbed our republic in its back, when it was on its knees, an legacy i will rightly deserve. As such, this explanation, will be just for your ears, my beloved daughter, not to justify my deeds, but so that you may find peace, in understanding why your father, did what he had to do! I hope, that one day, you may see things with my eyes, maybe even forgive me for my actions tonight!

I share the blame on the pitiful state of our republic! We could have been the beacon of hope and prosperity, in this sea of darkness. We could have put an end to brotherhood-technocratic tyranny and debased religious madness...but we didnt! We remained idle, grew far and heavily believed that our old might would keep any invader at bay. Our army, the one i served my entire life with pride, turned into a menagerie of nepotism and internal rivalry, resting on old victories against long forgotten foes.
I came into my post, hoping to reform and renew our army, only to myself, grew tired in this struggle. I cant even start to tell you, how high my hopes were, for Traowski! She could have saved our republic...if only she had time to do so!

Now, we reap the fruited of our inaction. Our republic bleeds and our cities run red with the blood of heroes! I tried to look the mothers, wives and children in the eye, telling them that their loved ones died heroically, yet i know the truth! I have seen the other side of the Detroit river...
I will not waste a single man more...

The cult cant fight a war against the whole world! The Brotherhood, and their barbarian allies from the south, are in this war, stretching their lines to an far degree. They need peace as much as we do! Traowski of cause would never agree to such an act, for she is a noble soul, brave...yet blind! For this war is over! Our forces are spread out too far and its only a matter of time, until our old enemies will rally behind this opportunity to fully crush our republic!

The price will be high! We will lose all land south of Toledo, tribute will have to be payed and their vile missionaries will be granted full access to our land. I am not so naive to believe that they dont have ways to enforce such an peace, and will try to make sure that we will never get back up on our feet, yet i know this republic! We will recover from this, we will return back from the dust! Then...then we will pay back the cult for their invasion! It is our only chance!

Tonight, i will lead a coup against the goverment of this republic. Men and women who´s loyal friend i have been for most of my life, will die on my order tonight. Their resolve not to surrender...their death sentence! May god forgive me and have mercy on my soul!
As dictator, i will only negotiate a peace, before stepping down and surrender myself to who ever wishing to take up the mantle of the hands will not lead it. I pray, that my execution may at least sate the anger for this war.

I deeply love you, my dear Natalie, just as you mother did, when she was still alive. I beg you to stay in Buffalo and to change your name. This is my treason, my crime, and i shall bear the guilt alone..

Your loving father,
Henry Janus Stone

Shots rang in the distance, as the smell of smoke was over the city. Martial Law was active, as refugees clocked up the streets, while national guard milita tried to create something resembling order. "FORM SINGLE LINES! ALL MEN FROM THE AGE 16 TO 45 ARE TO RAISE THEIR HANDS FOR DRAFTING! MARTIAL LAW CODE 23B IS ACTIVE! PLEASE COOPERATE!" Chaos was the answer, as families held onto their sons, husbands fathers, before a single shot into the sky returned the mass back to order. Am officer, slim and tired, with an revolver in hand took his helmet of his head. "We need every man in the city under arms...damn, every woman and child as well! NOW GET A MOVE ON! WE HAVE A WAR TO WIN!"
Rows of soldiers walked passed them, towards the fire and death at the river. "THE CULT HAS CROSSED THE RIVER! THEY WILL KILL US ALL!" A voice shouted, as once more chaos threatened to break out, yet a quick smash with the riflebut into the mans face, brought silence back. Once more the Officer grunted out an order, before climbing onto the back of a truck. "THE RIVERFRONT HOLDS! THE CULT HAS NOT CROSSED THE RIVER! REINFORCEMENTS ARE ON THE WAY! DETROIT IS NOT LOST YET!"

General Stone saw all that from the top of the building, as he once more guided his cigarette to his mouth. Once, this had been a proud staff house of the scavenging union, yet with the cult approaching, he had taken the building as his personal staff headquarter. Here he would endure the night of his treason, his finally attack on his own beloved nation. The smoke felt bitter in his lungs, as he heard the step from behind, the adjutant quickly rushing towards him. "Sir, it is time! Do we have your conformation for tonight orders?"
Tossing the smoke over the edge of the building, Stone glared into the distance. Refugees, soldiers and the distant battle along the river, where the Cult wanted to cross the river. There was no victory here...not at this place, not at this time.

"You have my confirmation! The operation is a go!"

Captain Franklin "Franky" Kowalski Windsor - East Coast of the Detroit River

The chaos on every level of the state-house was a mirroring of the chaos in the city. Officers and soldiers were rushing through the corridors, knocking on doors and quickly leaving, realizing that they had the wrong room. The static of radios was everywhere, as men blindly shouted at each other. Kowalski no longer had an ear for any of it.
The tiredness burned in his eyes, as he was still wondering when the last time had been he had slept more then an hour. It must had been before the battle of Toledo. Since then, hasty retreats, as the leadership had been unable to form any kind of real front, after the much famed and trusted "border garrison" had collapsed like a house of cards. It had taken days, until the high command even had realize the size of the Cult invasion, as it had seemed, that information had been actively delayed or even altered. Before Toledo had fallen, Kowalski had even learned that half the garrison had been send down the I75, to "combat an arriving raider force". This, and the incredible speed of the enemy, made it clear, that this could have not been a simple one-sided invasion. Once, Captain Kowalski had almost a hundred men under his command, now, his twenty-seven men were huddled together in front of the state house, silent and tired. Like him, they still could not believe it, that Detroit had fallen...

Even for a man of his size, close to six feet and four inches, it was hard to make himself a way. He recalled some faces, either from long ago, bright and friendly, or from the last week, pale and fallen in. Many were wounded, bandages around their heads. One man, his face so coated in bandages, that he looked more like a mummy then a human, kept slamming his hand against a locked door. "I aint leaving until i get my damn ammunition! My boys are dying out there..." Kowalski frowned, as he pressed himself past him. "ITS ALL YOUR DAMN FAULT! YOU INCOMPETENT BASTARDS!" A kick followed against the door, as two soldiers rushed towards the bandaged officer. Kowalski pushed on, he had to get back onto the street.

Hundreds waited outside of the statehouse, screaming out their demands or pleads at the occupants inside. Civilians demanding to know where their family-members were, men and women demanding to be armed and soldiers, venting out their anger. The city was close to mutiny, and only the president could hold it together. Kowalski had to force himself not to look anyone in the eyes, as he pushed through, crossing the street, to what had remained of his platoon. Twenty Seven men...

