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College student, studying political science, planning on attending law school, she/her pronouns. I'm interested in a wide variety of roleplays, but I tend toward prefering High Fantasy and High Sci Fi settings (think Elder Scrolls or Warhammer 40k). Whether it's a Nation Roleplay (I love digging into fictional politics) something on a smaller, individual scale, or something in between, there's a good chance I might be interested! I especially enjoy fantasy setting with weird, esoteric fluff - up to and including the nonsense that happens in Elder Scrolls, or, occasionally, Age of Sigmar.

Credit for profile pic art goes to TemporalZergling. Vivec won Elder Scrolls.

Most Recent Posts

<Snipped quote by Jeddaven>

Fair enough, we can certainly do that.

Sweet. DMed you on discord!
Edit: No idea why it double posted, or how to delete a post.
<Snipped quote by Jeddaven>

Fair enough, we can certainly do that.

Sweet. DMed you on discord!
<Snipped quote by Jeddaven>

Honestly, what you just suggested is pretty much my plan. If anyone is interested in contacting The Institute, they could have a Synth arrive at their territory or otherwise learn of them/bump into their representatives and then through the Synth contact The Institute. I can write for the Synth, or you could CC them. Either way is fine.

The Institute has such a small out of the way territory, I figured this was a good way to enable contact and get a network with larger nations going.

I think I'd prefer to do a collab, when it comes to first contact, and especially with Synths - I'm not especially comfortable controlling people from someone else's 'nation', even with explicit permission.
@Andronicus23Did you have specific plans for your scouting Synths? I don't want to intrude, but I'd love to have Ronto approach the Institute for help improving crop yields, especially as they'd be sending out Pathfinders and diplomats to make contact with other wasteland factions. There's also the sheer number of radio transmitters operating in Rontonian territory (compared to the rest of the wasteland), and while I can't imagine getting great reception at all, they'd probably at least be able to notice the noise at night - or bump into some Pathfinders!

by Gonçalo Brandão, Lead Correspondent for American Affairs

By now, news is starting to filter across the world wide web and television of the successful bombing attack against the Hawthorne Army Depot (HWAD) near Hawthorne, Nevada, a U.S. Army Joint Munitions Command ammunition depot in one of the few remaining habitable parts of rural Nevada that remained an extremely important storage facility for the US Army's ability to wage war beyond a period of approx. thirty days. This is perhaps unsurprising, considering the facility's nickname as the "World's Largest Depot", both in terms of size (occupying nearly 150,000 acres of land) and the sheer quantity of pieces of ammunition it stored, but, what is perhaps more surprising is the sheer totality of its destruction by a "terrorist" (we use the word carefully due to the possible biases present in its use in this case) organization widely perceived as disorganized and chaotic. How could random bands of passionate rebels so completely destroy the largest ammunition depot in the world? How, indeed, when the facility was make up of thousands of hardened bunkers?

We may never know precisely how the attack was carried out, or by who, but we can know this much: any such attack, considering the apparent totality of the Depot's destruction as determined by satellite imaging (believe me, there's not much left but several thousand craters and a couple hundred of very large ones), would have required a level of organization and coordination utterly unprecedented in the history of military sabotage.

That much is clear, at least according to an EALN cell's statement on the matter on local usenet newsgroups (or perhaps it was simply due to the total incompetence of the US military, or the corporate contractors of Day & Zimmermann Hawthorne Corporation hired to protect the facility) - this was not meant at a terrorist attack. It was a planned, surgical strike against a military facility, with minimal civilian casualties.

The question remains: does the crippled US government even have the ability to stop them?

(Edit: the attack itself occured on March 10, notably an anniversary of the first paper money circulated by the US government.)

>> Date: Mon, March 11 1992, 12:00:00 -0400
>> From: =?ISO-2386-5?N?John_S j=T8ui?=
>> Cc:

>> This is not an act of terrorism. This is a warning.

>> The HWAD has been destroyed, and with it, the largest storage of ammunition available to the imperialist, fascist United States military, by comrades dissatisfied with the injustices of their own government.

>> This is not a strike to create terror. Do not be afraid. We do not target civilians. We will not target civilians.

>> We are citizens of the United States government, and armed comrades of the EALN, who seek nothing but the following:

>> 1. The immediate cessation of the illegal American occupation and puppeteering of the former territories held by the nations of Canada, Mexico, the occupied territory of Greenland, Belize, Honduras, Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, Venezuela, Ecuador, Argentina, Uruguay, Guyana, Suriname, Peru, Bolivia, Chile, Paraguay, and a others as applicable, and the subsequent holding of fully and completely democratic elections free of any interference.

>> 2. The holding of completely free and democratic elections in the territory of the United States, absent of any interference

>> 3. The disarmament of the imperialist armed forces of the United States of America as they currently exist

>> 4. Legal guarantees of non-interference in the elections of American peoples

>> Anything less, and we will continue our war in the defense of the inalienable rights of the people to "Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness". We will not accept any less. The people will not accept any less.

