Edgar the Drifter

"Sir, your reaction was rash, crude, ill thought out, short-sighted, and will irreparably damage any future attempts at political peace. That said, nice shot...."

434 views · located in Nevada Wasteland

a character in “Fallout: Nevada”, as played by Raidose


Name: Edgar

Date of Birth: 2303 (28 in human years, not sure if he ages differently)

Place of Birth: The Commonwealth, Massachusetts

Sex/Gender: Male

Species: Albino Intelligent Deathclaw Clone

Sexual Orientation: "I can guarantee your not my type..."

Faction Alignment: Wasteland, as well as loose ties with Crimson Caravan. My wasteland for a Pip-boy

Faction Rank: N/A

Faction Role: Guide and veritable fountain of Pre-war knowledge

Current Residence: The wastes and roads of Nevada


-Very well educated
-Semi-eidetic memory
-Countless trade routes memorized
-Ties with most free agent caravans
-Fairly skilled diplomat
-Can speak fluent Chinese, Spanish, and Latin
-The things you'd expect from a Deathclaw. Vocal mimicry, raptor-like agility, powerful muscles, razor sharp claws, thick hide, high endurance, moderately high resistance to radiation, and the same stealthiness the rest of those 10-foot-tall bastards somehow pull off.
-Heightened senses on par with most dogs and capable of seeing in low light conditions.


-Colossal blabbermouth
-Generally against violence and has a peaceful nature
-Overtly curious
-Prefers trying to talk things out
-Is shorter and weaker than average Deathclaws
-Albinism, prolonged sun exposure makes his scales itch, while radiation will cause moderate irratations
-Very self-aware of his appearance
-Looks like a hunch-backed mutant in robes
-Can be mistaken as a wild Deathclaw
-Can't use any sort of weapons or normal armor
-Though surprisingly dexterous, there are a lot of things you can't do with 12-inch claws on every finger
-Eyes are sensitive to bright lights, especially the sun
-Has what appears to be some form of Tourette's syndrome, and will sometimes mimic random things he's heard when nervous, often his namesake.


Large, brown robe which allows him to pass as a deformed human. Has many places in which he could store various items. -2 to perception and agility, +2 to charisma penalty when worn by Edgar.

Large patchwork backpack containing:
  • 3 stimpacks
  • 200 caps
  • $150 NCR dollars
  • 2 weapon repair kits
  • Solar powered lamp on a stick
  • Large collection of random junk
  • Semi-functioning radio
  • Upwards of four days worth of food for a group of five humans. It "was" nine days worth........
  • Maps of the Mojave, Los Angelos, Illinois, and bits of Texas and New Mexico.
  • Personal recorder with tapes
  • Log book
  • Empty container of ink.
  • Various comics and magazines.

His claws, which are capable of slicing through most armors. Able to perform the traditional "Deathclaw sprint & lunge".

His hide is as damage resistant as the ceramic Kevlar plating on normal combat armor.

Religion: None. Likes the idea of an omnipotent being which promotes the moral higher-path, but can't imagine any such entity would hang around this world anymore.

Appearance: Usually seen as a dark brown patch-work robed figure, concealing his form from head to toe. His general hunched-over posture makes it hard to gauge his height, but Edgar stands at 8'5" when straight-up. His clothing of choice was crafted from various bits of burlap and hard leather, and was made to include many pockets and pouches. Hardly seen without his large backpack, a horrid amalgamation of stitch-work materials which bulges at it's load and is complete with a lamp dangling infront of him on the tip of a stick. This cartoonish burden clinks and jangles with each step, yet when Edgar discards it, he can move as silent as a ghost.

Underneath the robe, Edgar's albinism shows greatly in his light grey hide. His entire continence seems to show little sign of general life in the wasteland, with hardly a scar or battle wound on his whole body. His eyes are not the same dead-white as that of your average Death Claw. His condition has altered them to be a light crimson around the edges, fading to a more pinkish tint in the center.

Personality:Edgar has been described as dangerously curious, a "walking encyclopedia of useless knowledge", and a bit of a jabber-jaw. Learning new or forgotten bits of information, however irrelevant, has become a deep passion for him. He can endure hours upon hours of the most coma-inducing stories, speeches, and lectures that would drive most men crazy. Surprisingly, he actually seems to enjoy himself, as he sits there and absorbs the information like a sponge. He has an exceptionally good memory, and can recall nearly anything he's heard with word-for-word precision (and sometimes in that persons voice). The big, chatty lizard is also prone to go on drawn-out answers and ne'er endless history lessons on most any topic, and does need to be told to shut up periodically.

Edgar may detest combat, by he is no stranger to the cruel necessity of extreme violence. He particularly enjoys picking on various bad elements of the wastes with tricks of vocal mimicry and random mischief. If diplomacy doesn't work, then why not try to cripple the hostile party before the first shot is fired? Though in the end he still believes that there's hope for anyone to give up on their hard-set inherent idiocy. Of course, diplomacy in the wasteland usually involves a shotgun, and so regrettably the claws have to come out.

Edgar is a very moral person, which drives him to strive for a higher path. The only sense that rivals this is his inherent sense of logic, which is often in conflict with his views of right over wrong. This has, on more than one occasion, led to moments and great internal strife. It was impossible to finish first as the nice guy back in the civilized world, and such saints generally don't survive at all these days. So comes the hardest question everyone faces, trying to do the right thing, or surviving to the next day?