"Look Alive! New orders from HQ!" The tired bodies groaned, as they huddled back on their feet, holding onto their rifles and staring with empty eyes at the captain. "There is a Brotherhood Big-Wig in town, and we are to..." The sound of a loud explosion caused a major ruckus around them, as the civilians screamed, yet none of the soldiers even blinked. "Not the river, sir?" The gruff voice of Sargent Miller snapped in. "Not the river boys.." In some faces, Kowalski could spot relive, while others glared in silent anger. It burned on his lips, to tell the men the truth, that there simply was not enough supply in the city, as seemingly nonsensical orders had stripped the garrison and the way to the capital clean of supplies, capable officers and fresh troops. Treason had killed the republic. "We are to secure the hotel, protect the street and make sure that he does not leave the premise..."


OOC Page 1, Post one and two! Cant miss it!

Hey mate!
You can check out the nation's in the Characters tab, yet some of them are no longer played! Why don't you join us on our discord?

Thunderfoot Interstate 80 - Salt Lake City - The Airport Fortress

"The son of Thunderbird, bandit, looter and enemy of the Khan!" Thunderfoot groaned in pain, as he felt the kick against his wounded knee, forcing him down onto the ground, and leaving him with a pumping pain, where the sickle of the trike had cut his flesh. Twenty men stood behind him, seven 80s member warriors, proudly wearing the holy blue sign on their chests, their war-clubs in their belts and their guns or spears resting easy in their hands. The rest were Khan warriors, broad and tall, wearing the leather armor of the great Khans, the fancy Pickelhaube and Bandanas wrapped around their neck and mouths.
Close to a hundred people were in the hall, yet most of them where followers and khan officals, counting caps, keeping books, or feasting on the long table of Jessup, master of Salt-Lake City. Some had shouted insults at him, as he had been dragged into the halls, yet it was late at night, so most had retired to feasting and drinking anyway, seeing him as little more then an additional entertainment.
Breathing heavily, he felt his hands bound behind his back, as his head had been lowered in front of the master of Salt Lake City, Jessup, who rested on his throne of white metal deep in the halls of the fortress. The old men of the market claimed, that the metal once was part of gigantic birds, that flew in the sky, carrying people in their belly, yet few believed such foolish rumors. After all, how could a bird be made from metal? "He thought he could buy our loyalty, mighty chief, yet we have taken the Khans gasoline, and sworn oaths to your leader! "

The chief on his throne snorted, before tapping his fingers on the armrest of his throne. Thunderfoot could spot the marks on his arm, scars on his veins and the bloodshot eyes. Leader or not, this man was a slave to the needle, like so many khans were. "He didnt met your price is what you really want to say, aye? Well, matters not! You done well by bringing him here. Papa Khan himself has been rather infuriated about the constant assaults on caravans under his protection. Bringing him the head of this bandit will sate his anger! How do you want your payment? Gasoline, Caps, Ammunition...?" Thunderfoots eyes wandered over the court of this petty king, while his disgust grew. Once the Khans had been a gang to be feared, yet now his eyes fell of fat bellies, lecherous men and bureaucrats of the "Follow of the Apocalypse", who hushes along, scribbling on terminals and measuring profits from the trade hub.

Cockroaches, occupying the sacred highway, soft and decadent! Feasting of fresh brahmin beef, drinking heavily and filling the hall with smoke. Little did they knew, that they had brought in the end to their ways, blind to the trap. "Blood!" Thunderfoot jumped on his feet, the bounds falling from his arms, held open with wire, as he pulled out the dagger from the sleeve of his jacket. "Guards!" Jessup screamed, yet the very warriors who had brought him in, raised their guns, yet their aim was on their fellow Khans. Their thunder filled the hall, as screams came with them, with men and women alike ducking for cover, yet most where cut down in the hail of flashing bullets, spewed from the thunderdrums and thunderpumps. Some fell, screaming in pain, clutching onto wounds, as the chaos broke out in the hall. Yet Thunderfoot only had one target, as he crossed the distance to the throne, before burying the blade in Jessups side. Taking hold of his gray hair, he turned him around, the blade now on his throat.

"Order your man to stand down! NOW!" Jessup gasped in terror, croaking out something, yet nobody even noticed his attempt at forming worlds. While the Followers ducked for cover, tossing over tables, caps and papers alike rolling over the floor, some Khans returned fire. One of the Khan warriors, that had brought in Thunderfoot fell over, the helmet falling of, exposing an 80s Mohawk below. With a sigh, Thunderfoot slashed the Master of Salt Lake City´s throat, before tossing him over. "THE ETERNAL HIGHWAY CALLS FOR US!"

The following battle inside the halls was bloody, as the close spaces did not allow for an reload, as both Khans and Mem-bar warriors clashed with enldess fury. Yet Thunderfoots men stood with the back to the wall, in the middle of the enemy camp. There was no way out for them, and their bravery was born out of desperation. Their bellies were empty and their future misty. The khans had places to run to...

Barring the door, Thunderfoot looked at the mass of Follower hostages, and wounded Khans, while his stomach turned, as he looked at his own losses. Five of his group, including him, had remained without wounds. His heart pounded, as he turned to Burned-her-hair, who held onto his bloody club, his back against the barred door. "Keep this door closed and barred, even if the whole NCR army wants to break it open, you hear me?" Not sure if Burned-her-hair was able to hear anything anymore, he moved pass him, towards the wounded that kept the hostages in check, penned in the middle of the hall. "You think you will get away with this boy? Papa Khan will roast you on small fires for weeks! We still have a thousand men in this city!" Thunderfoot stopped, glaring at the speaker, a wounded Khan, whom a young Follower was bandaging. "You even old enough to shave, you whelp? You think you can take the city with 20 men?"

Walking in, Thunderfoot went down on one knee, to look the warrior into the face, before slowly shaking his head. "No, not with 20...but with 500!"

Shinji / Interstate 80 - Salt Lake City - The Western Gates

The sound of alarm had been the sign Shinji had been waiting for. Entering with the Vanguard that had brought Thunderfoot as a captive into the town, they had stayed near the gates, in local taverns, watering holes and shadowy corners, making sure that nobody was getting to close, to spot the holes and blood sports on their leather jackets. The loud sound of large metal plates being beaten with hammers, and Khan warriors Jumping to their feet, made Shinji rally his men with nods and signs. The traders and civilians of the city, fearful of the alarm quickly closed their shops, and retreated into their homes, barring doors and shutting windows. Far of children were crying, as men rushed pass the group, that made their way to the gate.

