darkSpyro

Set just months prior to the adventures of the Courier, your adventure in the Mojave Desert begins here!

Rules:

1.) Be kind to one another. You can be a jerk with your character all you want, but please be respectful to others outside of the roleplay.
2.) No overpowered characters. I know this can be hard considering that in-game you can be shot at with a spray of bullets and still be fine, but here in the roleplay, such scenarios would prove far more dangerous to your character. Keep things realistic in terms of what can harm your character. It only takes one bullet, after all.
3.) Do not control other people's characters. This extends to landing an automatic hit on another's character without their consent. Leave attacks open, such as, "He aimed a shot at the raider," instead of, "He shot the raider, killing him on the spot." This rule applies more to others' characters than NPC's, but still try to keep from auto-hitting.
4.) That being said, try not to have your character dodge everything, either. Though it is ultimately your decision as to whether your character gets hit or not, be sure to be fair and take a few hits from your character's opponent. No one is invincible here.
5.) Remember to take your character's S.P.E.C.I.A.L. into account. Characters with an Agility of 1 shouldn't be dodging bullets, and a character with a low Strength shouldn't be wielding heavy weaponry or easily winning in hand-to-hand combat.
6.) Speaking of S.P.E.C.I.A.L, there is a 40 point limit to points you can put in your character's stats.
To confirm that you've read these rules, name your favorite Fallout character from any of the games! :3

Character Sheet

Name:
Age:
Gender:
Race:
Faction:
Personality:
Appearance:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
S.P.E.C.I.A.L:
Other:

If you have any questions, feel free to ask! :3

Name: Claudius (pronounced klow-dee-ooce)

Age: 18

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Faction: Caesar's Legion (formerly)

Personality: Calm, collected arrogance. Those simple words would probably best describe Claude's rather unlikeable personality if one were looking to put it simply. Indeed, his average demeanor is quite calm and nonchalant, seemingly regardless of the situation, to the point where he's often being infuriatingly unconcerned in inappropriate situations. He very rarely shows interest in anyone or anything, unless it's to point out how inferior someone or something is. This disinterest often manifests itself as a bored expression on his face, which rarely seems to leave regardless of the situation. Someone could be threatening his life and he'd still probably possess that cool countenance. The most extreme emotions that sometimes grace his features would probably be annoyance or disgust, both of which are probably being directed towards something he deems beneath him. He never seems to smile, either. While arrogant, he's not the sort of person to list off a person's flaws with an infuriating smirk. Instead, he'll do so with a neutral expression, pointing out a person's deficiencies as if he were merely stating a fact.

Appearance: Standing at a rather unimpressive 5'5", Claude possesses a small frame and rather slender build. It's hardly the height and musculature someone might expect from a former legionary of Caesar's Legion, one that might even elicit a sort of, "Aren't you a little short for a Stormtrooper?" reaction, but his small stature and thin build does not nullify the potential threat he can pose. He's rather pale considering the fact that he lives his life under the blaring sun of the Mojave, though this might be explained by the fact that he tends to be more active at night. His black hair is quite short in length, kept that way mostly for the sake of convenience and practicality, and his eyes are a very dark brown. There doesn't seem to be much diversity in the facial expressions he makes, as they typically range from bored or unimpressed to critical or disparaging. As for his apparel, he wears a simple Wasteland wanderer outfit and black goggles that were once a part of his legionary recruit helmet.

Strengths:

Observation – Perhaps the deadliest aspect of Claude is his ability to observe his surroundings and the people around him. Much like the Legion itself, the former legionary is always keeping his eyes open for any sort of weakness that can be used to his advantage. Whether such weaknesses are physical shortcomings or personal insecurities or doubts, he's always watching for such weaknesses to reveal themselves and, upon identifying them, how to use them to his own advantage.

Melee/Unarmed/Throwing Weapons – While his leg injury upsets his ability to balance properly in combative stances, it is unwise to completely disregard Claude's prowess with melee weapons and in unarmed attacks. He poses a threat at any distance; should someone get too close to him, they're well within range of a melee attack, while if someone is farther away, there is still the risk of being struck by one of his various throwing knives or hatchets. His unarmed fighting ability proves useful to him as well. Should someone try to punch him in the face – and considering his attitude, this isn't an unlikely concept at all – there's a good chance he'll block the attack and initiate a counter-attack of his own. He also does rather well with disarming people at a close distance.

Improvisation/Opportunist – Having suffered a considerably debilitating injury, Claude has had to come up with ways to keep himself alive in the harsh environment that is the wasteland. He'll make a weapon out of just about anything – a piece of scrap metal or broken glass with a sharp edge to slice at his foes, any sort of blunt object that he can whack his opponent's head with, anything that he can get his hands on and that will get the job done. He will also do anything he can to weaken his opponent in combat. From throwing grit in his enemy's eyes to positioning himself in a way that his foe is facing the blinding sun, if there's a weakness to be exploited, then he is no doubt exploiting it.