  • Talking
  • Exploring
  • Learning new things
  • Talking
  • Listening to stories
  • Getting into theological debates
  • Talking
  • Meeting new people
  • Collecting random bobbles
  • Talking


  • Racism
  • Slavers
  • Raiders
  • Greed
  • War
  • Enclave
  • Legion


  • Engaging in conversation
  • Discussing various topics he holds interest in
  • Listening to stories and/or learning new information
  • Satisfying his own curiosity
  • Sharpening his claws

Personal Biography: An offspring of genetic cloning from biological material found in California, Edgar was created and raised by the Commonwealth. Believed to be the last remaining Deathclaw capable of intelligence, Edgar grew up knowing only the inside of the complex. Well, actually he first grew up knowing the inside of a cage. I mean, he was still a Deathclaw. He received his name from the day his "creator", Dr. Vincent Churnur, who was the leading expect in genetic replication, left him in the same room as his pet Raven. He'd spent years teaching that bird how to one simple word, in tribute to his favorite poet. The bird fluttered down to the hatchling Deathclaw's cage and chirped out "Nevermore!", startling him. Now, this Deathclaw, being of the genetically modified type, took what he felt was the most reasonable and logical action possible. He ate it. So when Dr. Churnur came back in to find the feathers of his prized bird sticking out between the teeth of his latest project, he was a bit distraught. Sensing his emotions, the infantile creature did what he thought might cheer him up, mimicking the bird and chirping out "Nevermore!". The name Edgar stuck ever since.

In the years to come, when the little science experiment started to develop true signs of intelligence, Edgar was found to posses a peaceful and curious personality, and in time he was even allowed to roam the majority of the complex as a youth would. By the recorded age of 24, Edgar was predicted to be at his full grown height. It was said that his smaller stature in comparison to the rest of his race may be a side effect of the FEV alterations to his genetic structure. The albinism could only be explained as a genetic trait passed down from his "father". Despite his new title of "runt", Edgar enjoyed what many of the staff considered to be his birthday. Unfortunately, this was also the day that the higher ups of the Commonwealth decided to cease funding to Dr. Churnur's research into genetic augmentation. This was also the day Edgar learned the truth about himself.

He had always known about the Deathclaws he was descended from. The terminals held detailed archives on the Enclave's experimentation, as many of the scientists in the Commonwealth were Enclave deserters. He knew about the FEV, the talking Deathclaws, their escape, and their extermination. But, listening to Churnur bellyache, with the filter between his brain and mouth thoroughly disabled by several shot glasses of well-aged scotch, Edgar learned that he was not an offspring as he had been told. He was a clone. A fabrication grown in a tube by some left-over DNA. He was fake. At that moment, a hollowness grew within him. One he could not live with. Despite having no logic to back it up, Edgar theorized that if somehow, someway, he found his true "father"...... he might become whole again. He had to know who, or what, he was a copy of.

He formed his plan of escape, using a person he had long suspected of being part of the "Rail Road". He had seen her many times, always noting her nervously looking over her shoulder. The research staff complained day and night about the Rail Road "stealing" their precious creations. If Edgar was to escape, then this lab assistant, Miss Watts, was his golden ticket. He never liked blackmail, but he was adamant in his goal and this minor degradation wouldn't deter him. It surprisingly didn't take much, just his silence on the matter, and sure enough a week later the break began. In a chaos made of haywire turrets and malfunctioning security protocols, Edgar was free. Leaving behind a single recorded message on Dr. Churnur's private terminal. The man may not have been his real father, but nonetheless Edgar held a familial compassion for him.

Adopting the guise of "Edgar the drifter", a wondering guide with a severe disfigurement, he roamed the wastes for several years accompanying various trade caravans. Edgar's knowledge of the old world was vast, but he learned so much more about it's current state on these travels. He'd act as an information booth, a guide, and general pack mule for several groups, earning a nice reputation. Edgar committed every trade route, NCR outpost, Legion checkpoint, and hand-drawn map he encountered to memory. The first months spent in the wastes were hard lessons for him to learn, and soon cold facts and necessities of reality crept upon him. Oh, but the conversations, the lessons, the lost knowledge, the hidden beauties that even the radioactive Hell still kept intact, in those moments it was all worthwhile. Sadly after four years traveling, Edgar felt no closer to his goal. In fact, he was a tad bit sidetracked and ended up heading East at some point. Tales of free, clean water in the wastes guarded by steel soldiers, who could resist?

Three months of travel later, and now here he is, the acting guard to a small group of very mistrusting Lyons Doctrine BoS with a supply of fresh water and the mission to scout out the Fate of the mainstream California Branch of the Brotherhood in hopes of reinforcements. This can't go well....

So begins...

Edgar the Drifter's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Longinus Egnatium Character Portrait: Yuri Kialak Character Portrait: Apollo Character Portrait: Conner O'Marck Character Portrait: John Kenit Character Portrait: Tammy "Tam" Marston Character Portrait: Edgar the Drifter Character Portrait: Legionary Megan Lio Character Portrait: Lorcan "Bás" Connolly Character Portrait: Benjamin "Doc" Powell

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War... War never changes...

The bombs had come without mercy, and the nuclear fires had burned their human builders into a scrambling, sorry picture of day-to-day survival. Government had collapsed, Law and Order were only found at the end of a gun, and Justice was burried in the irradiated dirt.

Out in the wilds of the western formerly-united States, no one had bothered to waste their oridnance. Few - if any - bombs impacted here. That didnt spare civilization. What didnt go to hell in the chaos of the fallout was swallowed up by the unforgiving sands of the Mojave Desert, come to reclaim the land with new vigor.

Here's where your sorry asses come in.

You've survived however you've survived; by the luck of the New California Republic, by the grace of Ceasar's Legion, or by the pure gritty determination of the Independant. You may've done some things you're not proud of.. or maybe you're very proud of them. Maybe you're the last hope for Good out here in this shit hole. .. Maybe you're just proud of the fear you bring. Whatever your story was, is, or will be, it starts here, as the dusty sun rises on yet another frying day in the Mojave wastes in the distant shadow of Ceasar's New Vegas.


Tam watched them stir, from underneath the red rock that was already in the sun. Like a lizard, she pressed her back against the warming sandstone to ease the night's chill out of her shoulders in preparation for the sun's merciless beating. With her rifle balanced on her folded knees and the comfort of the deep shadow all around her, she could afford a bit of smug, self-satisfied confidence.

Her take'd been small. It had to be. If she was going to milk these suckers for all they were worth before they got wise, she couldnt afford to get greedy. A bite of Cram, a few loose caps they'd been playing Caravan with, a half-empty bottle of water. Oh! And the penny.

