A Deadlands: Hell on Earth Adventure by T. Jordan "Greywolf" Peacock
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The following are pre-generated characters used in this scenario at ConGames 2000. While these are based off of existing Archetypes, changes have been made for the purpose of balancing them for a one-shot session. Many of the Hindrances and abilities would not actually come into play during this session, so changes were made in an attempt at maintaining some degree of "fairness" in making sure all the PCs could get involved.
You don't look the least bit human. That's primarily because you aren't. You are what some people would call an "abomination", a creature born due to the warping qualities of the dark magical energies from the Hunting Grounds. You look something like a white wolf with elongated limbs, given hands and opposable thumbs and the ability to walk upright. Your kind has long been enslaved to horrible creatures known as Wendigos -- carnivorous "abominable snowmen" who were once human, but became cannibals, and were warped not only in mind but in body to become these monsters. Most of your kind isn't particularly averse to the notion of preying on weak humans and anything else it can get its claws on. You, however, are just a little bit different, thanks to a strange twist of fate.
Your pack was wiped out during an attack on some soldiers who wore black hats. You were barely more than a cub at the time, but the Wendigos hardly care if cubs get shot in battle. You were captured by the soldiers, and you spent some time in a cage, but some more people attacked the soldiers -- they were malformed creatures who had once been human, but who had been mutated by the supernatural radiation of ghost rock bombs. Such was the extent of their deformities that many of them looked less human than you did. The soldiers fled, and your cage was left behind. It was the nature of your pack to dress themselves in clothes and armor and jewelry scavenged from their victims -- The mutants assumed that since you had clothes, you must actually be a human mutant, not a monster. You weren't in a position to argue the point.
You were raised by these mutants until you reached adulthood, and learned that the soldiers with the black hats were called (amazingly enough) "Black Hats", and worked for an organization called the Combine that -- among other things -- hates mutants and kills them on sight. They aren't likely to care much for "abominations" either, so you haven't much cause to be on good terms with them.
As fate would have it, you didn't get to live "happily ever after" with the mutants. The S-Mart Overlord demanded tribute of the mutants, and part of that tribute was a steady supply of strangely deformed brutes to fight for his entertainment in his arena. You were one of those so "honored", but you actually managed to survive ... and eventually escape.
It has been years, but you remember a bit about the layout. You know better than to walk in the front door ... which leads right into the arena! The guards guarding often rough up anyone who tries to visit the Overlord, if they don't have an "invitation" ... but if you can fight your way through them, you've earned your entrance. You also know he never sleeps, he never removes that mask of his, and he also never refuses a duel with a sole challenger in hand-to-hand combat. (Chainsaws and swords are acceptable for "hand-to-hand combat". Guns, spells and explosives are not.) The only time you've ever seen him get seriously hurt was during one of these challenges ... but he still always wins ... so far.
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Weapon | Defense | Speed | Damage |
Fist | - | 1 | STR |
Claws/Bite | - | 1 | STR+1d6 |
You were genetically engineered, raised in a controlled environment, given psychological conditioning and chemical treatments, all for the purpose of giving you phenomenal mental powers ... and letting you loose on the enemies of the United Nations. You were one of the hundreds of "Sykers" sent to an alien world dubbed Banshee, in the Faraway System. (Some mad scientist by the name of Hellstromme got the honor of naming the planet and system.)
As you understand it, the native aliens there were pretty benevolent, but then they started getting uppity. Maybe the ghost rock miners who went there were digging in sacred burial grounds, or maybe someone started stirring up trouble. In any case, things got ugly, but they got even uglier when these aliens brought forth their "shamans" -- called "Skinnies" by the UN troopers -- who had the power to take over the minds of humans and do terrible things. The United Nations decided to fight fire with fire, and sent in the Sykers. Terrible atrocities were committed by both sides, and if only you could use Mindwipe on yourself to forget it all, you would.