Huddled around a fire-barrel, a group of warriors and guards was posted, who slowly turned to the arriving warriors. "Halt! Gate is closed during states of alarm! What the hell is going on in the fortress?" Shinji grinned below his bandana, as he stepped closer. "You got problems with your ears, man? What is go..." Shinji´s fist smashed into the face of the leader, filling the silence of the shock with a wet sound of a nose breaking and a jaw being smashed. Head first, the leader stumbled backwards, tossing over the fire-barrel, as the 80s threw away their looted Khan Jackets.

80s Mem-bar warriors lacked the pure endurance and traditions of honorable close combat of the Khans, who´s martial abilities were famous across all of west america. Yet they had the surprise on their side! The roaring warcry of the infiltrators hailed through the night, as they came upon the guardians of the gate, flashing daggers and clubs. Fools all over america, never having layed eyes on battles, may have illusions about the "honor of close-combat", yet a mere glare on the vicious brawl for the western gates, would kill any such notions. Shinji was the first on the wall, after tossing one of the guards down from it, onto the dusty street below, where he remained for a second, trying to get up, before a 80 jumped onto him, cutting his throat with a roaring cry. "OPEN THE GATES YOU FOOLS!" Shinji bellowed out his order, as he pulled out the signal from his belt. The Flare-gun was old, the red plastic brittle. Aiming for the sky, he fired the signal into the night, looking away, as a blazing star was born, red like the morning sun. Down below, and on the walls, the flare gave light to brutal melee below, exposing men in the dance of death, slashing and cutting, punching and choking. Then, the croaking of the gate, as the mighty wings opened...

Then, from the distant far, a second flare, fired up, giving light to the horde. Hundreds of bikes, roaring loudly along the sacred highway, ready to retake their birthright! Shinji tossed the flare away, as he glared down, seeing new Khan warriors arrive, only to freeze on the sight of the mighty dust cloud, drenched in red by the flare above, speedily making its way to the gate. With them, came the warcry of the 80s, the imitation of an engine, with one battle-cry mixed in: "COAST TO COAST!"

The 80s were upon Salt-Lake City!

Thunderfoot Interstate 80 - Salt Lake City - The Airport Fortress

Resting on the throne of white metal, the new master of Salt Lake city, glared down onto the rows of captives, that were brought into the halls, guarded by Mem-bar warriors. Thunderfoots men were loaded with loot, be it new weapons, armor or trinkets. Most proudly presented their loot, proclaiming their bravery and the men they had slain, while others relied on the younger warriors to watch the saddle bags of their bikes. Yet there was a typ of loot, that was far harder to take stock off. For Thunderfoot had allowed each Mem-bar warrior to take two slaves from the population of Salt-Lake City...with a few exceptions!

The head of Jessup, an expression of terror on the pale face, was resting on the third step up to the throne of white metal, with most of the captives trying to evade the dead glare of the head. Most of them were traders, hailing from the realm of the bull, the city of light and sin, the great republic and the Brotherhood-land, be it the one in the east or the one in the north. A few had wanted to raise protest, yet a particular brave trader from Reno, had met his end, after insulting one of the guarding warriors one time to many. "I have given orders to have you be spared from slavery and allow you free passage from this city, when we will leave it behind! I lay claim to all your goods, your cattle and any ammunition you carry, if you hail from the NCR! Take solace in the fact, that i let you leave with your wives and children, not putting the leash on their necks as would be my right by conquest!" A storm of angry shouts came up, yet a shot into the air silenced the captives. "They, who hail from the city of sin and lights, may give up half their goods to my Mem-bar warriors, who would otherwise murder you, steal your goods and enslave families!" Raising up, Thunderfoot crossed his arms, as he looked down on the mass. "All, who are from the realm of the Bull or the Realm of Steel, are to give up 500 caps or 100 pieces of ammunition or a gallon of gasoline as a tribute ! If you can bring up neither, a tribute of equal value is accepted! All of you, are to tell that the 80s are here to reclaim their birthright, that is our sacred highway! Respect this right, and Thunderfoot, son of Thunderbird, will be your friend! Deny it, and your home shall share the fate of Salt Lake City!"

The 80s in the hall broke out in a loud cheer over this, hailing and crying out. "THE ETERNAL HIGHWAY! COAST TO COAST!" The traders took the news differently. Some seemed glad to be spared the fate of slavery, like the mass of huddled figures in the pens outside the fortress, yet other grimly glared, whispering curses. "For the children of Joseph Smith among you, you will have found no hostility from my Mem-ber Warriors during the raid! This was by my express order, for i wished your lives to be spared. Yet, i demand a single tribute from you..."

Iron-Jaw Indianapolis


The scum that had manned the improvised artillery broke down in panic, as the gun next to them had been turned into a bloody mist and scrap metal, while shrapnel from the explosion had cut down three of them. Dropping the powder and scrapped explosive, the cultists, raiders and mutants almost had made a run for it, before the Pack-master jumped to it. Two strong hands reached for a raiders head, before with a loud, wet "SNAP" he broke his neck and tossed him away. Cracking his knuckles, the cult warrior stared at the faithless, the metal of his chestplate glittering bloody, and his cutter gun hanging loosly over his shoulders. "I kill every little bastard who tries to make a run for it, now back to your posts!"
One of the more brave souls, a dusty and bloody raider, stormed forward, a pipe in his hand, trying to smash the cult warrior over his head, yet he was faster. His sharp gauntlet connected with the unprotected belly of the raider, and tore it open, before he interlocked the arm of the scum, and broke it with an equally loud snapping noise. Bleeding and groaning, this display of violence and brutallity restored order quickly, and moments later, the crude barrel mortar once more fired back at the advancing legion and Brotherhood..

A grain of sand, trying to stop a flood!

The giant riding molerat scraped hard over the ground below, its sharp claws scratching over the asphalt of the old parking building, as the Iron-Jaw made his way up the parking building. Behind him, his loyal warriors marched, men who had been with him when they had crushed the Überboss of Fredricksburg, felled the lone-tree republic and burned the capital wasteland to the ground. Another explosion, rather closed, shaked the building and for a moment, the molerat hissed in fear, almost standing up, so that the Iron-jaw gave its rings, connecting the leash to the beasts flesh, a hard tug, that restored its balance. Finally, his group reached the roof, and what he saw made him grind his good teeth over his iron ones.

