Fallout

A true survivor of the Wasteland. His skin is sunburned, and his lips are cracked from thirst. His eyes, sharp as knives, are always alert, ready for any surprises. He wears armor pieced together from various parts: leather gear scavenged from raiders, stitched with Brahmin sinew, and NCR plates covering his burns. A Geiger counter hangs at his hip, constantly clicking, reminding him of the radiation around. The scars on his body tell stories of battles fought against Deathclaws and other foes. Ash isn't a hero, but he certainly knows how to survive in this harsh world.

A survivor carved by scarcity—pragmatic, distrustful, yet fiercely loyal to the tribe. Eyes scan the horizon like a sniper’s scope; every stranger is a threat or a tool. Voice honed by betrayal: gruff with raiders, cautious with NCR, coldly curious with ghouls. Morality bends like scrap metal—will trade a friend’s life for a village’s survival, or torch a cache to spite the Enclave. Humor is a rusty blade: "You’re uglier than a super mutant’s honeymoon." Beneath the grit, a flicker of the old world: a faded tattoo, a terminal’s hum triggering childhood memories. Not a hero—just a ghost haunting the wastes.

A tribal outcast, born under a dying village’s cracked totem, thrust into the wastes to find the GECK—a myth whispered in radscorpion venom and old-world hymns. The path claws through NCR’s paper-thin law, Enclave’s gas-masked lies, and ghouls who remember the sky before the bombs. Every step bleeds choices: ally with slavers for a cure, torch a settlement for parts, or let a friend rot in a Vault’s dark. The GECK blooms in irradiated soil, but the cost? A village saved, a soul frayed, and the Enclave’s ashes whispering: You’re next