The relentless sun beat down upon the town of Dead Horse, located in what used to be the Dead Horse Point State Park in Utah Armerica, on its relentless course across the sky.

Moab sighed to himself as he wound the winch on the water wheel. The Water wheel was a series of buckets atached to chains that extend far down the cliffside to the Colrad River below. Pulling up a bucket of water he took a long drink from it before filling up his waterskin and making his way into the town.

The Town had boomed over the last few years, from a small settlement of barely a hundred people to a bustling community of over 1000 refugees. The Boom happened following the War between the NCR and the BOS, with Dead Horse offering one thing. Safety.

Sitting atop a plateau, surrounded on threes sides by 2000 foot cliffs, the only way in or out of Dead Head is a heavily fortified land bridge, barely 30 yards wide. Saftey they had, food, water and medical supplies was another issue entirely. The irradiated waters of the Colorado River served to keep the locals alive, but it brought with it the Sickness, Moab's own wife and child had died barely a year ago after falling ill.

The Sheriff ran his hand through his steel gray hair and looked at his growing Town. Life had been easier before the Refugees had come, now fights were a comon thing, and last week three people had gone missing, a Riverman later found two of them on the shores of the Colorado. Absently stroking his Walker Colt he strode into the town and up to "the Springs" the local watering hole. Pushing open the doors he stepped into the dimly lit, smoke filled room and surveyed the faces, some familiar, some not so.

http://farm1.static.flickr.com/26/53281797_234872397b.jpg --- This is a Picture of Dead Horse Point State Park, the town is on the plateau there is an arm that extends out over the river, to haul up water from the river.

RULES
1: No ubering. This includes starting out with power armour and a turbo plasma rifle.
2: No god-mode. If people are shooting at you, expect to be hurt. If you do something stupid you just might die.
3: Romance is okay, but six will be treated the Fallout way: screen blackout and cut to post-coitus cigarette.
4: Profanity is fine, as long as it fits the situation.
5: The will of the host is law. I am the law. As such i will sometimes use your characters to say something, but will keep within their personality.
6: No flaming or insulting other players.
7: Remember, you're human. You have to eat, drink, sleep, and go to the bathroom.
8: Remember, its just a game. So relax, and have fun!
9: Try to make posts of considerable length, if you want to have a conversation about non RPG things use PM, if you want to set up a surprise or something PM me.

Put any thoughts in Italics.

99% Of the Town's Former Residents are now members of the guard, basically when Refugees started showing up the locals got nervous and armed themselves. When the Refugees said they were looking for protection, the locals agreed, and formed the guard. The Sheriff is Jacob Moab, a 50 year old man who walks with a limp. Ask anyone in town and they'll tell you the Sheriff is not to be messed with, he's only ever killed 6 men, but considering he killed them in the same fight, in under a minute, has cemented his reputation as someone not to be taken lightly.

The laws are simple, do not steal, do not murder, and honor your word. There is unlimited water but it is all Dirty, if you want clean water its gonna cost Caps, lots of them. Food is scarce but Alchohol is plenty. The Spring, is run by Sandra a take no prisoners kind of gal, cause s**t in her bar and even the Sheriff won't save you.

Ghouls are not welcome in Dead Horse but they have their own community along the banks of the Colarado. Super Mutants are shot on sight, as are Deathclaws. Its probably easiest to start in the bar, but you don't have to. I won't be propelling the Story in any pre-planned direction, this is just a thread for general Role Playing, anyone is free to start up a plot line at any time, just keep it sensible and try to run any big ideas by me first.

Last of all, Have Fun!

So, you want us to make a character sheet or something like that?

OOC: I'm still of dual mind, I think it'd be best just to decribe yourself through text and dialogue. Aim for a power level between level 8 and 12 (using Fallout 3 as a reference).

Joseph Miller sat on a small chair in the far right corner of The Springs, taking sips from a bottle of whiskey. It's been a good couple years since he started plying his trade here, heard it was a good safe haven and free of those ****ing zombies. He was a traveling hunter. He hunted beasts, treasure, and men. Joseph never really cared much where the money came from, so long as it came in spades. For the time being he's managed to blend into town pretty well, falling back on the beasts and treasure parts of his trade.

It's a pretty simple life, not nearly as exciting as his slaver days. It is safer though, noone trying to snatch his claims, noone trying to avenge their families...sometimes it's nice to just sit back, lean your chair against the wall, and get pleasantly drunk in the middle of the day.