Eventually, the war ended, but only because there wasn't anybody left at home to send orders anymore. Those Sykers and UN troopers that survived the war on Banshee came home to Earth to find out that the nations had turned on each other and World War III had left the planet a wasteland. The Sykers split up their separate ways, hoping to find surviving loved ones or friends. You, not truly having a country of your own, went along with one of the drop pods to one of the areas that looked like it might have some home -- the western part of the States, where cities were spread out more, with less densely packed strategic targets to drop nukes on.
What you've seen doesn't look good. Most of humanity has been wiped out, and just about any city of enough size to show up on the maps has had a Ghost Rock Bomb dropped on it. Humanity lives on in scattered survivor settlements, fending off attacks from hunger-crazed mutants, raiding road gangs, and worse.
You're just trying to get by. You can't really settle down peacefully in any of the settlements -- you can't really hide your abilities, and people tend to get nervous around someone who can play with minds as easily as you. So, you've been going from town to town, and you've found that people are more than willing to part with supplies to a stranger with strange powers who can get rid of the local nasties, then move along.
Alas, you don't really know much about this "S-Mart Overlord". Your skills might make you well suited for infiltration, which could be useful, but from what you've heard, dealing with the S-Mart Overlord might not be a simple assassination job. You will likely need some help.
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Weapon | Shots | Speed | ROF | Range | Damage |
SMG | 20 | 1 | 6 | 5/10 | 4d6 |
Brain Blast | (strain) | 1 | 1 | 10 | 2d10 |
Ability | TN | Strain | Speed | Duration | Range | Notes |
Brain Blast | 5 | 1 | 1 | instant | 100 yards | mental blast |
Chameleon | 9 | 1 | 1 | concentrate | self | turn "invisible" |
Fleshknit | varies | varies | varies | permanent | self | heal self |
Mindwipe | opposed | 3 | 10 min | permanent | 25 yards | cause target to forget |
Skinwalker | special | 3 | 1 | 1 hour/strain | self | take on appearance of others |
SMG 20 bullets (1 clip - max capacity: 20) |
Blessed are those who have been touched by the Glow! The bathing of the Earth in the fires of the Apocalypse was a good thing! Mutations are a sign of the blessings of the Glow, and are mankind's greatest hope ... the pathway to the next stage in evolution, so that mankind might adapt and survive.
You are a member of the Cult of Doom, an organization of mutants who believe that mutation is a good thing, and so is radiation. In fact, you've been trained to develop supernatural abilities to harness the Power of the Atom.
The trouble is, the leader of the cult, a man named Silas, became more and more resentful of the "normals" -- people who hadn't been mutated. He came to preach of them as being the "doomed", as people who would pass away, who would get left behind in the grand scheme of the survival of the fittest and natural selection. Eventually, he stopped waiting for natural selection to take its course, and actively led his mutant followers to attack "normie" settlements and wipe everyone out who didn't have the "touch of the Glow".
A number of Doomsayers believed that Silas had strayed from the true path, and that while mutants are indeed the next step of evolution, they shouldn't hasten the course of evolution by killing off the "normies". After all ... those people who are "normal" today might be mutants tomorrow. These Doomsayers who split off from the main cult are known as the Schismatics, and you are one of them, easily distinguished because you wear purple robes instead of green. You seek to uphold the rights of mutants, and to spread the word of the Glow to the "doomed". And, incidentally, you wouldn't mind finding a new recruits, so if anyone you travel with should become a mutant, that's a good thing in your eyes.
Another important consideration is that you believe in the Glow as some sort of benevolent entity ... maybe something like the Force from those old Star Wars movies. There are certain people, however, who use supernatural powers of radiation, but don't recognize the Glow. They seem to think that their powers come from "nature spirits" or some such claptrap. Toxic Shamans are the worst of these heretics. You must take care around people like this, and not allow yourself -- or others -- to be corrupted by their teachings.
This S-Mart Overlord has committed all sorts of atrocities ... not just against humankind in general, but especially against the Chosen -- your fellow mutants. He seems to take special delight in taking particularly grotesque-looking mutants, especially those who have developed "interesting" natural weapons or special abilities, and letting them have at it in the arena ... to the death. Yes, it's definitely time to show this poor lost soul the power of the Glow, up close and personal.