Far down below, he could see the enemy advance, the ad-hoc defenders of this town no match for legion discipline and Brotherhood firepower. "First wave and this scum already breaks...shameful display!" If he had half the men, but proper cult warriors, he would make the enemy bleed for every step. The roaring guns of the Pitt would return death and destruction onto the bombardiers, the trenches would turn red, as the legionaries would met the hardened veterans of the Capital-wasteland and even the Republic wars, fighting in enclosed spaces, man against man, while roaring marauder tanks would return fire. Yet, all he had was the cultists that had flocked to the banner of the missonaires, and the army of Overboss Lee. And Iron-Jaw found them wanting...

The Overboss was strolling around the deck of the parking-building like a mad chicken, barking orders, and tearing on his hair. "THEY ARE RUNNING! WHY ARE THEY RUNNING! TELL THEM TO STAND AND FUCKING FIGHT...AHHHH!" Iron-Jaw snarrled at the sound of fear in the Raiders voice, as the man turned, glaring at the arriving cult warriors, outnummbering the raiders on the roof. "About fucking time! Your men need to attack now! We need to fight a way out of the city now!" Another explosion came down, this time tearing into a nearby building, and the overboss almost fell over. "There will be no retreat, the prophet has ordered me to hold this city, and this i will do! Your men are lacking faith and spirit, yet the sickness of cowardliness starts at the head of an army.." The head of the Raiderboss turned deep red, as he stepped towards the mount of Iron-Jaw. "Listen here you weirdo fuck! THIS IS MY CITY! These are MY FUCKING MEN! I AM IN FUCKING CHARGE..." Spit flew out of the raiders mouth, yet as he looked around, he could see that his men did not dared to move. Like wolves, the Cult warriors moved in, no raider daring to raise their guns at them. "Your lack of faith is disappointing, Lee! I will not have unbelievers in my defense of this, toss this heretic off the roof!"

Lee wanted to pick up his rifle, yet two cult warriors were faster, taking hold of his arms, and with one swift motion, pulled him towards the edge. The raider screamed in blind fear, while the Iron-Jaw already turned around, taking in the scene around them. Multiple lines and trenches were already overrun, red figures cutting down fleeing rabble, while elsewhere disciplined fire was followed by swift bayonnet attacks. Never before, had Iron-Jaw seen such a combination before. A long fading scream signaled the fall of the old boss, and with a sigh, Iron Jaw turned around. "All Pack masters are to abandon their rabble! All my brothers, my faithful warriors of the Holy City are to take all the supply we can carry, and bring it into the tunnels! You..." He pointed with great calm at the remaining raiders. "Food, supply and ammunition are to be brought underground! Let them have this city...a night of long knifes shall follow for them.."

With the last Packmaster abandoning the rabble and the lack of leadership, the defense of the town crumbled quickly. Raiders, mutants and untrained cultist were no match for trained legonaires and the might of the Midwest brotherhood. Soon, even the last barrel mortar was silenced, before being tossed over, and its crew being left behind, cold and dead. The broken body of Overboss Lee was found soon after...shattered on the ground, seemingly fallen from its fortress, the gigantic Indiapolis Mall Parking lot

Iron-Jaw calmly petted the head of his giant riding rat, who nervously chewed on the arm he had given her to eat. "Calm girl...calm!" His men had gathered around burning barrels, far below in the old service tunnels and catacombs of the city. In the dim light, their metal armor reflected the fire in an display that was beautiful to behold. "Up there, the faithless have taken the city! Let them have it! They wont find us down here, not in such short time! We will wait, until their back is turned, and then, they will be faced with the full might of prophet. Now, eat and rest. Save your Miasma for the final assault..."

Slick / The Bloodline-Carrick / The great warcamp of the cult

The warrior jumped down into the ditch, the sand bloody and reeking below his iron plated boots. Naked from his pants up, he grimly stared at the cage in front of him, holding tightly onto the machete in his hand. Slick watched him, as he waited for the signal. One side, the tutors watched, on the other the unproven warriors like him, ready for their "bloodying". "OPEN!" The huge super mutant growled, as he stood behind Slick and another slave, who quickly pulled on the wheels to open the cage below them. Snarling, the ghouls inside began to wake, smelling the blood in the ditch before them, and noticing the single warrior, who would face them, with no way out. A howl went through the mass surrounding the ditch, as the unproven warrior raised his Machete. "Witness me, brothers!"

Then the first ghoul rushed out of the half-open cage, roaring as he ferally moved towards the trapped recruit of the cult. He calmly took the charge, evading in the last second, before decapitating the ghoul with a secure cut to the neck. The rotting body stumbled forward, as the recruit already turned his attention to the fully open cage, still filled with multiple occupants. "SHADAL! SHADAL!" He roared as a challange, swinging the bloody machete in his hand, as his fellow recruits shouted down encouragements. The warcry seemed to be challange, as three ghouls stumbled out of the cage, leaving it empty now. Slick licked his lips, as he looked down into the ditch. He had seen warriors struggle with two ghouls, yet three were a death sentence. Not that he had any sympathy for the recruit down there...

Seemingly aware of the danger, the recruit grabbed his machete tighter and took multiple steps back, hissing as he seemingly new, that once these ferals would surround him, he was as good as done for. Yet fate seemed to smile onto this unproven warrior, as he two of the ghouls charged at him at the same time, allowing him, with a quick side-step, to make them run into each other, before taking off the legs of the third one with a swift, yet brutal cut. Now on the other side of the ditch, the recruits above cheered, before starting to chant. "SHADAL! SHADAL!"

Before the two ghouls could get up, the recruit already had wanted to go at them, yet the ghoul that had lost his legs quickly held onto his boots, snarrling, and making the recruit lose his balance. Screaming, he almost fell, before sending his boot down onto the ferals had crushing it like a ripe mutfruit. For a moment, a cheer broke out, that turned into a shattered mutter, as the ghouls tackled him. Slick was sure, that this would be the end, yet was proven wrong. Skillfully, the recruit burried his machete in the head of the ghoul on top of him, before tossing the dead body over and struggling with the other. The snarrling beast fearally tried to bite him, yet the recruit was able to shift the balance, and ended up falling over, right on top of the beast. Then his fists smashed into the face of the feral, over and over again, the air filled with the loud cheer of the fellow recruits. Finally, after an time that felt endless for Slick, the recruit looked up, coated in feral blood.