Grinning down at its dull shine in her fingers, she turned it over and over between them. Worthless, to anyone else. But it struck her fancy, and its little flashes made her happy. She might just hang onto that. Carefully dropping it into one of the endlessly full pockets in the worn brahmin-leather trench coat, the heat of the rock was beginning to burn through it, reminding her that it would be time to move soon.

Below, they were already breaking camp. A couple of putzes slogging through the worst parts of the Mojave in a way that screamed they werent locals. One of them was in power armor. Oh, man, to get her hands on some of that... she'd be in caps until old age. Right now, though, it just gave her another reason to avoid the hell out of them while they were awake.

She gives them a while longer, until they were mobile; reduced to specks on the trek along the ruined asphalt. It's then that Tam moves, slithering down out of the rocks and into the baking sun. Man, it was a hot one today. How the hell the big one stood to be in that armor, she'd never know. Giggling to herself, she imagines him as a mutated, living can of cooked Scram, sizzling as he mosey'd along.

That thought amuses the scavenger for several more hours as Tam skips from scrub brush to gulley to dune, always out of sight, and grateful for the firepower in front of her that spooks or kills anything wild enough to come take a look.

So far, it was a good day in the Mojave.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Edgar the Drifter

0.00 INK

#, as written by Raidose

The winds roamed over the jagged edges of century-old ruins and a landscape painted by the sun and nuclear infernos. Whirls of dust encircled the carcasses of decrepit buildings, who fell down and died like much of anything out here. As birds of carrion fed on the bodies of the fallen, and just the same the desert itself slowly consumed the remains of everything else, grinding it away one grain at a time with merciless winds. Burying it slowly with layers of overlapping decades of dust. Dust, made from the ashes of a world burned to cinders. Across the oceans of ash, past the maws of the Earth, lay the Mojave. The winds had to be the worst of it, horrible grinding sand peeling away at your skin one layer at a time. The desert here was no better than the horrors within it, still trying to eat you alive, only much slower. Faux beauty and false hopes dot out the land here and there in the form of colorful flowers and deceitful mirages. After a while, it just feels like a lie. Like it's trying hide it's true nature. This is the world we live in now, one of our own making.

We're all scavengers now, children of a broken society and still being defiant in our existence. Perhaps there is some sort of virtuous pride in that? Not bending down to a harsh truth, the stark reality of it. We're pretty screwed.....
The clank and jingle of armored boots and clattering junk formed the rhythm they marched to, trudging on through the scornful glare of the early morning sun. The cool, forgiving chill of the night before was chased away by the harsh heat. The shimmering waves danced off the surface of the Paladins' armored suits, as the pack brahmin groaned in complaint at the heat. They marched through the night, not trusting of this unfamiliar territory. The black-visored gaze of their spotter scanned out over the horrizen, tapping the shoulder plate of his brother-in-arms. "Would you look at that sunrise.... Looks like the world's burning." The flamer stared at this sight, unflinching as his friend moved on.

"Uhh, you coming?"

"Shhh, your ruining the moment........ World burning..."

"I, uhhh, I think you've been out here a little too long...."

Cutting through the chatter like a knife, their squad commander marched up to their guide, an angry growl burning in his throat. "We haven't seen civilization in four days, we marched from sun up to sun down till the cycle repeated, only to be led by the nose around mountains and through canyons to nowhere, and we've been attacked by these 'Jackals' thrice already. At what point, Mutant, are you going to start playing the role we hired you for? Where are our Brothers? Where are we, for that matter?" The Paladin's voiced was aimed like a rifle at the large, robed figure leading them. Recommended as the only person that could take these "tourists" through the Mojave without having the Vegas Empire breathing down their necks. Edgar,wrapped in layers of canvas, burlap, and leather, the hunched-over misshapen being sighed in annoyance. This man had been drilling him with a spiteful glare since he was hired. Clearly a bigot, and ungrateful as well. Edgar knew this conversation had been brewing for days now.

"I do apologize, my dear sir, but I fear you have mistaken your information. You hired me as your guide through the Mojave. No more. And the reason you hired me was for one simple fact, no one else would even risk trying to get you through without the Legion's notice. Without my detours, we would all be crucified before noon. I charged you not one extra cap for this, so I believe gratitude is not much to ask. Oh, and I do believe that I did inform you of this before I was paid; I do not know of this 'Brotherhood of Steel'. I'm a guide, not a pip-boy." The mound of patchwork spoke in a surprisingly smooth voice, with odd hints of a reverberating hollowness to it. Unwilling to look face-to-face without the sun well behind him, Edgar kept his exact nature hidden this way for years. Even going so far as to not stand straight, always crouching down at around 6'5". Not human-looking, but enough.

The Star Paladin stood straight and powerfully, hoisting his Rockwell CZ53 threateningly in front of him. "This is why we shouldn't trust you damnable mutations. We are the fighting force of the Lyons Doctrine, the protectors of the Capitol Wastes. If these heathens, this 'Legion' wish to test our strength, then let them come and know our Steel. And our lead." Revving the barrels of his weapon at that last remark for emphasis, before his pauldron was gripped tightly by their scout. "Brother, we are not here to start wars. We are here to seek aid in ending our own. I've seen the patrols we've avoided, the guide as earned his pay." The fiery one did not like hearing that, batting away the hand of his ally with a bitter growl. "No more detours. We march straight. Straight through the desert to the nearest settlement. One of these damned locals has to know something. And we leave the guide behind as well, I'll take answers from the local wildlife before I hear another word from the mouth of this abomination...."