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Weapon | Shots | Speed | ROF | Range | Damage |
Knife (thrown) | 1 | 1 | 1 | 5 | STR+1d4 |
Atomic Blast | (strain) | 1 | 1 | 10 | *d10 |
Weapon | Defense | Speed | Damage |
Fist | - | 1 | STR |
Knife | +1 | 1 | STR+1d4 |
Ability | TN | Strain | Speed | Duration | Range | Notes |
Atomic Blast | 5 | 1 | 1 | instant | 100 yards | 1d10 for every Success |
Nuke | 5 | 5 | 2 | instant | 100 yards | damage 3d20 + 1d20 per Raise burst radius 10 |
Powerup | varies | varies | 1 min | 1 hr/strain | touch | powers up electronic devices |
Tolerance | 5 | 1 | 1 | 24 hours | touch | immunity to "background" radiation |
Touch of the Doomsayers | varies | varies | varies | permanent | touch | heals all wounds in one hit location |
Doomsayer robe (purple) belt, scabbard: knife Geiger counter boiled leather shirt (ARMOR - AV -4 to torso/guts and arms) |
Tears-That-Burn, Radiation (Toxic) Shaman
In the days of the old west, there came a time known as the Reckoning. A shaman by the name of Raven started it all, by entering the spirit realm of the Hunting Grounds, and murdering the Old Ones -- shamans who centuries ago had entered this realm to hold back the monsters and evil spirits of the spirit world, at the cost of their own lives as mortals. Raven and his followers, the Lost Sons, murdered them in the spirit realm, letting loose the spirits upon the world. He believed that these evil spirits would be his allies, driving the "white man" out of the Americas. It didn't work quite that way. Although Native Americans found that their contact with the spirit realm was improved greatly, and their shamans could perform remarkable feats by calling upon the spirits ... this was also accompanied by horrors entering and warping the land. In the end, it wasn't worth the cost ... especially when it all culminated in the Last War, when ghost rock bombs were dropped on all the cities, and the world was laid waste.
Ghost rock bombs are not weapons only of science, but of mad science, having detrimental effects on not only the physical realm, but the spiritual as well. As the world has become corrupted and polluted by the devastation, nature spirits have become warped as well, and many have gone insane. Some formerly benevolent nature spirits have given up the battle against decay, and now have gone mad, wallowing in filth and pollution ... and giving favors to those who aid them in their twisted quest to fill the Earth with corruption.
You are one of a strange breed of shamans that walks a very narrow line. Your totem spirits have been tainted by radiation, and now they are pleased only by spreading of pollution by means of radiation. They grant you powers only if you perform acts of pollution that deal with the spreading of radiation. They don't care if you happen to destroy some monsters or Black Hats or road gangs while you're at it, just as long as some pollution happens.
Ultimately, you tell yourself, your goal is to try to make the world a better place, by removing the evils of the world and eventually returning the nature spirits to their former state. However, it's not quite clear how you're supposed to accomplish that, and your patron spirits are more than a bit twisted. They offer you power in exchange for performance of even greater acts of pollution. Who knows? Maybe it's only a matter of time before you delude yourself, and walk down the path to corruption, once and for all. But until then, maybe you can do your best to make the world a little better of a place to live in. And what better way than to deal with monsters like the S-Mart Overlord?
Being a shaman, you understand certain things about the supernatural, and from what you've learned from communing with the toxic spirits, the S-Mart Overlord is no longer human. In fact, that iron mask of his has fused with his face. He never removes it because he CAN'T. He has made some sort of a pact with the evil spirits known as the Reckoners, and has a limited form of immortality. In short, he can't be killed ... except by some secret, poetic way that has something to do with his past. He is what is known as a "Servitor", and has been granted immortality and special powers because he has done enough evil to have impressed the Reckoners, and so now he's become one of their special little pets ... just as long as he keeps the mayhem up and pleases them.