Good times.

Oh look, theres the Sheriff. Wonder if he's here to mete out some "justice." Wonder if those stories of killing, what, 6 men in under a minute are true....**** it, i need another beer things might get interesting.

Moab walks over to the bar and leans on it. A small woman, maybe 20 years of age approaches him, "What'll it be today Sheriff" she says in thick mongrel accent.

"Just a coffee, thanks Sandra." he says looking back over the room, "Kind of busy here today isn't it?" he adds.

"It's them bloody traders, come in last night sellin there junk, still its good for business."

"No trouble then?" he asks.

"None I can't take care of, and I won't have you startin none neither!" she says scolding the Sheriff.

"Well, as long as you can take care of yerself." Moab turns and watches the as a man enters, Joseph Miller, hunter. Generally stays out of trouble, more cause people fear him than his own good intentions thinks Moab.

"What'll it be love," ask Sandra, as she places a thick black cup of coffee in front of Moab.

Jacob, a middle aged man sat inside the local bar taking a swig from his shot glass of whiskey, he looked around at his fellow bar mates, as they sat in a booth talking about their last job, " So jacob whats the plan, where the hell are we going to get a job in this kind of town?", the other two looked at jacob, as he took another swig from his shot glass, jacob looked down at his glass, "Damn", jacob signalled to the bar keep, for another round, the other looked at jacob again, "So what are we going to do, we need caps?", jacob looked at the three, just stairing at them with a blank face, the three new that jacob was thinking, "Well...", jacob said in a mildly deep voice, "I think I'll have another drink, then we can go to the local sheriff and see if he's got any jobs for us. How about that!", the three men looked at jacob with a confused yet amazed look on their faces, "WHAT", the three yelled, everyone in the bar looked towards the booth, jacob waved to everyone acting like he did'nt know what happened, "What the hell are you thinking... I mean we cant just stay here, and spend all our caps on cheap whiskey and other booze, we need caps!", jacob did'nt say a word, he stepped from the booth and walked over to the bar-keep, "Excuse me baby, can I get another whiskey, and get one for my friends also!", jacobs friends walked over and surrounded jacob, "We dont want a drink, we want to find a job, and get some caps, NOT, whiskey!", the bar-keep walked back over filling jacobs shot glass once more, jacob looked at the bar-keep, "Thanks baby, I'm starting to like this place", jacob said looking around, the three men began to get very angry at jacob, as he eyed the bar-keep, and sipped on his whiskey, "Jacob, dont you want more caps, to buy even more whiskey?", jacob did'nt listen to them, he just continued to sip on his whiskey then finished the rest with one large gulp, jacob looked around at the three guys, "You know what your problem is dan?", dan looked at jacob kind of shocked to see him talk finally, "No what?", jacob looked to his shot-glass once more stairing deep into the glass, "Your problem is, you talk to much!", jacob quickly grabbed his shot-glass, smashing it over dans head, dan stepped back a bit, holding his head, as jacob turned his attension to the man on his left, "Come on steve, you aint got the guts to fight me!", the other man grabbed a nearby empty pitcher, swinging it towards jacobs face, jacob quickly grabbed the mans arm with the pitcher, quickly bending it backwards to drop the pitcher, steve rushed towards jacob trying to help his friend, but jacob was to quick, and kicked steve right in the gut, making stever doubled back falling onto a bar table, jacob twirled the man around then threw him over the bar counter smashing several glasses and bottles with him, dan recovered from his secret hit charging jacob from the left side, dan wildly threw a left hook, missing jacob, who countered with a perfectly placed upercut to the jaw, dan doubled back catching himself on a chair, "Your done", dan said charging back at jacob, dan threw another left hook, which jacob easily countered by grabbing his arm, and kneeing him in the gut, dan layed on the ground showing that he was threw fighting, jacob looked at the bar-keep, as she held a shotgun pointed at his chest, "Whoa baby, no need to bring that out, those guy deserved it"...

Jacob hears the familliar sound of a revolver being cocked as he feels the barrel of a gun press against the back of his skull, "That'll be enugh of that now lad," comes the voice of the Sheriff.

Sandra stares at Moab as if she had it under control, but Moab knows too well her idea of things being "under control", one of Jacobs 'friends' rises to his feet, his shattered pride mixes with his anger and bile, and in a foolish move he reaches for his knife and rushes forwards.

