[Other] After the Fall

[Humble Athena]

EDIT : This game is on hiatus, but may be run some time in the future.

Game Name After the Fall

DMs Humble Athena and [Waiting for a Co-DM]

Game System GURPS 4e No previous knowledge required. Gurps Lite (free) is adequate for playing.

Theme Post-Apocalypse Survival

Flavour Gritty, with a touch of Fantasy / Supernatural

Other Posting Rate: A couple times a week Applications Deadline: None yet

Plot Summary PCs start as members of a salvaging/scavenging expedition seeking resources from the wastelands. Later the game unfolds into more of a sandbox-play style, where the PCs may partake in either side of caste conflicts, explore the mysteries of the newly re-awakened magical world, or try to eradicate the dreaded soulstorms that threaten all life.

*Note* Please only post applications in this thread. Interest/questions should be posted in the appropriate thread HERE

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Setting The snow can't touch us here, beneath the great silicone sky. The world out there is cold and cruel, but inside, we're warm and dry. Listen to the rain, my friend, listen to the storm; While others run for shelter, in here, we're safe from harm. Humankind continued down the darkest path despite the numerous warnings given. In the months leading up to World War III, scientists, architects, and engineers worked together to build massive domes in strategic locations to save as much of the population as possible. Although the domes were not entirely complete when the first nuke launched, they were enough to preserve the human race and the bureaucratic way, though the loss of life was staggering. Also, there was very little time or room to hoard non-immediate necessities, so almost all works of knowledge or art had to be abandoned to the ashes. In a final sweep of irony, many of the scientists who were responsible for the creation of the life-preserving domes were killed, either by being caught in unsafe areas troubleshooting last-minute alterations, or in the riots immediately after, when the survivors watched the world explode, taking many less-fortunate loved ones with them, and, overwrought with grief, rioted against the 'destruction-dealers' who had brought this to pass. Riots were quelled, order was restored, life adapted. Some technology survived, most was lost. The domes of the former United States evolved into a trifecta power ring- the Church of Christo-scitology (sort of a bastard child of Catholicism and Scientology), the Guild of Medicine, and above both, the Governor's Court. With so little left in the way of freedom or opportunities, social status became more rigid, very much akin to a caste system, with the lowest rank being the menial laborers and beggars of the underworks. Meanwhile, outside the domes, strange things began to occur. With the devastation caused by the brief but indiscriminate war, the world passed through a sphere of death, and that which would be termed 'supernatural'. Phenomena such as ghosts and ESP are undeniable, and even the most rational mind lends some credence to rumors of more bizarre things. Those who caught glimpses of the outside world in the early days reported sights of strange swirling soul-storms, things that resembled sandstorms or tornadoes, but were formed of thousands of anguished, twisting entities. And then, the world began to pass back into the sphere of life. Ancient forces, long dormant under humanity's domination of the planet, began to awaken once again. The soul-storms abated and radiation peeled back from the earth faster than it should have. Criminals banished from the domes found they could survive, if they were smart and lucky. Survivors inside the domes began heading out on scavenging missions. People began to leave the overcrowded domes more frequently for a variety of reasons, some willing and some unwilling, and form settlements around their former homes where life, though a constant struggle for survival, was in many ways freer than inside. Mutations among the children of these 'outsiders' are fairly common, though Siamese twins or a person with extra fingers is far more likely to be the result than say, the ability to heal damage near-instantaneously. Mutations have also accrued within the domes, but as a drastically lesser rate. Once a person leaves the dome, except for scavengers and military, they are not allowed back within. Even those who merely take leave for professional duties are severely quarantined and tested before being allowed back inside, as are any goods retrieved. People venturing outside the dome learned a number of things. First of all, the scars of the dead time were not gone. The soul-storms still existed, but they no longer moved hither and fro, but had stabilized in place; the radiation that had left most of the land had been sucked in the immediate vicinity of the storms, creating concentrated dead spots absolutely devoid of life. Even for miles around a dead spot, supernatural phenomena are known to be increased and bodies of the dead left in these regions are often reanimated as mindless, corporeal undead. (There are rumors that occasionally, usually closer to the nucleus of the dead spot, a body will reanimate as a more cunning version, but there is no scientific proof to verify these stories.) Meanwhile, the parts of the land embracing life developed phenomena of their own. Bursts of what can only be described as magic randomly occur on rare occasion. A very few humans from the peripheral villages have been born with the ability, though these powers are largely uncontrollable, and tend to age the human prematurely with excessive use. Scavengers deep into the wilderness have reported encounters with strange beings resembling the fey of old, who wield greater powers with better control. Such creatures tend to be unfriendly or openly hostile with humans they encounter. Some families who have kept older, nature-worshiping ways alive have found a new bond with the earth, and in perhaps the most orderly manifestation of the wild, new-found magic, have developed the ability to shift into animal forms. These people retain full intelligence and self-awareness, except for those who violate certain codes of conduct, who are punished by nature itself with a form of lunacy quite akin to what was once known as lycanthropy. This is the Earth as it has become, and as the survivors of the war must learn to live in it. The light of hope shines brightly, but it is a distant and intangible thing in a world where survival often means taking desperate measures.