Weaknesses:

Lame Leg – The injury he sustained in the past has damaged his leg beyond perfect recovery, but he hasn't been rendered completely useless, either. He can still walk rather well, though he limps slightly all the while. It's running that proves problematic to him. He prefers avoiding even trying to run, though he is capable of a very short run, though he can't go very far or very fast, and it's more like a slightly faster, hobbling walk than an actual run. He has trouble traversing great distances as well. He can only go so far before his leg forces him to stop when travelling, but he manages just fine when it's only a walk to a nearby place.

Cultural Ignorance/Disinterest – Claude has grown very accustomed to life as a legionary within Caesar's Legion, and he knows nothing else. Any other way of life is completely foreign to him, so he's at a bit of a loss when dealing with people outside of Legion territory/influence. This tends to make him the black sheep in the flock, as his own demeanor and perspective is astonishingly different from other wastelanders'. This is only worsened by the fact that he absolutely refuses to adapt to his new surroundings or conform to others' ways of life. He may no longer be a part of Caesar's Legion, but he still holds the beliefs of a legionary and thus refuses to be influenced by his new "animalistic" company. This tends to make him a much disliked individual, which doesn't do anything to help increase his chances of survival in the western wasteland.

Guns/Explosives/Energy Weapons – He has absolutely no experience with any of these types of weapons, and if he tried to use one, he'd probably end up doing more damage to himself than to his opponent.

Arrogant/Stubborn – While he is no longer a part of Caesar's Legion, he still disdains those he considers to be "profligates" – which usually translates to just about everyone – and he makes it very clear to whoever has the misfortune of meeting him. He thinks of himself as above the general population of the wasteland, something that is guaranteed to get him into considerable amounts of trouble, whether he underestimates someone or simply ticks off the wrong person with his superior attitude. Claude is also incredibly stubborn. He will not be swayed by anyone else's input, even if they have more experience in the matter at hand than he does. He is also very defiant when it comes to his leg injury. Oftentimes he will try to work himself as if he was a perfectly physically fit individual when in reality his injury makes this impossible. He tends to disregard this, however, either due to a sense of pride or simply because he believes that his leg's condition will not stop him from achieving his goal. He also cannot accept another person's help – though considering his personality, it is unlikely someone would ever offer their assistance to him. Regardless, he refuses to rely on others for support.

Unpleasant Company – Claude doesn't seem to know the meaning of the word "nice". He certainly doesn't know how to be friendly with people or at the very least act in a somewhat tolerable manner around them. It would seem that he hasn't yet realized how much he needs other people's acceptance/approval in order to survive in the wasteland, because with his usual demeanor, he's much more likely to get shot in the head than successfully integrate into society.

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

Strength: 5 – While certainly not the strongest man in the wasteland – as his small frame and slender build can attest – he's stronger than one might assume at first glance. This doesn't mean that he can wield huge weapons as a super mutant might, of course, but he's not as helpless and frail as he appears. He has relatively strong arms, no doubt from wielding melee weapons, utilizing throwing weapons, and fighting unarmed.

Perception: 9 – Possibly his greatest attribute, he is very good at taking in what goes on in his environment. He is the sort of person who is always watching, which usually does not bode particularly well for those he is observing, for two main reasons: 1.) The conclusions he makes from his observations of people are usually deprecatory, as he finds anyone outside of Caesar's Legion to be little more than a savage animal. 2.) When he watches a person, he is searching for any sort of crack or weakness that he could possibly exploit. He may no longer be a part of the Legion, but he still possesses the inclination to search for any sort of frailty. Aside from observing those around him, he also keeps an eye on his surroundings in order to protect himself. If something is amiss, there's a decent chance that he is aware of it. He sometimes claims that he can "smell" danger.

Endurance: 5 (formerly 10) – Before his leg injury, he could patrol the eastern wasteland with much greater ease. He was used to the life as a legionary, where any sort of weakness was unacceptable, and so had thus been worked out of him. As such, he had a high tolerance for whatever the desert could throw at him and whatever trials his superiors might put him through. Coupled with fanatic obedience and determination, it was hard to keep him from his goal once he had his mind set on it. Alas, that was before he sustained his injury. His lame leg now renders him unable to traverse the land as he once could, and makes him a much less effective soldier. Still, his injury has not taken away his perseverance, which is still very much intact, so while he might be physically unable to do certain things, that does not mean he will not push himself to do his very best. He can be incredibly stubborn, as he seems to try and defy his injury when it threatens to hinder him. It is guaranteed that he will put up a great amount of effort into it, though in the end, there is only so much he can do before he is forced to stop.

Charisma: 1 – While no longer within the ranks of Caesar's Legion, he still possesses that infuriating sense of superiority over others that many – if not all – legionaries seem to possess. This hardly makes him good with people, as he likes to put as much distance between himself and the "animals" as possible, both in a literal and metaphorical sense. He does not see himself as one of them, and makes this very clear to whoever has the misfortune of having to interact with him. His obvious disdain is almost always ensured to make him hated by whoever he meets. Even if someone should – for whatever insane reason – take a liking to him, he can hardly return the sentiment. He will remain cynical and brutally honest with his opinions on certain matters regardless of what company he is in. Sometimes it seems as if his sole purpose for saying anything at all is to inform others of just how savage and dissolute they are. Simply put, he is not at all good company unless one is interested in exchanging dispassionate philosophical perspectives.

