Discussion in 'Roleplaying Board' started by welsh, Apr 12, 2003.

  1. Reaper

    Reaper Still Mildly Glowing

    Apr 11, 2003
    Hello, I know I have already introduced Reik in the OOC thread but I thought a slightly more detailed character portrait would be helpful.

    Name: Karl Reik (Formally Captain Reik of the Resurgent US Recon Force)
    Height: 6'
    Weight: 200lbs
    Hair: Dyed blond (slightly receding)
    Eyes: Pale blue
    Age: 40

    Clothes: Dark grey combat (not camouflage pattern) clothing mixed with some black garments (T-shirts, boots, jumpers - most inner clothing beneath the grey BDUs).

    Skills: Small arms and knives mainly. Limited experience with energy weapons but has received some training. Can handle support weapons but dislikes being weighed down by heavy weapons as he prefers stealth, speed and surprise over raw firepower.

    Weapons: .357 Magnum revolver (right hip), sawed off .10 gauge shotgun (left thigh), 10mm pistol (shoulder holster), CAR Uranium Shard weapon on sling (long range and high rate of fire, good against light armour and soft targets), four frag grenades.
    Knives: boot knife 5”, punch dagger 3”, bayonet 7”, kris blade 9” (the ones with wavey shape - old fighting knife - artifact found while in the army).

    Demeanour: Quiet and thoughtful but can be loud and dominating in battle because of his time as an officer in a mercenary army. Generally pleasant but can be a bit gruff with youngsters. Smokes constantly and has a deep voice as a result.

    Overall, a nice guy, just don’t piss him off. He is not a total hardass, he just has a business like approach to battle because he was a professional soldier.
  2. Ed Collins

    Ed Collins First time out of the vault

    Dec 5, 2003

    Name: Tyler Bellford

    Age: 27

    Sex: Male

    Race: Caucasian, Human (Irish/Gypsy descent)

    Height: 5'11''

    Weight: 165lbs

    Hair color: Brown

    Eye color: Blue

    Appearance: Attractive, rugged, and generally the type one would not want to confront in a dark alley. He has lengthy hair, a scruffy light beard, and a smile that could make a woman's heart melt.


    Current Weapons: 10mm autoloader, Desert Eagle .50, combat knife, brass knuckles, grenades

    Current Armor: Bluejeans, dark gray ringer t-shirt, leather jacket

    Current Items: Zippo, cigarettes, multi-tool, lockpicks, stimpacks, radio


    Birthplace: Chicago, Illinois

    Occupation: Drifter

    Background story: Joshua Bellford, reknowned street musician, hummed a tune that had been playing over in his head as he walked down the streets of re-populated Chicago. Under one arm was a box, containing a present for his son´s thirteenth birthday. Young Tyler had expressed an interest in the guitar, and Joshua wanted to give his son a present that fit such an interest. Inside the box was an automatic tuner, designed for the busy musician who had no time to play with imperfections. It was a rare gift; an expensive gift, but Joshua was determined to let his son´s creativity grow and flourish. It was his mindset to have more men with passion in the world, so as to make it a better place to live. After all, it was men without the ambition to create who destroyed society in the first place.

    Joshua was a handsome man in his early thirties. He had a magnificent head of brown, flowing hair, and a smile that drove women wild. His voice was smooth and pleasant to listen to when he sang, and even more so when he talked. On the surface, he looked like a man who would be easy to bring down in a fight. But deep down, Joshua Bellford was a warrior, and someone not to be taken lightly.

    He hummed another verse of the tune in his head and pressed on to the Bellfords´ mid-town residence. Little did he know that it would be the last time his son would ever see him alive again.

    * * *

    "Do you like it, son?"

    "Like it?! I love it! This is awesome, dad!"

    Joshua grinned. "Son, what do we say?"

    "Right, this is fucking awesome, dad!"

    "That´s my boy!" Joshua always cursed. He had always said that the world was far too bland without a liberal amount of profanity. His wife, and Tyler´s mother, hated it.

    "Joshua, why do you insist on teaching our boy to be like those thugs outside?" a voice came from behind. It was Tyler´s mother, Anna.

    Joshua grinned and turned around to face his wife´s indignant look. "´Cause a man´s gotta curse, darlin´. It´s just something we do."

    Anna frowned and folded her arms, but she knew that this ploy at being angry would not stand. She loved Joshua more than anything in the world, and couldn´t hide it, no matter how hard she tried. Joshua immediately picked up on her false emotions and swiftly picked her up by the waist, spun her around in the air, and set her down to give her a long kiss on the lips. "´Sides, I think you secretly like it."

    Anna rolled her eyes and smiled. "Bastard..."

    As he held Anna, Joshua turned to Tyler and said, "Ty, go ahead and try that tuner out. I-" a knock on the door distracted Joshua. Anna cocked an eyebrow and walked over to the door, and answered it.

    She screamed; a scream so horrifying, it made both Tyler´s and Joshua´s skin crawl. The scream was followed by a gunshot, and then, silence.

    All Tyler could see was his father´s eyes widen in disbelief before he disappeared in a mad dash towards the door. Sounds of fighting came from behind the wall separating the living room from the hallway, followed by several gunshots. Silence crept in once again, and Tyler froze, listening desperately for any sign of his father. Just then, Joshua stumbled past the living room, clutching his gut. Tyler´s eyes swelled up with tears at the sight of his father, but Joshua just stood there and smiled. He knew that his boy was alive, and that was all that mattered. With one last bit of effort, Joshua extended his hand and pointed to the window in the living room. "Run."

    * * *

    Sadness crept over Tyler. Not only had he lost his father, but he had lost his best friend and rolemodel as well. Everything Tyler had hoped for was destroyed in an instant, like a candle blown out in a gust of wind.

    He cried. He cried until he had no tears left. All he was left with was dry sobs and whimpering to mask the pain of being orphaned.

    And then, a voice came out from the distance. "The hell´s your problem, kid? Cryin´ ain´t ever done anyone any good. Stop being such a faggot and grow the fuck up."

    For the first time, Tyler felt something build up inside him: rage. His hands balled into tiny fists of fury, and his red-with-tears face shot up from the fetal position he was in to glare at the man behind the voice. "FUCK YOU!"

    The man Tyler was shouting at was definitely not the person to yell at. He was well over six feet tall, had arms like tree trunks, and reeked of bourbon and dried blood -- blood that was definitely not his own. "What was that? Your balls just drop or something, kid? Or are you just stupid?"

    "LEAVE ME ALONE, ASSHOLE!" Tyler shouted. Thinking clearly, he was not.

    The man couldn´t help but laugh. "You´ve certainly got guts, kid. I´ll give you that. But you really should go run home to momma before I break you in half."

    That last comment was the last straw. Tyler leapt at the man with unbridled fury, swinging his fists wildly. The man sidestepped the attacks with such ease that the effort was made entirely pathetic. His boot shot out to kick Tyler square in the back, into the pavement face-first. But this did not deter Tyler. The enraged youth sprung to his feet, nose bleeding, and hands scraped from the gravel. He attacked again, furiously, and once again failed. The man just stood there and laughed.

    "Kid, you are something else. There are honest-to-god adults who don´t even get up after something like that."

    "Whoopty fucking do!" Tyler snarled as he wiped the blood from his nose.

    "You know, with a lot of work and a few years, you might actually be worth more than the pile of maggot shit that you are right now. Hell, you´ve got the guts to attack someone even after being humiliated."

    Tyler´s sarcasm started to shine through. It was his only defense. "Yeah, and who´s gonna teach me how to fight? You? Suck my fat one, mister."

    The man laughed. "Yeah, you know what? I will teach you. And you know what else? You ain´t got a choice, you little shit. I´m gonna whip that faggoty little ass of yours into a stone-cold fighter if it kills you." The man beared his teeth, not so much a grin as a threatening display. "So tell me your name, punk. Not that it matters, ´cause you´ll always be maggot shit to me."

    Tyler spat at the man´s feet, but found that retaliation was something he was going to be living with for a long time to come. The man smacked Tyler with an uppercut so hard it send him flying nearly five feet off the ground. "Do that again, and I´ll fuckin´ break your neck."

    Tyler winced. He was experiencing pain he had never known before. "Tyler..."

    "I´m Jorad Kull. You will address me as MASTER Kull at all times, or you´ll need a prybar to get my boot out of your ass."

    "Great. What do I get out of this, aside from a daily beating?"

    Kull laughed, bent over and grabbed Tyler by the collar, pulling him to his feet. "You get to learn how to fight, and be the best at it. I won´t lie to you; I´ve never lost a fight. And neither will you after I´m done with you."

    Kull grabbed Tyler by the back of the neck and shoved him forward, then pointed straight ahead. "Now move it, maggot shit. Today is just the first shitty day of the rest of your life."

    * * *

    Every day since the fateful evening when Tyler met Jorad Kull was a living hell. Kull -- the master of a revolutionary fighting style that encompassed elements of Shotokan Karate, Israeli Krav Maga, Indonesian Silat, Jeet Kune Do, and pure brutality -- had trained Tyler so hard and so relentlessly, that the young man´s mind was about to snap. Tyler was good, definitely, but not yet powerful enough to defeat his master and break free of his forced training. The only way out was for Tyler to learn the martial art so well that he could kill his master in a fair fight.

    He trained every day, learning the intricate tactics employed by Kull´s fighting style. His strength increased as the days went on, as did his resolve to fight the man who held him captive. He was fourteen, and had grown a significant amount since the first day he met Kull. With his increasing skill came increasing belief that he could defeat Kull, sooner than he had expected. It was that fateful day during training that Tyler decided to test his skills against his master.

