#my courier is an aging feral woman | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nightingaelic · 3 years

Note

always head-cannoned that the courier was like a "Child of the Wastleand". Born from and raised by the wasteland, not knowing who their real parents are. So how will FNV companions(DLC included maybe) react to the fact that the Courier is an orphan and had to go through the wasteland alone and independently during their childhood?

I'm starting to think you guys might need a hug or something

A grown woman might have sought the mysterious murderer in the checkered coat with more simmering wrath, more wiles to spare. A grown man might have approached the gates of the Strip with more confidence in their posture, more strength in their jaw. It was easy to imagine a world where the courier was one of them, some fabled hero with a fantastic past that culminated in their footprints on the Hoover Dam, their hand drawing the shape of New Vegas for years to come.

The real courier wasn't this twig of a teenager, feral in appearance and quick to avoid you if you held a threatening look in your eye. Couldn't be. And yet, what else would this world produce? The wasteland, cruel in its nature and lack thereof, had separated countless children from their parents by death and by circumstance. Age didn't matter to a hungry rad storm, a ravenous night stalker, a Legion patrol or an NCR warrant. Age didn't matter to the courier either, and they made their way to the city of neon lights as they had to, as they were always destined to.

Arcade Gannon: Arcade found out about their sad origins on day one, when he first saw them in one of the recovery tents at the Old Mormon Fort. They were nursing a broken arm, but that wasn't what made the researcher pause when walking by. He confirmed his suspicions with Julie Farkas before he approached them, bearing a cup of water as a peace offering.

"You're that courier," he said with interest, when they accepted the drink and swallowed it gratefully.

The courier wiped their mouth and raised an eyebrow at him in answer. He indicated the wound on their temple that had drawn him in. "The one that got shot in the head."

"I'm probably not the first courier to get shot in the head," the courier pointed out, handing the cup back to him.

"First to get up again," Arcade replied. "God, you're... you can't be older than 16. What kind of asshole-"

"Shoots a kid in the head?" The courier grinned, revealing a mouthful of battered teeth. "Don't suppose it mattered much to Benny, or his muscle. Wouldn't be the first crew to try to bring me down on the road for what I'm carrying, just the first to succeed. Can't have that on my record, so here I am."

"How long have you been a courier?" Arcade asked, eyes widening.

"Long enough." They shrugged. "Since 10 or so. Small stuff first, NCR territory only, farther when I could hold a gun better."

"And... your parents?"

The courier shook their head. "You even gotta ask?"

Having been confronted with the absolute tragedy of the youth before him, wreathed in bandages and still trying their best to defend their livelihood, a feeling of protectiveness that Arcade hadn't felt since his own family had made the perilous trip to settle in the Mojave began to rise in his chest. He reached out to squeeze the courier's uninjured shoulder. "Rest up. Then you and I are going to find Benny."

The courier smirked. "Find me a stimpak and we can do it this afternoon."

Craig Boone: Boone never explicitly heard the courier say they were on their own, had been on their own, but they weren't exactly hiding it. When he left Dinky the Dinosaur to head to bed after his shift one morning, he found the kid in the middle of the motel's courtyard, flat on their back, gazing up at the stars that were fast being eclipsed by dawn. He walked over to them, followed their line of sight to the sky, then tilted his sunglasses down to look at them properly. "What are you doing out here?"

"Can't afford a room," the courier said by way of explanation. "But this view isn't worth paying caps to avoid, anyway."

"Someone's gonna step on you," Boone murmured.

"Doubt it," the courier countered. "They might scold me a bit. Run me off to sleep out of sight. More likely they'll just ignore me."

They glanced up at the sniper leaning over them with a smile. "Not my first time sleeping under the sky."

Boone put his shades back down and headed for his room. Manny was already gone, his bed made as neatly as it had been in their military days, and Boone stared at it for a bit before heading back out to the kid in the courtyard.

"Come to take pity on me?" they asked sweetly, recognizing his returning footsteps.

"Got a spare bed," Boone replied. "Yours for a few hours. If you want it."

"Sold." The courier scrambled up and gathered their pack and weaponry. "Just promise me you aren't going to try to kill me, hide me in your bathroom, and eat me slowly over the next week. Or something worse."

"That happen often, to kids in the wastes?" Boone asked with a faint smirk.

"Often enough for me to have to ask."

When the courier woke around noon, Boone had placed a gritty bread roll and a few dried pieces of banana yucca fruit next to them on the blanket. He sat across the room on his own bed, face sober. "I might have a job for you, if you're up for it."

The courier grabbed the bread roll and bit into it with relish. "I'm listening."

Lily Bowen: For Lily, the bedraggled little figure that stumbled into Jacobstown one day was yet another little one to adopt. She took them under her wing within the hour and taught them how to feed the bighorners, how to lay food out on their hand flat and keep the creatures' bony snouts from accidentally snipping off a finger.

"Do you name them?" the courier asked, watching a bighorner calf snuffle around their feet looking for dropped razorgrain biscuits.

"Of course," Lily said proudly, and began pointing each of her charges out. "That's Marilyn. She's a little more blonde than the others, in coat and in temperament, but don't tell her I said that! The two littlest ones are Audrey and Sophia, so full of life and energy, look at them. And there's James, Shirley, Humphrey, and we can't forget Eva Marie, she's expecting..."

Lily came to the large bighorner ram that was standing placidly by, chewing cud. "Over there is Clark. He has the biggest horns, and he keeps the herd safe when Grandma is away."

"When Grandma is away?" The young courier looked up the nightkin with a sparkle in their eye. "You mean you hit the road sometimes?"

"Only for the ones I care about," Lily said warmly. "It's always better to leave if you know you have a good reason to go and a good home to come back to."

"Yeah, it sounds nice," the courier admitted mournfully. They looked away, but not before Lily caught the longing plain on their face. She realized that it was something they didn't know, or didn't remember, and her heart broke.

"The last time Grandma left was to visit the fort in Freeside," Lily said, recalling the trip. "With Marcus and Calamity. The Followers of the Apocalypse traded with us, and we came home with medicine."

"Freeside? I've been there." The courier's gaze came back to her shyly. "I might go back again soon. It's a long trip, but from here it's mostly downhill. Would you... you wouldn't... maybe..."

"Come with you, dearie?" Lily smiled. "Of course. Grandma just needs to pack her pills and sharpen her sword."

Raul Alfonso Tejada: It didn't matter that the figure who slammed the door of his cell open was holding a gun, bleeding from multiple scratches and muttering obscenities to themselves: Raul only saw a ghost. He missed the first few words they said to him because the only thing going through his mind as they spoke was a name he hardly uttered anymore. Rafaela.

They didn't look a thing like her, but they had to have been about the same age as her when she'd fled for Mexico City with him. They had a wound on their head and walked with a slight limp, but Raul couldn't tell if these were permanent fixtures or temporary setbacks thanks to the Black Mountain super mutants. They cranked the radio on their Pip-Boy as high as it would go on the road down to Sloan, whistling along to Bing Crosby and swinging a Nuka-Cola Victory at their side until the soda was so full of bubbles it was a wonder it hadn't exploded.