Intelligence: 5 – As mentioned above, he's a very perceptive individual, but he also knows what to do with his observations once he's made them. He is a calculated individual, taking his surroundings into careful consideration. He does well with taking in information; what he struggles with is having a willingness to learn. He cares little for other people's cultures and ideas, and is reluctant to adopt any new ideas into his behavior or way of life. Being bilingual – speaking both English and Latin – he is also very well spoken in both languages with an extensive vocabulary at his disposal – most likely to be used in telling others exactly why they are beneath him.

Agility: 3-5 (formerly 5) – He was never a very quick or agile person to begin with, but his leg injury has now rendered him unable to maneuver effectively. His movements are hindered by his lame leg, so he cannot move in a graceful or subtle manner. Any sort of sneaking about is obviously impossible for him because of this, though he prefers keeping his eyes and ears open as opposed to snooping about, anyways. He can hardly close any sort of distance in a quick and effective manner, either; running is hardly an option beyond hobbling a bit.

Luck: 1 – He's not the sort of person who believes in luck, but if he did, then he'd probably say that he had terrible luck. Some people might call it karma, that the universe is trying to punish him for all of the terrible things he's done as a member of Caesar's Legion. Whatever the reason may be, bad things tend to happen to him, his crippled leg being just one example.

Other: He goes by the name Claude to those not affiliated with the Legion.

Name: Red Zephyr

Age: 234

Gender: Female

Race: Ghoul

Faction: None

Personality: Red's about as down-to-earth and no-nonsense as anyone could get. She has little tolerance for chaos and disarray, and upon learning this, one would think she'd turn heel at the slightest provocation. Not so; she devotes all her time and resources to keeping things in order. Again, with this knowledge, one would be surprised that she keeps her distance from the larger factions, considering that most of them have the same goal in some loosely connected way. It's just that her idea of "maintaining order" is far more basic: stop people from blowing each other up. She has a strong apprehension towards the violently competitive lifestyle the wastelanders are forced into, although she knows that it's no fault of their own. It may be dangerous to be sympathetic in a place crawling with raiders, marauders, and every kind of scumbag you can imagine, but she's sticking with her guns. That is, metaphorically. Well, physically too, but use of weaponry is always a last resort for her. Red prefers to end conflict with her words, and her odd blend of charisma and imposition helps her excel in two ways, that being persuasion and coercion. She has good instincts when it comes to finding out what a person needs to hear in order to ease their tension. If that doesn't work, however, she could easily scare the living daylights out of them with vague threats. At the end of the day, she'll do anything she can to convince everyone to put their weapons down and confront the disagreement nonviolently. If confrontation is inevitable, however, then make no mistake; if it's a fight they want, it's a fight they'll get.

Appearance: Red's ghoulish features are usually hidden behind the layers of heavy, armored clothing she wears day-to-day. However, this does little to soften her ridged, solid appearance. Standing at an unnatural 6'0, her presence alone is quite intimidating. She's densely muscular with a rectangular build, so much so to where it's difficult to discern her gender. That's not even considering the heavy, black trenchcoat, and arsenal of energy weaponry that wrap around her; it's impossible to tell that she's a women in her standard attire, and with her raspy voice muffled by the red bandana covering everything below the eyes, listening to her speak doesn't help much either. The rim of her cowboy hat constantly casts a shadow over her blackened eyes, leaving others with little to gauge her feelings and reactions. She's frequently asked why she wears such heavy, dark-colored equipment in the middle of a sun-scorched desert. She doesn't explain herself.

Strengths:

Fortified: Not only does she have enough muscle to carry a full-grown Brahmin over her shoulders, she has the endurance to carry it from Goodsprings to Novac too. Red has no trouble when it comes to heavy lifting, and her body seems to just absorb blows like they're nothing. On top of that, she's very strong-willed, never backing down from a challenge and never letting the sour words and countenances of her enemies psych her out. She's both a pack mule and a stubborn ass.

Persuasive: Her ability to sway the present company to her favor is almost a little uncanny. While she has no trouble using her intimidating presence to convince others to calm their damn tits, she finds it easy to use softer words to change their perspective. Red seems to know how people's minds work, and uses this ability any chance she gets.

Weaknesses:

Sluggish and Heavy-Handed: With her hulking musculature and heavy equipment, she's not particularly fast or agile. She's almost clumsy when it comes to anything requiring nimbleness, and she can't sneak around to save her life. She can be easily seen and her heavy bootfalls heard from afar, and she has difficulty fighting quicker enemies, unable to land a hit with her slow movements.

Stubborn: Remember that stubborn ass comment? Yeah, that applies here. Red is very stuck in her ways, giving little legroom for new ideas and perspectives. Ironic, considering her diplomatic nature, but with her 200+ years of living, she thinks she has it all figured out. It's hard for her to accept when she may be wrong, especially when she finds that her instincts tend to be right ninety percent of the time.

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

Strength: 8 - She could probably kill you just by swatting you aside the head, if you stood still long enough.

Perception: 3 - It's so easy to catch her by surprise, it's embarrassing.

Endurance: 10 - Did I mention that there's a good chance that she could carry that Brahmin all the way back too? Not without having a heat stroke, probably, but hey, she'd manage.