The disgruntled soldier marched away to urge the others to press on with greater haste, as the scout partook in Edgar's company. "Our brother..... he lost his family to the Super Mutants of the East Coast. Saw them torn from his own grasp. This hate is still hot within his heart, so I am sorry for his ways. You should have seen the day when Star Paladin Fawkes' was initiated." Edgar nodded in understanding. Such a thing would leave scars on any soul, how could one be blamed? Still, a short temper and a big gun could be the end of this little caravan. "See if you could perhaps convince your fearless leader to at least let me take you there. If he wants a straight line, so be it, but please..... try to keep the fingers off the triggers. I'd like to not have the dunes come alive with gunfire and explosions today, if that's all the same to you...."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Edgar the Drifter

0.00 INK

#, as written by Raidose
The sands sizzled on under the punishing suns with scarcely a word spoken amongst them, silence and heat blanketing them as they pushed forward. A straight path, through the open desert towards the Long 15, out in the wide open. Edgar had never been of the lucky sort, but some kinda deity must have held compassion for them, as the only eyes the out-of-towners drew were those of migrating big-horners and crazed, partially sun-cooked geckos. The later of which only flared it's warning colors before scampering off into oblivion. The highway they were aiming for could be seen in the distance, the long, black snake of asphalt stretching out, trying to eat the horizon. Couldn't have been more than seven or so dunes ahead, but anyone who'd ever trekked the Mojave knew dunes had a bad habit of multiplying when you weren't looking. Of course, that was still a lot of wide-open, and the higher elevations surrounding them put everyone a little on edge.

Then they heard it, a slight crunch, the tumble of loose rocks. Random ambiance for anyone else, but Ed knew this may as well have been a "you're boned" sign lit up in neon yellow. Pivoting to alert his traveling party, he saw that they already knew. Silent hand gestures gave orders he couldn't read, as their scout vanished over an embankment. Rocks and ditches were utilized as cover, and that dead silence became suffocating. No one spoke, moved, or even breathed. These guys have been in ambushes before, which Edgar hoped was a good thing. He himself was slowly ducking out of the scene, that little angel on his shoulder scolding him for not trying to help. Logic did a fine job of swatting it off, seeing as no amount of silver tongue ass-kissing or wheel-greasing would get them out of this pinch. Better leave the gun-totting boy scouts to deal with it than just eat a lot of bullets.

A flock of carrion birds bolted up into the sky, nearly drawing the Brotherhood's fire before they realized it was nothing. Their lack of a attention was enough, though, as the black mask of a Legion recruit popped out of his hole with a rifle. Unfortunately for him, his face was excavated by a .308 round. The sniper's shot sparked the full-on firefight. Legion heads poked out of everywhere, guns flinging rounds as fast as they could. "For Elder Lyons! And The Pride!" The Brotherhood retaliated with far superior firepower, minigun and laser rifles covering the flamers approach, and before long the Legions position was being purged with hellish flames. "Haha! Light meat or dark, Captain?" The issue was not who was better equipped, it was numbers. Edgar started counting, and when he went over twenty he realized this was no patrol. They were waiting for this, they had to have been following them. Apparently some of his detours had been compromised, or maybe this was just fate punishing him for having the audacity to try and pull this stunt.

The BoS were heavily outnumbered, but they had one thing going for them in spades. The only thing .357 rounds could do to power-armor was make neat little lead pancakes. Or at least that's what Edgar first thought, till one of them took a shot right to the forehead, nearly knocking him over. While that didn't kill him, the follow-up shot to his exposed throat sure did.

"Daniel! Shit, cocksuckers got him!"
"Hold the line! Burn a dozen for every wound, a hundred for every loss! We Will Not Fall!"
"Fucking hell, the pack-brahmin's down, too! There goes the water!"
"Carter! Pull out! You're in too deep!"
"That's what she said!"

Carter, the flamer with that last battle-cry, looked like he was having the time of his life. That time got cut short, as a burst of automatic fire peppered his back and punctured his tank. A jet of flame screamed from the hole, the pitch increasing as the clock ticked down. He never ran, instead charging into the enemies position. "Yeah?! Well Fuck You Too!" he yelled, as the blast caught both sides of the fight. The gatling-gun wielding Paladin sprawled out over the ground, the ammo belt to his weapon severed, rendering it useless. Another nameless Knight tried to cover him, and his reward was a well-timed frag grenade at his feet. Never had a chance. The Paladin stood amidst the smoke, helmet removed as he readied for the enemy. The gunfire stopped once the Legion saw their foe held no firearm. Both sides seemed to hold some asinine archaic ideals about melee combat, as the Legion drew sharpened blades and spears. The Paladin shed the ammo-pack from his back, gripping at the handle of his backup weapon. The technologically enhanced hammer hummed as it built up charge.

As the rabble rushed towards him, he wore only a smirk before letting the head of his hammer drop to the ground. He began charging the remnants, hammer dragging the ground, sparking over the rocks and terrain as he roared out in defiance. The first two to meet him were demolished by the kinetic burst his sledge unleashed on impact, rending limbs and liquefying innards. His hands jutted out, gripping the throat of the next-in-line, and with the enhanced strength of his armor, he hoisted and then slammed the boy into the ground with a grisly crunch. The tip of a spear pierced into his shoulder as he swung again, sending flying another Legionnaire. The edge of a machete met the softened area of his abdomen, puncturing his suit and downing him. In his last moments while falling, the Paladin brought his super sledge down on the kneecap of his attacker. Crawling over and gouging out the man's eyes with his thumbs, he looked up at the overshadowing presence of the Centurion, who'd been leading them.

"Qui est hoc qui contumax in Imperium?" uttered the leader of slaves and murderers, the hand of Caesar, through a face hidden in steel. He knelt down to meet the fiery eyes of this fallen warrior, gripping his pauldron to steady the Paladin. "Fac vos tenditis genu ut Caesar?" The Paladin's head lolled a bit from blood loss, but the hate was still in his eyes. He looked right into the face of this bastard before him, and spat as much blood as he could manage right at his eyes. The insult earned him only an execution, but such insolence, such defiance in the face of the Legion, it doubtlessly gave him pride in his own death, as the blade came down on his neck. A gruesome scene, which Edgar spied upon from his hiding place. He couldn't count more than two left, enough to sneak past. In the little war between morality and logic that waged on in his head, survival came out on top. Backing away only to hear the cocking of a carbine behind him, Edgar quickly realized that there were three left. "Uhhh, Ave True to Caesar?"