Before they entered the little mining settlement, Raul pulled them to the side of the road. "Quién eres?" he asked. "Who are you?"

The courier spit some blood into the dust next to them. "Es esto realmente tan importante?"

"Sí," Raul insisted. "When I put out that broadcast, I didn't mean for just any kid to come looking for me. You could've died."

The courier patted themselves down. "Not dead. Yet. And who says I'm 'just any kid?' I'm a little bit of a celebrity around here, you know."

"Ay dios mio," Raul muttered. "Where are your parents? Mother, father, tía Maria, primo Julio... whoever's taking care of you? Do they know where you are?"

They fixed him in a look of absolute disappointment. "Where do you think?"

The answer pained Raul, but it didn't surprise him. He sighed and backed off. "Come on. Vamos."

The courier's eyebrows went up. "Tagging along?"

"If anyone's tagging along, it's you with me," Raul corrected them, resuming the trek to Sloan.

They shrugged, but they didn't look particularly put out. "Suit yourself."

Rose of Sharon Cassidy: Kids didn't often walk into the bar at the Mojave outpost, and if they did, they warranted a second glance. But when Cass was the only barfly to do a double take when the courier walked into the establishment, she knew she was looking at someone special. When they sat down a few stools away from her and ordered "the usual," she was already beaming with excitement.

"What's 'the usual?'" she asked, sliding over to sit next to them. "You can't be more than halfway 'tween 10 and 20."

The courier eyed her suspiciously and pulled their hat down a bit lower. "None of your business," they answered.

Cass laughed. "Relax, kid. I'm not some creep. Just down on my luck and looking for a good story to distract me from my own troubles. Something tells me you're chock-full of them."

"That I am," the courier agreed. "But it'll cost you."

"What's your price?"

The courier paused as the bartender set down a Sunset Sarsaparilla on the counter and cracked the bottle open. They took a long drink from it and sighed. "Just promise me you're not going to ask me where my parents are."

"Shit, kid, I don't even know where one of mine is," Cass replied. She raised her glass of whiskey. "To your freedom from family ties."

"Freedom sucks," the courier said, but they clinked their bottle against her glass all the same. Cass softened a little and changed the subject. She asked about their time with the Mojave Express, their choice in weapon on the road, their craziest wasteland encounters. When she asked about their most interesting delivery, though, the courier chuckled. "I'm still working on it," they said, sliding off their hat to reveal a scarred bullet wound on their temple.

Cass' eyes widened. "Oh. You're that courier. Hell, I thought the stories were a load of brahmin dung."

"No, they're real enough." The courier tipped their empty bottle around with one finger, watching the glass cast circles of light onto the bar. "And... heavy. I've never had so many expectations on me."

"Not what you signed up for, huh." Cass nodded and smiled sadly. "Well fuck 'em. Don't worry about anyone but yourself and the ones you care about. And you ever need some help on the road, even if it's just saying 'no' to everyone hounding you, you find me. I'm short on work, these days."

Veronica Santangelo: As someone who had grown up surrounded by family to the point of feeling crowded, it was beyond apparent to Veronica that the teenaged courier was not used to this. They were wary around her for their first few days on the road together: Watching her when they thought she wasn't looking, curling up on the opposite side of their campfires, hoarding their supplies and giving a hefty sigh and roll of their eyes when she asked if they would share some of the things she helped find. By the second week they seemed to have decided she was trustworthy, and they started to open up about their goals, their opinions, and even a little of their past.

"Everyone wants something from me," they complained one day, as they crossed the dry basin between Nellis Air Force Base and Freeside. "It's awful. No one ever wanted anything from me before, when I was just running packages around the Big Circle. Just give me my box, hand over the caps, on to the next job. The only ones who wanted more were creeps and raiders, but they always want your stuff, and I know how to use a gun, so..."

Veronica nodded. "Yeah, that's always part of growing up. But as far as your job goes... you know you don't have to do anything beyond delivering packages, right?"

The courier sighed. "You lose one platinum chip and suddenly it's a matter of New Vegas national security and everyone loses their minds. It wasn't even my fault. And I got the damn thing back. But now everyone's after me, even Caesar. Caesar."

"Eugh." Veronica shivered uncomfortably. "Screw Caesar. You seem like you have a good enough head on your shoulders to steer clear of anyone who just wants to use you for their own benefits, but if you need to bounce some ideas off of someone else, I suppose I can offer you my services."

The courier stopped walking and turned to her. "Thanks," they said, suddenly very serious.

Veronica paused too. "You're welcome."

"I've never really... I've never had..."

"I know." Veronica smiled. "No offense, but it's kind of obvious."

"Really?" The courier smiled back at her, unsure.

"Yeah." Carefully, Veronica reached over and put an arm around their shoulder, pulling them into a side hug. It was a little awkward, but they didn't pull away, and it felt good. "I've got you, kiddo. You ever need anything, you know where to find me."

ED-E: When the eyebot at the Mojave Express outpost finally came back online, the first thing it registered was the young face above them, looking eagerly at its re-wired circuits and new sensor modules. ED-E tempered its reboot sequence accordingly, softening its beeps and blips so as to appear less threatening, and it floated off the Nash's counter as lightly as dandelion fluff in the wind.

This appeared to please the little courier. "You're gorgeous!" they exclaimed, grabbing the eyebot's frame and pressing their forehead to its speaker. "You and I are going to have so much fun, go on so many adventures, deliver so many packages... I mean, if you don't have anything else you need to do."

ED-E beeped its agreement to this contract and rocked a bit in the courier's hands. They laughed and released the bot again. "It'll be nice," they mused. "Having... someone. Well. Technically you're a something, but you get the idea."

They looked sad for an instant, but they shook it off quickly. ED-E blipped as if acknowledging the change in subject and opened its storage container. The courier gasped. "You have so much room in there!"

Rex: The door to the School of Impersonation creaked open for the eighth time that day, and Rex raised his head from where he had been lying on the stage room floor. The King caught his movement and turned to face the teenager that stood in the room's doorway, taking things in with an unsure expression.

Slowly, Rex's tail began to thump against the floor. He whined and looked up at the King, who smiled down at him in surprise. "Well look at that," he said to the newcomer. "Rex here thinks you're swell."

The teenager drew a little closer. "Most mutts don't," they admitted, with a touch of anxiety in their voice. "I've known plenty of other couriers that have been bitten."

"Dogs of the wasteland protect their own," the King admitted, reaching down to pat Rex on the brain dome. "Rexie would've had you on the floor already if he was so inclined, even if he's not feeling well today."

That piqued the courier's curiosity. "Is he sick?"

"He's been out of sorts for a little while now." The King moved his hand to scratch the cyberdog's neck ruff. "I took him to the Followers and had him checked out, and they said his brain is bad or something. But I don't have the time to search for a new one, these days."

He looked like he was about to say more, but Rex suddenly staggered to his feet. The old dog stiffly approached the courier, sat down with a thump and looked straight up at them, straight through them as if he could see their pain, their loneliness.

The King shook his head. "Well if that's not a sign, I don't know what is. Rexie's yours."

The courier took a step back. "I can't... I'm not..."