The mutant tutor behind Slick took his time, before he roared out his judgement. "WORTHY!" A rope was tossed down, and moments later, the now proven warrior was pulled up on the other side, a new machete pressed into his hand. Slick watched in disgust, as he could see the grin and the pride in his eyes. He would be given an armor, a gun and a rebreather, allowed to breath deep the refined miasma, before being send out, to fight in the great war. The tutor behind him gave Slick a hard kick, almost making him fall over. "Collect the meat, slaves have to eat!"

Standing next to the ditch, Slick had to catch the parts that were thrown upwards by his fellow slave, and place them in a wagon, to be send to the slave barracks, feeding them the remains of the ghouls that were slaughtered to train the warriors of the Monolith. Slick could not count how many it were, yet a group of twenty was here, for their final test, to prove their worth to be called warriors of the Cult. Looking up, he could see the one who´s turn it would be next to enter the pitt. He was young, yet broad shouldered and with a wide array of scars on his naked chest, making it rather clear, that he was one of the slaves who took up the offer of warriors service. "D...done master!" The slave in the ditch croaked, as Slick leaned down, helping him out, almost throwing up from the smell of rotten blood down below. Behind them, was the feral pen, in which countless ferals and trogs were herded, to serve as living training dummies. In the early weeks of training, the recruits would have the luxury of fighting against them chained to poles, or with their limbs cut off. It was to get them used to blood and killing. Seldom, the masters decided to use slaves, yet the purple robed masters of the temples of labor called it a waste of workforce, more so with the tunnels and catacombs of the Pitt still sprawling with ghouls and trogs.

Two other slaves, using long poles, forced four new ghouls into the cage, before Slick and his partner closed the second gate, while the young looking recruit jumped into the ditch. He shivered, as his fellow recruits began to once more chant encouragement down to him. Slick felt a strange pity for him, as the mutant behind them stomped down with his foot. "OPEN!" Once more the two slaves were forced to open the gates. This time, two ghouls charged, yet the young recruit made the mistake to stab for the belly, before pushing the ghoul from him. The machete stuck, leaving him unarmed. Slick felt his stomach turn, as he looked away. A long, pained scream followed, as the recruit was torn to shreds. The recruits hissed and muttered, as the Mutant behind them simply spat out.


Slick thanked the heavens, that this time, he was not asked, to collect the meat...

It was all Maxons fault!

If he had send reinforcments back to the citadel, they would have beaten the Cult. If he had not claimed the position of Elder, she could have stopped his idotic expedition that had seen his demise in the commonwealth of Boston. If he would have not brokered this damn peace with the Outcasts and if he would have not taken her glory against the Shepard, she would have won the election...and the East-Coast Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel would still be a power worth mentioning..and not a rabble, hiding away in the ruins of their old enemy!

The plans to restore Raven-Rock, had been to turn the ruins into an auxiliary base for long-range operations into the west, using its distance from most settlements in the captital wasteland, to easily resupply expeditions, without causing much attention, as well as to scavenge for enclave data and technology. The plans had been criticized, for making the base far to small, leaving too little room for personal, which would lead to a shortage of space when in full operation, yet today, they couldnt even fill half the rooms, with others having been simply abandoned and given away to collect dust.

Staying close to the terminals, the Lioness looked unmoving, as she could spot the dots on the holo-table, moving a single finger onto her ear. "Knight-Captain Harris, you have a visual?" Static followed, as the three little dots spread out further, keeping their distance as they sneaked towards the building. "Prides Shadow here, Fireteam leader! Can confirm visual! Informants reports seem truthful! MWBoS heraldry confirmed! Request permisson to uncloak and approach!" Lyons felt a sour taste over this request, before taking a step away from the table. "Permission denied! Distance is to be kept and the fireteam remains in cloaking at all times!" Where had the MWBoS been when the Citadel fell? Where had they been when she had launched her counter-attack? They came onto her chapters lands now, like scavenging crows, yet she would not let them absorb her chapter in shame and dishonor! They would force her to stand trial in her fathers place, answer for what had been just and honorable! If it werent for her acts, this chapter would have been as dead as the world believed it to be.
"Keep an eye on them, but avoid all contract and detection! You will not engage, if the MWBoS is attacked, you hear me? You remain in position and report! Lady-Commander out!"

Harkon, the younger Brother Barrack 23 / Labor Camp 12 - Hibbing, Minnesota

The knife was sharp and when it slipped into the ghouls neck, the eyes sprang open, as a scream was muffled by the younger brother, who pressed his hand hard onto the mouth of the informant. Licking the stumps of his lips, he leaned in closer, as he looked into the dying ghouls eyes. "Shhh, its all over!" The younger brother could feel the pain and the fear in the ghoul below him, as he pulled out the knife, allowing the rotten blood to flow faster from the cut veins. Finally looking away, the Ghoul let out a sigh, as he cursed his duty, yet for the comming storm, there could be no disloyalty in their ranks. The window was slim, and the order had been given. The Day of liberation came closer and closer, and the force needed to be prepared for it. People like the pitiful worm below him, had earned themselves easy hours, food rations, cigarettes and protection, by giving away information to the guards. Not, that any of them could have come close to the identity of Hastura, she who would liberate them all. Her orders had been whispers, small notices and hints, yet there was no second guessing. She gave the name, and this person would not see another day.

Placing the shiv in the other hand of the ghoul, Hakon closed the deads eyes. Just another suicide among many, another muty who could no longer endure the hard labor and the mines. Others raised their heads from their bunks, yet Hakon knew that there was no longer a need for secrecy about the murders in the camp, nor for threats. Most already had sworn devotion to Hastura, she who would bring liberty, while the rest would not dare to speak out against her countless servants in the camp. Calmly, and without haste, Hakon walked out of the Barracks, his shift taken by another ghoul with a forged number, taking his place, serving the great uprising in his own way.

Outside the Barrack, he was another huddled shadow among countless others, trying to evade the eyes of the watchmen, yet even the most simple minded slave of the brain in the jar would know that something was off. The MLA logo appeared far more often, the fire was back in some mutants eyes, and a whisper had filled the night...yet even this, was shrouding something darker! For the Brothers did not served a petty revolution, they served the prophet, and his favored servant, Hastura, she who would bring liberty. Few had known of the monolith before, yet the words of the older brother had been seed, falling on fertile ground among the ones without hope. For all were equal in the eyes of he who slumbered, human or mutant. The guards would not know the runes carved into the wood and the inquisitors would be too busy with the threat of the MLA looming, seemingly defeated.