Charisma: 7 - With as long as she's lived, she knows how people work. She may have to use different tactics at times, but she finds that her words tend to have more influence than her fists or whatever equivalent metaphor.

Intelligence: 4 - She can hardly be considered stupid, but compared to the norm, she doesn't have a lot going on up there. The fact that she likes sticking to routine doesn't do her any favors in this department, either.

Agility: 2 - She may have the build of a brick, but she also has the build of a brick.

Luck: 6 - With all the crap she's gone through, along with her refusal to adapt, it's a surprise she's lasted this long. She'd say she's pretty lucky.


Other: Her name is an alias; her real name is unknown, as well as her origins. She doesn't talk a lot about where she came from, and she only just arrived to Mojave. Also, I like Veronica, she's a hoot.

((OOC: Accepted! ))

It had been a major error on his part. Lost in the western Mojave, he had little idea of what creatures lie in wait in which areas. All he was trying to do was distance himself as far from the east as he possibly could. He did not consider the dangerous territories that awaited him. He'd been doing well for himself so far. He'd come across a wandering trader who had been easy enough to take down with a throwing knife. It was this same trader from which he snagged a wasteland wanderer outfit. It would be suicide to travel the Profligate west in Legion armor. He'd be shot down in an instant. Looking to avoid that, he had taken the trader's clothes, though they were a bit too large for his small stature. He'd have to find a replacement some other time. Right now was most certainly not the time, however. Right now he was in the middle of being attacked.

He would have preferred a human foe to face in combat. Despite his leg injury, he was still dangerous against human targets. But no, he was most certainly not facing a fellow man. He was facing a cazador.

Claudius had never seen a cazador before, though he recognized the wasp-like creature from descriptions from his fellow legionaries. They were incredibly dangerous, as their stinger contained a potent venom that could fall even a colossal man. He found himself idly wondering if the Monster of the East would survive its deadly sting. Such thoughts were interrupted, however, by the creature making its move. It lunged at him with its stinger, the attack of which he barely managed to dodge. Perhaps it had more to do with the fact that it had been a warning shot on the cazador's part, rather than any impressive agility on Claudius's. No, he wouldn't be outmanuevering a cazador anytime soon. And he knew it.

Slowly backing away, he tried to make himself seem as harmless as possible, however an animal deemed something a threat. It became quickly apparent, however, that this cazador did not deem him as a threat. It deemed him as a meal. So it struck again, this time stinging the former legionary's left shoulder with its stinger. With a swipe of his machete, he managed to hack off one of the insect's wings, but he knew the damage was already done. His vision was already beginning to blur, and it felt like nails were pumping through his veins where the cazador had struck him. As the cazador fell to the ground, struggling to move with only one wing, Claudius found himself doing the same. His grip on his machete loosened until it dropped out of his hand, his fingers already starting to spasm uncontrollably. He curled on himself instinctively where he lie on the ground, trembling slightly as the venom ravaged his system. No... not like this. Not so soon. He noticed the cazador desperately trying to crawl away, but he honestly didn't think it mattered at this point. Was he going to die? Fear gripped at his heart.

He was going to die.

Just after the two combatants collapsed to the ground, a flash of green light cut through the air. The bolt of energy made direct contact with the writhing insect, splashing over and quickly dissolving its struck head. Within moments the creature laid still, and soon after which a series of loud footfalls approached Claudius. A dark mass hovered over the boy; it was a person, breathing, "Take this. Quickly," as they knelt down and took a small vial out of their coat pocket, which was handed to him.

The blast accompanied by the streak of green light made Claudius weakly lift his head. He did so just in time to see what remained of the cazador get dissolved into a puddle of goo. Fear struck at him. He wasn't familiar with such weaponry. He'd heard tell of advanced weapons that the Profligates used, but he'd never seen one in action before. The display of power frightened him, though he refused to show it. As the dark-clad figure approached him, however, fear very visibly showed on his young face. Was that an NCR ranger? Oh Mars, he was dead for sure. He'd heard tell of NCR rangers, feared even among the Legion. They were like angels of death in this hostile wasteland, doing away with anyone who dared oppose the NCR. And now one such ranger was staring down at him, no doubt about to off him right where he lie. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. What was he to say? Was he to plea for his life? Certainly not. Yet he did not wish to die, but surely that was what was going to happen.

So he was surprised when, instead of pointing a gun at him, the ranger instead handed him a vial of... something. He was too addled to connect the dots, that this was an antivenom being offered to save his life. No, his mind was still on red alert, warning him of danger that this ranger presented. So instead of taking the proffered bottle, he instead cowered away, acting as though it were a serpent ready to strike him. He stared at the bottle with his blurry vision. In his addled, no doubt venom-stricken state of mind, he imagined it was simply a drink of water. Yes, he was so thirsty... He reached a shaky hand out to take it, forgetting his earlier fear of the object, but his arm dropped back to his side. He couldn't. He was too weak. A soft whine escaped him, one of defeat.

He was going to die.