The hooded vet uttered only silence as he took aim, and just when Ed thought he might have to take desperate actions, the son-of-a-bitch's jugular was torn out by a bullet. Looks like the Legion weren't that great at counting either, the scout with the rifle was still in the game. Keeping a slow march forward, the sniper let loose another round, gut-shotting the remaining veteran. The Centurion reached for his rifle, but wasn't fast enough. A rapid succession of precise shots undid him, nailing first his arm, downing him with another to the abdomen, and then with a brief pause, perhaps to relish the look in the man's eyes, the Brother of Steel put the last round in his clip squarely through the eye-slits in the Centurion's helmet. Sliding in the fresh magazine, the scout took one last moment to scope out for survivors.

"Forgive me for questioning your methods, but where the hell were you?!"
"Clip jammed."
"Clip......jammed.... That's it?"
"Yep. Clip jammed."
"Well, while I'm grateful for the save, I'm afraid your delayed return caused all your brothers their li-" "Alright, Carter. They're all dead, you can get up now."

Before another word could be said, the still-flaming figure of an armored BoS came galloping over the dune from where he went boom. "Wooooo! Free shit!" he cried as he eagerly began to loot the dead. Edgar stared on, dumbstruck. "He's...... not dead?" "Yeah, this isn't the first time he got carried away, so we started adding extra plating under his tank. He's gone up five times now." "......He's still on fi-" "Yeah, give him a second...." "Hey, what smells like shiiiiioooOh My God!" And now he was running around, on fire, and Edgar's vision of these men as noble warriors and disciplined soldiers was as gone as the house cat. As the flamer doused himself with what water was left in the Aqua Pura barrels, Edgar turned to the scout in disbelief.

"So.... that touching story you told me...."
"Made it up so you wouldn't leave us in the middle of nowhere. Mike's just been an ass for as long as we've known him."
"And your mission?"
"Got Shanghaied into it. Now that it's botched, we can report back while they form another band of happy campers that's not us."
"So you just let them die.... no regrets..."
"Hey, it was either die with them or live. I choose live. Carter.... well, he's just annoying that way. Now if you'll excuse us, we gotta walk a long fucking ways back to report mission failure."
"Wait, what was that part about me?"

With smoke still rolling into the air from the miniature war zone, Edgar watched as the two walked off into the distance. He tilted his head up, staring into the sky above trying to seek answers. Excuse me, Universe? I'd like to file a complaint, this crap stopped making sense and I feel you're not taking my existence very seriously.... With that, he shuffled around for a slightly hidden spot to sit and rest a bit, finding all this random idiocy to be very tiring.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Conner O'Marck Character Portrait: John Kenit Character Portrait: Tammy "Tam" Marston Character Portrait: Edgar the Drifter

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#, as written by Raidose
The world had changed, yet remained. Darker with more meaning, yet brighter and more veiled. The sky blurred together in both the glare of the sun and glow of the moon, day and night strobed together in a ephemeral twilight as the clouds raced across the sky like a time-lapse film. This dreamscape stretched on with sands of burnt grey to the ocean waters of gleaming silver. The bodies of every lost soul consumed by the bombs of old lay scattered upon the blackened Earth or hung on crucifix, lining the hills in the distance. Jutting out of the waters, towering monsters of steel on thin legs, belching fire like dragons into a broken sky. Edgar was taken aback by the mystique of it all, finding in the gloom a story to be written. He could not explain how he got here, only that this place held all the meaning in the world, a muse to the soul of the wandering.

"And as I stand upon dying land and burning sky,
I wonder if I'm here only to ask why?
Taken by insanity, by power, and by greed,
Was this future so blind to us? Could we truly not see?
Our kingdoms we ruled, only to shatter,
Our peoples we united, only to scatter.
We forsook our dreams, and thrown our hopes on the pyre.
We abolished our reason, and lit the whole world on fire.
Havoc cried we, and let loose the dog!
And now our fruits are only atomic fog.
The children of Earth, of madness, are we,
Slaying our siblings, despite our mother's plea.
And now she lay dead, her blood stains our hand,
But we see only victory, such is the curse of man."

As the last word left his toothy mouth, upon the shadowy silhouette of a dead tree fluttered down a bird of black plume. A raven, crowing his presence and speaking only one word. "Nevermore!" Slightly startled Edgar looked upon this bird, eyes narrowing. "You? How did you get here?" The bird paid him no never mind, cleaning it's feathers and cawing once more. "Didn't I eat you?" The gaze of the raven snapped to Edgar, a soul-piercing glare that unnerved the deathclaw. "Your poetry sucks...." it hissed. Before Ed had time to even think about it talking, the bird let loose a hideous caw, morphing into a monstrous form as it did so. It grew so large, it completely crushed the tree it was perched on, it's eyes burned with black fire, and it's beak became serrated ebony blades. All this in an instant, as it lurched forward to devour the deathclaw.....

Edgar's eyes shot wide open as he let out a reverberating howl/yelp of fear. Flailing at the air with his claws, he was taken off-balance by the load he carried on his back. Still in the throws of his day-mare, he rolled back onto his pack, his feet, tail, and arms thrashing about in a rather shameful display. Finally it dawned upon him, only a dream. Alas, it seemed that realization was too late, as he could hear several things in his pack crunching under his weight. With a bit of a struggle, he managed to roll back onto his feet and compose himself, scanning around to see if he'd "exposed himself" to anything other than the bloat flies. Thankfully, there wasn't a soul in miles. That's when the smell hit him, a lingering reminder of the battle not long ago. Scavengers of all kinds gathered in the carrion pit, picking clean the dead. Looking up near the sun, Edgar had barely slept a few hours, as it was only now nearing noon. Still, all the bodies was likely to attract more than just some dogs before long, best to soldier on.

It wasn't long at all before the talons of Edgar's feet clacked upon the asphalt of the old I-15, the heat slightly sizzling the pads underneath. Still, a road was exactly what he wanted right now, a safe route used by most caravans. The winds were starting to pick up a little, but nothing too damning. No, right now the real impediment was Edgar's stomach, griping over how long it's been since he last ate. Thankfully, bountiful pickings were not that far off, likely heading towards the battlefield Ed had just left. The sound of an almost-skipping waddle crunched in his ear, the wind carrying it's scent right up to Edgar. Geckos. Excuse me, Waiter? Yes, I believe I'll have the buffet.... What little lips Edgar had curled into a grin as he scuffled around a few crashed cars. One of which was propped up by two others, making a neat little hidey-hole for his things. Removing his backpack, Edgar leveraged one of the cars up with his shoulder and slid the pack underneath. After diligently lowering the vehicle back down, making sure nothing was crunching, Ed shimmied out of his robes and stretched. Walking around squat all day and all night left more kinks in his back than there were notches on Frank Sinatra's bed post.

