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Ranger Frost

"The Ranger Unification Treaty was a good idea at the time, but all good things must come to an end."

0 · 370 views · located in Nevada Wasteland

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


"We Rangers hail from back east, what used to be called Nevada. Our heritage stretches back to the days of the Texas Rangers. We learn survival and combat skills in order to go out into the world and have a chance of surviving and making things better." - Desert Ranger Tycho

Name: Arin "Frost" Fawkes

Date of Birth: Unkown, 2308. (23 years old)

Place of Birth: Unknown

Sex/Gender: Male

Species or Model: Human

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual

Faction Alignment: Wasteland, Desert Rangers - My Wasteland for a Pip Boy.

Faction Rank/Role: Ranger

Current Residence: On the move

  • Survival - Desert Rangers are trained to survive and thrive in the unforgiving wastes of post war America, if it's edible, medical, or you can drink it without fear of adverse effects; Frost knows about it and how to use it. He can perform basic repair on those items that he is familiar with and can usually do so with whatever's at hand.
  • Stealth and long range combat - The Wastes are chock full of deadly creatures, Frost's philosophy is that they aren't so deadly if they're dead before they know you're there. He is always walking on cats feet and would rather initiate combat from a favorable position far away. Out of sight, out of mind.
  • Primal - Frost acts more on instinct than reason, usually relying more on his senses than on his gear. As such he is very perceptive, always alert for the slightest change in a situation or his surroundings. On top of this, if thrust into the right conditions he will become fiercely savage in close combat, using whatever means he has to win, his only goal to hurt his opponent as much as possible.

  • Mental Instability - It's never been diagnosed, and because of his Introversive nature it may be exceedingly hard to notice, but if one were to partake in a long conversation with Frost and one were very perceptive, one might just notice something a bit peculiar.
  • Introvert - Normally unwilling to delve in prolonged conversation, a cold demeanor and impassive face tend to turn people off in any event. He feels uncomfortable in even moderately sized groups, and doesn't really understand or trust many other people. Because of this he normally talks in a short, terse manner and would actually be at quite a loss if called upon to participate in conversation.
  • Shoot first, loot later - Frost usually doesn't wait to see what a fellow wants before shooting him if he thinks there's cause too, this is not helped by the fact that he tends to meet people through the crosshairs of his rifle's scope rather than face to face like normal folk.

  • Anti-Materiel Rifle with suppressor, bipod and Deathclaw skin bandolier, a Deathclaw head and fifteen tick marks are scratched into the wooden stock.
  • 30 rounds of regular .50 MG and 15 rounds each of explosive and AP .50 MG on bandoliers.
  • Flare gun carried in holster on left hip. (One handed pistol)
  • Three canisters of flamer fuel. (For Flare Gun and camp stove)
  • Binoculars carried on outside pouch at right hip.
  • Machette carried strapped diagonally across the small of his back.
  • Combat knife in his left boot.
  • Desert Ranger armor and helmet, with grey combat fatigues instead of Jeans, black combat boots, and a relatively large military rucksack.
  • Canteen for fresh water.
  • 4 Stimpacks.
  • Flint and Steel, as well as a single salvaged camp stove burner.
  • 3 Bottles of Sunset Sarsaparilla.
  • 20 bobby pins.
  • Caravan lunch.
  • Zen and the Art of Piloting.
  • 300 Caps and 200$ NCR.
  • Collapsible spade.

Religion: None.

Appearance: Frost stands tall at 6'2", has a tanned and weathered complexion like many Wastelanders, and shaggy charcoal grey hair, sideburns and a stubbly beard. His eyes are a bright icy blue, deep set under thick eyebrows, complemented by high, well defined cheekbones. Like most people who see regular combat, Frost has his fair share of scars, most notable of which are three thin claw marks running from his forehead down across his right eye. Less noticeable and seldom seen, but certainly more vicious are the large knotted gashes running from his left hip up to his stomach. A burn scar wraps around his left forearm and he keeps it constantly wrapped in a (off)white linen bandage.
Frost wears black calf high combat boots over dark grey fatigues, the traditional Ranger armor and helmet (Although he doesn't wear the helm all the time, finding it a bit uncomfortable.), a gun belt over his duster with a flare pistol holstered on his left hip, and a hard leather case for his binoculars on his left. He carries a large military canvas and leather rucksack for all his extra gear.