After watching the boy's first reaction of apprehension, followed by his failure to grasp the vial, the figure gave a sigh. It was harsh and raspy, sounding very much like it was one of annoyance, but truthfully, it was of worry. The antivenom had been brewed by the very hands that held it, and admittedly, most things those hands created were of mediocre quality. Would this sample be potent enough to save this stranger from his imminent death? No time to think about it; a hand cradled his head as the other screwed off the top with a thumb and lowered it over his mouth, carefully pouring the liquid inside.

At the sigh, Claudius winced slightly. A sigh from one of his superiors was never a good thing, and he supposed it would be the same for any stranger he met. He had little time to ponder it, however, for his head was being cradled and the vial was being brought to his lips. He drank thoughtlessly, his mind too far gone to really understand what was happening around him at the moment. All he knew was that his vision was blurred and that it was hot, as per usual. He also knew that this was the most terrible-tasting water he's ever drunk. He coughed a bit once he'd finished it, taking a deep breath before settling back into the hand of whoever it was that was holding him. He was too far gone at this point. He only knew that he felt safe. A thought of his Decanus and how uncharacteristically nice he was being was the last thing he pondered before he lost consciousness.

As the young man's head laid limp into the hand that held it, his eyes closing as his consciousness faded, the figure remained motionless in that position. Oh... well, I guess I killed him.


~~


Evidently, Red Zephyr's administrations were so far doing the opposite. After feeling a steady, albeit weak heartbeat, she had been relieved that there was hope for the boy yet. That varmint was one of the worst a lone traveler could encounter, especially one as slight-framed as him. Honestly, his clothes didn't even fit him right; it was clear enough to her that he either had no idea what he was doing or was completely unprepared for whatever journey he had his sights set on. Or perhaps even both. Well, since she wouldn't get anywhere pondering the if's and why's, her next choice of action had been to carry the traveler to a safer place.

Currently, Red was leaning over on a bench in front of an eroded gas station, one arm draped over her lap as the other drew a lit cigarette to her mouth. As she exhaled a puff of smoke from the hole where nose would have been, she glanced over at the weathered, dusty mattress she had laid the boy on. He had been unconscious for some time; the sun was already setting, the surrounding desert glowing in its amber light. She wasn't exactly in a hurry for him to come to, but she hoped for his arrival all the same. There was still no guarantee that the antivenom did its work.

The first thing Claudius registered was that he was lying down. More importantly, that he was lying down on something rather comfortable. Sleeping arrangements in a Legion camp were hardly so cozy. He didn't ponder it, however, and he certainly didn't complain. Instead, he snuggled in with a soft sigh of contentment. It was a few more moments later when it occurred to him that he really should be getting up. He didn't know exactly why... Oh, right. His Decanus would certainly beat him if he slept in too late. And he couldn't have that. Opening his eyes, he saw not the flap of a tent, but instead the wall of a decrepit building. Instantly on alert, he bolted up into a sitting position, but the movement was too quick for his still poison-addled body. Despite making its way to recovery, he was still quite woozy. Blinking a few times to take off the blurry edge, he looked about his surroundings, looking not unlike a lost child.

When his eyes finally landed upon his rescuer, he nearly jumped a foot into the air. An NCR ranger? What? How...? Wait, he remembered. He remembered the ranger cradling his head and bottle-feeding him what must have been... an antivenom? He wasn't sure. Nor was he sure what to make of his company. Eyeing him warily, he asked, "Who are you?"

As if on cue, the boy began to stir. Good, he hadn't died in his sleep. Then he sat up. Even better. Whether from the antidote or the stranger's possible resilience, or of some combination, it seemed that he would be making a quick recovery. Of course, one couldn't be so sure. Red was about to inquire of his status until he asked a question of his own.

"A traveler. Like you," she eventually replied, turning away and taking another smoke when a gust of wind blew away from the boy. "I'd reckon you're new to it. Or something ran you off before you could get better equipment." She pointed at him with her cigarette, referring to the oversized outfit he was wearing.

The stranger's answer did nothing to calm his nerves. Anyone could be considered a traveler. Even himself, especially now. As the man went on, however, his unease grew. Was it so obvious that something had run him off? Looking down at the clothes he had taken from the dead traveller self-consciously, he supposed he did look like he'd been forced to leave home very quickly without proper traveling arrangements. Looking at his rescuer warily, something suddenly occurred to him, and he looked around himself desperately. He wasn't armed. Where was his machete...?

Watching the boy turn about frantically, she asked with a scowl, "What?" After a moment of thought, she then pointed at the wall behind him, where his machete and other belongings were propped against. "Your stuff's there." When that was established, she decided to add, "Haven't seen any varmints since we got here. Don't think we will until it gets dark."

Upon seeing his machete and other belongings, he was relieved, but also very confused. Why would the ranger let him anywhere near his weapons? Retrieving his machete, gripping it like a security blanket, he considered his position. Did the ranger want an honorable fight? It didn't seem very befitting of a profligate, but he supposed anything was possible. It was also possible, then, that this ranger was too stupid to realize that letting him within arm's reach of his weapons wasn't a very good idea. Then again, a shot from that profligate weapon would put him down faster than he could even approach him with a blade. Even armed as he was, he was still vulnerable to this stranger, and he didn't like it. At the ranger's comment, the boy scammed the horizon rather worriedly, keeping an eye out for the fluttering wings of a cazador or a running gecko.