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Name:
Age:
Gender:
Origin*:

 

* All PCs are human, although there are a number of different castes the can come from.

Domer: Middle-class citizens, Domers are the descendants of those lucky enough to get into the safety domes before the nuclear blasts ravaged the earth. These people have the best access to reliable technology.

Underling: The Underworks of the domes are inhabited by those unfortunate enough to be neither rich nor influential, with no exceptional skills to escape the life of drudgery that is their lot.

Outskirter: Descendants of those who didn't make it into the domes, but managed to survive anyway, Outskirters are tough and fierce survivors. Outsider villages may also include those who have been expelled from the domes for whatever reason.

Tribal: Very rare, some Outskirters have abandoned technology for nature, and in return have been granted a single magical gift or 'spell'. Being a Tribal PC requires a very good background, however, and no more than one will be accepted.

Type and Subtype**:

 

** PCs may have the following unusual characteristics.

Mutant: PCs may have various mutations, but these must be plausibly realistic. {Six fingers on one hand? Possible. Immortality or the ability to control weather? Not Possible.} Humans anywhere may develop mutations {more likely in the Outskirts than inside the domes}, but Domers with obvious physical mutations are almost always cast out of the domes, or if allowed to remain in the dome, forced into the Underworks.
Ex: Mutant - Extra limb

Psychic: Humans with psychic abilities are largely mistrusted, but unless it can be proven that the phenomena are linked to them, no official action can be taken against them. Psychic abilities are considered a subset of Supernatural phenomena.
Ex: Psychic - Empath

Magical: (Special) Humans with magic are almost non-existent, and when they are able to harness it, it is either extremely limited, or extremely dangerous to them as well as everyone around them. However, all humans start with innate magic resistance that will need to be bought off to use magic. This cannot be done from the start, but may become possible through gameplay. {The Tribal humans are a limited and very specialized exception to this rule}
Ex: Magical - Beastshifter

Occupation or Role in Society:
Personality:
Personal Backstory:
Personal Goals/Motivations:
Physical Description:
Other: Anything else you feel will help define the character, that doesn't fit into the above categories.

IC Writing Sample: Please include one, but no need for a novel. Links to previous posts in other games are also acceptable.

P.S. I greatly appreciate people who use spoilerbuttons to organize large sections of text.

 

Creation Points: 100
Disadvantage Points Allowed: -50
(This is the extreme limit, but by no means is it necessary for PCs to take a full -50 points of disadvantages. In fact, it may be prudent not to. Also, disadvantages will be enforced.)

[Mal Radagast]

Malcolm Bradbury
Origin - Nomadic
Occupation - author/historian
Personality - Tone and mannerisms grave, yet polite. He comes off as rather quiet and intense to a perceptive person...dull and vague to others. He watches people, though he is more interested in their stories than themselves. He makes judgments about people - often accurate - which would likely offend them. He has learned to lay these judgments aside when actually interacting with others, and can be quite charming when he does...however, this effect is easily ruined by raising the issues which he avoids. Ask him questions, introduce controversies...and Malcolm will likely alienate himself from any group in short order. His best interactions are objective - ask him about his work, about myth and history, and he will tell you an enchanting story which may or may not be true (as he would say) but is almost certainly accurate.