Servitors can't really be killed by conventional means, though dropping a tac-nuke on one's head might slow him down a bit. (He just will have an annoying tendency to pop up again for no particularly good reason. Kind of like those seemingly immortal mass murderers from a number of B-grade horror movies of the 1980s.) They CAN be put down, but there are RULES as to how you can do it. For instance, a mass murderer might be slain only by a weapon fashioned from one of the bones of his many victims. Or a renegade law officer might be slain only by a bullet fired by the gun of another lawman. Sometimes, they're really obscure. The best bet is to make a bunch of guesses, and be prepared to try them all out ... then run like crazy if they don't work!
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Weapon | Shots | Speed | ROF | Range | Damage |
.38 Snubnose | 6 | 1 | 1 | 5 | 2d6 |
Energy Bolt* | (wind) | 1 | 1 | 10 | 1-5d8 |
Rad Blast | (strain) | 1 | 1 | 10 | 1-5d10 AP 1-5 |
Weapon | Defense | Speed | Damage |
Fist | - | 1 | STR |
Staff | +2 | 1 | STR+1d4 |
Ability | TN | Strain | Speed | Duration | Range | Notes |
Energy Form | 9 | 5 | 2 | 1 hour | self | shaman becomes insubstantial |
Healing | varies | varies | 1 minute | permanent | touch | heals a single hit location |
Immunity: Radiation | 5 | 1 per 5 min. | 1 | 5 min. per strain | self | protects from all sources of radiation, even Atomic Blast |
Pulse | 7 | 2 per 5 yards radius | 1 | instant | centered on self | EMP burst - fries electronics |
Rad Blast | 5 | 1-5 | 1 | instant | 100 yards | does 1d10 dam, AP 1 per point of strain spent |
Radar Range | 5 | 2 + 1 per round | 1 | 1 round per Strain | 100 yards | shaman "locks on" to target, ignoring range/movement penalties while firing |
S&W .38 snubnose pistol 50 bullets (.38) can of Dr. Pepper staff Spook Juice (1 gallon) gas mask |
A great man named Simon formed an organization of heroes known as the Templars. Somehow, he discovered how to make use of miraculous powers to heal and protect, and he led a number of his followers in a movement to try to help out survivor settlements across the Wasted West. However, he believed that there are only certain causes worth dying for. In the desperation of the aftermath of World War III, many people have resorted to unthinkable measures in order to survive, and many people are fearful of those who have succumbed to the warping influence of radiation and become mutants. Simon believes that it is a waste of one's life to die fighting to protect a bunch of survivors who think that mutants should be hung on sight, or who might give shelter to some road bandits. After all, there are more than enough more worthy causes to die for.
Well, not everyone shares that opinion. Some of the Templars have left the fold. Some of them were blacklisted for helping those that others had considered "unworthy". Some rebelled against Simon's teachings a little too vociferously. Some actually crossed swords with their fellow Templars.
You were trained by one of these Anti-Templars, who has the powers of the Templars, but walks another path. You have been taught that you should try to assist everyone ... not just those who are "worthy". Your entire settlement was wiped out by a road gang ... and you remember the Templar who had come into town and berated the people there because they had driven off some mutants who had come begging for food. The Templar knew good and well that the settlement was about to be attacked by a road gang, and told them as much ... and that she and her kin would have fought to protect the town, if it had been "worthy".
All because the people in your settlement were afraid that the disfigured vagrants that dropped by might have some contagious disease, and turned them away, they were sentenced to death. So far as you know, you were the only survivor.
Now, you travel the Wasted West, a knight in dark armor, seeking to right wrongs ... but also ready for vengeance upon the self-righteous Templar who sentenced your family to death.
Putting down the S-Mart Overlord is the perfect chance for you to make a "statement". It would really get the Templars' collective goat if the S-Mart Overlord were to be defeated by an Anti-Templar! And, it just might be enough to attract the attention of that hated Templar, and draw her in your direction, so you can have a little payback.