Returning his gaze to his rescuer, he considered repeating his earlier question, but decided against it. Instead, he asked, "Why did you help me?" It occurred to him, just then, that it was possible this individual was keeping him alive to interrogate him. Raising his machete slightly at that thought, he pondered whether or not he should slice his own throat. While he didn't want to die, the last thing he wanted was to endanger the Legion at all with any information he might be able to give this stranger.

Had this been taking place a hundred years before-- and had the boy not had been clutching his blade and glancing at every angle cautiously-- Red would have given him a strange look. Now, however, she knew with disconcerting familiarity why anyone would ask such a question. In a lawless land where it seemed that every living and nonliving thing was vying to kill you, it was no wonder that someone could be surprised by an act of good will. She didn't voice any of this, however, instead shrugging and saying in an almost robotic fashion, "It was the right thing to do. No reason to leave someone to die when you have the means to save them."

"I was weak," Claudius answered, as if that explained something of some significance. Which, in his mind, it did. His weakness should have been punished by this stranger. He shouldn't have been saved of all things. If something was weak, then it should be put out of its misery, for it was of no use to its collective or group. Instead, this person had spared him, but why? Because it was "the right thing to do?" He suspected there was an ulterior motive there, but for the life of him, he couldn't understand just what.

Red heaved a sigh. Lovely, another one of these types. "Wherever you're from, kid, that kind of stuff doesn't matter out here. You could be the top dog. Have all the money, power, fancy toys, you name it, right? Now imagine getting offed by simply tripping down the stairs and busting your head open. Anticlimactic, right? Well, when all it takes is a bullet to the skull," she tapped a finger against her hat, "no amount of strength or weakness guarantees anything. We're at the mercy of plain luck in these parts."

He furrowed his brow at him, confused by his words. Strength and skill didn't matter out in the wasteland? How could he believe such a thing? He tried to imagine the Monster of the East meeting his fate by a mere accident. He couldn't. "I don't believe in luck," he said. And luck probably didn't believe in him, either.

As he said this, however, he noticed something about the man he hadn't before. His skin... was he scarred? His eyes widening slightly, a thought occurred to him, one he wasn't sure what to think of. "Are you the Burned Man?" he asked somewhat childishly. He'd heard the legend of the Burned Man from other legionaries, but he was supposed to be dead, right? Well, that would explain his strange mentality. The Burned Man had been Caesar's right hand man once, only to be burned on a cross and thrown into the river. Was this truly who he was conversing with? He wasn't sure he wanted an answer to that.

"Hm..." Raising the cigarette to her lips again, she said in placation, "Or chance. However you'd prefer to call it." After exhaling another puff of smoke, it was then that Red decided to give the boy a strange look. She did give it thought, however, and eventually came to say, "Not the Burned Man, I don't think. There's plenty of us who look like a rotting avocado." The spun the cigarette between her fingers and thumb before realizing that he probably wouldn't know what that was. When's the last time she had seen an avocado, even?

Chance... chance was something he could believe in, he supposed. But what he refused to believe was that chance overrode one's skill. If one was strong enough to survive, then they survived, barring any unfortunate accidents. If one was weak, then they died, either from their own mistakes or because someone stronger put them out of their misery. At the man's insistence that he wasn't the Burned Man, he gave a sigh of relief. He wasn't sure he'd end up surviving an encounter like that.

Thinking on his words for a few more moments, wondering what the heck an avocado was for a part of it, he pondered what he'd said. There were plenty of them? He made it sound like there was an entire race of decaying... Oh. Oh. "You're a ghoul?" He'd never met a ghoul before, and he honestly didn't know what Caesar's opinion of the people were. Thus, he was unsure what to think of him.

"Right on the money, kid." Eyeing the boy with an investigating stare, she asked, "You sound surprised. I'm guessing there ain't too many of them around here?" She paused. "Are you from around here?"

At the ghoul's last question, Claudius visibly turned a shade paler. He wasn't a good liar. Lying to anyone in the Legion was unthinkable, and he'd never been in anyone else's company. Well, he'd never been in anyone else's company for any extended period of time, and those who he had spent a decent amount of time with weren't in any position to talk. So he didn't bother trying to lie, instead saying, "No, I'm not."

She didn't seem to notice the boy's discomfort, only casually responding with, "Me neither. Came pretty far from here, actually." She paused to take a smoke, surveying the surrounding mountains out of precaution. "Things change, y'know? You find a place that works for you, and after a while, it turns into something different. And when that 'something different' becomes something unwanted, you pack up and look for somewhere else that works for you." She lapsed into another brief silence. "Eh, enough about me. Where're you headed? Looks like you could use an escort."

He was grateful that the man didn't seem to notice his hesitance in answering that question, and was even more grateful when he wasn't asked where he was from. His inability to lie would've proved it difficult to evade that question. As the ghoul continued to speak, he listened carefully. While he was hardly a Frumentarius, he had learned long ago to pay careful attention to his surroundings, especially when others were speaking. In reply, he nodded his agreement, or at least in indication that he'd been paying attention. At her question, he replied simply, "West." At her insistence that he needed her company for traveling, he frowned. Shaking his head, he said, "I can manage myself." The very moment he uttered those words, however, he knew that there wasn't a significant degree of truth in those words, and it showed on his face.