    The usual sparring session ended with Tyler kicking Kull in the back and sending him crashing to the ground. Tyler wasted no time in diving at the man, but Kull was too quick for him. He rolled out of the way before Tyler even hit the ground, then proceeded to beat Tyler mercilessly until the boy was no longer moving. Kull got up and spat on the boy´s bloodied face. "You try to get the jump on me, boy, you gotta be a lot quicker than that."

    * * *

    Months passed by like years. Tyler´s injuries healed, with the help of Kull´s expert training in living anatomy. Aside from fighting, Kull knew a considerable amount about the world and living in it. On days when Tyler wasn´t being bullied or attacked by his teacher, Kull would actually impart his knowledge of mechanics, science, and medicine unto Tyler. There was no better teacher than Kull and his brutal method of beating information into his student until he knew it perfectly.

    Tyler´s fifteenth birthday passed by, and Kull decided to celebrate by buying him a prostitute. "You´ve earned this, boy. Just don´t forget, that pussy don´t come free. I want you to work fucking ten times as hard tomorrow."

    Although it wasn´t the most ideal way for a boy to lose his virginity, it certainly did the trick. All those months of being brutalized and frustrated seemed to go away with a simple hour-long session of sexual activity. Tyler emerged from the brothel a new man, and one more able to focus on the task at hand: killing his teacher.

    * * *

    "I´m going to kill you now, Kull."

    Six months had passed. Tyler was stronger now, faster. He was able to concentrate his attacks and fight with such fury and skill that no one on the streets could match him. It was time now for his final test. Tyler checked his surroundings; noting the bookshelves and chairs lying around the room. Kull was standing in a corner reading when had Tyler walked in.

    "´Bout time, boy. Come on and show me what you got." Kull replied, and he tossed the book over his shoulder and walked over to Tyler.

    "You´re a cocksucking faggot."

    Tyler knew exactly which switches to hit. Never was there more a biggot than Jorad Kull. He hated everyone, especially people he deemed as less than him. The anger Tyler´s insult caused was enough for Kull to make a mistake and attack first, giving Tyler the perfect leverage to sidestep the attack and smash Kull´s nose in with a straight jab. Kull doubled back and Tyler struck again, this time hitting Kull´s jaw and sending a tooth flying along with a spray of blood. Tyler followed it up with a roundhouse that knocked Kull back into a bookshelf.

    Tyler gave a superior smirk as Kull lied there amongst the broken wood and scattered books. The young man´s mistake, however, was to hesitate and savor the moment before getting closer to strike again, as it gave Kull enough time to recover from the assault. Kull´s legs shot out and struck Tyler square in the gut. Kull got up and then made a dash forward, shoving Tyler into a wooden chair. "You´re just too cocky, you little shit. You´ll never beat me, you cumsucking worm."

    Tyler groaned from the impact, but as Kull had taught him, there was no time to feel pain when facing an equal or superior opponent. Tyler shut it out and grabbed a splinter that came from the chair, then hurled it against Kull´s face. The splinter stabbed through Kull´s cheek, but the bruiser of a man just pulled it out and tossed it over his shoulder like it was nothing. Tyler, shocked that his attack did not phase Kull, staggered back and started to retreat in the opposite direction. Kull was too quick, however, and Tyler found himself in a Full-Nelson lock with his arm at the mercy of Kull.

    "Say uncle and I might kill you nice and quick, boy."

    Tyler yelled in pain as his arm bent back unnaturally far. But just then, as his arm was about to break from the stress of the hold, Tyler bit down on Kull´s arm and took a massive chunk of muscle out. Kull released and stared at his bleeding forearm, giving Tyler enough time to gain enough strength to jump up from the ground and give Kull a final crescent kick. The martial arts master fell back, stunned and suffering from whiplash from the jerk to his spine. With a half-cough, half-laugh, he uttered, "Prouda you, boy."

    The next thing he knew, Tyler was on top of him with both hands around his neck. Tyler squeezed Kull´s windpipe, harder than he had ever squeezed anything before. "FUCKING DIE!" Tyler screamed. Jorad Kull had no fight left in him. A few moments later, he was dead.

    * * *

    Freedom: Tyler knew the word, but did not know the meaning on the level he did at that moment. Kull lie dead at his feet, along with every bit of what he knew to be wrong and cruel about the world. Tyler felt something that he had never felt before: righteous. Killing Kull was doing the world a favor. The world was rid of an evil person, and for the first time in his life, Tyler felt right about something.

    For at least one person, the sun shined a little brighter that day.

    The streets of Chicago seemed much smaller to Tyler. The feeling of being overwhelmed or being small was gone, for the one person who symbolized everything that was holding Tyler back was dead. He felt alive, and able to do anything. There was no fight he could not win, no foe he could not defeat. The world was his oyster, and he wanted to enjoy every last bit of it.

    The bar he walked in was extra seedy. He could have chosen any of the other bars in the city and had his drinks in peace. But this bar, with its gritty cast of grizzled thugs, was exactly where Tyler wanted to go. He wanted to be able to go anywhere without fear; to prove that his skills would outmatch anyone that chose to pick a fight with him.

    Tyler walked up to the bar and took a seat, flipping the collar of his leather bomber jacket over his neck. "Whiskey."

    The bartender eyed Tyler carefully as he poured a shot of the bitter liquid into a glass. "This stuff´s a little strong, kid. Maybe too strong for you."

    Tyler smirked, took the shot glass, and downed it in one gulp without even flinching. "Really now?"

    As always was the case with seedy bars and young men, there was a grizzled thug who chose to get on Tyler´s case. Tyler noted the man´s appearance -- which was comprised of filthy skin, a stained white shirt, and bluejeans that had seen far better days -- and thought to himself how every lowlife in the world seemed to look exactly the same. The man grabbed Tyler by the left arm and said very loudly, "I don´t like punks like you, comin´ in here, actin´ like you´re hot shit. You´re nothin´ but a punk, an´ you´re way overdue for an ass kickin´."

    The scenario was almost too cliche, exactly why Tyler chose that particular bar. "Watch the jacket, asshole." As quick as the end of his sentence, Tyler´s right arm shot out and his fist smashed right into the thug´s nose. As the thug released his grip, Tyler´s other arm grabbed the man from the back of his neck and thust his face onto the bar. The thug was out like a light, but Tyler had even bigger problems now. The law of the wasteland was for every lowlife to have an even bigger bastard as a partner, who was armed to the teeth. Tyler turned around and noticed three even bigger thugs armed with assorted firearms pointed at him.

    Tyler shut his eyes, anticipating his impending doom, when suddenly three shots rang out. But the shots, Tyler discovered, were from another gun across the room. Tyler opened his eyes to see the trigger fingers on each of the thugs blown off. Tyler´s eyes shot to the left and spotted a big man with pale skin and dark black hair holding a pistol. "You´d be smart to watch yourself, boy. C´mon, before the bartender decides to use that Ithaca twelve gauge under the counter."

    * * *

    Tyler was stunned. The man before him aimed, fired, and shot off the trigger fingers of three men in less than two seconds (his best guess, as he had no way of knowing for sure). The stranger looked indifferently at his weapon, gave it a loving pat, and spun it on his finger before holstering it. "You all right, boy?"

    "How´d you do that?"

    The man grinned and said cryptically, "Practice."

    The stranger started to walk away, but Tyler followed him. "I´ve gotta learn how to do that. You saw those guys in there, they would´ve killed me if you hadn´t-"

    The stranger stopped, turned around and cut Tyler off mid-sentence. "I wouldn´t have had to do that if you´d have stayed out of trouble and stuck to a regular bar. Your problem ain´t that you´re unarmed, it´s that you´re too damn cocky to know when to stay the hell away from a bad situation. Who the hell told you to go into that bar anyway?"

    Tyler looked at the stranger and grinned. "Nobody. I went there on my own accord."

    The stranger rolled his eyes and continued walking. "You´re either a complete idiot, or some punk with a deathwish."

    "Pick one. The end result´s the same, I want to learn how to shoot like you."

    The stranger stopped again and paused, as if contemplating Tyler´s request. After a few seconds, the stranger lowered his head and let out a sigh, which turned into a slight chuckle. "I guess I ain´t gonna talk you into stayin´ away from a bad situation, and sometimes shit happens where it´s unavoidable anyway... Ah what the hell, why not? You got a gun, kid?"

    Tyler grinned widely and shook his head. "No sir, I´ve never even fired one."

    "All right, I´ll find you something. What´s your name?"


    "You can call me Sol."

    * * *

    Tyler took aim with the revolver Sol had given him, squeezed the trigger, and missed his target completely. "Fuck!"

    Sol shook his head and adjusted Tyler´s grip. "First off, you gotta stop treatin´ this thing like it´s a foreign object. You know how your body moves in a hand-to-hand fight? Think of this gun as a long-range punch that goes a lot faster and does a helluva lot more damage."

    "It´s hard to think of this thing as my fist. I mean, I´m holding onto it for Christ´s sake."

    "Stop thinking about the mechanics of it, goddamnit. If you treat this thing like a gun, then that´s all it is. But if you treat it like a part of your body, then you´ll be able to hit your targets dead on, and lightning quick." Sol pointed out to the target. "Now go ahead. And focus this time. Think of your target as someone´s face, and the bullet as your fist."

    Tyler nodded, breathed in, and took aim with the weapon. In his mind he began to visualize the target, and the gun, then tried to let the weapon relax in his hand as if it were a part of him. He squeezed the trigger, this time winging the target, and exhaled.