Stumbling into him, another prisoners almost fell over, as the younger brother groaned in anger. He felt the paper slipped into his pocket, yet also could see the guard in the edge of his eyes. To not show an reaction would be suspicious! "Watch your step you maggot!" A kick followed, right into the soft part of the knee, as the younger brother wanted to kick again, before a guard shouted. "Thats enough, you ugly mutants!" Spitting out, the younger brother stepped away, the paper feeling heavy in his pocket, slowly moving to his own barrack. In its shadow, far from the eyes of the guard, he opened the sheet, before looking at its content.

"This week, prepare the faithful and the tools!"

The order had been given, the faithful would answer!

Cthalpol the Iron The Long Path of the Prophet - Point Lookout

Cthalpol the Irons mouth remained unmoving, as he looked down at the arriving Suttbray and his small escort. Toy soldiers, like Cthalpol had seen so many! They had not bleed in the hills, shivering the in cold of night, and feasted on the flesh of the fallen to endure hardship, that would strip all weakness from them, leaving them hard as iron. He snorted, before stepping closer, his mighty hand calmly taking hold of the bearded mans head. The voice had a sound of grinding metal, sharp as a dagger and cold as the bite of steel. Yet it was lead by a woke mind of a scholar. "Tell me, do you feel in charge of your fate?" Like wolves, the Cult warriors around moved in closer, men and mutants, scared and grim, veterans of the hills, devoted to the monolith. Their hands rested on looted guns, sharp blades and dark trophies, as they waited for how their leader would react. "I had wished to remain in the hills, for i enjoyed the fight there. Killing the men of Franklin was a hard task, yet each victory, was sweet and nurishing. I learned much from their ways, and would have liked to ended them by my hands. But the prophet has ordered me here, to overlook you, Convert! He has hopes for you, but i have not! I am here, to provide military assistance, yet make no mistake, for if you are found wanting, i shall be your executioner, Mr. Suttbray!"
Letting go of the mans neck, the Super-Mutant stepped past him, as he nodded to one of his warriors, who calmly presented Suttbray with an roll made out of dry, brittle leather, some parts of it sowed together, ink markings still on it.
"Half my forces will remain here, to turn this harbor into a fortress of the faith, and paint the swamp red, with all who dare to oppose us! The rest of my army will come with you, and sail to the place you call Jacksonville!"

The roll, wrapped into human skin felt alien to all touch, almost shivering and alive. Opened, a disgusting smell would come from it, as a single piece of old, damp paper would fall from it.


Prioress Cabot New Vegas, The Tops "The voices of Vegas - The Billy Knight Show"

Looking from behind the stage the Prioress looked at the slim figure of Billy, who slowly strolled onto the stage, wearing his trademark suit like a slick salesman, before waving into the crowd. "Welcome, Welcome, Welcome! So glad you all could make it! My, my,my...what do we have here! Hey mister, keep your hands where i can see them! Gomorrah is down the street!" Some laughter came from the sides, as a red-faced Brahmin Baron slowly took the hands off the shoulders of what looked to be his companions for the evening.

Strolling over to his armchair, Billy Knight took a seat, as the small band still was playing near him, with the ghoul saxophonist getting more and more into short final solo. "Ay, Ay, Ay...look at that! Better check if your tongue is still in place, Jacob my rotten friend!" The ghoul just rolled his eyes, as the crowd once more broke out into a short polite laughter. Billy used the moment to light himself a cigarette, looking rather dandy in his sharp suit, his hair slick and smooth. "So much going on in Vegas, and so little time. I wont bore you folks with politics, but y´all know if any NCR folks is around, you man notice them due to the gigantic sweat building up on their heads right now. time you invade, try preparing first!" Clapping into his own joke, the Prioress narrowed her eyes, as could not help but feel more disgruntled over her appearance on this show. But there had to be a public face to be maintained.

"But tonight´s first guest, is someone you may have heard before. Like most people, i didnt realized when they appeared, but BAMN...suddently it was the talk of the town! The Church of Starry glory...first time i heard it i thought it was some kind of new menu item at he Ultra-Luxe, but no, its a new religion. Well, some people got worried, but i for my part, got intrigued! So, without further delay...THE PRIORESS!"

Once more, the band was fired up, as the prioress walked onto the stage, a wide, flashy smile on her lips, and a slow pace in her step. The dress was modest enough for her position, yet still fitting for the occasion, as she stept towards the host, who got up from his chair, before gently taking and kissing her hand. "My, my, my...must say, Marrying in your church may be rather hard for most men, with such reminders of lives beauties running around. Its a pleasure, Prioress!" "Oh please, Mr. Knight! Just call me Emogene!" The prioress had little intrest in perusing anything that would seem like pompous or an agenda. She had made her plans the moment she had received the invitation, and would stick with it. She had adapted for almost 400 years now, this was just another masquerade.

"Well then, Emogene, lets be frank and earnest here! And i am not talking about the names i use in Boneyard and New Reno. What is your church, and why is it here in Vegas! Everyone seems to know about it, but nobody seems to know details. Help us understand your little congregation!" Emogene smiled, as she herself would open her small cigarette case, before leaning in, allowing Billy Knight to give her fire. She leaned back in her chair, taking a moment to blow out the smoke, before answering the Question.

"It is not my church, nor my congregation. I am little more then a guiding voice, offering help to the people that seek it. For this is what the Church of Starry Glory is. A helping voice for all, who seek the special something that Vegas CANT offer. Many who come to us, for we welcome everyone, no matter which walk of life, tell us about their angst, which they only felt in the city of Vegas, for even a paradise like this, can lead to melancholy for some people, who feel that life is going over them too fast. This is where our church is coming in, and which brings me such fulfillment! To allow people to slow down, and realize what beauty there is in each and every one of us, beside the glitter and glamour." The prioress could see the sweat build up on Knights face, as he seemed for fear that this would turn into a critique of the city and with it, a critique of Mr. House. Seeing him in such a state woke a strange satisfaction in the prioress, as she watched him. "So think bad of Vegas? Blaming it for the problems these people have?"