She nodded. It was the general direction she had been and still planned to travel in, so it wouldn't be a compromise to follow him. That is, given that the boy would even let her, considering his immediate nonacceptance. He didn't seem trusting of his own words, however. It shouldn't be too hard to persuade him. "Well, if that's what you decide on, it might be awkward if we end up crossing paths again. I'll be heading west, too."

At his declaration that he was also heading west, the boy frowned slightly. It seemed he wouldn't be getting away from this man. He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. The company - or the meat shield - could potentially be useful in this dangerous land. But he still wasn't sure about this person's intentions. Raising a brow at the man, he asked, "Are you working for someone? You look like an NCR ranger."

"No," she said with a shake of her head. "I'm a drifter. I do my own thing. Sometimes I'll take up some job offers here and there for the caps, but I don't associate myself too much with the big wigs. Don't like choosing sides." She rose from her slouched position and leaned her back against the wall. "I like people more than ideas."

"I see," said the boy, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. He still wasn't sure he trusted this stranger, but knowing that he wasn't an NCR ranger definitely painted him in a better light. Standing up from his seated position on the mattress, his crippled leg shaking slightly with the effort, he asked, "Where are you headed, then?"

"Nowhere in particular," she admitted, twirling the stub that was left of her cig before flicking it away into the sand. "A few years back I decided to move from coast to coast. No date in mind. Just thought I'd help more people if I got out more." Turning to look at the boy, Red pulled her bandana over her mouth as she said, "Which is why I don't mind watching your back 'til you get wherever you're headed. I get it if you're a loner. I'm the same way, honest. But trust me when I say the more pairs of eyes the better. The last thing you want is to get ambushed by one of those critters before it's too late."

His question as to where the man was headed made him question his own destination. He had no set place in mind he wanted to go, he was just trying to head west, away from Legion territory. The thought saddened him, but he knew of its necessity. The boy eventually came to say, a bit uneasily, "I... don't know where I'm headed." And it was true. "West" was the only thing he knew about his destination.

Nodding at the stranger's declaration that the more pairs of eyes would do them better, he murmured, "I hope we don't see anymore cazadors."

Red tilted her head at this. It seemed like they might have to stick together longer than she thought. At large, she didn't have a problem with it, but something at the back of her mind unsettled her all the same. She mentally shook it off, instead showing her approval of the boy's unspoken agreement with a nod of her own. "They shouldn't be too much of a problem as long as we can spot them before they spot us. When on the hunt, those things like to sneak up on their prey. I'd reckon it had the same idea when it saw you." She patted the plasma rifle that hung from her shoulders. "Nothing a couple of well-aimed shots can't handle."

Nodding at the man's explanation of cazador behavior, he said, "It was thoughtless of me to run into that one back there. It won't happen again." As if in demonstration, he took off his black goggles so that he could see better in the darkening environment. His Decanus had once told him he had the eyes of a hawk. If only he had earned the name Accipiter instead of Claudius... Regardless of what his name was, he knew his eyes would spot anything before it reached him. He would not be caught off guard again.

Picking up his small sack of belongings, he gestured towards the setting sun, saying, in a surprisingly docile manner, "Lead the way."

"Well, sometimes you learn these things the hard way. Nothing wrong with that," she said reassuringly. She watched idly as the boy interacted with his belongs, only raising a hand when he spoke. "Now hold on, kid. You just woke up from nasty neurotoxin." Or was it neurotoxin? Red wasn't sure; she was no scientist. "It's a good sign that you're feeling up to it, but we shouldn't be hasty. How're you feeling right now? Dizzy? Nauseous?"

"What other way is there to learn?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious. The look of curiosity on his face was quickly replaced by a frown, however, as the ghoul continued. "I'm not a boy, I'm eighteen," he said with what was almost a childish pout. "And I feel fine." That last bit wasn't entirely true. He did feel a bit dizzy, and his vision was still slightly blurred, but he'd endured traveling under worse conditions as a legionary. He'd be fine.

Red narrowed her eyes a bit, ready to make an argument against his stubbornness before deciding against it. "Ah, well. If you're of age, there's no reason to stop you from making your own decisions." She slowly rose to her full height, the bench creaking underneath her as it was freed of her weight. "We'll keep a steady pace, though. And stick close to me. I don't want you collapsing where I can't see you." Repositioning the strap that held her rifle, she began to move in the direction of the sun.

The boy nodded approvingly at the man's acceptance of the situation. "I won't be collapsing," he said. Thinking on something for a moment, he asked, "How far did you carry me?"

I should hope not. At the question, she vaguely replied, "A distance." She then changed the subject. "To answer your earlier question, sometimes you'll get the word of someone else. Other, more experienced folks can tell you things so you don't have to fumble through them yourself." She glanced behind her to make sure the boy was following. "Hmph, a bit of a luxury nowadays, if you ask me. Some people aren't so giving of information."