Rex whuffed, ever so softly, the sound echoing in the silent stage room. The pair locked eyes again, and something inside the courier melted. "You're... you're sure?"

"Sure as House made the Strip and the Families," the King replied. "He thinks you need him."

Follows-Chalk: The courier that escaped the White Legs attack was young, but Follows-Chalk was young, too. Still, they had seen far more of the wasteland than he had, and he began to prod them with questions about the world outside Zion as soon as he realized they hadn't always been tied to the ill-fated caravan.

"Shih zhah neh hoyta," he said in wonder at the courier's description of the Mojave, shaking his head as they made their way down a narrow slope toward the Dead Horses camp. "Your stories are a gift. I wish I was free to go as you have."

"Why don't you?" the courier asked. "Just take your things and go."

"Graham says we have business to finish, him and the tribe." Follows-Chalk sighed. "He's right. I can't wander off while the White Legs threaten Zion."

"Come with me," the courier suggested. "You're a scout. I'm a courier. We'd make a good team. Plus, I need to get back to New Vegas, I have my own unfinished business back there."

"No." Follows-Chalk shook his head. "Dank ni. But I can't. Not until Zion's tribes are safe."

The courier bit their lip. "Maybe I can help, then."

"You'd do that?" Follows-Chalk's eyes widened. "But we aren't your people. The kindness you offer isn't owed."

"It doesn't have to be." The courier looked around a bit, like maybe they weren't sure if they should keep going, but the words won out. "I've seen so much of the wasteland because I didn't have a choice. You should get a choice. I know... I know how hard it is to leave home because you have to, and I'd much rather it be because I want to. Do you understand?"

Follows-Chalk stared at them. He was pretty sure he knew what they were driving at, but he still couldn't fathom that they were offering their help just to give him a better choice. "Your heart is searching," he said finally, an inadequate translation of a Dead Horses phrase he'd heard before, about the nature of wanderers. "Come. Let's get you to Joshua Graham."

Waking Cloud: The Sorrows' midwife embraced the young courier that visited the tribe's camp as if she had met them before, which was her way in greeting most children. "You remind me of my eldest," she said, looking down at them fondly.

The courier stiffened at first, and a mildly embarrassed look came to their face. Still, they didn't push her away. "You have kids?"

"Three," Waking Cloud answered with pride. "Each stronger than the last. I have been blessed by the River and the Father. But come, I understand you are here to help the Sorrows."

The courier nodded. "The Dead Horses sent me. I've brought supplies."

Waking Cloud led the way into camp, nodding to other members of the tribe as they passed. "You must be strong too, to undertake such a task. Your tribe must be proud."

The courier's response was mumbled, but Waking Cloud caught the words anyway. "I don't have a tribe."

The warrior-midwife stopped walking. "Not even one you've chosen?"

"I have... friends," the courier answered, hesitant. "But that's kind of a recent development."

Waking Cloud nodded. "A start. Perhaps White Bird will see something in you."

"Who's White Bird?"

Waking Cloud smiled. "Come. We should first see to your good work."

Joshua Graham: Word of the courier reached Angel Cave before they did, and Graham barely looked up when they finally entered his domain. The tribe hadn't made any indication that the visitor was extraordinary, save their survival of the White Legs' attack. The Burned Man had already decided that they weren't the courier that had sought him throughout the years: Ulysses wasn't one to announce his presence so clumsily.

"We should've given you a better welcome on your first visit to Zion," he remarked without looking up from his work when the courier's footsteps drew near. "But from what I hear, the White Legs beat us to it. I don't know if you were close to the other members of your group, but you have my sympathy."

The courier cleared their throat. "It's fine. I didn't know them well, beyond the road we shared."

Their tone drew Graham's eyes, and he paused his inspection of the guns. The clothes of a traveler, yes, worn boots and warm weapons, but in their eyes and face... youthfulness. "The Dead Horses did not mention you were yet to see adulthood."

"The Dead Horses probably didn't think it mattered," the courier replied with a smirk. "Follows-Chalk can't be much older than me."

"I suppose they don't hold the same sentiments about childhood as you or I," Graham admitted, rising from his seat. "How is it one so young became acquainted with Happy Trails, if you did not know them well?"

The courier shrugged. "They needed a gun. I was available."

"And your family approved of this journey?"

"What family?"

Graham studied them, perhaps a little more kindly. "I see. And so you have put yourself in God's hands, to place you where he pleases."

"I'm more on my own accord," the courier said testily, crossing their arms. "You seem... familiar. Ever been to New Vegas?"

"You may be here of your own volition, but that does not mean you are not following God's plan," Graham went on, ignoring them. "It is good Follows-Chalk brought you to me. I can help you leave this valley, but I ask you first if you wouldn't like to do more for this tribe and the people of Zion."

Christine Royce: As soon as Christine saw the child with the collar around their neck that had rescued her from the Auto-Doc, she made a silent promise to herself that she was going to strangle Father Elijah with her bare hands the next time she laid eyes on him. Truthfully, it looked as though Elijah had sealed his own fate the moment he had yoked the courier, as there was a fire in the teenager's eyes that only came from someone who was familiar with- and successful in- vengeance.

As she was voiceless, Christine bottled the questions she had about the courier's situation up inside her, mentally storing them for later. How old are you? How did you come here? Is anyone looking for you? They came more quickly as she witnessed the way they attacked ghost people, the way they slunk around corners and looked fearfully over their shoulder, as if unsure she was still with them. Who taught you to fight like that? Do you know what it means, to be cared for? Are you all alone?

When she finally came to in Vera Keyes' suites, when her vocal cords had been rearranged and a voice that wasn't hers emerged from her throat, all Christine wanted to do was scream. It hurt her to even speak, though, so she claimed the dead starlet's bed and laid down on it, staring at the ceiling until she could hear the security holograms powering down and the bedroom doors opened. To her surprise, it was the courier in the doorway, eyes still aflame.

"Are you okay?" they asked.

Christine didn't know how to answer. She pulled herself to the edge of the bed, put her scarred head in her hands and closed her eyes. The courier came and sat next to her, and she put a comforting arm around them. They sat, breathing in the centuries-old dust, breathing in the calm before the final confrontation with the madman that had brought them together.

"Come on," Christine finally said. "There's a lot you should know, before you open the vault."

The courier's head whipped around. "You can talk now?!?"

Dog/God: Dog didn't know the difference between an adult wastelander and a teenager, but God did, and if Dog hadn't been in control when they took the comatose courier from the bunker, he would've rolled his eyes. As it was, Dog paid the courier the same respects he did for anyone with a spine, and God waited for his moment patiently. When he finally left the basement again, he knelt down on one knee so as to meet the courier's eye level and fixed them in a meaningful look. "I am sorry."

They were predictably confused. "Dog? Are you..."

"Dog is back in his cage." God cocked his head to the side slightly. "If I had been in control when we encountered you in the bunker, I would have left you to lie."

"That doesn't do me any good," the courier replied uneasily. "I'm still here, in this mess."

God stood up again. "What was one so young as you doing, following the radio's call? I find it hard to believe you thought you would do better than all the rest, in finding the treasure."