Personality: Frost is antisocial and self reliant, preferring his own methods and company to those of most other people. Relationships of any sort confuse and frighten him, as he is unsure wether he wants to be in them and how to even go about it. He is mostly a calm person, never seeming to be surprised and very rarely offended, and always keeps a face of cold impassiveness around other people. This is as natural to him as pissing and sleeping and he rarely realizes or understands how it might effect people.

He has an almost obsessive fascination with fish.

"Feller came like a ghost, in and out of town with barely a word, but the super mutants aren't bothering us anymore, thats for sure. Ole' Ben said he was a Desert Ranger.. Not like them NCR types, one of them Rangers from way back when before the NCR or even Caesar came around here, over a hundred years ago says Ole' Ben, back in his pappy's day. A regular do-gooder vigilante says he." - Unattributed

Personal Biography: (Abridged because I lost most of what I had written for it... If you want to know something just ask or bring it up in the Roleplay.)
Frost was rescued from a band of slavers by NCR Rangers at the age of Four, unable to return him to wherever he might have called home two rangers, a Ghoul named Samuel Fawkes and his former pupil Nathaniel Wilkes, decided to "adopt" him. For a few short years Frost lived at Fort Final Pass, spending time with Samuel and Nathaniel whenever they weren't on missions and helping the troopers around the base when they were away. It was here that he was named "Frost", as the mess sergeant once commented that he, "Always got a look about him like frost on a cloudy mornin.".
Samuel had been a Desert Ranger before the Ranger Unification Treaty and found, much like with Nathaniel, an eager student in Frost during this time. When the Rangers were officially disbanded Samuel took Frost out into the Wastes to fully train him in the ways of the Desert Rangers, Nathaniel however stayed with the former NCR Rangers and joined the CRS in Baja.
For many years Samuel put Frost through a tough regime of Survival and Martial training, feeling too old to continue on with this way of life, Samuel endeavored to impart all that he could onto the young trainee. It was during this time that Frost received the most significant scars upon his body, when he encountered a young Deathclaw while alone on a survival exercise. With only a machete at his disposal he was forced to take on the creature in hand to hand combat, a fight that nearly cost the inexperienced young man his life. He survived however, and completed his training at age Twenty. With formal retirement nearing, Samuel made Frost a gift of his now ancient Desert Ranger equipment and sent him off into the Wasteland to do what good he could.

So begins...

Ranger Frost's Story

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As night fell and the stars began to shine through the cloudy air with that peculiar orange tinge (Not at all how Frost had read they were supposed to be.) the Ranger climbed down from his perch high on the cliffs overlooking the Colorado. There, nestled in the shade and cover of large tumbled boulders he had rested away much of the daylight hours in relative ease, but now it was time to return to his trek.
"Today, next town..." He mumbled to himself, scrutinizing his map as he drew a line from his finger up towards Vegas, "Novac..." He could probably reach the ridge line just east of the place in a few hours, should be no problem skirting the Legion outposts in-between in the dark, he would see any patrols before they saw him. He always did.

Hefting his rucksack, he followed the trail down to the river side and refilled his canteen. He gave his face a quick splash, sighing with satisfaction at the cool touch of the water before standing. Pulling a bandana around his neck up across his mouth, he slipped on his helmet, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes to the night vision settings of the equipment. Rucksack on and AMR in hand he set out, scrambling up the ridge towards Highway 93. At the top he gave a long look in all directions, picking out the shifting glow of Legion campfires against the stony canyon walls at Cottonwood Cove. His interest piqued, he raised the AMR to his eye, taking a look through the scope at the distant encampment. He could see very little, only a few small shapes moving around. The chances of him hitting anyone were preposterously low.
With a sigh he shouldered the gun and began sliding down the steep slope, from there he would hit the highway and head towards Novac to try and find something useful to do.