    Sol nodded in approval. "It´s a start."

    * * *

    Time went on as Tyler trained, but for some reason training seemed to go quicker than he remembered it. The agonizing days and nights of martial arts training under Kull made the rigorous training in the use of firearms seem incredibly easy. Tyler learned fast with each weapon Sol handed to him. His training went from the precise timing and aiming of revolvers, to the ease and speed of automatics, eventually to sub-machine guns and rifles, and finally, to massive vehicle-based weapons. Tyler learned all of them, their inner workings, and how to fire them with pinpoint deadly accuracy, all within a matter of months.

    Then one morning, Tyler came to Sol´s apartment for a day´s lesson, but found his instructor was gone. All his belongings were gone, save a 10mm pistol and a letter next to it. Tyler slowly opened it and read:


    I must go now, for my journey to find myself cannot be avoided. But as I go, I want you to understand that my time teaching you will never be forgotten. Not only are you a worthy student, but you are also a good man... and my friend.

    Remember, Tyler, that friendship and being a good man are probably the only things in this god-awful shitty mess we call a world that´re worth a damn. Be a good man, Tyler, because there´s too much bad in the world. If that´s the only thing worthwhile that I´ve taught you, then I know my time spent with you was not in vain.

    I leave with you this pistol. It´s not much, but at least it´ll help you get started. Hopefully it will help you do some good.

    Your friend,


    A flood of mixed emotions went through Tyler´s head. He felt abandoned, just as he felt when his parents died, but he also felt strangely motivated. Sol´s words echoed in Tyler´s head: "Be a good man, because there´s too much bad in the world." Tyler understood this more than anyone, as he was forced to live with the bad for over two years. The motivation, therefore, was natural. Tyler had to be one of the good guys, for the sake of friend, and for his departed family.

    Tyler took the pistol in his hand and gripped it firmly, resting his head against the barrel in a prayer-like motion. "I´ll avenge you, mom, dad. I´ll find those bastards who killed you and I´ll send them to hell; even if it´s the last thing I do."

    * * *

    Sometimes I hate that chaos surrounds me
    When all the answers that I seek are around me
    Am I drowning?
    Am I fading away?
    Or am I living up to all your dreams that made me this way?

    -Crazy Town, Drowning

    * * *

    "Where are they?!" Tyler´s query came with a shout coupled with a swift pistol whip. The man at his feet was already battered and bruised, and the extra sting from the cold gun against his skin did little more than spray blood without any feeling.

    "I don´t know!"

    Tyler´s young eyes were like blue flame; inside them burned a rage that had been building for three years. He had been following the clues to his parents´ murder for months, learning about the gang activities in his old neighborhood through a combination of sly investigation and brutal interrogation. He had learned that his father was in debt when he was murdered; that the man who had killed his parents was Chicago´s most prominant hit man, working for the Camarillo gang. The only name given when asked about the man was "Repo", but it was more than enough for Tyler to get a lead.

    His search led him to the man at his feet. The skinny, short-haired bookie for Repo cowered at the several pounds of sinuey muscle Tyler had over him. Even though he was only sixteen, Tyler had the body of a man in his prime.

    "One more time, motherfucker! See this gun? I *dare* you to tell me you don´t know where he is. I fucking dare you!" For emphasis, Tyler pulled back the hammer on his 10mm and pushed it against the man´s skull.

    Beads of sweat trickled down the man´s forehead, wetting the tip of the gun. "I- I swear! I fucking swear, man!"

    Tyler snarled, "What good are you to me then?!"

    With that, Tyler moved the gun over the man´s right arm, placed it over his elbow, and fired. The range, combined with the expanding 10mm bullet, was enough to completely shatter the bone and nearly separate the forearm from the bicep.

    The man didn´t even scream. His agony was so intense that nothing but soundless air left his mouth. Finally, a croaking cry bellowed from his lungs, followed by yet another brutal strike by Tyler´s hand, against his temple. "What about now? You listening?"

    The man didn´t answer, he had passed out from the pain in the middle of Tyler´s sentence.

    "Oh for fuck´s sake..." Tyler grabbed the man, dragged him from the middle of the alley, and threw him in a large puddle of still water in a road embankment. The man woke up with a cough, and he rolled over belching muddy water.

    "You pass out again, I blow off the other arm. Capiche?"

    The man looked at Tyler with utter horror and nodded in compliance. "T-T-they´re in t-t-the alley building, on Belmont and Clark... T-that´s all I know!"

    Tyler grinned and walked up to the man. "You did the right thing, buddy. At least you´ll die knowing that much."

    The man´s eyes widened in horror. "WH-?!"

    Tyler left the corpse on the road, one bullet for every year of agony that he lived since his parents´ murder. The feeling of quiet emptiness rushed over him as the adrenaline faded, and Tyler shivered in the cold of the ruined streets.

    But the feeling left him as soon as his goal became clear. Tyler knew where his parents´ killers were, and now he was ready to make the kill.

    * * *

    Tyler knocked on the door to the old, boarded-up gothic clothing store. His Colt felt like a cold lump under his coat, and his heart started to race with anticipation. It felt like an eternity before someone answered the door, but when they did, Tyler´s instincts took over. The sliding hole in the door was barely cracked in opening when Tyler gave the doorknob a swift kick. The wooden replacement of a door gave way like a deuce before a Royal Flush. The man who answered the door was flat on the ground, practically smashed by the door landing on top of him. Four men stood up and pulled out their guns, but only one of them noticed that the young man standing in the doorway was holding a grenade with the pin already removed.

    "Don´t shoot!" the man yelled to the others, waving for them to lower their weapons.

    Tyler went straight to the point. "Two options: you shoot me and die, or you let me fight Repo one on one."

    "Hang on, kid. Let´s talk about thi-"

    "Gee, my arm is getting really tired here... If I don´t put this grenade away, I might just drop it."

    "Okay okay!" one of the men yelled. "We´ll get Repo for you."

    Tyler cracked a wry smile. "You´re too kind."

    * * *

    Repo was not the sort one would expect to be a stone-cold hitman. He was attractive, very attractive. His face looked like something from an old Calvin Klein ad, and his body was well-formed and powerful-looking.

    "Well, what do you want, kid?" Repo´s voice was smooth as silk.

    "You, me, no weapons. One on one. You comply, you die. You don´t, you still die."

    Repo smirked. "Fair enough, kid. What´s this all about? I fuck your girlfriend or something?"

    "Three years ago you killed my parents."

    Repo shrugged. "I kill lots of people, but if you´re so eager to die too, then I don´t see why I shouldn´t indulge you. I could use the exercise."

    Tyler nodded and pointed to the door. "Shall we step outside?"

    "Lead the way."

    * * *

    Considering Tyler´s luck, the set of circumstances that had just transpired should not have occured. Nobody followed them outside, no snipers were positioned on any of the buildings; it was the perfect set up.

    Repo shed his jacket and tossed it on the sidewalk, and Tyler did the same. Both men were prime examples of masculine beauty, and now they were both ready to kill each other with their bare hands.

    Repo swung first with a roundhouse that would have struck a lesser man, but hit nothing but air when thrown at Tyler. The young combatant countered the attack with a savage uppercut that smashed Repo´s jaw and sent him flying backwards. The handsome hitman hit the wet pavement with a loud crack, scraping his elbows and the back of his head. Tyler rushed towards Repo for another attack, easily dodging a handful of muddy gravel that Repo flung at him in desperation, and landed on him with a brutal elbow drop.

    "Trying to fight dirty?! Because of you, I wrote the fucking book on how to fight dirty!" Tyler rolled over and grabbed Repo by a clump of his neatly-groomed hair, then proceeded to smash the back of his head against the pavement.

    "Had enough, pretty boy?!" Tyler smashed Repo´s nose with his fist like a hammer. As the blood sprayed from the attack, Tyler grabbed a clump of gravel with his other hand and ground it into Repo´s eyes. Blood oozed out of Repo´s eye sockets out his nose, and from the back of his head. The first bump against the pavement had caused a concussion; every time afterwards had made it worse. By the time Tyler was done, Repo was gone. Once he stopped moving, Tyler finished the job by stomping on his face until brains leaked out of his ears and his once beautiful face was nothing but a flat pancake of blood and flesh.

    * * *

    "Hey, Repo´s been out there for a while. Maybe we should-"

    The door knocked.

    "Oh, that´s him now."

    One man walked over to the door, while another arched a brow and said, "Hey, why didn´t Repo just come through the door that the kid kicked in? And why did he bother to knock?"

    "Huh?" the man by the door said with confusion as he opened the door. Noticing that no one was standing before him, the man looked down to see a paper grocery bag at the doorstep.

    Six napalm grenades, two sticks of homemade dynamite, and a pipe bomb exploded on the doorstep, sending a fireball through the building and nearly an entire city block and incinerating everyone and everything in its path. Justice was served, char-broiled.

    * * *

    There was nothing left for Tyler, save a ruined city and a few hookers that he had gotten familiar with. The only family he had ever known was gone, vanished one by one like ghosts in the light. As Tyler packed the few things he owned into a duffel bag, he took one last look at the place he knew as home. Somehow, although he didn´t want to admit it, he knew he would be back one day.


    Mental disorders: Acute schizophrenia (at least, that's the closest thing his particular condition comes to). The benefit is that the voice in his head actually offers sound tactical advice now and then.

    Personality perks: THE embodiment of a post-modern cowboy, Tyler carries a code of honor that has all but died out in the wasteland. A living legend in the west, and still notorious among those who remember him in the midwest, he uses his fame and glory to make the wasteland a better place... one scumbag at a time.