"I've been lucky before," the courier answered indignantly. "Increasingly so, lately."

God chuckled. "And where has that luck brought you? Into the same old man's clutches as Dog and myself."

"Okay then, help me." The courier crossed their arms. "We can play his game for now, and we'll get ourselves out in the process. Then we can get you some chems for this whole thing."

"I don't need chems," God said, offended. "But there is some merit in what you say. Your youthful optimism is at least admirable, if ill-placed."

Dean Domino: The courier's age didn't matter a whit to Dean Domino, and he wasn't about to let a well-practiced speech go to waste. His captive audience was clearly seething, but that only made the introductions all the more smooth. He had to take his entertainment where he could find it, nowadays.

"You want to live, I want what's in the Madre," the ghoul finished with a flourish at the casino on the hill. "Real simple."

"Fine." The courier rolled their eyes.

"Splendid." Domino grinned. "I'll meet you at the fountain."

He stood up to get going, and indicated the courier could do so as well. They weren't as short as he'd thought, but the years clearly hadn't been any kinder to them than they had been to him: He'd simply seen far more.

"You're an asshole," the courier said reproachfully, while he looked them up and down. "No one to talk to in this town, and that's how you treat your first guest in years?"

"I've had plenty of practice in being polite," Domino replied, adjusting his sunglasses. "And now I'm retired. Didn't your parents teach you to respect your elders, or has that fallen out of fashion?"

"My parents didn't teach me squat," the courier replied.

"Well, they clearly didn't see the worlds of potential in you that I see."

The courier glared at him. "It wasn't like that."

"Is that so?" Domino waved the revelation off as if it were cigarette smoke. "Well that's hardly my problem. Now run along, little courier. Best get back to your delivery schedule."

Roxie: "Rex?"

It was the first word the cyberdog heard, upon waking up in the X-8 Research Center. She let her tongue loll out and she began to pant, looking around for the voice.

A child looked down at her from a nearby console center, their eyes wide. "No," they said. "Your eyes are blue."

The cyberdog stood and looked up at them. She barked once, then waited for their response.

"Good dog?" the child responded, hand reaching for their weapon. The cyberdog took the cue and sat, like a good dog.

This seemed to reassure them. "Here!" they called, and she made her way across the nearby walkway to where they were standing. They sank to their knees to look her over, and she stood still as they inspected her brain dome, her mechanical limbs and her glossy fur.

"Hi there, puppy," they said softly, scratching her behind the ears. "You're a girl. Guess 'Rex' doesn't work. How about... Roxie?"

Roxie barked her agreement. The courier chuckled, amused and relieved, and before Roxie knew it they had thrown their arms around her.

"It's so good to see something that isn't trying to kill me," the courier said, their voice muffled somewhat by the cyberdog's shoulder. "Or trying to take me apart. I don't know if I can get out of here, and I just... I just want to go home."

Ulysses: Ulysses had never seen the other courier. He'd seen their footprints all over the west, seen the destruction their hand had wrought in the course of their travels, but he'd never laid eyes on them himself. It was a strange thing, he sometimes thought, to have your life shaped so completely by someone in the distance, a figure silhouetted against a rising sun, an exploding bomb, the lights of New Vegas, and yet so many lived their lives this way. How many NCR citizens had met President Kimball? How many slaves had stood near to Caesar? He'd spent so much time above the masses that he'd grown used to the proximity to power, and the courier dashed that feeling to pieces as they'd done to the Divide.

When their voice came to him through the eyebot, it was thin. It wasn't what Ulysses had expected, but it didn't matter. When their figure appeared in the distance, it was small, transparently unsure of its path, but it didn't matter. And when the weary and battered courier finally stood in Ulysses' temple, in the home of the gods that had ended the world, he finally saw what they were, and the staff in his hand faltered.

The teenaged courier didn't appear to be having the same thoughts, and their aim was steady. "You son of a bitch," they breathed, glancing at the eyebot that once again hovered at their side. "You wanted me here, right? You wanted me to walk this road, see what happened, see... see..."

Their eyes were brimming with tears. "I don't remember any of this!" they yelled, the cry echoing around the missiles' sanctum. "And even if I did, I wouldn't have answers for you. I don't owe you my history. This isn't mine. I don't want... I don't want this."

Ulysses watched as they lowered their gun and cried, heaving sobs out of frustration more than fear. The old world's weapons hadn't heard gasps like these since before the Great War. Perhaps they'd never heard them. Ulysses knew them well, though. The sounds of the tired, the broken, the defeated, sounds he had both caused and uttered himself. Sounds that brought him back to his own youth, to another nation torn asunder and a history that wasn't his thrust upon him.

And the Legion's mighty warrior lowered his staff, set aside his gun, and sat on the steps of the temple while the courier cried, until the countdown could no longer wait. When the marked men burst through the silo's doors, the two couriers faced them as one, and the tears on both of their faces disappeared under the dust of the Divide.

Robert House: The proprietor of the Strip knew the courier's age before they ever set foot in the Lucky 38, though finding the information had taken some time. He'd known the basics about each of the couriers he had hired for the platinum chip delivery, and he'd paid a hefty sum for that information: After all, some of the details weren't even known by the people they applied to. Still, when the courier finally stood before the computer screens that served as his window into the Mojave, it struck him that they looked shorter than he thought they'd be.

They listened politely to his explanation of events, the broad strokes of his plans to bring New Vegas forward, ahead of every other post-war civilization, and they nodded when he asked them to retrieve the platinum chip he had originally paid them to deliver. "We wouldn't want to have an incomplete delivery on your record," he chided, though he let his tone remain kind overall.

The prospect seemed to bring solemnity to their face, but they asked a question all the same. "Why me?"

"Why not?" House replied. "The contract was yours to begin with. It would only be right to adhere to it."

"Yes, but..." The courier scratched the back of their neck. "This has been a lot for me. I mean, I got shot in the head."

"And you overcame that particular obstacle," House said, slightly more impatient. "It's clear to me now that Benny has no intention of following my terms anymore, and I can't send a Securitron army to storm the Tops looking for him without stirring up more trouble. It's clear that an unknown agent's intervention is necessary, and your resilience so far has proven you worthy of the job."

"Well, I'm no fan of Benny," the courier admitted. "But I'm also only 16."

"And what of it?" House went on encouragingly. "I myself was only 22 when I founded RobCo Industries and revolutionized the robotics industry in America. Age is hardly consequential when you're building the next dream of humanity."

#fallout #fallout new vegas #fnv #fallout new vegas companions #fnv companions #fnv companions react #fallout new vegas companions react

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lowell-moonguard · 3 years

Text

Call for RP Contacts

Heya there! I’m trying to reach out to folks to hopefully find some more RP contacts for my characters. My work hours make it really hard for me to really do it in-game given that most people are in bed by the time I walk in the door and due to the amount of bigotry I’ve faced in the past for my queer characters, its made me somewhat afraid to try again.

I am not available during the daylight hours (MG Time), I work 2nd shift at my job and am home at the earliest of 2am monday-friday. Often times I can be home even later (4:30am mon-thurs and 6am fri). Aside from raiding on Saturday I am generally free on the weeknds. All characters are on Moon Guard.