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Dawn broke across the wastes in a blaze of beautiful irradiated glory as Frost entered Novac, his helmet tucked safely in his pack and his overcoat buttoned over his armor he looked like any fool wandering the wastelands. Albeit a rather heavily armed one. Ahead the giant lizard loomed across town like a child's rendition of some guardian creature, he had been able to see it from miles away, quite the definitive landmark it was, (not that that was hard to achieve in these wasted lands), and now he was able to observe it in all it's ancient... Splendour. As he walked the road up he could feel eyes upon him, humble folk no doubt peaking from the windows at this stranger and wondering what harm he wished to cause them. You'll be disappointed then, I'm not here to do harm. Not intentionally anyhow. he thought to himself grimly, adjusting the lay of his rifle across his shoulders.

"You there! Stop where you are!" Frost halted, he had just turned around one of the houses towards the main intersection that the town was built around. The voice was commanding, but also tired and wary, and it belonged to an old man holding a mean double barreled shotgun that was pointed directly at Frost.
"I'm not here to cause trouble." Frost said calmly, hands on hips, "Just passin' through, maybe willing to do a little work."
The man waved the shotgun at him, suspicion plain on his face. "Work eh? You don't look much in for handlin' cattle, not live ones anyway. This here is a ranching town. Unless you think you'r gonna replace the old lads with that big rifle of yours."
"What lads?" Frost asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Couple boys used to watch over the town, snipers from the NCR, ex. They used to hang out up in that there dino. It was before your time, they aren't around anymore."
"More or less. Ole' Dinky there didn't used to have that big hole up in his smile, if you get my point."
Frost studied the dino for a moment, face impassive, "I see. What about work then, anything need doing that a man like myself could do?"
The old man laughed, a hearty 'Hyah Ha ha' but didn't lower his gun, "And what type o' man would you be then boy? Don't look like no harmless fella to me. You look like a mighty fine killer, we don't have need of your type right now. Not anymore."
Frost frowned, "I can do other things than kill. I'm at home on the wastes, surely that is a talent that you could make use of."
A flicker of some vague emotion crossed the old man's face, Hope maybe? If so, a rare sight indeed and not one that Frost had expected. But it left just as quickly as it came. "I suppose you'll want to charge a fortune won't you boy? Were poor simple folk here, we don't have the time or money to pay for the likes of you."
"Just enough for a few necessary supplies, it will depend on the job of course." Frost could smell a hit, the man wanted something, the fact that he hadn't denied him outright was proof enough of that. "Why, you need something done?"
The man lowered his shotgun, looking thoughtful. "I've got a boy, name of James, lad's the only family I have left, and he dun ran off after that merchant girl, Elain, who passed by here. He's a good boy though, promised he would come back even if she wouldn't, well. That was three weeks ago yesterday and I aint seen hide nor hair of him. My boy's gone and disappeared, and he aint the first one either. Those merchants were headed out towards Primm by way of Nipton and everyone know folk been going missing out that way for years now. We tried to tell em' so but they wouldn't listen, head thick as a brahmin the leader had. Well, I know there aint much of a chance, but I aint one for giving up on kin. I want my boy back, and I'm willing to pay ya if you can do it." The man spit, looking away from Frost's face and blinking rapidly a few times.
Must be hard for him to talk about this. He knows as well as I do the boy's likely dead, it's how things are, but does that really make it easier to accept? Frost looked off into the distance, scanning out of habit as he thought. Nipton was of course, back the way he had come, although he hadn't come through it. Instead preferring to enter the Mojave along the Colorado to avoid detection. It was still back the opposite way of Vegas, his intended destination and if the lad wasn't there he would have to head to Primm, even farther away. Although if he remembered correctly there was a direct route from Primm to Vegas. Hell.
"Yeah, I'll do it. If you haven't received word in the next two weeks you should assume the worst, whats your name?"
"The name's Bill. Bill Short I'm called. I run the motel over yonder. Come on over and you can have a drink before you leave, a rest too if you need it. No one will bother you here, I've got a picture of little James in there you can look at too, might help."
Frost nodded with a small, tight smile, and followed the old man as he marched with shotgun over his shoulder towards the motel. A few hours later he would leave, back the way he had come, to go find the father his son but until then he may as well catch up on some sleep, even if he did have to do so with his machete drawn.