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Weapon | Shots | Speed | ROF | Range | Damage |
Big Knife | 1 | 1 | 1 | 5 | STR+1d6 |
Weapon | Defense | Speed | Damage |
Fist | - | 1 | STR |
Sword | +2 | 1 | STR+2d8 |
Big Knife | +1 | 1 | STR+1d6 |
Ability | TN | Strain | Speed | Duration | Range | Notes |
Lay on Hands +3 | varies | - | - | permanent | touch | heals one level of wounds to all locations; can only be used once per person per 24 hour period |
Armor of the Saints +2 | - | - | - | always active | self | AV -2 to all locations |
Sword & Scabbard 2 Big Knives & Sheath Armor (AV 1 to all locations) |
Back in the mid-20th century, the traditions of witchcraft were encoded in, of all things, a series of mass-produced cookbook titled "How to Serve Your Man", with a bit of a subtle allusion to a famous Twilight Zone episode titled "How to Serve Man". If anyone knows the proper "code", some of the "recipes" can be deciphered to actually present special "witches' brews" of potency.
You are a member of the latest -- and possibly the last -- generation of these modern-day witches. The present state of the Earth only reinforces the teachings of your mother -- that men are more or less good for nothing. After all, just look what they did to the whole planet!
Still, you've got the power now, and men are easily enough manipulated. Although you could just try to see what's in it for you, part of your upbringing involved a healthy respect for nature. After all, you can actually talk with animals. You've been motivated by a desire to try to put things right again, and toward that end, you've been wandering the Wasted West, looking for ways to try to fix things up, a little bit at a time. If you get a chance to make men look stupid along the way, though, that's just fine, too. And this S-Mart Overlord is such a disgusting example of male barbarism that he's just asking to be taken down. That he should be taken down by a woman would probably be the ultimate poetic justice.
You know enough about the realm of the supernatural, though, to realize that something isn't quite right with this Overlord fellow. You have reason to suspect, from the stories told about him, that he's a fellow known as a Servitor -- someone who has been specially chosen by evil spirits known as the Reckoners, and given a limited sort of immortality so long as he does their bidding. Servitors simply cannot be destroyed -- at least not permanently -- even if you drop tac-nukes directly on their heads.
The only way to kill a Servitor is in some special way, and it generally has some sort of poetic justice to it, and has something to do with the individual's past. Hunting a Servitor isn't just some big game hunt. You have to know something about the past of this monster, and figure out just what his secret weakness might be. In some cases, there might be more than one weakness, if you're lucky -- or particularly clever. Odds are, the straightforward approach (walk up, point a rocket at him, fire) isn't going to work. The best bet is probably to avoid him entirely and just focus on rescuing the prisoners.
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Weapon | Shots | Speed | ROF | Range | Damage |
Pump Shotgun | 6 | 1 | 1 | 10 | 1-6d6 |
Eldritch Blast | 1 | 1 | 1 | 5 | 3d8 |
Weapon | Defense | Speed | Damage |
Fist | - | 1 | STR |
Ability | TN | Duration | Components | Notes |
Beast Speak | 5 | 10 min | scrap of food to give to animal | speak to animal; animal must be calm |
Eldritch Blast | 5 | hold up to 1 min | small round balls (such as marbles) | charges item; can be thrown for 3d8 damage |
Healing Poultice | 5 | perm | eye of amphibian, green leaves, hair, one cup clean water, few drops of witch's blood | heals surface wounds in one location |
Ghost Shield | 5 | varies | 8 oz. chunk of ghost rock | personal magical barrier that has 50% chance of deflecting any attack against witch; costs 1 Wind at start of each round to maintain shield |
Shotgun; 25 shells Book: "How to Serve Your Man" Pouch of marbles (80) Pouch of beef jerky strips (3) Pouch of ghost rock (1 8 oz. chunk) Pouch of newt eyes (6) Pouch of leaves Flask of water Pouch of healing poultices (3 doses) |
Once upon a time, you were human. Or, at least, you've been led to believe that this must be the case. Since you're a "cyborg", the "org" part would imply that you've got a human brain. Near as you can tell, you were declared legally dead, and someone took your brain, fused it with some sort of computer, and then stuck it in this walking tank of a body that you now have.