What I am Not comfortable with

Overly flirty characters: This is mostly because I’ve had bad experiences in the past with people who tend to lean really hard on very sexual and/or flirty characters. I don’t mind the occasional thing, but if its very constant I don’t think we’re going to be a good match.

Romance RP: I’m not currently looking for romance rp. If we click and it looks like something that might come up between us, it can be a conversation that happens then.

ERP/Erotic Roleplay: I am an adult, but these are not the adult themes I want to explore.

Erasure of my characters canonical disabilities: If your healer character has the power to “fix” their disabilities, then this not something that I’m willing to entertain. Magic doesn’t mean that disability is gone, but that the definition of disability is different and has a completely different context within the various societies of Azeroth. And even ones that are disabilities in all contexts isn’t something to just be waved away with magic as that carries some very problematic ideas towards what its like to be disabled.

Themes I’d like to explore

This is not an exhaustive list! I’m open to others and discussions!

Rebuilding of Trust: Slowly rebuilding one’s trust in others, a concept, or something else! Trust is an easy thing to shatter and very difficult to fix. Especially if it was the fault of someone who isn’t even still alive.

Finding your place in a world that’s moved on without you: Time might have stopped for you, but the world did not. Coming out into the world decades behind at best is jarring and finding your place is difficult when everything’s changed

Neurodivergence and disability within a world with magical accommodations

Grief and magically altered memory: How does one mourn when the person isn’t allowed to be remembered? How does one cope when someone else decided to tweak details of one’s memories for their own gain? How does one cope with magically induced amnesia, built up from a mistake when they desperately want to remember?

Please note that while I am separating them by faction, its mostly to sort them as blizzard does.

Alliance Characters

Lowell Wyther

In-Game Name: Lowell

Worgen Harvest Witch

Age: 25

Gender: Nonbinary

Pronouns: they/them

Faction: Night Elf

Bio: What is effectively a feral child being drug kicking and screaming back into the lucid world Lowell has struggled to adjust to life as an actual person with responsibilities. They deal with the curse about as well as one can expect, but are alienated from their peers. A fact that’s only gotten worse since the burning of Teldrassil which nearly took their life. Having no loyalty to the Gilnean royalty, and what little faith they had in the Alliance Leadership shattered. Lowell has found that hoping that someone swoops in to save them is the quickest way to die, and is of the opinion that that there is no one who is coming to save you.

Muirín Battledirge

In-Game Name: Battledirge

Dark Iron Dwarf Shaman

Age: 235

Gender: Genderfluid

Pronouns: any/all

Faction: Neutral

Bio: Growing up and surviving Azeroth makes anyone jaded and cynical. Muirín is no exception. However she instead of wallowing in her misery and self-pity she takes it upon herself find the joy in life. The sweet before the bitter takes hold. To laugh, and sing, and find company with her comrades before the next apocalypse. Once the dust settles and the fires are put out, she takes up her violin and starts taking down the names of the dead, adding them to her music in the hope that they are remembered.

Falmarin Tempestwake

In-Game Name: Falmarin

Night Elf Demon Hunter

Age: Adult

Gender: Bigender (woman/agender)

Pronouns: she/they

Faction: Neutral, Night Elf leaning

Bio: Falmarin’s origins are similar to many Kaldorei that followed Illidan’s path. The Legion came, they lost everything, and they made their choice. She, however, didn’t really expect to make it past their victory. Now a few years after the Legion’s defeat she’s found herself with little purpose, and little reason to live. Naturally she became a pirate with her close friend from the Illidari.

Horde Characters

Vansia Dessuphis

In-Game Name: Vansia

Nightborne Monk

Age: 5,000

Gender: ???

Pronouns: he/they

Faction: Neutral

Bio: Spending his life under the “safety” of the bubble Vansia scraped but only just barely. Working as a courier and inscriptionist he raced through Suramar before and during the rebellion, using these skills to aid the Dusklily. Today he is a student at Tian Monastery, learning the healing arts and learning to heal from his own trauma.

Erynion Desrosiers

In-Game Name: Erynion

Nightborne Grove-Tender

Age: 485

Gender: ???

Pronouns: he/they

Faction: Neutral, Horde Citizen

Bio: Unlike his peers, Ery struggled to learn magic as taught. It wasn’t that he was incapable of magic, it was that the approach was wrong. As a result he’s leagues behind where he should be for an elf his age. What he lacks in teaching he makes up for in enthusiasm, as once he found his love of flora nothing could keep him from it, even caring for the plant life of Suramar by hand without magic until someone pulled him aside to teach him just enough to be useful.

Vothaeu LaChance

In-Game Name: Vothaeu

Nightborne Caretaker

Age: 26

Gender: Questioning

Pronouns: She/her

Faction: Neutral, Horde Citizen

Bio: After the rebellion, Vothaeu used her withered wrangling skills to take care of them after they were no longer useful to the Shal’dorei. Specializing in their care as well as their retrieval she spends her shifts either taking care of the ones that have already been rescued, or diving deep into the ruins of Suramar to find others who the city had failed. Excited about the world she longs to find adventure beyond Suramar but her heart can’t bare to be away from home long.

#Long post #Moon Guard #Wyrmrest Accord #World of Warcraft RP #RP Call #Doomed Drifter.txt

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thecleverdame · 5 years

Text

This Is Not A Fairy Tale - Two

Alpha!Prince!Sam x Omega!Reader

Story Masterlist

Summary: You’re a suppressed Omega who is forced into servitude after the death of your father. Your stepmother Naomi is a heartless woman who forces you to do the cooking and cleaning, while she tries to marry off her own two daughters, Alex and Claire. But your life takes a wonderful and dangerous turn when you meet the charming Prince Sam who also happens to be an Alpha.

Warnings: ABO smut, abuse, death of parents, magic

Beta: ilikaicalie

*This story is complete and posted on Patreon. Become a patron for a monthly pledge of $2.50 and get access to all my Patreon content.

“What is wrong with you?” Dean watches his brother with a skeptical eye. “You’re this worked up about some girl you met in a field?”

“It’s more than that.” Sam looks around, ensuring they’re alone. “She’s an Omega,” he whispers.

“What?” Dean scoffs, then chuckles at the absurdity of it. “Now you’re just making things up.”

“I swear to you.” Sam is earnest, breathing fast and sweating as he looks Dean head-on. “I’ve never felt anything like it in my life.”

“You’re serious…” Dean inspects his brother. “How do you know?”

“Because I could feel her. Like how the air is alive when there’s lightning in the sky. And her scent was incomparable. No Beta has ever come close. And when I touched her, it was-”

“Touched her?” Dean smirks, then whistles. “Things progressed quickly I see.”

“You had to be there to understand, the attraction was consuming.”

“It must have been for you, a crown prince, to fuck some servant girl in the middle of a field.”

“My God.” Sam rolls his eyes. “I didn’t take her dignity there in the dirt. We just...touched.”

“I don’t need to hear any more details.” Dean raises both hands in caution. He shakes his head and pours them both a drink. “How can you be sure she was really an Omega? We’ve never met one before.”