Thunder seems to fill the barroom as Sandra squeezes off both triggers of her double barreled shotty. Pink mist fills the air as that buckshot tears through Steve, sending a shower of blood and guts across the room cover the patrons unfortunate enough to have been standing behind steve. Sandra ducks behind the bar rising a second later with a pump action shotty in hands aiming it at Dan, her eyes are wildy, "Try it F***er!!" she screams, her voice shrill with excitement.

Moab takes a cautious step backwards.

Jacob looks at the remnants of his friend, as he slowly looks at the bar-keep, pointing her shotgun at dan, "Damn baby, your my kind of girl, how about we shack-up later", jacob looses some of his cockyness, as he turns and staires at the sheriff, "My friends and I were wondering if you had any jobs for us, but seeing how its only me... Got any jobs?"...

Sandra turns her shotty on the Mercenary, her eyes still wild? Is this guy out of his f****n mind? lowering the shotty so it is aimed point blank at the mercenary's groin, she flash it a sour, sarcatic, half smile. "How bout you just hand over some caps for the damages then drag you and your friend over there's," she points the shotty at Steve before returning it to Jacob, "a***s the f*** outta my bar?!"

"I'd listen to her if I were you boy, the next gun she goes for isn't as friendly as these last too." says the Sheriff, stepping aside to let the Mercenary and his friends clear out of the bar. A couple of the locals shift nervously, one or two of them unholstering their own arms.

Jacob listens to the two, grabbing dan and steve by the collars, "Ok boys seems that your luck has run out, jacob releases dan and opens the door, he looks at dan who rushes outside, and throws steve out behind dan, closing the door behind them, "Ok now that we've got rid of the pests, here's fifty caps for the damage... Can I get another whiskey, and why dont you have one too sheriff, we can talk about a job working in the town"...

If there was one talent that Gabriel Ramsay had it was picking out an opportunity. He was sitting at a table with a half empty drink in front of him. Alcohol in Dead Horse seemed to be hard edged, the kind of stuff that burned his nostrils when he swallowed it. As a result, he'd been pouring some water from a dirty water skin into his glass when he heard the commotion. Gabe's eyes moved up to watch the fight. Great. Moab was gonna skin them raw. Old man seemed like the type, from what little he'd seen.

Gabriel scratched at the stubble on his square jaw. He was almost nervous. Dead Horse had a reputation. Nothing in the waste worse than paranoia, and this town had it in spades. Almost everyone carried a weapon and one dirty look at a resident could find you with several nice, new holes to breath through. Which was what made it all the more amazing when the fight broke out. He'd come in with the traders the night before. Strictly speaking, he wasn't one of them. He followed them though. Kept a wide berth when he sighted a crew heading into a settlement. Traders brought conflict. Conflict brought work. Work was good.

He pulled himself out of the seat, his dusty brown coat now dangling it's full length to the floor. "Oh, yeah, sheriff, go ahead. Seems real trustworthy to me." There's an accent that twinges his voice, one from one of the southern old states that's not easy to place. He whips his head back to get a few strands of dangling hair off his eyes. Haircuts. Another thing in short supply. "Uh, he's just watched one of his friends get turned into pink dust and right away he's looking for work. Doesn't seem to me like the guy you can trust with any jobs you need done. I would know."

His eyes stray to Sandra for just a second as he takes note of her. Still nervous. Weapon still in hand. Dangerous. Gabriel gives a tiny nod of his head. Just acknowledgment. Just a I ain't trouble, please don't make with the shooting.

"I'm thinking I'd be a little less trouble for any work you need done, Sheriff Moab."

OOC: Damn man, great post, it almost makes me sad to say I won't be able to respond for awhile tho'. Turns out my wife gave birth to my 2nd Daughter last night, (13 days prem but healthy as a horse). I'd love to keep going from your post bt I don't know if I'll have the time.

Max will probably respond to you and you can take it from there, feel free to RP Moab and Sandra for a bit til I get back.

Sorry!

Cheers & God Bless!

The sheriff and jacob turned around to look at the strange man, jacob did'nt like the little comment about him being trouble, "Who the hell are you some kind of wanna-be merc... Get out of here kid, me and the sheriff got some real buisness to discuss", the sheriff looked at the man wondering if another fight would break out, luckly he and sandra had their weapons still out laying on the bar counter.

"I think you two might be just the people I'm looking for?" the sheriff said looking at the two men, with a strange smirk on his face.