    Personality quirks: Stubborn, smokes too much, drinks too much, curses like a sailor

    Fighting style: Rattlesnake Kung Fu (an ever-adapting style that incorporates Krav Maga, Karate, Silat, Ju-jitsu, Jeet Kune Do, Shaolin, and regular American boxing into one lethal package)
  3. Zoe

    Zoe Where'd That 6th Toe Come From?

    Dec 5, 2003
    NMA Character

    Name: Zoe
    Height: 5’ft
    Weight: 120lb
    Hair: Dark hazel, silky and thin, long to her waist
    Eyes: dark hazel, shyny, pure and deep under long eyelashes
    Age: 25
    Perks: Good-natured, fast learner

    Zoe is an attractive young lady, with delicately chiseled features. Her body is well built, with lean muscles that make her very graceful on her movements. She is not very tall, but that never bothers her. She usually has a kind and honest smile for those who approach her, and people say she is the person one can trust on any crisis, cause she not only is very creative and resourceful, she really cares about people.
    Envious people (females, mostly) say that Zoe is either conceited because of her looks or because of her intellect (“So what if she was the youngest doctor to graduate in the Vaults, or the youngest to start a serious research project? She must be aiming at a high seat in the council...”) Nothing could be farther from the truth, for people who really know Zoe know that her interest is knowledge, and using this knowledge to help people. “I want to help all Mankind. Humans, mutants, ghouls, we all live in this world, so we all should share the resources and wealth!”, she says.
    Unfortunately, most people don’t share her point of view – specially the council of the vaults. And this made living at the vaults a risk for her: suddenly, even though she was commended for her researches in Neobiology (after-war Biology) and Genetics, her life was in danger if she remained at the vault, so she escaped one night, with the help of a few friends. She realized that the council wanted to use her work to create biological weapons. Ironically, had she not been an ethical person, she could be well settled with prestige and a wealth of credits. But she would never agree to make biological weapons, nor to cohort with slavery or abuse. So she escaped before she was “eliminated”. She managed to sabotage the computers of the research center so that her work would not be used for evil means (but she has the good files with her, and a copy of them remain in the vaults, safely kept in secret with her cousin Gina, whom she trusts completely).
    Zoe is very strong willed and determined to prevent the corrupted Council of the Vaults from ruling the whole wasteland. To that, she counts on her intellect and knowledge but also on the ability to adapt and to convince others through conversation – she has a “way with words”.
    She is an idealist, though, and the habit she has of expecting the best from the others may put her in bad situations. Also she had taken shooting lessons and learned some self-defense (ju-jitsu and karate) but never had to practice them in “real life situations” before. Life on the wastelands, on the run, can be way more dangerous than the vaults where she grew up.

    Equipment: A pipboy (with updated maps of the wastes and indication of areas of most interest to the vaults); a small pistol, loaded, and two boxes of ammo; a combat armor (she escaped pretending to be one of the vaults guards); two changes of clothes; a doctor’s bag, a first-aid kit; the scientific files with her work. And a necklace with a pendant with a pic of a nice guy (yes, someone from her past)
  4. Chicken Hunter

    Chicken Hunter First time out of the vault

    Dec 11, 2003
    Ulysses (RP character.)

    Greetings everyone, my very 1st post, after talking to some of the admins, and mods about how this place works, because, well because its the 1st time I forum roleplay, I never really roleplayed on forums, so a few hints, on how posting would be welcome. :)

    After reading most of the characters stuff. I'm just gonna start mine over again, from one of the characters I play, on another game, and the name I use on Fallout 1&2. :P

    And what would be nice, if having a map, of te area, of whats going on?

    But before I can start it all, I'd like a timeline, where about are you guys, what year it is, because my character, was basicly born 50 years after the last vault was opened, so alot of stuff was running out. My character, was pulled out of a total other type of bible of fallout. Mixture of other genres. World destroyed with super contries.

    Please excuse my poor english again.

    I never really payed attention to english class. :P

    Record/Data : Born in the southern isle under New Zealand.
    Traveld from there untill reaching the lands, russia, joining a comnunist group. Untill leaving it three years later, to become a basic caravan guard. For no reason, after the age of 29 He went off to America, off to explore why the bombs dropped.

    (For note New Zealand, with this character, was exposed to a minium of nukes etc. Thus why minor 'evolution' on his head. I didn't find any data about Zealand, so just gonna go with my stuff?)

    I'll edit more here later, my computer is about to crash.

    - Ulysses~
  5. Prudence

    Prudence It Wandered In From the Wastes

    Dec 17, 2003

    This is my additon to the Kilrick Salvage Campaign

    NAME: Charlyn
    AGE: 20's Early
    SEX: Female
    RACE: Human (negroe, Hispanic heritage)
    HEIGHT: 5'9"
    WEIGHT: 119 lbs
    HAIR: Black w/violet highlights
    EYES: copper
    APPERANCE: A skinny framed woman that still looks as if perpetually frozen in her teens. Violin is of Creole origins, thus having the features of a negro woman and the mock features of possible white heritage like her semi-straight nose with a small negro flare effect with the nostrals; her hair is curly but also very soft to the touch; her skin is a fair butter brown and lips that have a golden tint like honey. A round faced woman who seems to harbor the past.

    You notice Violin has excellent taste in her clothing, especially in the leather jacket and black t-shirt of Cat´s Paw state. Her short curly hair is covered by a scarlet doo-rag with a skull and cross bones. Around her slender waist are two different types of leather belts, one for the pants, the other for her pistol.

    Her distinguishing features would be the scar under her small chin. She´;d have tilt her head upwards for it to be even noticed. A red violin is neatly and artistically tattooed at the base of her spine. A lovely red rose is masterfully portrayed from pelvis (closer to hip) where the flower is and the stem ends on her thigh. All this is a mere two inches exaclty from her pubic area. Other small scars and bruises decorate her body.

    You see different rings bejewling her hands and a stylish golden braclet around her wrist with engravings of musical notes.

    SKILLS: Small fire arms, some knowledge of artillary pieces, Unarmed and melee weapon combat. excellent Tracker, having spent time with trackers and mercs.



    CLOTHING: Scarlet doo-rag with a stylish black leather jacket interwoven with bits of FLAK and ceramic padding. Double belts with metal studs. Pistol holster for Glock 17 pistols and a shotgun holster for Widowmaker. Knife scabbards, one in boot other on chest. Leather pants, especially designed for cold climates. Black polished steel toe tanker boots. Cat´s Paw Black T-shirt. Bra-underneath.

    WEAPONS: Edden carries around two well maintained Glocke 17 pistols with extended magazines. A combat knife with sharpened edge as well as throwing stars. he rprized weapon is the mysterious sheathed Katana she carries around. Also a sawed off shotgun at her hip.

    - Zippo Lighter
    - Pack of American Spirit Cigarettes (8 left)
    - Ammo
    - A leather bound journal
    - Water Canteen
    - Nuka Cola
    - First Aid Kit
    - Stimpak set

    PERSONALITY: Charlyn is crazy; let no one else tell you otherwise. She can be loving one moment and compassionate and in a flash turn murderous and the next. Haunted by a vague past and tormented by a bleak future, Charlyn often finds herself being a danger to herself and those around her.

    She seeks comfort and companionship, yet sense plots and conspiracies that aren’t sometimes there – though on rare occasions, she was proven correct.

    Dark humour and passion compose and animate the homicidal musician named Red Violin, making her an enigma and an object of endless curiosity and fascination.

    Her moods constantly change and thus even confuse both her and those about her. But despite her mercurial nature, Charlyn is one of the most honest and blunt people you’ll ever meet. Demanding and tenacious, often driving away those who are not fit to meet her demands.

    Her capacity for violence has little bounds and if she has to make an example of you, she has no qualms of that…. None at all.

    PROFILE: Musician, wanderer, poet, mercenary for hire.... murderer and psychopath. A woman who knows she has one or two screw loose in her skull. Scarred and beaten by time and forged into a weapon later on.

    No family, few friends, lots of bad relationships. She doesn´t know why she is heading towards New York; she isn´t sure who she is and why she likes playing a violin.... Charlyn doesn´t know how she got her name. She just knows that her name is Charlyn.

    Without a clear past, Charlyn isn´t sure she´ll make it through a dark future clouded by figures of the Empire and the manipulations of a strange man who calls himself Essex. All she recalls is bits and pieces of the past.

    Charlyn recalls a place that had no light and that there were others like her, afraid and confused in the darkness. It was a battle, a mission that she and others like her were sent on, except they weren´t sent to live or to find someone, they were go there to die.

    She was a one of the lucky ones who survived. A man saved her and gave her life, but she had no memory of anything before the dark lands. Now she wanders, doing jobs and selling her rage to anyone who can stomach it. Charlyn doesn´t recall training, but she is deadly with her hands, and whatever she can grab. Her last job got her some money, and while wanderering and waiting for memory to return, Charlyn plays her violin and ventures through the long abandoned ruins of the old world and now.. she settles in a bar within the Gunrunner Stronghold. She relflects now on her killings and feels nothing about it, realizing the world was just as murderous as she.

    TURN ONS: Women who can give it to her good and meet her emotional demands. Men too, but well, likes women over men. Those with good fashion sense.

    TURN OFFS: Those who have zero fashion sense. Zealots.

    PERKS: You can count on her in a pinch, though crazy, if she loves you, trust me, no one can harm you unless they kill her first.

    QUIRKS: Topo demanding and too impulsive and a tad psychotic. Hair trigger mentallity. Usually solves problems with a lot of violence and blood shed. And very, very unforgiving.