 

Of medium height and middling build, light skin and dark hair, there is nothing to distinguish me from any other man, except for my twisted leg. It is not so bad that I cannot walk - or even run, if occasion demands it - but it hurts like dickensian hell. It gets worse when I...well, there is nothing much to distinguish me from other men, on the outside. The leg is not the result of an accident, you see; it is a mutation. One which grows worse as I extend my...perception, as it were...
Where shall I begin? My father was a Medical man...my mother a Governor. Both high-class, well-to-do...both chose to live in the Settlements. For my father, it was the work - the domes present a stagnant system, and he wanted to learn. The Settlements gave him that opportunity, with a myriad of illnesses, and also of discoveries. He treated the illnesses where he could, and recorded the discoveries to be kept in his own library. It's actually the library which brought my mother to him - quite literally. She stumbled in, hair tangled, clothing torn, as though dragged across the continent. The library had grown, you see, as these things have a way of growing, and eventually developed something of a reputation. Others began to bring their findings to my father, who tried to accommodate them. My mother...saw it. From another city entirely, another dome - she said it had called her. Do not misunderstand, I have no notion of its being a sentient structure; as near as I can determine, it is more in the vein of a magnetic field. Psychomagnetic, perhaps is the word.
My mother was not like my father; she had no desire to leave her dome. True, she had her disagreements with some few of the other Governors; she also had more than one argument with her own constituents. This is only the way of politics. Would she have left eventually? Very possibly - but she had not left yet, and it irked her that she was forced out by such an influence. From that point, she had always had a mixed relationship with father's library. Indeed, she had a mixed relationship with my father. With no other viable occupation available to her in the settlements (and a limited range of excursion before she would inevitably be drawn back to the books), she took a position as his librarian. He still worked as a medical man, after all, guild or no guild. He was better with people than with books, and she was better with books than with people...I'm afraid I take after my mother, in that way. What my father left me was wanderlust, and a desire to know, to learn. I was born with my handicap and raised in a library; you can imagine well enough how that went. Truth to tell, the leg wasn't so noticeable at the time, only - well, I learned...

 

I was ten, when it first occurred. I liked to sit in odd corners of the library, to pile pillows and rugs around me, to take up a book or three and fall through the pages. Have you often considered the energy which we invest in books? The intensity of thought and sensation...consider the life of a novel. One book. The words hold a charge before even they are read; they come off the author's mind crackling, crisping the page. Then a first reading - enjoyment, emotion, satisfaction or perhaps disappointment? You read it again - slow, luxurious appreciation. You mark your favourite passages. A third time? There must be some great value, some intense association, quest, or discovery for you to read it this time. Is it love? Many years have perhaps elapsed since the last reading - now this one is layered with memories as well...
Who else has read this copy of this one book? Has it been passed among friends? Sifted through a fleamarket's inventory? How many new discoveries, how many fond memories?
I opened a book that day, and the entire stored charge of it surged up through my hands, up my arms like a current, shot through my brain like a drug. I could smell the story sizzling; I could breathe in the air of a thousand worlds. I was a young boy embarking on a fresh read; I was an old woman revisiting a fond memory, I was my father scribbling spidery notes in the margins. Hours later, when my parents found me, I hadn't moved a muscle...yet I knew the book.
It has never once come upon me so strongly since that first encounter, and I count myself lucky for that. My leg, you see...I couldn't stand, couldn't walk for days after I opened that book, the pain was unendurable. Finally, it abated. I ought to tell how I was afraid to open another book for fear of recurrence, but books were all I knew. If anything, the memories imparted by that one book reinforced my own natural love of them. I did brace myself, that next time...but nothing happened.
There was a long time spent in testing this new perception, and after some decades it is nearly under some semblance of control. As I say, it comes nowhere near to the original occurrence - fleeting images, mostly, and content if I try for it. Sometimes I see the rooms a book lived in, or people reading it... I suppose this perception is not limited to books, yet books receive the most attention from their owners, do they not? In what else is there such energy invested? A favorite article of clothing, sometimes, or jewelry...sometimes a setting, a place. I sit beneath a tree, only to discover it was a favored spot of some young couple...or the site of a hanging in the riot days.
Well, what would you do? I wander, I learn...I seek out the ashes of once-great libraries and other such places. There are ancient temples out there, dedicated to the muses - gods of knowledge and creation - sites where even the ruins are invested with memory. These places call to me...I go to them, and when I return to whichever Settlement, I tell their stories. I research and write the myths and fables of the ages; I write the legends and the facts; I write the wars and the passions and the amusements of eons. As near as I can. The more we know, the faster we will recover, and good stories are always worth something.