OOC: Quick note Max, you're not generally supposed to take control of the character of the thread originator

Joseph Miller pays close attention now.

Who are these half-wit raiders? I swear kids today have no tact, if i werent invested in keepin up a respectable image....

But god, seeing the blood spilt by that pretty little thing...how close those fools came to death, right here in front of his eyes....lord that makes a man feel alive.

Still, the man now known as Joseph Miller can't help but wonder what kind of a job the good sheriff would give to these tools...and how might he profit from their misfortune?

There's always that to think of.

"Come on! put yer backs into it!" Morgan roared with a distincly irish accent. But, the four ghouls he'd hired to help him push the carcase of a car to his workshop in Dead Horse had just stopped. "What is it now lads? Its only another hundred yards."

After a minute on of the walking corpses spoke up. "No ghouls allowed in town, sorry."
"Look boys, I'll give you another 20 caps each if you push it the rest of the way," he bargained. Morgan had been walking since he got to this continent and he was sick of it. He was going to fix this car if it took him the rest of his life, and he wasn't about to let this bunch of rotters stop him. Morgan ran a hand absent mindedly through his once bright red beard, which had been turned gray with the last few years. The ghouls convened amongst themselves. "Alright smoothskin, we'll do it."

It was a grueling hundred yards, but 40 minutes and at least a hundred stange stares latter they made it. "Have a nice day lads!" shouted Morgan. He lit up a cigarette as he walked into the saloon, only to be greeted by the pungent stench of guts and gunpowder. The floor was covered in what used to be some poor young hoodlums head. "What the bloody hell happened now?!"

Jack Sayer scanned the dust for a while, seeking the footprints of his quarry.
There - a scuff mark on a rock, in the rich red of the local dirt. Soon he picked up the set of prints again - the familiar print etched into his mind after weeks of tracking.
Size 12 US Army standard issue trooper boots. Both shoes worn smooth on the heels, with duct tape wrapped around the left toe. The sole of the right boot partially melted, and occasionally drag marks where a long coat or poncho had brushed the ground. Footprint spacing and the pressure put on the ball of the foot indicates a male between 6'5" and 6'11" feet tall. Carried a backpack or satchel, because it had been set down on the ground a few times and left an oblong impression.

For all his familiarity with the man's shoes, Jack didn't know what he looked like. But hey, I got paid in advance. He thought back to when he'd taken the job.

"Word is you're the man to come to when somebody needs disappearing."
"I don't know about that. People have a lot of accidents - Wasteland's a pretty dangerous place, after all."
"Yeah, funny about that, huh? Look, a few days ago I got robbed by a man, took something of mine."
"What's he look like?"
"Dunno, had one of them hockey masks on. I thought he might be around that little ghost town to the south. But I hear he could have an 'accident' maybe, or just vanish into the wastes."
"1,000 caps, up front. 500 for playing courier with your things. Another 500 will see him vanish so far not even the crows will find him."
"Two thousand, eh?"
"Two thousand," he'd nodded, "And not a cap less."
"Deal."

He'd gone to the ghost town, and found the hockey mask, alright. He'd also found a couple of brown hairs in the headband, and a set of bootprints he'd followed. Most of the money was safe at home, nailed under a floorboard, but he'd kept 500 or so for expenses. So then he followed the trail, winding through the desert until it ended up...here.

He squinted his eyes against the glare as he squatted down to examine them more closely, taking off the scratched aviator-style sunglasses. Only his piercing blue eyes and light skin of his upper face could be seen through the head wrap he favored to keep the windswept dust from his eyes and mouth. Under the cloth mask, he kept his face and head clean shaven.
The trail of prints ended abruptly. The ground here was covered in long, wide streak marks and the bare footprints of...he sniffed the ground. Ghouls. At least four, dragging something big and heavy.
Damnit! They'd come along and wrecked the traces.
Wait a minute. His target's prints didn't resume on the other side, so the ghouls must have dragged it along in the direction the man went. Jack adjusted the machete tucked in his belt and the well-repaired and scoped hunting rifle on his back, and set off at a run - following the drag marks of the car towards Dead Horse.

((Is the DM still here? I kinda wanted to join.))

((OOC: Anyone?))