    ETHNICITY: West Indian negro/mulattoe

    KARMA: A Scourge of the Wastes Title...
  6. Ed Collins

    Ed Collins First time out of the vault

    Dec 5, 2003
    Name: Jack Kaden

    Age: 26

    Race: Human, Caucasian

    Height: 6'0''

    Weight: 160lbs

    Hair color: Reddish-black

    Eye color: Blue

    Appearance: Jack is average in height and weight, but well-muscled. His hair is trimmed short, with a disheveled flair, while being somewhat presentable. Various scars cover his body from combat, while a cryptic tattoo adorns his right shoulder. His beard is stubbly, like most wastelanders, giving him a hint of ruggedness on his fairly attractive features.

    Non-Combat Skills: Pharmaceutical chemistry, medicine, acrobatics, tracking/wilderness survival skills, some computer training, and rudimentary mechanical repair skills.

    Combat Skills: Small arms training, combat hand-to-hand defense training (appears to have Haganah and Krav Maga influences).

    - Baby Eagle .40 caliber pistol w/ ammunition
    - Compass
    - Survival gear including a tent, sleeping gear, and water purification device
    - Paramedic’s bag
    - Faded picture of a young woman

    Armor and Clothing: Brown leather jacket, 501 Jeans, slate gray t-shirt, a sturdy pair of combat boots.

    Personality profile: Quiet and distant, as if he were shy, or shutting down most of his emotions when talking to people. In truth, his emotional state is incredibly intense, and he feels things stronger than normal people. He has an incredible sense of empathy, which could be used to his advantage if he utilized it properly if he didn’t prefer to stay away from conversation.

    Background: Jack’s background is kept to himself, although most of what is known about him is that he comes from the League of Eastern Vaults, which is where he received the majority of his training. Originally a practicing doctor, Jack cared for the slaves under the yoke of the League, until he was called into service by the powers to join the elite force known as the Janissaries, serving as a medic for their field operations. After receiving a few months worth of combat training, he was sent in with his group to raid what was thought to be a small encampment of dissidents suitable for slave labor. All but Jack were slain, put on crucifixes as the dissidents left their encampment, warning all who would attempt to enslave them. That was the last the League ever saw of Jack Kaden.

    Jack was badly injured in the attack, but the dissidents took him in when they saw he carried medical equipment. They nursed him back to health, allowing him to recover in exchange for his aid in treating an outbreak of black pox that had befallen the camp. Citizens of the League were inoculated to this virus, but the dissidents had no access to the advanced medical technology available to the former vault dwellers. Jack agreed to formulate a vaccine from his blood in exchange for his freedom, and after treating the dissidents, he was to be sent on his way.

    Something happened on the last night of Jack’s stay in the dissident camp, to which he has no clear knowledge of to this very day. Foggy dreams filled his head; of being a slave, and what the League would do to him after returning from helping the very people who they were trying to enslave. He could not go back to his home, for the League would surely enslave him as punishment for his treachery.

    When he awoke, his arm was tattooed with a cryptic glyph-like symbol, and the dissident encampment was gone. He was alone, left with enough supplies and money to start a new life wherever he wished, as long as it was not back with the League. So Jack set off into the wilds, hoping to make a new life for himself in the wasteland.

    Perks: Reliable, tough, and willing to help out in a fight.

    Quirks: Introverted, seems to hold a flame for someone from a long time ago.
  7. Gruug

    Gruug Look, Ma! Two Heads!

    Nov 7, 2003
    Name: Jake
    Real Name: Unknown
    Age: 31
    Gender: Male
    Race: Human
    Occupation: Scavenger partner with Killrick.
    Family: Living in their little city by their boat. They are all Australian.
    Physical Appearance: Jake is big. At 6foot7 and 325 pounds, with about only 5% of that being fat, he is very muscular, he is easily the biggest Scavenger around, but don't let his size fool you, because if you think you can fuck around him caus he's slow, he'll drop you flat on your ass before you can say Aussie sangers.
    Eyes: Verry blue.
    Hair: Millitary cut, reddish brown.
    Height: 6ft 7
    Weight: 325pds
    Skin Color: White

    Personality: Jake'll like you if you arn't an asshole, or an irritating shithead. Because if you make Jake go up the wall with anger, you are going to regret it. Usually quite easy going, not afraid to ask for help, that's how he met Killrick, on one of his scavenges, having been shotup by a pellet bomb.

    Weaponry: After the O'Neil massacre, Jake has two weapons on his back, a Gatling laser for which he only has a 100 shots of, and a plasma rifle, with a bit of ammo. He usually carries a modified m60, which looks like no other machine gun you have ever seen. It looks like he tore it apart and then pasted it together with glue. The difference is, that this one has been rigged to do single shot, not just fully auto or burst.

    Armor: Jake wears the torso piece of an old power armor, it was fucking heavy when he first tried it on, but he has grown accustomed to it, he even sleeps with it on, unless he is either with a lady of the evening, or taking a shower.

    There, thought I should post Jake's character.
  8. Rebel

    Rebel First time out of the vault

    Jan 2, 2004
    My all-purpose RP description
    (this is based on the real me)

    Name: Jal Rebel

    Age: Late teens

    Sex: Male

    Race: Human (English/French descent)

    Height: 6'1"

    Weight: 75kg (don't know pounds)

    Hair: Dirty-blond crewcut

    Eyes: Blue-green, seen to change colour with climate

    Appearance: A wiry young man with piercing eyes. Wearing a CyberGym uniform consisting of white jacket with gold stripe across the chest, grey trousers and teal moonboots. A small patch of hair on his eyebrow has no pigment, resulting in the illusionary appearance of a scar.

    Personality: The kind of person most likely to end up the leader of a group. Sometimes described as arrogant but often understanding and tolerant. Possesses an eidetic memory and crystalline logic along with astounding lingustic talents. Sometimes very stubborn. Confident in his ability to analyse a situation and arrive at a solution "best for all concerned" Prefers diplomacy to fighting when possible.

    Marital status: Single

    Family record: Unrevealed

    Weapons: Possesses a highly advanced particle beam pistol with sufficient power for 3 hours of continuous firing. Often carries Pokemon about, but does not use them when the enemy is armed with more than light weapons.

    - Communicator
    - Rations
    - Tricorder (environmental/medical scanning device)
    - Nylon rope
    - Camping equipment
    - Extra power cells for pulse pistol

    History: Successful Pokemon champion in the Indigo, Orange and Johto Leagues before discovering FLAP and setting up his own gym as a base of operations.

    Turn ons: Conceals his sexuality to prevent female enemies exploiting it as a weakness.

    Turn offs: Religious zealots and narrow-minded idiots.

    Quirks: Talks to himself on occasion. Holds grudges and does not forgive easily. A study in contradictions.
  9. Mad Larkin

    Mad Larkin It Wandered In From the Wastes

    Jan 3, 2004
    Well damn. Nuthin' better to do.

    Name: Larkin

    Age: unsure. Something between 18 and 25

    Sex: Male

    Race: Probably human.

    Height: Bit under six feet

    Weight: 60 Kg

    Hair: Brown and shaggy.

    Eyes: Mad as hell.

    Appearance: A twitchy gaunt-faced skinny fellow, with deep-set eyes, hollow cheeks and a huge, broken nose. Dressed in mismatched boots, thick jeans and a huge coat.

    Equipment: A pair of knuckle dusters,his wallet and various quick snacks hid in his coat. Also, he carries a .45 cal Marlin hunting rifle. And hasn't any moral scruples about using it.

    Larkin is a straightforward, down-and-dirty bastard, who despite his size loves to get into fights. The bigger the guy, there's just more of him to bite. For Larkin, fighting the next bastard is just a substitute of kneeing the whole universe in the groin.
  10. Karkow

    Karkow Still Mildly Glowing

    Feb 6, 2004
    I'm new to this role-playing board, but always wanted to role-play, especially in a Fallout-line environment. Please tell me if my character can fit in any of your role-plays.
    I’m enjoying reading Lone Wanders and would very much like to be part of chapter 4, but if there’s another who I would fit in please tell me.

    I’m from Portugal, therefore English is NOT my main language, but I think I can manage by, with the help of a spell-check writer program, of course. :P

    Name: Karkow (Kár-kov)
    Race: Human
    Sex: Male
    Age: 20
    Height: 1.88 m
    Weight: 85 kg
    Skin: Caucasian, but with dark tanned skin
    Hair: Black, with a strange, messy cut
    Eyes: brownish green
    Clothing: Pants and some rags strapped to his arms against small geckos bites.
    Other visible features: Tribal tattoos all over his torso neck and arms, big scar over his bare chest.

    Karkow is a tribal. He grown up in a tribe near the ocean (they would call it The Great Salt Water). The tribe divided their men into fishermen and warriors who would hunt when fish was scarce. His father, Onuk, was one of these warriors. A great on who trained his son practically since he could walk into being the greatest warrior and hunter of the tribe.
    His mother, Nazka, on the other hand, was not very fond of the idea that his son would grow up to risk his life everyday fighting geckos or slavers. She as the daughter of one of the elders, the ones that kept information of the before time, she could understand books and the knowledge they bring… and so she passed to Karkow all she knew, and gave him pride in knowledge and taught him that while strength and the ability to kill another was important in the world they lived on, knowledge was the key to a better tomorrow.