God did it feel good to stand upright, but there wasn't any time to waste. Edgar couldn't risk somebody seeing him. Stalking his way over the dunes, drawing nearer to his quarry, he actually started to drool a little bit as he went in. There was no chase, no epic struggle of predator and prey, no glorious tale to regale any listener over. It was a freaking gecko, the dumb little bastard didn't even realize the deathclaw was there till it's face was practically in Ed's mouth. It was a strange orchestra of textures to be sure. Chewy hide, tangy meat, juicy insides, and lot's of crunchy bones. The latter of which kept getting stuck in Edgar's teeth. Three servings of lizard later, Edgar was feeling quite satisfied and very slothful. Though the winds were getting pretty strong now, carrying a lot of dust, and Ed began to worry that they might be brewing a storm before long. Being right next to the damn Dry Lake meant visibility would be nil. He had to get off the roads, all the patrols in the desert would be walking them now and Ed sure as hell didn't want to meet any Legion. Struggling to lift off with his gecko-filled gut, he lurched back to reclaim his things, all the while fidgeting with his teeth. Damn bones. Even though Edgar was armed with a set of 12-inch toothpicks on each hand, trying to use them was like trying to play "Operation" after first taping the tweezers to the end of a pool cue. There was a certain level of added difficulty that wasn't needed.

Ed decided it might be a good idea to try and go through the Ivanpah Dry Lakes now before the winds got really bad. Not a bright idea. The very second he was more than ten feet from the black stretch, the brewing dust storm completely enveloped him. Now he couldn't get back if he wanted to. Worse yet, all he could taste the entire time was gecko from all the bits still stuck in his teeth. Good lord, his breath was going to smell like a compost heap before too long. Of all the things to survive the apocalypse, why couldn't one of them have been mints? Ed wasn't quite sure how long he'd been going in circles, lost in the dust, but the sun was starting to sink behind the horizen. Great, cause darkness makes everything better. A gust of powerful wind hit right in his face, shooting off his hood. "Oh, come on now! Can't I catch one break?! This whole day has just been a big, steaming pile..... of......."Edgar droned off as he finally saw something, a dark silhouette against the bland brown backdrop. A.... cross? The winds began to untimely settle, revealing the morbid and soul-damning scene before him. Like his dream before, they were scattered all over, each still carrying the carcass of some tormented soul. He'd wandered his way to Nipton. Edgar had heard the stories but.... he never envisioned something like this. What could they have done to deserve this? Some of them..... Dear God, some of them were families.

He was taken aback, so much so he didn't even think about his hood. How could a God, any God, allow this? To stand witness to something so horrid? Surely, he can't be watching us anymore. Finally fixing his hood, Edgar bowed his head and did something he had never done before. He prayed. Prayed that the golden gates he'd been told of still stayed open, if only for the poor souls such as these. He prayed that there was indeed Balm in Gilead, that heaven was everything we thought it to be. An eternity of paradise and peace. Though deeply Edgar wondered if anything, even heaven, could make up for this. From down the hill tumbled an NCR helmet, stopping at Edgar's feet. With careful clawed digits he lifted it, walking it back to it's owner. The soldier had been there, hung on those wood planks for quite a while. As Ed gently shoved the helm back into the dirt at the cross's base, making sure the wind wouldn't dislodge it again, an old poem sprang to mind.

"And when he gets to heaven,
To St. Peter he will tell,
Another soldier reporting, sir -
I've served my time in hell."

He didn't want to linger here, but the winds weren't letting up and getting lost in the lake bed again wasn't very appealing. Looking around, Edgar was entering from the back of the town, not that far from what looked to be the town hall. The only damn building here not about to get blown away. He hoped. Trying to be as stealthy as he could manage, Ed crept up to a large window, peering through into the darkness. Anything could have taken up refuge in there, so it was a very wise idea to try and scope it out first. Still, he had to leave his pack somewhere, so after jimmying the window open and taking a quick look-around, he gently plopped his cargo down by the sill. Not two steps away from the window, a loud gunshot rang through the air. Edgar traveled with enough Gun Runners caravans to know that was a magnum. Couldn't tell what caliber, but it didn't matter. He just didn't want to meet it's owner. Deciding that it was better to be in the darkness of the building where he could see, as opposed to outside in the dust where he couldn't, Ed dragged his large form inside. The winds gave an eerie feeling, like the building was rocking gently. It was hell on the equilibrium. Edgar skulked around on all fours, as low to the ground as he could manage. With one claw, he flicked the lip of his hood up till it rested perched on the tips of his horns. That greatly helped him see, no longer hindering his field of vision, and it was luckily dark enough that Ed would likely see others before they saw him.

He could hear movement, voices. It actually sounded like a scuffle was about to break out. Still, leering around a corner, the only thing Edgar saw was...... Oh, that's not good. "Umm, nice doggy? Good boy?" A weathered old mutt with missing patches of fur was busy chowing down on a dead rat before perking it's ears up at Edgar's presence. It let out a territorial snarl before it's brain registered exactly what Ed was. It's attitude pulled a 180, cowering in fear with it's tail between it's legs and urinating on the floor. It looked like it was about to bolt any second, likely to make a lot of racket as it did. "Shhh! Shhh! It's okay! It's okay, boy.... I'm not gonna hur-*belch!*" The dog mistook sudden outburst of sound for a growl, and just as predicted began whimpering, yelping, and howling as it took off through a hole in the wall. Damn You, Gecko! Deep beyond what Ed could see, he could make out that the residence of this house took notice. They were likely going to investigate, which made Edgar panic a bit. Before he could move, an old tic which he thought gone made it's way back. ("Nevermore!") Ed's hand clamped down over his muzzle, backing away towards the window. Now? Of all times, that one comes back now?!