“If you had smelled her, felt her, you’d know. She was breathtaking. I have to find her, Dean.”

“I can’t believe you let her run off.”

“She was out of sight before I could get to my horse and give chase.”

“Why would she run?”

“Any number of reasons.” Sam has given this a lot of thought. “Perhaps I was too forward. She seemed scared of something.”

“Well, any Omega tucked away in some country home is quite the secret. How old would you say she was?”

“I can’t be sure. Twenty-five, maybe older, perhaps younger.”

“Twenty-five? How the hell has she managed to keep herself hidden for that long?”

Omegas are sought after, snatched up by powerful, wealthy Alphas as soon as they come of age. While Dean has never met one, he’s heard the stories. It’s unbelievable that an Omega would make it past her fifteenth birthday without being claimed, forget twenty-five.

It would, however, make you a perfect match for his brother. Sam has just turned thirty-five and the older he gets the more he suffers. Alphas are meant to pair off, and he should have chosen a Beta long ago. He almost did, several times but couldn’t quite bring himself to make the final commitment. As he’s aged his ruts have grown more intense. If he doesn’t mate soon he’ll begin the descent into something darker, more feral. A primordial throwback to their ancestors and their parents will never allow that. The pressure has been on for some time for Sam to find a wife.

And you, well, once discovered you wouldn’t have much of a choice in the matter. All Omegas end up as mates to royalty or someone with powerful connections. Out of the options you might have, Sam is the best-case scenario. That goes without saying.

“I hate to say this, but has it occurred to you that someone has been keeping her? A duke or baron has been using her for their own. It could be the reason she ran.”

“I don’t know.”

Sam’s stomach goes tight at the very thought of someone else touching you, hurting you. He can still see your face, those shining eyes, and shy smile. There was an inherent innocence to you, the way you responded to his touch, the way you looked at him.

“I know she was terrified of being in trouble. She said she needed to get home before someone returned.”

“Well, let’s go find her.” Dean shrugs, tipping back the final vestiges of his drink. “We’ll start at the tree where you met her and search all the houses in the area. Shouldn’t take more than a day.”

Dean’s plan was a good one, with one exception; Sam can’t find his way back to the spot where he met you.

His rut is days away but in preparation he often goes for long rides to clear his head, leaving at dawn and not returning until after the sun has set. He rode for hours and hours that day, taking every side trail and galloping across meadows. He only stopped when he came across the willow tree because he was starving and needed to eat.

He found his way to you by chance and now he can’t retrace his steps for the life of him.

“Which way do you think you would have gone?” Dean asks. “Use your instincts.”

The brothers sit side by side on horseback. The trail ahead of them forks off in half a dozen directions.

“The far path to the right I think...no wait...I’m not sure.” Sam runs a hand over his face.

Being with you for such a short time only to be ripped away feels like a simmering panic. He has no idea how it’s possible that he wants someone he hardly knows with this passionate desperation, but he does.

“Maybe we should ride back from the castle. Do you remember the way you took to get home? We could backtrack.”

“I don’t think I can.” Sam balls his fist around the reigns. “I rode looking for her for an hour and then came back. I was so worked up, I don’t remember which way was which.”

“Well,” Dean nods, a hand on his hip as he thinks. “Why don’t we go home and talk to our lovely mother. She’ll be thrilled at the prospect of an Omega for you. I’m sure she’ll have a few ideas on how to find her. She always does.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Alex snips, tapping at the shell of her boiled egg.

“Nothing,” you murmur, snapping out of your daydream.

“She’s more melancholy than usual.” Claire gives you a smarmy little grin and butters her toast.

“Is there something wrong?” Naomi asks, resting both palms on the table. You shake your head no and pour hot water for her tea.

“Just a bit tired.” You force a smile.

The truth is you feel like death. The herbs you’re forced to drink have always sucked the life from you, but after that afternoon with Sam, it’s only gotten worse. Yesterday you could barely stay awake through lunch. You’re not ignorant. While you don’t know all the ins and outs of what you are, you understand the basic mechanics. Being around an Alpha has awakened something inside you that’s been fighting to get out for some time.

There’s a ring of the bell at the front door and you hurry to answer it. The courier is a young boy. He hands you a message and blows a sweet little kiss before scampering away. You bring the carefully rolled parchment to Naomi.

The royal seal gets her attention. That signature gold melted wax can only mean one thing.

“What is it?” Claire asks.

“Tell us what it says!” Alex chimes in, smacking her fists on the table.

“Shh,” Naomi hushes them as she unrolls the paper and scans the message. A wide smile blooms across her face. She looks up at her daughters with bubbling excitement. Sitting up straight, she’s unable to contain the terrifying grin across her face as she reads aloud. “King John and Queen Mary cordially invite you to a royal ball in honor of Prince Samuel. Every eligible woman in the kingdom is expected to be in attendance.”

“A ball!” Alex’s eyes light up.

“Can we pick our own dresses?” Claire asks. “I shall wear my red velvet with lace trimming.”

“Do either of you realize what this means?” Naomi hisses, slapping an open palm on the table to silence the room. “They are holding a ball in honor of the prince. They’re looking for a suitable wife. It’s about time, he should have been married off long ago. But other’s poor judgment is our good fortune. My daughters, I need you to understand, you are both excellent candidates, with your background and unmatched bloodline. You are both beautiful young women. A man of his age would certainly be happy to have either of you in his bed.”

“Oh, do you think so?” Alex claps her hands together in excitement. “Well, I shall wear just a simple skirt but put my coat with the golden flowers over it and, of course, there's always my diamond necklace, which is really rather special. I imagine a prince would appreciate understated elegance.”

“Oh my God,” Claire giggles placing a hand over her mouth.

You’re frozen, hearing the sound of chattering voices but absorbing none of it. Two opposing thoughts are swimming in your head.

You let him put his hand up your skirt under a tree in the middle of a field. Any woman with any self-respect would not have invited a stranger to touch her in such a way. You came on the ground like a whore in the streets. A Prince, a man of his social graces would never want a woman who was so willing to offer up her body to the first man that came along. Sam, a man of a certain age, who needs to marry sooner rather than later. Perhaps you were a meaningless little fling before he’s expected to settle down for good.

But there’s also the other possibility. What if he were willing to overlook your scandalous encounter because of what you are? What if he’s expecting you to attend? What if this is his way of looking for you? You can scarcely stand that thought without feeling lightheaded. You felt what he felt, the charge in the air when you were near and the wild excitement when he scented you. Perhaps this is how every Omega responds to an Alpha, you wouldn’t know, but it felt like something special.

“Every eligible woman in the kingdom?” you ask and their voices go silent. The three women stare at you and Alex bursts out laughing. “I just, I’ve never been to a ball. I would like to go.”

“You?” Claire sputters, joining her sister. “Covered in muck and soot! What would you even wear?”

“She’d leave a trail of cinders behind her,” Alex snickers.

Naomi knows the gravity of your question. She understands the power of what you are even when you don’t. Any Omega, despite her title or appearance, would certainly be the first choice for an Alpha prince. And if Sam rejected you there’s a chance the King and Queen would consider annulling the marriage of their oldest son to pair him with an Omega of childbearing age.