The prioress sharked her head, before once more guiding the cigarettes to her red lips. "Not at all! Vegas is a paradise, and rightfully the greatest city in all the wasteland! Yet i do think, that our little church does provide a certain service this city needs, yes...craves! We do so gladly, and for those who cant afford it, free of charge. Nobody needs to feel lonely, for there is a greater community around us all, even if we cant see it!" Knight nodded, before once more lifting up his cigarette. "But there is the accusation that your church is little more then another cult, like the Hubologists or...well, radiating friends of the Atom-Worshippers!" Raising an eyebrow, Emogene looked right into Knights eyes, before smiling. "Do i look like the kind of woman who would worship radiation? Or follow an crazed man called Dick? No, we are not a cult! Our church is open for everyone to come and go, and we dont demand any oaths of secrecy. Nor do we claim some devine truth as our birthright. All we do, is share the ideas and devotion of starry glory...the idea that there is something great out there, and that it loves us!"

Knight blew out some smoke, before he tilted his head to the side, the fear of criticism on the system seemingly gone. "Well, it would be hard to believe for me, that a crazed cultist would get onto a stage like that, and...well, look as charming as you do, Emogene.." "GET A ROOM, BILLY!" The rough voice of the ghoul Saxophonist, broke the silence and it was followed by a long laughter of the crowd. "You are a charming man yourself, Mr. Knight! But you are just as welcome as anyone else, to visit our church in western Vegas. We do have plans to expand, but have yet to find a fitting building for it. Real estate is sinfully expensive in Vegas.."

To close the door back to her changing room, had been more then welcome, after the endless chatter of Billy Knight, who soon after the start had drifted into bad jokes and puns, what seemed to be his common form of entertainment. Still, she was quite sure, that the unenlightened had bought her tale and story. Sitting down in front of the mirror, she took a moment to look at her reflection. Closing her eyes, she could hear the squealing of the thing her father had turned into, which now was hidden away, deep below the church...

T H E C U L T O F U G - Q U A L T O T H

The Blind Prophet / The deep pits below the Holy City

Few knew, that the city above, was just a small part of the true extend of the holy city. Below it, had been a true, apocalyptic sprawl of tunnels, chambers and halls, so extensive, that to this day, even the massive excavations and works of the cult, had only opened a fraction of them to be put to use for the Cult. Some where used for storage, to house slaves or as dungeons for sacrifices and prisoners, yet the most feared of them all, where the breeding pits, where the Cult had been experimenting with radiation, chemicals and the miasma. Death had been ripe, yet the prophet had made sure that his devoted flesh-crafters never lacked equipment, beast and slaves to experiment on.

The greatest success had been the giant Mole-Rat, able to carry a man on its back, forming the mount of choice for the cults cavalry. So far, it had been the only creature they had success at breeding in masses, yet the hopes were high for other monstrosities to soon support the war effort...

Thousands of steps, the prophet was carried on his palanquin, deeper and deeper into the pits, surrounded by the heavy boots of his personal guard, the iron masked deathless guardians, dark green skinned super mutants, fanatical in their faith and fearsome in battle. At each time, ten of them where around him, armed with heavy rifles, an axe attached to the barrel. Slave, Master and sometimes even beast, quickly fell on their knee, as soon as they saw the palanquin and guardians approch, as the carriers and guardians carelessly stomped over everything in their path. The Prophet remained silent in his seat, his legs crossed and his hands resting on the black book in his hands. Even now, it was whispering at him, confirming his choices and pushing him to greater deeds. "It will be done...all has been to your design! I can see it clear, i can see the path! Fools, vermin, insects...they are mere tools, tools for your deed!" A cold shiver ran down the prophets back, as he threw his head backwards, before breaking out in a loud laughter, roaring and pressing the book closer to his chest, before suddently turning around. "THIS ONE...I WANT HIS HEAD NOW!"

The slave let out a panicked scream, as two of the prophets deathless took hold of him, begging for mercy as he soiled his pants. The blind prophet grinned satisfied as he heard the sound of flesh been torn, before waving off in the direction of the sound. "Give me his head...NOW GIVE IT TO ME! I WANT TO HEAR ITS SECRETS! IT SHALL TELL ME WHERE THEY HIDE IT! NOW NOW NOW!" For the rest of the step, the prophet would clutch both the book, and the bloodied head against his chest. Then clarity once more came over him, like a wave approching a beach, and with a disgruntled groan, he tossed the head from his palanquin, before rubbing his bloodied hand off on his robe. Insanity was as light as a feather, yet a clear mind weight more on him, then the whole city above.

Disgruntled, the Prophet longed for the easiness of the madness, as he glared at his surrounding, blind, yet taking in the sounds around him. Corridor after corridor were passed, as the short snips of sounds came from them, then faded as the openings passed them, as the smell of blood, shit and decay lay in the air, heavier then at any other place in the holy city. Slavers tugged chains of giant beasts, while cages where pushed and whips were cracked. Somewhere, a deathscream of something huge filled the silence, before a louder roar filled the air, broken by a long human scream. The prophet let out a sigh, as he covered his nose, the holy book still in his hands. Then finally, they stopped, and the prophet rose from his seat. Used to the movement, he easily stepped down, a waiting back of a slave already allowing him to lower himself, as his other foot found a back to pass onto, before another allowed him to reach clear fooding. Raising his arm, he felt the strong grip of one of his deathless, as he was guided forward. By now, they had to be miles below the earth, as the monolith seemed so far and so small, that the prophet felt a cold shiver of fear down his spine, as he broke free from his guiding guards.

The sniffling great-master of the pits ran around the prophet like a cornered rat, squealing out compliments and excuses alike. "We...we work like madmen! Yes..yes...but there is only so much we can do with the materials we have! We need more equipment! Better laboratories! More scientists...more... The prophet had outpaced him by now, as the heavy steps of the great-master had a hard time to follow, seemingly troubled to press himself against the close walls, that the prophet could feel around him. The hallway was narrow, yet their goal lay right ahead. "Show it to me! Show me what the secrets of the old world allowed us to creat! Show the warrior you have promised me." A heavy door was opened, as futher people fell on their knees. Yet the prophet could feel the thing in front of him. He could feel the wild soul, unbroken and...


"A great success already! To form such a specimen from our limited tools! His body is strong, stronger even then the Super Mutants that already serve in your army, blessed prophet! Yet, they lack...well, we cant wake him, but that does not mean he is not alive!" The prophet could feel the fear in the grand-master, yet it was not uncalled for. Stepping towards the thing, the prophet almost fell over something, yet he could not care less, as he placed his hand on the creature. The skin was as thick as leather, and felt warm below his touch. "Be careful prophet! It could wake any moment now." "No, it wont wake! It will never wake...THIS THING HAS NO SOUL INSDIE IT! NO SPARK OF LIFE! IT IS AS GOOD TO ME AS A STATURE.." The prophet felt his anger raise, as his nails digged into the book at his chest. "You promised me, when i brought you the FEV from Vault 87, that you would make me an army of Super Mutants..WHERE IS MY ARMY, YOU WORM?"