Frowning at the vague answer, the boy listened as he gave his answer to his earlier question. He supposed there was some sense behind his words, though most of what he's learned has been through first-hand experience. The Legion didn't coddle their trainees, that was for sure. When he was young, he had walked amongst the grown men and had been expected to perform similarly. Failure was not an option.

Following his rescuer, he asked him, "Do you know where we're headed?"

Red gave a muted chuckle. "No sir." A moment after saying this, she said with a shrug, "I have a broad sense of where some locales are. We're a few miles away from one of the hotspots." As the sun was now obscured by the distant mountains, the sky turning a pale mauve, she pointed a gloved hand a ways to the side. "See that glow? Big city. They call it New Vegas. I don't know much about how things work nowadays, but if it's anything like what it used to be, it's probably... interesting." She lowered her hand. "Whether or not that's a good thing is up to you."

At the not so promising reply, the boy raised both eyebrows at the man until he clarified. Following the ghoul's finger to where he was pointing, he saw the glow he was talking about. He had seen the glow before, even from across the Colorado River. He had never really known what it was, but apparently it was the city of New Vegas. Claudius knew little of New Vegas, other than the fact that Caesar's Frumentarii infiltrated the place. Other than that, he was completely ignorant of what the city held.

"What will you do once you're there?" he asked.

"I was planning to steer clear of it for a while. I've heard it's got a reputation; good and bad. But when I hear that something's got some good in it, I get a little curious, admittedly." She paused for about a minute, taking the time to search their surroundings as the sky darkened. "But we've got more important things. Are you in a hurry? I don't fancy myself as the prying type, but I need to know if we're being followed. Are you on the run from someone?"

The boy frowned slightly. He didn't know how a city festering with profligates could possibly have a good reputation at all. But he supposed this profligate he was traveling with wouldn't view the degenerates the same way he did. When the man asked his series of questions, Claudius nearly froze in his tracks. Forcing himself to keep walking alongside his new traveling companion, he considered his options. He could lie, but he knew just how transparent he was. Besides, he was potentially being followed, and while the thought did not sit well with him, he knew that the ghoul would need to know this.

"...Yes," he answered hesitantly.

"Mm..." she hummed worriedly, taking a few moments to consider the risks. "What are their intentions should they find you?" While she wasn't about to leave him at the mercy of the desert-- and his pursuers-- at the notion of potential danger, she wanted to know exactly what she was getting herself into. "And also if they find that I've been helping you on your excursion?"

"I... don't know exactly," he admitted. "They might kill me." Or crucify me. "They might try to capture me." Rubbing the back of his head rather nervously, he admitted, "I'm not even sure if I'm being followed or not, really. I just assume..." Shrugging, he said, "I don't know what they'd do if they knew you were helping me. They might kill you, too. Or they might let you go."

"Hm. Well, whatever might happen, I'll do what I can to keep you out of their reach. I'm assuming we should be wary of the east, since that's the opposite of our destination?" She rummaged in a small pouch hanging by her side, pulling out a bottle of water that she handed to the boy. "Drink. Flush that stuff out of your system."

Suddenly seeming angry, the boy demanded, "Why are you helping me? You barely even know me yet you pledge to protect me from…" He trailed off, losing steam. Looking away, he said, almost accusingly, "Because it's the right thing to do? How do you know I won't stab you in the back? Why are you willing to risk so much for my sake?"

At the bottle of water being offered to him, he hesitantly took it, realizing just how thirsty he was. Sipping at the liquid, he gave the ghoul a look that suggested he wanted an explanation.

Red turned to look at the boy in his sudden frustration, what was left of her eyebrows raising questioningly. It wasn't very often that she met a person so horribly confused at the notion of selflessness. What kind of toxic environment was this child raised in? Ah, well, she could try to explain herself. And if that didn't work, at least he was accepting of her help regardless. "When you've lived as long as me, in such a dangerous world, you spend a lot of it fending for yourself. Hoarding resources for yourself, protecting yourself from threats, finding a safe place to rest for yourself. You see the pattern here? It's all about yourself, what you want and need in that instant, or even in the long term. Well, eventually I grew tired of only looking after myself. After seeing so many people having no one to watch their back, and suffering dearly for it-- sometimes at the cost of their lives-- it starts eating away at you. You start to think back and wonder, 'Could this have gone differently if I stepped in? Would they still be alive? Would they be happy?' One day I just... changed my tune. Decided to use the knowledge and experience I've gained for a better cause. Does this make sense?"

It didn't. Not to Claudius. The notion of everything being about oneself was foreign to him. In the Legion, every individual lived to serve their State. People were tools for the State to use, either for military purposes or for means of production. But he supposed things would be different for the profligates, and he could see now why they were called profligates. Each cared only for themselves, it seemed like, with no greater force to serve. What a waste of resources.

He was also unfamiliar with the feeling of wondering how he might have changed someone else's life. All he'd ever thought of was serving his faction, nothing more, nothing less. The people he came into contact with were either fellow legionaries or victims of the Legion. The former he knew had a similar fate as he did. The latter he knew deserved their given fate. He'd never thought about how his actions influenced someone directly. Never.

He didn't really understand, but he nodded anyways, not wanting to seem like an ignorant child. Frowning, he asked, "Are you doing this because you pity me?"