She wants this prize for one of her own daughters and she’ll do whatever she needs to ensure you stay as far away from the royal family as possible.

“Y/N, dear,” she offers a sad little pout and extends her hand toward you. “The invitation said all eligible women. You are far from eligible. Look at you, coated in ashes and little more than skin and bones. We wouldn’t want to disrespect such a generous offer by bringing a scraggly little thing such as you, now would we? And I certainly can’t ruin your sister's chances with the Prince. This is serious.”

She only refers to Alex and Claire as your sisters when she wants to make a point.

You nod in silent understanding, holding back tears. It’s likely you will never see your handsome Prince again and you only have yourself to blame. But he’s better off with you. You’re a broken, withering woman whose life has been coming to an end for some time. You were condemned to a lifetime of misery the day you buried your father.

For two weeks you live the hell that is preparing Alex and Claire for the ball.

All they talk of is dresses and hairstyles and what other women will be their competition for the Prince’s attention. You try to cover up your disappointment but it gets proportionally more difficult as the date approaches. The longer you’re away from Sam the more the memory of his face fades away, and the less you can remember the details of what he felt like as doubt creeps in.

By the night of the ball, you’ve convinced yourself that you made up some preposterous connection to a man who was hoping to bed a servant girl in the woods. You’ve romanticized a man’s basic urges and created reciprocity that simply cannot exist.

“How does it look?” Alex inquires, reaching for her hand mirror and holding it up.

You slide the last hairpin into place and hold up another mirror for her to inspect your work.

“Oh, it’s actually good.” She eyes herself, pursing her lips in a practiced pout. “Not bad for someone who’s hands won’t stop shaking.”

“I’m glad you like it.” You brace your hands together, subduing the tremors.

“I’m next!” Claire runs into the room, pushing her sister out of the chair before taking her place. “Make it quick, we need to leave soon.”

“I’ll work as fast as I can.” Your eyes are heavy. You scrubbed pots and cleaned floors all day. Naomi picked today of all days to give the house a proper cleaning from top to bottom.

“Y/N,” Claire looks at her sister and fights back a chuckle. “Would you like to go to the ball yourself?”

“Please don’t make fun of me.” You whisper. “There’s no way I could go.”

“Quite right too: everyone would laugh to see Cinderbritches at a ball.” Both girls break out in a fit of laughter and you try to focus on her hair, instead of the sorrow swelling up inside you.

“I hate it when you call me that,” you tell them softly.

“Always so sensitive.” Claire rolls her eyes. “Hurry up! I want to get there!”

Once the girls are styled and polished Naomi loads them into the carriage and returns to the kitchen to find you.

“Have you forgotten something?” you ask, wiping your forehead of sweat as you clean a pot.

“Only one thing.” She lifts her chin, mouth in a tight grimace. “Come with me.”

You follow her down into the basement, to your makeshift room amongst the clutter.

“Over here,” she moves to the corner, bending down to pick something up. Once it’s in her hand you realize what it is. A metal chain with a cuff attached to the end.

“Don’t, please,” you panic, stepping back. “I beg you, don’t chain me up.”

“I’ll take the switch to you here and now if you don’t do as I say.”

You could run or fight, but you don’t have the energy for either so you walk over to her and watch as she kneels down and locks the metal around your ankle.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask. Tears stream down your face as you let emotion overtake you. “Please, it’s too tight. It hurts.”

“We both know what a sneaky thing you are. I remember what you were like as a girl.” She rubs her hands, looking satisfied.

“I can’t reach the fire from here, or my blankets in the corner. Will you hand them to me?”

“You’ll be fine for one night.” She sneers, looking at you as if the sight of you offends her very senses. “Take this time to think about what and who you are. Knowing her place is the best attribute a woman can have and you are nothing more than a mistake.”

She kicks the toe of her shoe into your stomach with enough force to knock the air from your lungs. You lie on the stone, writhing in pain and sobbing in despair as the sun sets over the horizon.

You wake up to a small squeaking sound. When your eyes flutter open it’s dark. But after you adjust you’re met with the sight of a small white mouse nosing his way around your hand. There are plenty of nasty rats that chew holes in nearly everything, you hate those little beasts, but this small mouse has been coming to you in the evenings for a year now.

“Hello my friend,” you whisper, lying limp on the ground as a fresh tear slides over your temple. “At least I’m not alone tonight.”

You watch as the mouse cleans his tiny face with a pink paw, smiling softly at the sweetness of such a simple thing. If you die down here, at least someone will miss you, a rodent but it’s better than simply vanishing and leaving no trace.

“Hello?” A musical, airy voice calls out from somewhere upstairs. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

Wiping your nose you gather your strength, propping yourself on one arm.

“Who’s there?” you yell back.

“Where are you?” The voice asks, getting closer. “I’m looking for Y/N.”

“I’m here.” You wait as soft footsteps descend toward the basement and a petit redheaded woman emerges from the dark with a flickering candle in her hand.

“What in the world are you doing down here?” She looks around and you move to sit as the chain rattles. Her eyes dart to the metal around your ankle. “Now, now, what do we have here?”

“Do you think you can help me?” you ask. “I think my stepmother keeps the key upstairs, in a jewelry box in her room.”

“Don’t be silly dear,” she crouches down, offering a genuine smile. “We don’t need all that.”

She snaps her fingers and sparks fly. In the same instant, the metal cuff falls open. You look at her in astonishment and she just smirks.

“Nothing a little magic can’t fix.”

“What are you?”

“There are many names for what I do, but I don’t like any of them. To you, I’m Rowena, your Godmother I suppose. A sort of, fairy godmother.”

“I don’t understand.” She offers her hand to help you up.

“I’ll explain. Let’s go upstairs to the fire and warm you up.”

Rowena makes you tea and explains that she knew your mother well. They grew up together in Scotland and stayed in touch throughout the years but grew farther and farther apart as time went by.

“I thought it was time I paid you a visit. I never dreamed I’d find the daughter of Ellen and Robert Singer chained up in a dirty coal room.” She pours you another cup of special tea. She insisted you drink it and as you have, the more you perk up, energy building for the first time in a long time. “Where is the lady of the house?”

“At the ball.” You sigh, looking down at the mug in your hands. “Every woman in the Kingdom was invited. The prince is expected to find his wife tonight.”

“Why are you here?”

“Look at me,” you snort. “Sam wouldn’t want to so much as look at me in this state.”

“Sam,” she coos, eyebrows wiggling. “Do I hear a hint of familiarity?”

“We met. It was only once but he was...wonderful.” You blush, swallowing the rest of the tea.

“Well, you must get you back to your prince.” Rowena spreads her arms wide. “We can’t have you sitting here dreaming of a future. You have to go out and make things happen. Take what you want from life.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Look at me? What would I even wear? I couldn’t even borrow a dress, they would hang off me.”

“Don’t you worry about that.” She smiles, patting your shoulder. “I know a trick or two.”

*This story is complete and posted on Patreon. Become a patron for a monthly pledge of $2.50 and get access to all my Patreon content.