>> Inevitably, we will be accused of being violent, terrible terrorists. This is patently false. We attacked a military target, killing only those who willingly signed up to work for the US government at this facility, an obvious target. We will do so again. We are, nonetheless, saddened by the loss of any civilians working at the facility; this is why we chose very early Sunday morning to attack, a time when as few would be present at the facility as possible, and offer our sincere condolences.

>> Remember: this is a war. This is not and will not be an isolated incident until the demands of the people of the Americas are submitted to.
>> Everything for everyone, nothing for us!
>> Death to all enemies of the working people!

Hawthorne, Nevada

"Yeah, yeah - I've got the money." Michael sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. Unceremoniously rifling around, he extracted a hefty bundle of crisp, twenty dollar bills - and shoved it into the tan-uniformed guard's hand, rifle slung across his back. The man pulled the rubber band holding the bundle together away, rifling through them - and nodded, handing half to his partner before stepping out of the way.

"Looks good to me. You ever think about telling us why we’re getting these bonuses?” The guard said. His face was hidden behind a balaclava, but the smugness dripping from every word told Mike that he was almost definitely wearing a shit-eating grin.


“So you don’t ask questions.” Mike snapped back, pushing his way past him and into the concrete hallway beyond., past the label of “2073” above him. He felt like a weight had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders - as often as the conmtractors needled them, he doubted they had any idea why he was actually here. In this post-visitation world, and especially with the EALN being an active problem, most of the under-the-table bullshit that went on was the black market sale of military-grade munitions, not a quartermaster making his way down dry, poorly lit concrete hallways at hours so unholy it was a wonder he could even stay awake.

Michael hated it. He hated sneaking around, he hated being forced to bribe corporate soldiers of fortune, and he hated being constantly afraid that someone would catch him in the act and put a bullet through his brain after a short, unceremonious trial. Legally speaking, he did deserve it - but the scumbags that built the place ‘deserved’ it far more than he did.

Scanning his way past another, final airlock, he patiently waited as the blast door ahead of him creaked open on its hinges, groaning loudly thanks to years of rust and improper maintenance. He stepped inside, and after a few moments of his eyes adjusting to the darkness, was greeted with a chamber full of artillery shells - stacks upon stacks of 155mm howitzer ammunition, piled high from the floor to the ceiling in huge wooden crates packed with plenty of cushioning.

He cautiously made his way over to one of the crates, checking to make sure that the airclock had rolled shut behind him before detaching a small satchel from his hip.

Wires, a small block of C4, a blasting cap...

He didn’t have much time before the guards changed shift, and so, quietly bending over the crate, he set to work. Setting the explosive was a relatively simple matter for a EOD expert - but time was of the essence, so he quickly got to work, gingerly setting the plastic explosive into place before connecting the detonator; a tiny little electronic thing with dozens of small wires - and a tiny computerized clock - hidden inside.

The minutes rolled past without any interference from the outside, his work undisturbed by not a single sound aside from the muffled droning of the bunker’s ventilation fans, and then...

He was done.

Shifting the cushioning back into place over the tiny charge, he slid the crate’s lid closed, stuffed his things back into the satchel - and turned, making his way back outside, through the airlock.

“What were you doing in th-” one of the guards began.

“Nothing exciting.” Michael shrugged, pausing for only a moment. “Just making sure everything’s in the right place, this time.” He explained, continuing down the paved path ahead of him without so much as turning around to speak to them.

Minutes later, he was in his truck, driving quietly down the ‘359 in the dead of the quiet Nevada night, north toward Hawthorne. He whistled a quiet tune to himself, near-silently enjoying the drive until he was suddenly interrupted by the beeping of his watch.

3:30 AM, it read. Suddenly, he pulled his truck to the side of the road, stomping on the breaks as he dropped down into a bracing position, covering the back of a dull neck.

First came the sound of a dull thud, the rush of air path his vehicle - and the sound of shattering safety glass, falling onto the backs of his hands.

Daring to push himself upward, Michael glanced back, over his shoulder - and laid eyes upon the towering, orange mushroom cloud that lit up the Nevada sky.
Can my spiritual parasite be my insurance premiums?
Bam. Here we go.

The Prime Minister's Statement

My sincerest condolences go out to the family of the late Noah Martin, a young life with so many years ahead of him. Many of you are angry, demanding that the soldiers involved in the killing be tried in Canada instead of US military courts, but the simple fact of the matter is that United States Forces Canada (USFC) is the entity best equipped to properly address the incidence, and I have full confidence that our American allies will see justice done, whatever that may be. As such, I have ordered the prompt and immediate transfer of the soldiers connected to the incident from a jail in Moose Jaw to USFC. Rest assured, justice will be done.

Ottawa, Canada. One week later.

Emma almost felt sorry for Mr. Pelletier. He'd been Prime Minister ever since the United States rolled into the country, a time marked by relatively few elections called for by the opposition, an unusual circumstance in Canadian politics.