    Eventually, the day came when his father didn’t return home from the hunter’s party. Ambushed by slavers, they said. Fought real hard, protected them all, but the wounds were too great, stimpacks weren’t enough, nor was the healing powder… he died, but the slavers died with him. Karkow was 19 years old.
    The fate of his father brought sadness, but more importantly, conviction to Karkow. He wouldn’t stay any longer with the tribe. The fate of his father wasn’t for him. He wanted more; he wanted to accomplish something in this meaningless life. He wanted to know the world.

    And so he left. His mother would be taken care of by the rest of the tribe, he assured her that he would be going into his destiny, the one that she too wanted for him!
    He packed food, water, stimpacks that he got by traders. He also took his father’s spear, a fantastic spear that had seen many battles, and also his father’s knife, a very long but simple knife, a gift from his grandfather (Nazka’s father) to his father, said to be once used by powerful warriors, a long long time ago… they called it a “katana”.

    He strapped the sword to his back under the bags with the necessary provisions, gripped the spear and walked away to the unknown, knowing that being a tribal would bring him many problems in the road that was his, but he was prepared.
  11. Karkow

    Karkow Still Mildly Glowing

    Feb 6, 2004
    Name: Wolf, Richard
    Race: Human
    Sex: Male
    Age: 39
    Height: 1.80 m
    Weight: 85 kg
    Skin: Caucasian, rough skin
    Hair: Black, short
    Eyes: Green
    Clothing: Combat boots, black pants, black cotton shirt, long brown jacket, black gloves.
    Other features: Has a goatee.
    Weapons: Sawed-off shotgun, 44º Magnum on right boot, hidden in jacket has 12 grenades and explosives.

    Who is Wolf? This strange shady character that goes around from bar to bar, playing poker, drinking (a lot) and smoking like a goddamn chimney.
    From his wears not much we can discover: his clothes are dirty, but we can see a fabric of very high, and very expensive, quality.

    His weapons? Messy to say the least: A shotgun that we waves around, and the explosives em grenades hidden in his jacket, same for the 44º in his boot, not the best to kill people with, but damn good to make a lot of “bang” while doing it…

    He drinks a lot and gambles a lot, but he doesn’t seem to be short on money for it, so whatever he does or used to do, it would pay him big bucks for it.
    It’s rumoured that he has some good medical skills, perhaps it was those that bring him the money he uses to live by, but in what I used them: Has a mercenary or part of some military organization, know one knows…

    In any case, he lives this bohemian life for far too long, and with that kind of life, even the greatest of fortunes ran out eventually.
  12. Thorgrimm

    Thorgrimm A Smooth-Skin

    Dec 16, 2003
    This is my character

    Name; Kevin DeShane Nickname: Thor
    Race; Human
    Sex; Male
    Date of Birth; December 5th, 2155
    Age; 30
    Height; 6' 7"
    Weight; 220 lbs
    Features; Caucasian, tanned skin, Brown hair in a high and tight style cut, Blue eyes. He has a scar running from his left eye to the corner of his mouth.
    Clothing; Combat boots, Desert camouflage utilities, he wears his great great granfather's combat armor
    Weapons; sniper rifle, 43 rounds of ammo for the sniper rifle, Desert Eagle auto magnum, 65 rounds for the Desert Eagle, K-Bar combat knife in sheath on left hip, 10mm smg w 300 rounds for the weapon.

    In Fallout terms this is Thor
    Strength 6
    Perception 10
    Endurance 6
    Charisma 2
    Intelligence 7
    Agility 10
    Luck 7

    Traits; Gifted, Small Frame

    Perks; Awareness, Bonus Rate of Fire, Silent Running, Tag,
    More Criticals, Better Criticals, Sniper

    Tags; Small Guns 267%, Melee Weapons 168%, Sneak 193%, Outdoorsman 116%

    Thor would be considered a 21st level Sniper extraordinarre.
    Who if if he did not get you from long range, he would get you up close and personal. Thor was never one who tried to impress people with words, he always let his actions speak for him. A firm believer in the saying "Deeds, not words define the man." He will always let the other fools try and bullshit people.

    Kevin DeShane opened his eyes slowly and tried to set up, but every nerve in his body was screaming in pain. Like he had lain on his arm then it went to sleep when the blood was cut off. Then the blood flow was restored and feeling returned.
    "Son of a Bitch!", How long have I been here? He thought to himself.
    As soon as the pain quieted down to a dull roar he looked over his surroundings, and noticed the bodies of the other Rangers along with the remains of the caravan they were protecting.
    "What the hell happened?" He asked to no one in particular.
    Then it hit him like a block of stone to the forehead. The Master's army of Mutants, floaters, and centaurs had ambushed them in a pass in the Sierra Nevadas. He had been hit early in the fight by a blow to the head, and went unconcious. Evidently as the Rangers were killed by the mutated horrors they had fallen on top of him.
    "That is how i survived" he thought with a heavy heart.
    He began to check himself over and found besides a nasty welt and lump on his head he was fine.
    "From the look's of thing i am the only survivor."

    Then the memory hit him in the head like a supersledge! He felt like somebody had just kicked him in the balls and tried to pull them off!
    Cathy!! Kevin shouted.
    He ran to the wagon that had housed his wife and 2 year old son.
    "Oh My God!"
    Exclaimed Kevin as he fell to his knees with his sons teddy bear in his hands. All he could think about was his wife and 2 year old son, and began to cry.

    After what seemed like an eternity the sobs began to fade, and the titanium in his soul began to assert control. He wiped his eyes and said his farewell to his lost family. Kevin then began to take stock of his surroundings and began to gather his belongings and weapons.
    "These people need a descent burial" he thought to himself with great sadness in his heart.
    He then began to bury the dead. If anything had interrupted him at that time there is no doubt they, be it man or beast, would have died. It took the better part of two days to bury the dead and gather up what he could, then destroy what was left. So no raiding scumbag would disturb these honored dead.

    He then began to get his gear ready for the trip.
    After completing the task of making sure "momma", his Great grandfathers's war weapon handed down through the ages was in working order he checked on his other gear. The deuce gear was beyond repair as the webbing had been torn to shreds. The only thing left was the metal frame. His Ka-Bar as was expected still razor sharp and untarnished. His Desert Eagle was in need of a cleaning, but that was expected. Of course his combat armor was in pristine order.

    His Great Great Grandfather had been a fan of the old Norse sagas, and was thrilled by the derring do of one of Norse Gods, Thor. So in honor of his great great grandfatherher who had survived the war, had become Thor, Kevin DeShane had died with his family. Now only Thor the avenger and protector of mankind was left .

    Cheers Thorgrimm
  13. Rohan

    Rohan Still Mildly Glowing

    Jan 6, 2004
    Name: Paul Rohan
    Race: Human
    Gender: Male
    Age: 25
    Height: 1.8m
    Weight: 70kg
    Hair: Very short, black
    Eyes: Brown

    Clothing, appearance: Overall black and worn clothes: leather jacket with black jeans trousers, always wielding an old combat knife on his belt and a sniper rifle on his back. Average strength.

    Personality: Quiet man, says anything only if he knows he has to. Never changes equipment unless it's not to repair or change of weapons is crucial to mission. Doesn't like armors, says he's sniper anyway. He doesn't mind anything. For him succesful action is an action in which no one dies. He kills only if he knows there is no other way.

    Skills/Occupation: Used to be a Justicemakers' sniper, now he's just a well-armed wanderer. Good sniper, mostly because of ability to hide and tactical preparations. Learns new abilities quicker than others because of the young age. Can drive a car, but it's only minimum, much better with a motorbike. A little more agile than an usual person, knows, how to ignore pain, but if he's psychically down, he can't use his abilities as well.

    Items & weaponry: Clothing - see above. Weaponry - a sniper rifle, a pre-war can of tuna, an old combat knife with a "2074" on handle, 20 shots of sniper rifle ammo, a clip of H&K MP5 ammo.

    BIO: Used to be a Justicemakers' member, well trained in combat behaviour, knows a bit about every weapons in exception of the heavier ones. After 2 years of duty, he joined a group taking on some raiders. He was supporting the team from a nearby hill. Everything was just like it was planned, but while most of the team was searching the house, a vertibird came and destroyed the raiders' base with all the people in there. After making sure the vertibird is far away, he tried to contact the HQ. With no result. He realized then that he is on his own now. He found a motorbike and some equipment in a cabin east of the disaster site. He settled there until the food ran out. Then he thought about NY as a nice place to live. There should be some people since the war - it used to be a big city with highly developed infrastructure, so it's perfect place to create a new community. That kept him going since he lost all his friends in that action. He calculated that there is enough fuel to travel three quarters of the way to NY. The next day he set off.

    Location: heading to NY

    Feel free to throw me in!

    **EDIT** I removed "south" cause it would make trouble with character location
  14. welsh

    welsh Junkmaster

    Apr 5, 2003
    For Tsrmina's thread.

    Name: Melvin Curtis
    Nickname- Mel, BlackZinhio, Love Snake, Love Supreme, Dumb ass mutha fucka, Skinny Black Ass, The man the 'Fro, etc.
    Race- Black
    Height- about 5 and a half feet, 6 feet with the Afro.
    weight- rail thin
    Age- 20

    Melvin Curtis is the decendent of African-Americans who provided labor for the creation of Vault 13. Technically he shouldn't have been a vault member because his family couldn't pay for it. But in the suddenness of the war, his family escaped to the vault and have been working menial jobs ever since in a somewhat segregated vault.

    Melvin anticipates that there will be a civil war in the vault, and it won't go well for the blacks who work most of the menial labor. Thus given the opportunity to escape the vault, he takes it. But he plans to return and help liberate his black brothers and sisters from the overseer.