#sam winchester x reader #alpha!sam winchester #alpha!sam x omega!reader #sam winchester smut

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meganiumdraws · 7 years

Photo

I finally drew references for Nat, Dahlia and my Courier! There’s a lot of info on them under the cut, so if you want to know about one of them the info will be there! They’re in the order of the above image, left to right.

Natalie Taylor/ Nat

Age: 230, DOB: August 19th, Height/Weight: 6′3″/162lbs

S.P.E.C.I.A.L.

strength 8/perception 4/endurance 10/charisma 3/intelligence 5/agility 3/luck 2

Backstory:

Nat is the younger sister of Nora, the two of them were adopted by their parents, they were both well aware. They had a fairly standard pre-war childhood together, not thinking much of their lack of blood relations. As a result of Nora’s reckless behavior in high school (and very poor choice in friends), Nat landed jail time after getting pulled over driving one of Nora’s friends home. Nat held a grudge against her sister for “making her waste two years of her life”, but forgave her after she saw her sister had matured and sincerely apologized.

While Nat was visiting one weekend, Nora had went into town for groceries, leaving her sister, husband and robot to look after Shaun. Unfortunately, the bombs had dropped while her sister was out, forcing them to go into the vault without her. Nat was allowed in, being immediate family of military personnel.

Current day (general):

Having given up her search for Shaun or Nate’s killer, the world simply felt too large and the problems out of her hands, she decided to try to live on in this new world around her. Nat has been travelling with Cait for almost a year now, the two are romantically involved. Cait is a big part of Nat’s life, giving her safety and someone to rely on in the wastes, someone to trust.

Nat has had the title of Overboss of Nuka World for about 4-5 months now, her biggest accomplishments being: turning the power on, and easing up rules on “slaves”. She plans on taking out the raiders but the task seems daunting right now, she’s biding her time so one clan rebels against her and the other two take them out, then turning the last two against one another, leaving both crippled and easier to pick off. Opening up Nuka World to traders again is her priority at the moment, even if she’s taking it slow.

Other notes:

I kinda understated it here but Nat is head over heels for Cait and has killed people over her. She’d do it again, too. She considers Cait the love of her life and is almost thankful for the bombs dropping because of her.

Her last name is “Taylor” because that’s Nora’s voice actress’s last name so let’s pretend it’s Nora’s maiden name.

She wields an un-modded Chinese Officer Sword constantly, prefers melee over guns but carries a shotgun anyway.

It’s a rule that no one in Nuka World can shoot up in front of Cait, harass or touch Cait, or catcall Cait. Nat will throw them out. As far as Nat’s concerned, Cait has had enough of dirty raiders.

She’s pretty intimidating but is really soft on animals, children and does like to help people when she can. She wouldn’t stick her neck out for most people but won’t just leave people to get kicked around, either.

Chaotic Neutral alignment

She’s wearing armor under her Nuka Geyser jacket, not sure if I really make it look like she is, tho.

Dahlia Rogers

Age: 243 DOB: She can’t quite recall Height/Weight: 5′9″/130lbs

S.P.E.C.I.A.L.

strength 7/perception 5/endurance 4/charisma 6/intelligence 10/agility 5/luck 5

Tagged Skills: Guns, Repair, Survival

Backstory/Current Day:

Most of it is a fuzzy to her now, but Dahlia remembers her life before the bombs dropped. She was an ambitious young woman who ended up working home contractor jobs as she pursued her degree in business, she was working on a basement far off into the forest the day the bombs had dropped, one of her coworkers where quick enough to close the big metal cellar doors before the wave of radiation and heat had hit them. They stayed there for roughly a week, living off of what stored food the person who employed them had stored down there. Food and water became scarce. She wanted to go home, which is exactly what she did, not caring much what happened. The world was likely destroyed- what’s the worst that could happen, now?

Dahlia’s house wasn’t too far off from the house she had been staying in, and once she was home that was where she stayed. Over time she noticed her hair whitened, then her skin deform and become calloused, or fell off. She panicked initially, but calmed herself down after reminding herself panicking never solved anything. Waiting for whatever this was to take it’s course, she carried on. Writing, reading and re-reading her books, trying to garden with what little plants she had left, whatever she could think of to occupy her time. She’d went through her attic to look for more paper to write on and opened the box with her old wedding dress inside- forced to remember her old fiance, he’d gotten cold feet last minute and never showed up to their wedding. Looking at the silky fabric and the ruffles, she decided to wear it again, why not? It’s lovely, made her feel lovely and doing no good just sitting in a box upstairs.

Raiders and other trouble makers would show up from time to time but weren’t much of a match for her .44 magnum. So she’d wait more, passing the time, only ever leaving to scavenge for food in the nearby Super Duper Mart at night. Over time, new settlements had been founded nearby, this troubled her before she realized they weren’t raiders this time. She kept going to the nearby Super Duper Mart, completely unaware rumors had started she was some sort of ghost woman due to her white dress and hair, the way they reflected the light of the moon, making her seem to glow at night.

Other Notes:

I wrote Dahlia to be a companion character! She’s not a Lone Wanderer/ Courer/ Sole Survivor, nor is she in any factions.

The quest to meet her would be the settlement leader asking you to investigate the “haunted house” (Dahlia’s home), most of the settlers are too superstitious to or think it’s a waste of time.

She’s very reclusive, definitely a home body, so she has lots of experience being resourceful to fix or create things without leaving home often. Despite being very intelligent, most of her knowledge is in repairing or building things, not science or technology. She has very good problem solving skills, too.

True Neutral alignment

Becoming a ghoul didn’t really phase her much, as you could probably tell. Ghoulification was unpleasant, sure, but she doesn’t feel sick from radiation anymore and she never really liked her nose anyway- so it’s not that bad, right?

She’s overall very sweet and level-headed, loves calling whoever she’s travelling with pet names (sweetie, darling, honey, sugar, the list goes on) and making sure they’re taking care of themselves. She’s more happy to have company again than anything, really.

Being away from home for so long does wear her out a bit, tho.

Her personal quest would have you going with her to check on her old friend/coworker, she saw he had went feral and that’s what really spikes her fear of becoming one, too. It takes her a while to recover.

Courier:

hahaha uhm my courier is just a self insert, she’s inappropriately chill in basically all situations and is so in love with Yes Man she took out the entire BoS bunker herself just for him,,,, uhhhh travels with Rex, uses a silenced 10mm and actually has really high karma?? Chaotic good I guess, I’ll put down special stats if you care??

strength5/perception 4/endurance 4/charisma 10/intelligence 5/agility 10/luck 2

tagged skills: repair, sneak, speech/ traits: good natured and trigger disciple

has black widow and chez la femme because of course?? and sneak/pistol based perks as long as they don’t involved V.A.T.S. & strongback I think

she’s an unlucky ducky but that’s okay who needs luck when you can fucking aim properly

alright that’s enough about her

#Nat #Dahlia Rogers #Courier #sole survivor #companion #ghoul #body horror //#Scopophobia #fallout new vegas #fallout 4 #fallout #megan's poopoo art #original character #reference #THEY ALL HAVE THEIR FUCKING SLEEVES ROLLED UP I HATE MYSELF AND MY AESTHETIC

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