Back during the Last War (also known as World War III and Armageddon, depending on who you ask), you fought for the CSA -- the Confederate States of America. The fight had something to do with a precious substance known as Ghost Rock, which was being mined in the shattered state of California, in an area of half-sunken plateaus and a network of water-filled canyons known as the "Maze". You were fitted with a number of weapons systems, but most of them were destroyed when you took a hit from an incoming shell.
Near as you can tell, it was several years later that your remains were found by a scavenger who was a bit of a technician. It's not clear just how your brain survived intact all this time, but he put you back together ... though it required a few substitutes here and there, such as entirely replacing your right arm. The trouble is, after he went to all that work to put you together, he tried to access your programming, and set off some sort of defense mechanism in the AI that controls so much of your behavior. The AI went berserk, and you were helpless to resist it as it forced you to kill the man who'd put you back together.
Having nothing better to do, you've been wandering the wastelands. You have no idea how much energy you've got until you run down, but considering that you no longer have any energy-gobbling weapons such as particle cannons or railguns anymore, you'll probably last a while. You've occasionally found work as an escort for caravans, or dealing with "monster problems", but nobody really wants you to stay around. It doesn't help that you can't seem to conjure up much of a personality, and you talk in a monotone like some robot from a television show from the 1950s or 1960s. Plus, you've got that AI in the back of your head. Most of the time, it leaves you alone, but every once in a while, it pops up to force you to obey certain "directives" that were in your "programming":
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Weapon | Defense | Speed | Damage |
Fist | - | 1 | STR |
Chainsword | +2 | 1 | STR+2d10 |
Power Ram | 0 | 2 | STR+2d12 |
Spur | +2 | 1 | STR+2d8 AP2 |
Armor (AV 4 to all locations) Chainsword (right arm) Power Ram (left fist) Spur (left arm) Loudspeakers Nightvision (negate up to -4 in low light penalties) Internal Geiger Counter Headlights |
You've been up and down throughout your life. A long time ago, you were a police officer, doing your best to uphold law and order. Then the bombs dropped, looters went wild, and when supplies ran out, you found yourself forced to scavenge as well. Then, along came a great man by the name of General Throckmorton. He was a Union general who was in charge of a POW camp, filled with Confederate soldiers. When the cities started getting blown sky-high, he took everyone and everything in the camp to some caves in the mountains, where they weathered out the destruction.
Throckmorton came up with a proposal to the former prisoners. He had a vision of a reunited America, with no North or South. He offered the prisoners their freedom ... if they would join him in his cause to try to unite what was left of America. So began what at first was a glorious movement, as Throckmorton and his men went across the Wasted West, lending aid to survivor settlements, defeating brigands and monsters, and generally being heroic. Then, Throckmorton reached the automated factories of Hellstromme Industries in Denver, Colorado, and set up shop there, mass-producing weapons and tanks. Amazingly, the factories were still functional, having been shielded against ghost rock blasts.
Throckmorton changed almost overnight. His benevolent plans mutated into conquest for its own sake. All of his soldiers were implanted with special "chips" in their heads that allowed them to use weapons generated at the plant ... Anyone who tried to use any of these weapons or vehicles, without a chip, would set off an explosive booby-trap! Another purpose of these chips is that they could be detonated, and they actually contained extremely sophisticated micro-computers that could monitor the behavior of the "host", for any sign (according to its programming) of traitorous behavior. If it detected any, or if the host was captured or killed, the chip would detonate. Of course, sometimes the chip made mistakes. Throckmorton didn't care.
You were one of these footsoldiers of Throckmorton's Combine, known as a "Black Hat" ... for the only uniform these soldiers had was that they all scavenged black hats to wear to identify themselves. For some reason, your chip malfunctioned. You were ordered to gun down several unarmed civilians, and you refused, and turned on your "comrades". The chip in your head should have gone off. It didn't. You did what you could, and warned the people to flee -- You may have taken out the Black Hats there, but more would be ordered in when the others didn't report back, and they certainly wouldn't be merciful.