    Using the Fallout System- Melvin's traits are small frame and sex appeal. He's personal ambition is to be the recognized Kama Sutra Master, and to repopulate the world with people of african stock. ("I got to plant my seed and refertalize the earth!") His desire for the opposite sex is often single minded, a trait which has endeared him to some women but has annoyed many men.
    ("I am the love supreme, the rich boys nightmare and the poor girl's dream.")

    For skills, Melvin excels at lockpick, steal and, surprisingly, science. ("I'm a lover not a killer,") is something he has said on a number of occassions. In fact he is more a thief. ("I'm a thief of phunanni, and I'll steal you're cherry if you let me in your crib.")

    That said, Melvin is fiercely loyal. Distrustful of white folks from an early age ("Grand ma always said, 'Don't trust Whitey, he's going fuck in the ass if he can!") he is not so prejudiced not to recognize friendship, integrity and character in others. ("I have a dream... that all white folk will be cool... that white women...") Highly individualistic, he will be good friend to those he learns to trust, but not to authority figures ("Cause the man is always out to get ya.")

    Mel fashions himself in clothes and attitude after Richard Roundtree in Shaft. He will quickly get rid of his clothes for a black on black on black attire. ("Black is beautiful") He favors small arms and will usually carry a pistol.
  15. Kahgan

    Kahgan Sonny, I Watched the Vault Bein' Built!

    Nov 25, 2003
    okay, i got a character.........

    NAME : Kahgan

    RACE : Human (mutant according to the enclave)

    AGE : 23

    HEIGHT : 180 cm

    WEIGHT : 160 Pounds

    APPERANCE : Kahgan is a pretty strong person with long blond hair. He walks arround with some sort of a modified, long, leather armor (details will follow) . He uses old army boots, wears a long, red cape that is worn in the edges.

    INVENTORY : Stims, radaway/radX, bowie knife, Israeli army UZI, 10mm pistol, leatherman tool, spear, some ropes etc., ammo (5mm, 44cal.) He would also like to get his hands on a plasma rifle.

    ARMOR : Self-made leather armour, no breast plates and thinner shoulder protection, the armour is very long, about to down to his boot-tops. On top of everything is the cape, wich is slightly longer than his armour. On the shoulders, there are metal protections

    SPECIALS : His spear is similar to the ones on fallout, only with some decorations and stuff

    HISTORY/DESCRIPTION : Kahgans parents were both killed by a cupple of police folks when he was seven years old, reasons were that they were "resisting arest". After that he started working on a construction site as a handy-boy, and he worked building houses until he was 20 years old. During that time, he gained an excelent strenght, endurance and agility combination. In his spare time he often went on long hikes in the barren wasteland, wich is why he's a very good outdoorsman. The month after he turned 20, he was offered a job by Grimson, in a caravan to the boneyard. As payment he got a a 10mm pistol, pluss some stims, because they were low on cash that time, he was told. When he was in the Boneyard, he saw the mighty deathclaw, he got past them and he visited the gunrunners.
    On his way back from the gunrunners, he saw a man carrying a lot of junk being torn apart. That was the first time he thought that some time, he wanted to be able to kill one of those, that would be a real challenge. When he got back to the Hub, he continued his building work, but after the exciting caravan tour, he found out that building was to boring for him, so he started traveling, visiting many towns in the surronding area, Necropolis, Shady Sands, Boneyard, Junktown, and he also were a place with a cathedral, with miserable drunkards walking in, and powerfull nightkins walking out. He had heard rumors ofhow devastating a plasma rifle was, he had never seen one though, and he have long wanted to try one.
    Kahgan is an individualist, he is not a talkative man and he likes to keep to himself, observing whats going on. His biggest problems with the "civilized" life is that he is having truble with taking orders from other people, "Why the hell should i do what the sheriff says, he's not my dad". He rarely shows repect for people, "They have to earn my respect" "And very few people have".

    SKILLS : Small guns (rifles, pistols etc.), melee weapons, outdoorsman (verry high outdoorsman skill), some unarmed skills, but low crittical chance (heavy handed trait)
  16. Myrrdin

    Myrrdin Still Mildly Glowing

    Jan 23, 2004
    Name: Dennis Gallagher

    Nickname: Gally

    Age: Mid 30's

    Looks: Around 175 cms, 85 kgs. Green eyes. Large-ish round nose and long, red, very untended hair, usually worn in a knot on the top of the head. Also very untended red beard and moustache (he usually cuts bits of them off with his knife when they get in the way). He has significant beer belly, although it's not as large as to seriously hinder his movement. Muscelous arms and legs. He has a long, 1 cm wide, scar going from right between his eyes to the top of the scalp, this particular area is also hairless. He's usually wearing an old, unbelievably dirt flannel shirt, coupled with a pair of black leather pants he picked up somewhere. Standard issue military boots. He Sometimes wears an old, impregnated poncho over the rest of his clothes.

    Background: Gally used to be second in command and mechanic to a caravan owner trekking the wastelands. One day the caravan was wiped out by raiders while camped. Gally was at a nearby settlement, shopping for some spare mechanical parts while this happened. When he came back he found only looted corpses. He first thought about revenge, but then recognized the futility in him alone seeking out the raiders and wipe them out, instead he decided to go back to the settlement and try to make a living there. He has spent the last few years at the settlement, drinking rather heavily and fixing odd stuff for the inhabitants. He has recently straightened himself out a little though, since he fell in love with a woman, sadly, the woman in question took off with a travelling merchant. This, together with the general boredom of the little place, is the reason he is currently looking for some kind of employment to get him out of the little shithole.

    Personality: Gally is usually quite cheery, in a grumpy sort of way. His personality is also very direct, some would even call him blunt. A small quirk is that he is one of those people who can hold grudges for small things, although these grudges is seldom very serious and can be brought away with a kind word or after a short period of time. Also slightly alcoholic, gets nervy if he doesn't get a daily drink. When it comes to mechanical stuff, Gally is like a child. If someone tells him to fix something he usually disassembles it altogether to see what makes it tick, even if he in most cases would be able to provide a working fix for it in one fourth of the time. Unlike a child he is able to put all the parts together again though, and not uncommonly he actually improves on what he was supposed to fix.

    Skills: Excellent mechanical skills, good with pistols and rifles(He don't like automatics though, considers it a waste of ammo.) Fairly good outdoorsman skills and above average bartering skills. Basic first aid knowledge.

    Weaponry: An old double-barrelled shotgun with ammo and a .38 revolver with a number of speedloaders and ammo. Also, useable as weapons in an emergency: a normal small chopping axe, and a regular knife.

    Other equipment: Old army backpack. Small pocket flask which tends to be filled with some sort of very strong alcohol. Some extra clothes. Leather case with various tools. A small sack filled with old cogs, screws, bits and pieces, etc. Basic survival gear.
  17. c0ldst33ltrs4u

    c0ldst33ltrs4u Vault Dweller

    Jan 12, 2004
    Ok, after thinking long and hard, this is what I came up with ... if anyone has some suggestions about what skills he should focus on in order to be of more use to the team speak up!

    Name: Gabriel a.k.a. Doc
    Age: 20
    Gender: Male
    Race: Human
    Height: 1.74 m
    Weight: 75 kg
    Hair: Black, with a mohawk that he is proud of and he carefully tends to it when he gets a chance...
    Eyes: hazel
    Build: athletic

    Appearance: He may not be as big as the rest of the warriors from his tribe, but what he lacks in strength he makes up in agility and endurance. He wears a well padded black leather jacket over a black t-shirt, a pair of dark brown leather pants, heavily patched at the knees. He never wears a hat, it messes up his mohawk. When out in the desert he wears a huge thick blanket as poncho, and at night it serves as a sleeping bag. He also has a bandana that he pulls over his nose and mouth and nose when the wind is kicking up too much dust, and a pair of old goggles, to keep the dust clear of hie eyes (they make things kind of blurry though so he prefers not to put them on). He wears a pair of army type boots, slightly customized. He carries a small leather pouch around his neck, usually tucked under his jacket, and close to his heart. He keeps his belongings in a large brahma hide sack.
    Skills: He is a good field medic, can quickly patch up the wounded and perform simple operations, but he isn't quite skilled enough to be a surgeon. He can fight unarmed and with melee weapons and is quite good with small guns, his favorite is his .233 pistol that can pack quite a punch. He also has a Magnum with a speed loader and carries a hunting riffle. He also is a good outdoorsman, he knows a lot about the plants and animals in the wastes, and if he has just the right ingredients he can easily make healing powder, anti-venom, and even some shabby stims, but don't blame him if the mix isn't just right. However he has picked up some chemistry journals along the way and with their help and some time he can learn to make better stims and even superstims. Don't forget that he is a young dog and he can still learn a lot of new tricks. :) He has a sharp whit and manages to joke even when he is in the worst situations, wich tends to make those around him less tense and anxious. He has leader potential, but he is still a young pup and knows his place so he is unlikely to assume the leadership of a group. If the need arrises he can always organize the men and make them work as a team rather than individuals. He can also spot most traps and even disable some of them, but there is still room for improvement.
    Inventory: Regarding his supplies his motto is "Be prepared!" so he always carries a well supplied FA kit, complete with a super stimpack, some antivenom, one or two doses of rad-X and a couple of stims, a field medic bag, food and some watter. He also carries a few chemistry journals, and a book called 1984, to wich he is very attached. He carries a .233 pistol, a Magnum revolver and a hunting riffle. Hidden in his boot is a sharp knife, with a 10 cm blade, wich he can use if he runs out of ammo, but he prefers to stick with his guns. He also has ammo for his guns.