Nonetheless, clutching a microphone emblazoned with the logo of the Globe and Mail, she couldn't help herself. It must've been a nightmare to be blamed for everything by your consituents, even if you probably were a lifeless puppet hand-picked by the CIA. Briefly glancing back at the crowd behind her, then the wall of RCMP Special Protection officers in front of her, and finally the Prime Minister standing at his podium above them, she quietly wondered if anyone gave a shit about what he was saying, or were simply there to shout expletives at him. He was an old man, too, in his late sixties, with few hairs that hadn't turned grey and wispy on his head, and a slight slouch to his stance as if his spine was getting ready to give up the ghost entirely.

"I understand your anger, your frustration, but I promise all of you - I was with USFC for every step of the proceedings, and I saw no evidence of corruption."

"Didn't see any?" Someone shouted from a few steps behind her. "What, were you too busy with the President's dick in your mouth to notice anything else?!"

"Yeah! How'd his balls taste?" Someone else added.

She was forced to clap her hand over her mouth to suppress the urge to laugh, narrowly holding back the noise.

The Prime Minister continued, undeterred; he was probably used to being belittled by now, she reasoned.

"...Furthermore, in fact, I saw the opposite. The proceedings were completely free of miscarriage of justice, and I have full confidence that the verdict that was delivered is the correct one. The judge presiding over the case was quite strict, to the point that I'm certain absolutely nothing could have slipped past his watchful eyes."

"Bullshit! That's fucking bullshit, asshole, and you know it! They flattened a fucking kid and drove off like it was nothing!"

"Now,' he continued, clutching his podium a little tighter as the crowd surged forward, pushing Emma to the RCMP officers that seemed entirely unwilling to lift a finger. Was Pelletier sweating?

"The facts of the case indicate that simply wasn't likely the truth. The truck was moving too quickly for the soldiers to have noticed young Noah until it was too late, and the vehicle was too tall for them to see him. Furthermore, they reported the incident to their superiors as soon as they arrived back at their base, and they were-"

"Then it's their fault for going too fast!" Someone else shouted. Emma tensed, feeling the crowd surge behind her.

"-they both showed great remorse for their actions, and young Noah shouldn't have been in the road at the time."

Even Emma knew that one was bullshit. The rest of the crowd did too, it seemed, devolving into loud, angry shouts, expletives thrown about in French and English. The bombardment was relentless, so much so that his bodyguards were finally forced into action, moving toward P.M. Pelletier to escort him away.

"On s’en coliss! Mon tabarnak!" A man shouted. Emma turned toward the source of the voice, and although she couldn't see the face it originated from, she saw a hand - a hand, holding a large rock.

The next few moments passed at a molasses-slow place. First, she saw the arm cock back. Then, it twisted forward.

The man's grip on the rock loosened as he reached the apex of his throw.

The rock leapt from his hands.

It struck the Prime Minister in the forehead. The man wobbled, and for a moment, it looked like he might stay conscious. Then his eyelids flopped close as he careened towards the podium, his neck snapping backwards on impact with a sickening crack. The bodyguards were on him not long afterwards, hauling him back up to his feet, while the crowd continued to surge dangerously forward, forcing the wall of RCMP to retreat.

"Worthless fucking puppet!"



"T'es une osti de vidange!"


Within days, cities across Canada were bursting into flames, and Prime Minister Pelletier was dead.
Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan

Liam hated his job.

Moving cargo from one end of Canada to the other wasn't easy. Even before the Visitation, it was a job plagued with bad roads, even worse weather, and long, thankless hours.

Post visitation, many of the problems were the same, if not far, far worse.

Roads were often destroyed at random. Trucks often had to divert from the Trans-Canada highway due to sudden, supernatural weather. The only respite was the series of fortified towns situated along the highways, havens from the devastation in the wilderness, even though it was less impactful than in America largely due to the sheer emptiness of much of Canada compared to its southern brother.

Today, sipping away at a glass of Crown Royal in a bar in, he was drinking to a comrade - Alex Jackson - lost in one such freak weather incident. Silent, aside from his soft breathing, and the occasional noise of him scratching at his thick, bushy brown beard.

The worst part, though, was the Americans. The Canadian military was far too small to escort every truck that moved across the country, so the US military, invited by a newly 'elected' government, stepped in to fill the gaps. New bases, new posts - most of the bigger convoys were being 'escorted' by Americans now, and those who didn't want it were quickly shut down, just like dozens of other businesses hostile to the 'Canadian' government or its American 'friends'.

Friends, Liam growled under his breath, resisting the urge to spit out the word if only to save the bartender - a young, blonde woman - the wasted time cleaning it up.

Pushing himself up from his seat, he let out a strained grunt, straightening out the worn leather jacket resting on his shoulders. Liam turned, about to make his way for the restroom - only to be interrupted by the sound of a rapidly accelerating truck, followed by a series of sharp, terrified screams.

"Oh my god! Oh my god, Noah! My baby!" Someone shouted - an older woman, by the sound of her voice.

Within moments the bar emptied, the entirety of its patrons rushing outside - Liam included.

They were too late.

The broken body of a child lay strewn across the crosswalk, his mother kneeling by his body as a boxy US Army truck sped off into the distance.
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