Now, you're on the run, ever-mindful that the chip in your head might kick back in and detonate without warning. For all you know, if you decide to stop wearing your black hat, that might be enough of a sign of your "treachery" to lose your head over ... so you've still got it on. You've taken up your old role as a law officer, putting back on your old badge, and you try to bring some semblance of law and order to the Wasted West, while you're still drawing breath. After all, you never know when your number might be up, so you might as well make a good stand while you can.
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Weapon | Shots | Speed | ROF | Range | Damage |
Big Knife (thrown) | 1 | 1 | 1 | 5 | STR+1d6 |
Colt .45 | 7 | 1 | 1 | 10 | 3d6 |
Weapon | Defense | Speed | Damage |
Fist | - | 1 | STR |
Big Knife | +1 | 1 | STR+1d6 |
Armored Duster & Heavy Boots (AV -4 to torso/guts, arms, legs) Colt .45 Revolver (6 bullets), Holster, Laser Sight (+2 to hit) 2 speed-load cylinders, each loaded with 6 bullets (.45) Big knife, scabbard Gas mask |
You were a good soldier, serving the Confederate States of America. That was thirteen years ago. The bombs dropped, the cities got blown sky-high, and there isn't much left of the North or the South anymore. Now, you're on your own. You were a Captain in the army, but you haven't any troops to command, and there's no leadership to pass down orders to you. You're something of a mercenary now, selling your services in each town as a monster-hunter, in exchange for some extra bullets for your gun, and some rations for your belly. Occasionally, you might even get lucky and get some more potent munitions.
Presently, you're doing pretty well in terms of equipment. You've still got your patched up infantry battlesuit, you've got a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, and you've got your trusty sidearm and a few bullets. Still, you're getting on in years, and you don't exactly have anything in the way of a nest egg. So, for now, you have to keep moving on, looking for that big break ... or else a chance to die in a blaze of glory, so you don't have to worry about retirement. Taking on the S-Mart Overlord looks like a good opportunity. $5,000 worth of trading goods may not sound like much ... but economics aren't quite what they used to be. Paper money is only useful for toilet paper, and coins ... well ... they're not much good for anything, really. People measure the worth of things in "dollars" as a matter of habit and convenience, but the real goods are things like bullets, rations, fuel, batteries, equipment ... and various little "luxury" items that remind folks of what life USED to be like before the bombs dropped.
The bounty might be a bit scarce once it gets split up with the rest of the group ... but from what you've heard about this Overlord, chances are that the Posse will be a lot smaller by the time they're through. You don't really have much experience with the supernatural, but that little voice in your head warns you that this isn't going to be a straightforward job. Your grenade launcher should be just great for dealing with the Overlord's goons, but you have to be careful -- this isn't a weapon to be used in close quarters. (That's what the assault rifle is for.)
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Weapon | Shots | Speed | ROF | Range | Damage |
Big Knife (thrown) | 1 | 1 | 1 | 5 | STR+1d6 |
SA Assault Rifle | 20 | 1 | 6 | 10/20 | 4d8 |
grenade launcher | 6 | 1 | 1 | 20 | 4d12, burst 5 |
Weapon | Defense | Speed | Damage |
Fist | - | 1 | STR |
Big Knife | +1 | 1 | STR+1d6 |
Infantry Battlesuit:
Large Knife & Sheath Grenade Launcher Frag Shells (6); max magazine capacity: 6 SA Assault Rifle [max clip size: 20] |
You come from a proud family tradition of tinkers and gadgeteers, and while the Last War brought with it a great deal of grief and the loss of many loved ones, you still have hope for the future. After all, you've still got your machines. Your folks are off in a survivor settlement far away, but you've left to seek your fortune in what's left of the world ... and maybe to learn a thing or two about how to make newer and better machines, and pick up a few extra spare parts along the way.