    Background: It is still in the works, it's done, just needs some adjustments. I hope I can edit it in by tomorrow :).
  18. Jebus

    Jebus Background Radiant

    Jan 29, 2004
    I will edit this later on - consider this a rough stone out of which I will carve my character...

    Name: ?

    Gender: Male

    Race/Age: ?

    Height: 1m94


    When I opened my eyes, all I could see was blackness. A black, silken cloth seemed to have been wrapped around the world.

    I lay still, looking upward. I didn't move. I barely drew breath.

    The world inside my head seemed to be as dark as the world surrounding me. Nothing but... emptyness. Reaching till the deepest regions of my spirit.

    I closed my eyes, feeling tired, weary and broken, and drifted off. I could feel my soul falling back into the depths of which it had just emerged...

    When I returned to the world again, I could hear the desert wind blowing around me. It seemed to whistle to me, as if it were trying to wake me up. I heeded the call... I chose to remain, this time.
    Slowly, I arched my back. I could feel how my spine cracked - as if I had been lying in the same position for days on end.

    Then, I opened my eyes again.

    The sky was still black. But, between the deep, shining black that made out the world, I could see little lights... sparkle, ages away from me. Light, as old as the universe itself, shone down on me, lying motionless in the midst of the wasteland.

    I felt nothing. I thought nothing. I remembered... nothing.

    I tried to get to my feet, and succeeded. There still seemed to be some strength left in me...

    Only by then, I started to look at the world surrounding me.

    I could see a figure, lying a few feet away from me. Motionless. Turned away.

    Black feathered wings unfurled from her back.

    A dark sensation seemed to crawl towards my heart, eminating from the base of my spine. I felt pain, but I did not recognise it. I recognised nothing.
    Slowly, I walked towards it.

    I put my hand on its shoulder, and with only a minimum of strength, I pulled it. As the body fell over, sand poured from its hair.
    Long, black hair. I lay my hand under its cheeck, and turned the face towards mine.

    Dark eyes looked at me. Black as coal, as deep as the eternal blackness that had engulfed me when I first awoke from my slumber. Deep black eyes, set inside a skin with the whiteness of milk.

    It was but a child.

    A little girl, with features softer then you could imagine, with the indescribable beauty only the innocent of this world could ever posess. Long, black hair fell over her face, covering her mounth and nose.

    She was dead. Naked, she lay in the sand, as an ivory statue in the darkness of the wasteland. Life had escaped from her, no longer willing - or able - to remain in her still young body, teared away from what could have been. Her body was now but an empty husk, a diamond that had lost its shine.

    Slowly, I pulled away my hand, softly laying her head back into the sand. Her eyes moved away from my gaze, as her hair slowly slit over it, now covering the entire face.

    Then, I noticed a faint sparkling at the base of her neck. There, in the little hole left between the bones, the no-mans-land between the chest and the neck, a little, round medallion, made of the purest white silver reflected the moonlight - white silver on a skin of white marble.
    I saw my hand moving towards it, even though I did not command it conciously. I hesitated. Something stopped me, something held me back from disturbing the eternal peace in which she lay.

    I saw a patch of darkness, right below the silver shine of the medallion. A small, black hole, surrounded by a little crown of red.

    She had been shot.

    I felt a tear swelling behind my eye - and I recognised it.

    I recognised pain.

    The first feeling I had since I returned - pain. Deep, tearing pain. I threw my head back, opened my mouth and tried to scream - but only a faint sound eminated from my throat.
    I fell on my back, and once again looked towards the sky. The moon was right above me, shining back on my face - now wet with tears. Tears running down my face, drawing lines into the layer of dust that had covered my face. As they hit the eath, they scattered, and left little spots of darkness upon the cold, hard ground.

    Once again, I drew breath into my lungs, and tried to scream...
    This time I succeeded. I hurled my voice up to the moon, a scream containing all the pain and rage that stormed through my soul.

    Then, my head fell back, and hit the earth with a soft thumb. My eyes fixed on a non-existing point far up in space, my body shook as I tried to breathe. Images rolled in front of the eye of my spirit, as if it were a film, projected upon the dark-red screen of my torment.

    I saw men, dressed in rags, carrying torches. The light of the flames reflected in their eyes, making them shine with sheer madness. I saw their mouths opening wide as I heard them screaming: "So what are you going to do now, filthy mutant? Why don't you just fly away with those pretty black wings of yours?"

    I could see the girl, holding on tight to me, her forehead pressed onto my chest, screaming out to me: "Make it stop father! Please, just make it stop!" I felt despair, a feeling that filled my entire essence as I held her tighter to me and folded my wings around us. I burried my face in her soft, dark hair, as if I believed I could shut out the world, hidden inside the cloak of feathers.

    Then suddenly, the sound of thunder toar through the black fabric of the night. I felt the body of my daughter stiffen, as her voice suddenly stopped screaming.

    She released her grasp.

    Through a mist of tears, I could see her falling to the ground - slowly, as if she were floating down the ground, and gravity could not get a hold of her. Her eyes were fixed on mine. They were filled with shock and helplessness, and it seemed as if they were begging me to help her - to protect her from the death that slowly crept through her body.

    For a split second, I was unable to move. I stood nailed to the ground, with feelings of sadness and rage tearing me apart. I lifted up my head, my eyes stearing at the ones of the man who had fired the shot. Reflecting the silver rays of moonlight, my eyes were filled with a hatred so great it bordered on madness.

    In a haze of fury, I cast myself at him. Like a black panther jumping its prey, I flung myself at him, as if I wanted to tear out his troat with my bare hands.
    But in mid-air, another roar teared through the night. A fraction of a second later, I felt a sharp pain in my stomach, as if I was bitten by some feroucious beast. It tore right through me, like a bolt of lightning fired through my body.

    I clenched my hands around the first gunman's throat, but already I felt my strength fading. It seemed to flow out of me, and a cold, numb feeling spread throughout my body. I looked down, and I saw that the shot had torn away the left half of my stomach. Blood was pouring out, and my intestines were clearly visible, reflecting the light of the torches like dark red rubies.

    I looked up the eyes of the man who had shot my daughter, with a gaze of pure stupor. As the light of my eyes faded, I saw him grinning.

    "This is what we do with your kind here. We don't want any filthy mutant scum around these parts!"

    I fell to my knees, the last bit of strength having left my body. I threw my head back and looked at the stars one more time,

    (To be continued - and edited)
  19. Warped314

    Warped314 First time out of the vault

    Apr 15, 2004

    I'm new to these boards, but I do share everyone's fascination with the fallout universe, if you can call it a fascination. Its more like an obsession with dark gritty things. Yea.
    Well, here's my character, I hope he doesn't look too cheesy:

    Character Name: Crovax
    Age: 36
    Sex: Male
    Race: Human
    Weight: 150
    Height: 5'9"
    Eyes: Dark Brown
    Hair: Black
    Equipment: Leather Armor MKII, heavy black boots, an M72 Gauss Rifle, a glock with an extended magazine modified to fire full auto, and 2 Rad Away.
    Appearance: Crovax looks like your stereotypical WW2 soldier. Greasy hair, dirty hands, stubby beard, and a history he probably wouldn't want to talk about. Usually Crovax has his Gauss Rifle slung over his neck dangling on his chest, and a bleached yellow cloak for protection aganist the searing desert heat. He smokes a strange type of prewar cigarrettes called 'Lucky Strike'.
    Details: The only thing Crovax values more than his rifle and his cigarettes (which he is known to barter agressively for), is a trustworthy person. Too many times has he been bretrayed and left for dead in the middle of nowhere.
    Crovax is almost always in short supply of 2mm EC ammo, usually finding out he's out of ammo when his gun goes 'click'. Also, he is constantly searching for the counterpart to his Gauss Rifle, the PPK12 gauss pistol.
  20. Zaij

    Zaij Vault Senior Citizen

    Feb 10, 2004
    Character Name: Zaij, "Just"
    Age: 42
    Sex: Male
    Race: Human
    Weight: 89kg
    Height: 6'3"
    Eyes: Dark Green
    Hair: Jet Black
    Equipment: Leather Armor MKI, FN FAL, Black gloves, Desert Eagle, Sabre and 3 StimPaks.

    Appearance: "Just" Zaij is a heavily built lumbering man, wearing his Leather Armour (with a big yellow smiley face painted on the front), black Pants which have holes where his knees jut out, his sabre hanging by his side and his trademark Gore-Tex gloves (which are fairly ancient) with the fingers cut off warming his hands.
    His FN FAL lies across his shoulder while his Desert Eagle is in his pants (he saw that pose in a magazine and decided he likes it). He has a stubble on his chin and a scar going horizontaly above his right eye.

    Details: "Just" Zaij is a calm man, Though he is always in a black mood and who ultimately depresses those around him. He has a fatalistic attitude towards life and has been told on numerous occasions that he tries to make Murphy's Law come true..... Though he never knew what that meant. He often goes into blood rages when people start irritating him. If you see his eye twitching, back away as fast as you can. He can often empty whole clips into a person whos already half full of lead. "Just" never takes off his gloves, even in the blisterring heat. They're his pride and joy. He is often betrayed though he has no hard feeling because the people that betrayed him are usually lying in a gutter somewhere with a knife in their kidney. "Just" also has a distinctly Australian accent and uses all the manerisms in his songs and speach, though he can talk normally on special occasions. No one can tell whether his fatalistic attitude and black moods are real though, as his eyes are always mocking. If someone can get him to laugh, chances are theyve made a friend for life.