Man, today just wasn't his day.....

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Conner O'Marck Character Portrait: Tammy "Tam" Marston Character Portrait: Edgar the Drifter

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#, as written by Raidose
"Well god dammit! Conner, you stay here with our friend, I'm going to go check it out."

A voice rang out of the darkness beyond Edgar's vision. Stalking these dank halls, he found a section of wall that was "less than private", a tiny peephole rotting it's way through the antiquity floral patterns of the dry wall. Finally he could spy the scene which played out. Two figures mildly struggled with each other, well..... one struggled, the other just kinda used minimal effort to keep his hold. The power armor he wore instantly flashed Ed back to his little episode in the desert, but the coloration's were off. Doubting that the ever-righteous "Brotherhood of Steel" was aloud to change their fashion sense, the best Edgar could figure is that this was some mook who got lucky scavenging. The rather scrawny girl, or woman? Too hard to tell age like this, and she was rather scrawny. Either way, she bargained like a Junktown jerky vendor, Ed had enough wasteland experience to know that this could really only go one of two ways. One of them would be really, really bad for her.

Of course you realize that you don't know what this is about? So logically the smartest thing to do is just not be involved.
To just keep my head down and let it blow over..... like I did with those BoS members in the desert, and that turned out well.
For all you know she could just be a thief, or maybe assassin.
Or he could just be a raider.
Logic dictates that.... if I intervene here, the worst that happens is that a thief or assassin get's away. If I don't, the worst is that an innocent, well, questionably innocent female gets...... well, you know.

........I hate logic.

Moral dilemma solved, Ed made a plan. A conveniently placed window in full sight of the archway our suspected villain would have to go through made the perfect setting point. Now all that was needed was bait. Edgar's bog of goodies would work, partly opened like a sliced Christmas ham to show all the loveliness that was in it. Ed hoped the armored-up nudnik would Wonder, Wonder, what's in the Wonder bag enough to start poking through it. A hole in the ceiling led up to the second story of the building. Now, to get his attention......

("♪If you're blue and you don't know-♪
♪Where to go to, why don't you go-♪
♪Where fashion sits?♪
♫Puttin' on the Ritz!♫")

That did it. After Ed's rendition of Mr. Astaire, complete with radio static, the ne'er-do-well in question began to approach the bag, one hand still gripped around his hostage's wrist. Apparently he wasn't completely without common sense, since in his other hand he held a rather nasty looking RCW. Thankfully, he let go of her for a second to sift through his new-found loot. She was already starting to quietly inch away from the kid in the candy store, putting enough space for Edgar to land down from above. Ed took a bit of measure to make sure the only thing visible to the woman was a whole lot of burlap on his back, while the stormtrooper was already starting to react to the not-so-stealthy thump behind him. it didn't matter much now, though.

("Peeka-Boo Darlin', I see you!")

Before Conner's little pew-pew gun could even change orientation, Edgar's prehistoric-looking foot launched him like a missile through the window. Well, window and part of the wall next to it. But he was in armor, right? He'll be fine. The man in the tin can clinged, clanged, bounced, bonged, tumbled, and rolled his way down the hill, the only thing louder than the racket his suit was making was the never-ending stream of swears that'd make a fiend blush. Ed didn't even bother to turn around, partly because even though he was squatting down at around six-and-a-half feet tall, he knew she'd still likely be able to see up his hood, and Edgar wasn't willing to bank on it being too dark to make out certain key facial features. The other part was because he could hear her scrambling away. Still, he spoke out loud enough hoping she;d hear him.

"I not sure who is in the right here, but you have one chance to run."

Ed bent down and carefully tweezered the hook on his bag closed before slinging it back over his shoulder. Though there was something a little odd.... it felt lighter than usual. Though Ed didn't get much a chance to question this, as the newly made portal to the outside let the wind in. And on that wind rode a sound which made fret greatly. A deep, rumbling howl coming from far in the distance, likely not something a human would easily hear, at least not up by the town hall. This wasn't a wolf to be sure, as even wolves of today still had a somewhat majestic and haunting tone. This was guttural, feral, rabid even. Something bred to hunt men, by men. By legion. These were the howls of mongrels.

"Oh bugger......."

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Apollo Character Portrait: Conner O'Marck Character Portrait: John Kenit Character Portrait: Tammy "Tam" Marston Character Portrait: Edgar the Drifter

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John watched Apollo approach, and was likewise wearing a shroud of indifference - if leaned a little more towards 'Annoyed'. The cram he'd missed wiping was starting to slither its way down his collar. Damn that little desert rat.

He shrugged when Apollo made an explanation for the corpse on the road, "You're right. I dont give a damn about the Legion sap." And that was that as far as he appeared to be concerned.

John returned the favor of studying Apollo, noting that the others' eyes stuck to Baby for more than a few seconds. A man that knew his weapons, and knew how to use them. If Apollo was 'just a humble courier', then John was a tapdancing Ghoul. But for the moment, the both of them were satisfied staring eachother down in the fassion of all dangerous men meeting for the first time. With neither particularly anxious to turn their back, the standoff might've dragged on longer, but the desert wind seaces to be the only thing howling.

"Mongrels. Legion Mongrels." Apollo advises him. John didnt have much experience in the Mojave, but anything attatched to the Legion was bad news, and any animal gnarly enough to make a noise like that was clearly unafraid of whatever might hear it.

When Apollo next suggests that they bunker down in the building, John bristles, and is about to flat refuse, when Apollo is proven right. No, John wasnt alone. That was his backup right there. The big man in the power armor. ... Flying through the window and part of the wall.

"Connor, what-!" John's tone is incredulous. He'd just left the man alone with a girl half the weight of his left arm. There was no way she'd -

Something shifts in the shadow of the gaping hole. Something bigger than Tam. John settles Baby firmly on the dark opening when the Howls come again, forcing him to hiss a swear between his teeth. There was no time to get tangled up in some new threat, their time was already running short.