It was the muffled whimper of the grand-master, that made the prophet seal his fate. Screaming, he could smell the flesh burn and heat near him, before grand master faded from this world. The silence remained, and the blind prophet slowly placed his hand back on the mutant. His face was deformed, even for such a beast, as his chest lifted up and down, and he took breath, yet never would open his eyes, nor form a thought in his useless brain. "Who is the most senior of you lot.." The prophet spoke into the room, with only the fire of the corpes of the old grand master bringing some noise, to the dry silence of the clicking and flicking of machinery. "That would be me, holy prophet. A shivering voice, just as weak and confused as the old one, yet the death of the former grand-master had sated the prophets anger for no. "What is your name?"

The question seemed to have taken the scientist by surprise, as he needed a moment to answer. "Lesko Weston, holy prophet! Most faithful, and always loyal to the cult! The prophet nodded, as his fingers moved over the maw. Sharp teeth had formed in it. "Tell me, what do we need to created Super Mutants that are ALIVE when they have turned?" Where a nose should have been, was just a snort, and the light breath was cold as ice. "Holy prophet, the samples we work with a highly irradiated! The FEV has been deluded and mishandled for almost 200 years by super-mutants themselves! We can only create super mutants with a clearer FEV sample...and non-irradiated hosts! I am sorry, holy prophet but this is the truth!" The sudden backbone pleased the prophet, as he slowly walked away from the creature, past the stuttering Weston and back to his guard. "We shall see to it then! This project is halted for now...see to it that the labor on it is used on other projects, grand master.."

Weston Lesko would need a whole five minutes, until he realized, that he had been promoted...

Hank the Whip / The City of the Skull Monolith

Once, many years ago, the ruins the Skull Monolith resided in, had been a city of hope. A young, yet proud republic had been formed, displaying the lone tree as their symbol and taking it up as their name. The lone tree Republic had rallied farmers and settlers alike and when the Cult came, they had taken up arms in defense of their home. They fought the good fight, yet in the end, the city was sacked in a slaughter, that had been made legend by the monument build in its memory. The Skull Monolith was a gigantic pile of pale bones, bound and glued together. In its shade, the river still ran, yet it was heavy with slag and polution as the tress had long cut, to provide material for forges, barracks and other buildings. Few of the slaves in the city of the Skull Monolith were of the old population, who had survived the slaughter, as the majority had been brought here, into one of the few other places of industry, the cult held outside of the holy city. It was a crude imitation to the factories and forges in the north, yet it still provided the slavers and warbands of the south with weapons, armor and ammunition.

Hank was licking his lips, as he tugged the leash of the slave girl, forcing it to walk with him, as he made his way through the workshop. "Good news, you lazy bastards! You are all sold...well, except of you, my darling! Aint no way i am gonna let go of you!" His eyes roamed over the body of the red haired beauty, who still struggled against the tug of his leash. He would enjoy breaking her in, before most likely selling her later, when she got to timid for his taste. Hank loved himself some girls with fight in them. The sack of caps on his belt felt heavy, as he made his way out of the workshop, the crying and sobbing of the slaves soon interrupted by screams and whips. "See girl? Lot easier with me. Gonna take care of you good! Yeah, really..really good!" His grin grew, as the girl spat in his direction, yet Hank laughed, before smashing the back of his hand against her face. "Some delicious fight you have in you...i like that! Dont lose it to fast, or i may make you regret it."

Tugging her back on her feet, Hank, crossed the busy streets, with Warriors, slaves and cultists going their way, light being provided by crude electronic lamps. A few stands offered their wares, yet above all was the chatter and chanting of the priests near the Monolith. Hank had to admit, it was an impressive sight, even though he cared little about the cults religion. All he cared for at the moment, was to get back to his boat with the red haired girl on his leash. "You have name?" Hank grunted, as he stepped through some mud, past a bleeding corpse of a slave, with two dogs ripping pieces of flesh from his corpse. The girl did not answer, yet kept glaring at him with eyes of pure hate. "Fine, i am gonna give you one later! Who knows, maybe i tattoo it onto your forehead, that you dont forget it!"

A dark laughter escaped the slavers lips, as he gave the leash another pull. Passing a line of slaves, that had to constantly push the wheel of a primitive mill, under the watchful eye of two cult warriors, who took turns on lashing the slaves. Far away, a rifles was fired, as drunken laughter filled the night. Another normal night in the town, that both cultist and normal scum frequented. Hank stopped for a moment, to light himself a cigarette, before turning to his slave. "Lets play a little game you trash...left cheek or right cheek?" Walking closer, he took hold of the girls face, grinning down on her, as he struggled, while he moved the glowing cigarette in front of her. "Shhhhh...just a little burn! Aint the worst thing that will happen to.."

There was no sound when Hank flew through the air, and the light was all around him. Night turned into day, as everything seemed muffled around him. Like a sack of flour, he was tossed around, by hot waves of air, as he could not even feel the pain. Another flash of fire stripped half his cloths form him, as for a second, he could see a Warrior fire into the sky, before a lance of light hit him, and turned him into ash in an instant. Then, he could feel the ground rumbeling below him, as he slowly turned his head and saw it. The Skull Monolith was burning!
Crawling, the Slaver wanted to get away, yet there was no escape, as the gigantic pile of burning bones, collapsed under its own weight, thousands of skulls falling down onto the people below. For just a second, Hank could feel the irony of the late revenge, the old people of the Lone-tree republic, could now rain down onto the cult that had destroyed their home...then the World around Hank turned dark.

It was day, when Hank woke up. Not for a second, he believed to be dead, as many other fools would. The air was heavy with fire and ash, and where ever he looked, he could spot corpses. Yet her had surived, and he would not spend a second longer at this place. It was then, when he noticed that he was stuck, half burried below skulls and debris, yet nothing he could not remove in time. The sharp pressure against his side even told him that he still had his caps. Taking a deep breath, the slaver began to push, trying to free the buried part of his body, yet then, he also noticed the shadow falling onto him. Looking up, he could not make out the face as the light of the sun blended him, yet he could see the red hair...and the glitter of the knife in her hand

"Lets play a game, shall we? Left or right cheek.."
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