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Frost had achieved precious little sleep in the few hours he had spent at the Dino Dee-Lite, coming to the conclusion that beds were a prime example of the word uncomfortable, and left shortly after partaking of Bill's delicious fresh coffee. People were awfully forthcoming when it had gotten through they're thick skulls that you weren't there to kill them he had reflected, wondering how he might make it easier to pound that bit of information into them in the future. No matter the particulars of social interactions though, Frost had been tired, and it was Hot, even though it was late in the afternoon when he had left. This led to only one logical conclusion of course, find a hole and go to sleep. Such a task however, could prove to be very dangerous.

Rifle slung over his shoulder, Frost slunk through the tall swaying grass below a cliff face and made good time in the evening gloom. His intended course for Nipton had been simple and characteristic of him, following the basic principal of make it to high ground and travel where you could see your enemies before they would see you. This had led him in a relatively simple path after he climbed up one of the many long ridges that crisscrossed the Mojave, according to his map it was as simple as going straight all the way there. He was searching the cliff line for some sort of more material cover than the flora he was currently using, a tumble of fallen rocks perhaps, a nook that he could squeeze into and sleep away the last vestiges of daytime heat. Suddenly Frost stopped, head cocked, listening. He thought... Yes, there it was again. An almost imperceptible Sssssssss. Wearily, he gripped his machete with his right hand, ready to draw it at an instants notice, and took a breath to calm his racing heart, scanning the grass that a moment ago had been so friendly but now he was sure hid dangers immeasurable.
From behind him came a fast, painfully high pitched buzzing sound, less than a heartbeat later it was echoed all around him, he counted at least four different rattles but the noise ran together, making it impossible to tell how many there really were. His mouth went dry, and he licked his lips as he drew the machete and simultaneously unholstered his flare gun. Frost was a hunter, it was his life's work and he was very good at it, thusly, it was a terrifying feeling to so suddenly be demoted down to the status of prey. For prey he now was, and those who hunted him were fearsome beasts indeed.
The buzzing stopped, and the only constant was the faint hissing that now lingered on the edge of hearing, punctuated by short sharp bursts of those high powered rattles. The hunters were circling, closing in on him in a confusing pattern that only they knew. He had seen it before, from high on a cliff he had watched through a pair of binoculars as the Nightstalkers encircled and slew a group of well armed raiders. Samuel had bayed him watch and learn, so that he might have a better chance if such a situation ever fell upon him, the old ghoul could be a bastard like that sometimes.

Frost learned his lesson well.