With more guns and the fact that John himself liked having armor on, odds were that he could just run this guy off in the hopes that the Legion would just chase after him. But John wasn't that cold, was he? Geez, maybe life out was starting to take it's toll. It was something to consider though. While the prospect of a gunfight (which he knew was going to happen) had it's ups and downs, the deciding thing was John's knowledge on how the universe liked to get it's jollies.

John had never been a lucky man, by any means, and whenever he thought he could cheat his own bad fortune, it'd only retaliate by biting him in the ass that much harder. It's like narrowly avoiding stepping in a bear trap, only to stumble and land your face in it instead. So sure, John could avoid the Legion today, but something worse would just happen instead. Like falling down a mine shaft full of Cazadors. Or walking in on Conner naked....

John chose Legion.

With a curse that probably matches Connors, he pulls on the big man's armor -hard- to start him into the same cover Apollo was probably already moving for.

"Out of grade school and still getting beaten up by girls, huh, Connor?"



At some point in her rambling charm, Connor's attention had left her. Pulling her behind in an iron grip that - short of gnawing through her own wrist - she wasn't going to wriggle loose of, her captor reached down to rifle through a bag that Tam was sure hadn't been there before. Something was interesting enough that he even needed two hands. Encouraged by her sudden and absolutely demure silence, he released Tam. Hardly willing to believe the kind of luck that took, she used her newfound freedom to put a feather-soft step between them. And then another. And then a third. In an eyeblink, she was out of grabbing range. A breath, and she was almost far enough to sprint for it.

Then the ceiling falls in. A mass of burlap =mean= plummets down behind Connor, and out of some kind of packrat reflex, Tam jerks forward to grab the satchel of all things out of harms way. Oh, wow, were those snow globes?? No time to study her find more carefully, because with an cringe-worthy WHOMP!, Connor's form has gone through the window.

Hop-skipping back from the hand that reaches backwards to reclaim the bait-bag, she pulls from her own the well-worn hunting rifle. Now, it would be impolite to aim it at her erstwhile savior, but that doesn't stop her from lifting it just aside from his torso. It's torso? That was bigger than even armored Connor had been. Super mutie? Through all that burlap, who could tell in this light.

And then that howl.

"Aw, brother, Tam, can you pick a party or can you pick a party?" She laments, backpeddling deeper into the building's shadows.

"If you're really keen on helping, pal, you can keep us clear of those Mongrels. They find us and we're -both- chewtoys."

Showing no intention of making it easy for the dogs to chase her down in the open, Tam lets the rifle droop onto a sling and shimmies up a broken staircase, squeezing between the wall and a tilted filing cabinet like a greased up molerat. There were windows and holes a-plenty on the second floor. Places maybe she could wriggle into that the dogs and their equally rabid masters couldn't dig her out.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Conner O'Marck Character Portrait: John Kenit Character Portrait: Tammy "Tam" Marston Character Portrait: Edgar the Drifter

0.00 INK

After dragging Tam through a room and a half to the bag, Conner stood there rifling through it, only to find it was a bag of snowglobes; useless snowglobes, hardly worth a cap.

"Son of a mirelurk bitch, can anyone carry anything worth scaving in this God-forsak...

( "Peeka-Boo Darlin', I see you! ")

Behind him came a quite familiar voice, and at this point. He'd also realize he just had a lapse of common sense and let go of Tam. The big hunk of power armor would then try to turn and find out what the fuck was going on, only to receive a foot to the back of his titanium plated ass with enough force to propel him through the wooden structure they were within; (the structure doesn't need much merit in the first place.)

First with a surprised shout, that could easily have been mistaken for a girl's scream; the man went flying through the wood an shanty glass with a loud crash and creaking noise, his armor making a heavy clang as it hit the dirt and dried clay around the building with following and resounding clangs followed by a less-than-proper-English-explicative every three seconds. With a final "cal-thunk" at the bottom of the hill.

A few seconds after his train-whacker of a ride; he would gaze about, vision blurred and ears buzzing from hitting his head on a rock... Maybe John was right about the brain damage after all. However, the silence wouldn't last long.

"Oh wait until I get back up there! You sons of fucking Deathclaws! You hear me! I said fuck you! Son of a bitch!"/

Then a howl would ring in the distance, and another, oh followed by more, goodie! Conner's head would turn and he'd reach for his RCW. He was utterly fuming now and the howl wasn't helping. He'd gaze at the direction it first came from.

"Well! Fuck you too buddy-dog!"

He really was bad at PG-13.

All this commotion had likely sent John running, who did indeed run up and grab him in an attempt to drag the armored thug to cover. It wouldn't take much though, Conner did indeed stand and start running but not toward the cover with John. He was darting straight toward the old building he was just violently ejected from, but right as he got towards the hole he made. He heard, well, that was barking behind him.

Conner would turn to see a group of four of those mutt's charging at him, teeth bared, foaming from the muzzle, and fur frilled, the whole nine yards of attempted dog intimidation. However, in Power Armor, Dogs don't really scare you and Conner didn't buy it. He'd raise his RCW with a not-so-choice phrase.

"Fuck this bullshit."

And with that, the rhythmic humming and discharge of energy went through the air as Conner opened fire on the lead Mongrel. As the bolts of laser energy hit, the hunting dog cried and yelped as loud as it could. The heated energy actually lighting its fur on fire and burning the thing alive, as it fell to the dirt the others kept going only for a second to meet the same fate. Once the next few dogs go into close quarters, Conner quickly hoisted his rifle and drew his Trench knife off his chest and as expected the first dog lunged. It would indeed impact on Conner's arm, teeth only scrapping across his forearm plate. Once its paws it the ground, Conner kicked it in the ribs, literally. The poor animal went flying a good couple feet into the air and back about seven due to the enhanced strength. It yelped for a few miniscule seconds and fell limp; now it was the next one's turn the rabid dog jumped and Conner swung and in a lucky catch, connected the knuckle of his knife to its next with a sicking pop. With a repeat of the last animal's final actions. More dogs were likely on there way but these were dead. With a gaze and step into the building Conner would proceed to search for the bastard who punted him.

"Come out, come out where-ever you are..."