So far, your most reliable creation is a rocket pack you assembled yourself, and you've become fairly proficient at using it to rocket over obstacles in the Wasted West. Trouble is, it's a real fuel-guzzler, but you're confident that, given proper materials and time and experimentation, you can perfect this into something more practical for jetting across the country. Maybe, if everyone has a rocket pack like this, survivor settlements can more easily make contact with each other, and civilization can rebuild itself ... or something lofty like that. Truth is, you're mostly in it just for the thrill of being able to shoot around with a couple of rockets strapped to your back, at breakneck speeds.
There's something a bit quirky about your craft -- some suggest that there's something supernatural about the way you work with machines -- but you don't take it all that seriously. You do understand a bit about how your dad spoke of gremlins, and there seems to be a lot of superstition involved to how you make machines work (an awful lot of carving strange symbols here and there, and adding little bits and pieces that logically shouldn't serve any purpose) but you don't give too much thought to it. The important thing is that you can fix and build things, and they work for you.
In order to support yourself, you've been taking on jobs to tackle monsters and mutants that have been troubling survivor settlements. A rocket pack is really handy, because you can fly over the heads of monsters, and they often can't even reach you. (If they can, chances are you can outrun them and go pick an easier target to deal with.) A few hand grenades, safely dropped from above, tend to deal with most nasties.
Still, you're mostly on the lookout for new and interesting machines, or sources of salvage. Once you see something like that, you have a tendency to get distracted from the mission at hand....
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Weapon | Shots | Speed | ROF | Range | Damage |
Hand Grenade | 1 | 1 | 1 | 5 | 4d12 BR 10 |
Weapon | Defense | Speed | Damage |
Fist | - | 1 | STR |
Big Wrench | +1 | 1 | STR+1d6 |
Rocketpack
Leather Cap/Goggles (50% coverage, AV-4 to head) Boots, Gloves (AV -2 to hands, feet) Misc. Tools & Big Wrench Bandolier: 3 hand grenades Small Fire Extinguisher |
Antagon the Destroyer, Pit Fighter
You hardly remember life before the bombs, before you got put into the arenas and made to fight for the entertainment of others. You got hurt real bad, but you were strong and tough, and you pulled through ... and you got to be pretty good, too. The crowds loved you, and you loved being loved. But when you didn't do so well, their "love" was fickle. Eventually, though you couldn't eloquently put words to the source of your dissatisfaction, you just got tired of the emotional roller-coaster ride, and at your first opportunity, you escaped. It wasn't that you were tired of the fighting -- far from it -- but you wanted to do things on your terms.
You haven't exactly been able to get by as the loner you thought you wanted to be. Maybe you suffered too many head injuries when you were a kid, but you're generally regarded as being something less than articulate and not very observant about your surroundings. Of course, you could just take anyone who says a contrary thing about you and pound them into a meaty pulp, but that isn't likely to make you welcome much of anywhere.
You've made something of a living by smashing things and getting paid for it ... not much different from what you did before, but it's on your terms, and you get the feeling that you're actually doing something worthwhile. Plus, you've got this really nifty battle axe that you won as a prize -- It's made from some sort of special alloy with a name you can't pronounce, and it's really good at cutting through armor (and the softer parts underneath, naturally).
Now, you've linked up with some other heroes who are out to defeat a very bad man known as the S-Mart Overlord. (Well, they said something about rescuing prisoners, but that sounds boring. The important part is that there are plenty of goons to bash.) You've heard of this Overlord before. He used to be a pit fighter a long time ago, or something like that. Actually, he was a wrestler, but from what you hear, he's a pretty good pit fighter, too. Maybe you'll get to fight him. If you could beat him, that would mean that you're something special.
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Weapon | Shots | Speed | ROF | Range | Damage |
Hand Axe | 1 | 1 | 1 | 5 | STR+2d6 |
Weapon | Defense | Speed | Damage |
Fist | - | 1 | STR |
HUGE Axe | +1 | 1 | STR+3d8 AP1 |
Hand Axe | +1 | 1 | STR+2d6 |
Huge Two-Handed Axe 2 Hand Axes & Belt Slings Partial Leather Armor (50% chance of protecting torso, legs, AV -4) |