Nelson leaned back further on the decrepit chair. It was hard to get any rest in the middle of a shoot-out it seems, or anywhere nearby, and in Nelson's case, just outside the Bar. Nelson groaned and arranged the thick hat from his face to the top of his head, like normal. He stood up from the chair, straight up. Nelson was a large man, about 6 feet in height, but it was his girth that inspired fear. He weighed at least 200 pounds, most of it fat. Now, you could ask yourself how someone can get *fat* when just about every day you can starve to death, but Nelson was lucky. Spending several years cooped up in a cozy fort, cracking computer codes, repairing broken rifles, and calibrating advanced explosives, kept Nelson propped neatly on his rump. There was no shortage of food for someone with Nelson's skills, he was practically a walking, talking, and eating supercomputer... The often mouthed off and shot back occasionally, and had some uncanny finesse that doesn't come standard with your average fatty.

Nelson had had it, the constant shouting was getting to him. He pulled up his pants, a dark blue jumpsuit and then he unbuttoned his jacket, a tacky pre-war Hawaiian shirt with red leaves and white trees and orange coconuts. Nelson let out a belch worthy of a man his sized and tugged on his belt, and a pistol, custom possibly, glistened off of the sunlight. Nelson looked around and caught sight of Jack Sayer, whom was tracking something in the dirt. "Hmm..?" he said to himself, only someone nearby could hear his silent question.

((Hello there!))

Gary sprinted across the wastes, plasma rifle in hand. His trenchcoat had at least six bullet-holes in it. Footsteps and shouting could be heard behind him, off in the distance. If Gary recalled correctly, three of the five men remained. Deftly climbing over a hill, Gary took cover and let loose a spray of plasma bolts at his attackers.

One of the men screamed as his flesh melted away into a pile of green goo. Another cried out in pain as his combat armor was penetrated by molten plasma, burning his skin. He was quickly pulled down by the third, and they took cover behind the hill to reload their assault rifles. Something fell at their feet.

A tin can? What kind of idiot throws a tin can in combat?

* * *

Gary watched the explosion caused by his "invention". Damn, that never gets old.

He turned around and noticed a small bar behind him, just across the road.

Uh... whoops.

Nelson turned his head to Gary and frowned. He snorted loudly and gave a cold stare at Gary. Nelson broke the stare and looked over Garys shoulder toward the explosion. "Nnr.. That didn't look too good." Nelson took a few steps toward him, he made very sure to take deep breaths as to intimidate him.. Or just to seem much bigger than he is, even though he is quite large. Nelson tugged at his goatee, and pulled out what looked to be a very large crumb, and tossed it over. He had a dirty blond mess on top of his head.. Or probably just blonde hair with lots of dirt in it, just maybe.

Jack Sayer cocks his head to the side and raises one eyebrow as the explosion rocks the small town.
"What the hell - ?" He says out loud, which comes out muffled as "Whnt ta hnll - ?" by his face covering, as he puts his sunglasses back on.
He doesn't look so tough, Jack thinks as Nelson heaves himself upright.
He takes in Nelson's bulk as the - well, I guess he must be the bouncer or something, Jack supposes - gets to his feet and advances towards Gary.
Big, but I could take him if I had to.
Being a tracker, Jack pays attention to feet, and the way people walk. And when Nelson walks, Jack sees a strange kind of...flow.
How is that even physically possible? A fat guy shouldn't be walking like a gunslinger. Maybe he is out of my league. At least he's not the guy I'm after.
As the fat guy tries to intimidate the newcomer with the plasma rifle - Jack silently admires the firepower - he gets the feeling things might just get out of hand, and slowly and as unobtrusively as possible moves towards the bar.

"Hey, hey, hey, those guys were chasing me, okay? Jeez. Calm down." Gary put away his plasma rifle and said, "Anyway, I'm Gary. Sorry about that." He laughed nervously.

Morgan observed the two mercs conversing with the sheriff as though the bleeding corpse, which layed crumpled on the floor, hadn't had a head a few seconds ago. He clicked the safety on the .45 which was tucked into his belt off, but didn't draw it. He had no intention of getting into a shootout with either of the mercenaries and especially not Moab. But, in a town like Dead Horse it was better to be safe than sorry, because safe ment dead.

"Might I ask just what the hell is going on here sheriff?"

Jack manages to make it to the door of the bar unnoticed.
Whew, glad to see I still have the knack.
He opens the door, steps inside...and is confronted by the stink of blood and the shredded corpse of some poor svcker.
He freezes, then backs out slowly.
I think that dead guy had duct tape wrapped around his left shoe...
He sticks his head back in to check.