He pulled back the hammer of the flare gun with his thumb, Click, the hissing stopped, all sound stopped. The silence was absolute and the tension was sharp as a knifes edge. Then something close behind him growled and he swung around, machete raised. There it was, it's serpentine head waving back and forth and it's long forked tongue flickering in and out between vicious hinged fangs. Time slowed and Frosts senses seemed full to bursting as the sinuous furred body tensed and then suddenly everything was a frantic lashing of fangs and claws as the furious creature launched itself at him. He backhanded it with the machete, the blade biting deep into it's shoulder and knocking it to the side with a yelp, but as the first creature fell to the ground another lunged from behind and to the left of Frost and sank it's teeth into his right forearm. The thick leather of his coat stopped much of the bite, but the venomous fangs slipped through and pierced his arm. Simultaneously another Nightstalker ran forwards from his left and jumped at his face, forcing Frost to stagger back. He shot it with the flare pistol and a bright ball of fire exploded into existence upon the creatures chest, bits of flame splattered across the area. Frost's eyes watered from the flash and wave of heat and he fell backwards onto the other Nightstalker but the creature he had shot was worse off, the fire had caught on it's ragged dirty fur and it was now a flaming, yelping panic that scrambled away from the Ranger with a high pitched shriek and tore off through the grass. A trail of flame spreading throughout the brush marked the little fireball's passage, soon the entire hill would be on fire.
He did not have time to ruminate on this problem however, the second creature was savaging his arm still, squirming under his weight but still fighting. Too busy to cry out in pain, Frost swung the now empty flare gun into the creature's snout with all his might, causing it to let go with a whimper. The Nightstalker thrashed and Frost rolled off of it and scrambled away, grabbing his machete from where he had dropped it. His arm felt like fire but as the creature righted itself he still buried the machete in it's neck with a satisfying
thwack of steel chopping through flesh. Panting heavily Frost looked around him, the hill was in flames but the dry flora of the mojave created very little smoke when it burned, and the fire had only a short range to burn as the ridge was broken up by shelves of bare stone. A few yards away the first NightStalker was limping away from the encroaching flames, dragging one of it's paws and trailing blood. Hopefully the rest of the pack had run off.
Frost wasted no time in this uncertain situation and turned away, holstering his flare pistol and with his good arm unclipping and slipping on his helmet. Better, the heat was not so insistent, not yet anyhow. Switching the machete to his good hand he shouldered his way through the burning grass and scrambled down the slope, slipping and sliding on loose rock. Near the bottom balance finally eluded his tired body and he slipped, falling hard on his ass and sliding the last few feet down.

After that he had kept walking away from the fire, which soon burned up the last of it's fuel and extinguished itself. When he had made it a ways away he had stopped and examined his wound. Nightstalkers were highly venomous, and while much of the bite had been blocked by the thick leather of his great coat and left only a very nasty bruise, the two venom fangs had easily bypassed his protection and released the toxins inside of him. A problem, as he did not have antivenom on him. Not to self, buy or make antivenom as soon as possible, and keep at all times. If I live through this... Well, there was no use dwelling on that, he would do what he could and hope that he might find serious aid in Nipton. Venom first aid was simple, try your best to keep it from reaching your heart and spreading throughout your bloodstream, and hope that your body could fight it off until you found help. He had torn a strip of cloth from his shirt, and bound it tightly a few inches up from the wound on his arm, not cutting off circulation completely, but still slowing it down. Oddly enough, the wound had hurt only the way a flesh wound should, and did not feel the same as if he had been bitten by something venemous. A delayed reaction, there is hope yet for me! He had thought, but for good measure he injected a stimpack into the offending limb, wincing as the long needle pierced his flesh. The drug would hopefully increase his body's fighting potential and slow the spread of the toxins.
Now it was night time and he was standing on the ridge still, within near sight of the desolate form of Nipton and his arm felt like a nest of angry, frustrated flies. He pulled out another stimpack and injected it, he was certain they were helping, but that was the third one he had used and he only had one left. He sighed, the situation seemed bleak but all he could do was push forwards and hope for the best.
Having long since thumbed on the night vision sensors in his helmet, he now used this to his full advantage as he snuck down towards the town, moving slowly and deliberately with his flare pistol drawn. A blinding weapon was the best defense in a night time situation if he was caught off guard. Far away in the distance a howl broke the still night air coming from the direction of the Colorado, it was answered by another, some ways to the north of the first, and then another. The Legion uses hunting dogs to track down they're enemies.... Could they be after me? I thought that my presence was unknown. Perhaps the brush fire... No, I cant imagine why... He holstered his flare gun and slipped his rifle off of his shoulder, snapping the bipod into place he groaned softly as his injured arm took the weight of the heavy rifle. "This hurts like a sonofabitch." he muttered, taking position on a rocky outcropping that overlooked both Nipton and the road approaching it that the legionaries would have to take. He knew the legion was coming, that was his one advantage and he would make full use of it. Perhaps they would even have some antivenom he could take from they're corpses. He certainly hoped so.