[reivision]

Basic Information Name: Ilyan Tal'Kav Age: 19 Gender: Male Origin: Tribal Type / Subtype: Magical / Beastshifter Occupation: Hunter

Details Under construction.

IC Writing Sample Will be incorporated in backstory, or any game posts linked on my RPXP.

[ogamodyna]

in the theme of certain posts in the original folder....Fence-post.

[Amy]

I would be all over this - despite my lack of time and recent track record of falling out of games - but I have tried GURPS and can't get my brain around it.

Love apocalypse games, but can't do it.

.

[copatt]

Name: Morrisa Oakes
Age: 22
Gender: Female
Origin: Underling (former Domer, see Personal Backstory below)
Type and Subtype: None (normal human)
Occupation or Role in Society: Menial laborer with a mix of combat, medical, and technical skills; a jill-of-all-trades.

 

The daughter of Gregory and Tracey Oakes, Morrisa grew up in the Guild of Medicine. From an early age, both parents involved Morrisa in their work. Gregory, an orthopedic surgeon, taught her to set bones and put her to work applying casts. Tracey, a general and plastic-reconstructive surgeon, taught her anatomy and critical thinking. It was expected by everyone-- parents, friends, even Morrisa herself-- that she would also progress through the ranks of the Guild of Medicine and serve her dome as some sort of surgeon.

The first year of Morrisa's formal medical training was gruelling, and not fun in the way that her parents had made it seem. On many occasions, Morrisa considered transferring to a less rigorous (and less prestigious) educational tract within the guild, but her parents and professors advised her against this. Toward the middle of her second year of training, Morrisa turned to drugs for stimulation and comfort. By the beginning of her third year of training, Morrisa was actively involved in patient care; she was also using drugs with greater frequency.

One night, while Morrisa was on duty, a group of soldiers were ambushed by rebellious Underlings. While the Underlings were easily dealt with, several of the soldiers were injured. A trauma alert was called, but Morrisa did not respond. The rest of the medical team did what they could, but one of the soldiers died anyway. Once the surviving soldiers were stabilized, Morrisa's professor, Dr. Sally Cooke (a trauma surgeon, and friend of Morrisa's family), went looking for her derelict student. Dr. Cooke found Morrisa in her call room in the process of injecting herself with stolen, narcotic pain medication.

Morrisa was immediately removed from her educational tract. Further, she was charged with theft, dereliction of duty, and even manslaughter. Found guilty on all three charges, Morrisa was stripped of her citizenship, branded on her face, and banished to the Underworks.

In the short time that she has been an Underling, Morrisa (usually called "Mo" by her fellow Underlings, as well as her Domer supervisors) has been rotated through a series of distasteful jobs. She has picked up and disposed of trash and human and animal waste products; she has learned to service the machines in the Underworks; and she has worked in a slaughterhouse, providing meat for the Domers. Morrisa has even fought in a handful of illegal, galdiatorial combats. One good thing has come of Morrisa's banishment-- denied access to the drugs that once fueled her addiction, she is now clean and sober (well, sober anyway; no Underling has ever been accused of being clean).

 

Mo has a natural tendency to marshall and direct, but she is canny enough to realize that-- given her low status-- such direction must often take the form of suggestion. She has an inherent understanding of systems and a knack for assigning the right person to the job. Freed from her addiction and her oppressive medical training, Mo is again gaining confidence in her own abilities. When challenged, her natural reaction is to respond in an argumentative fashion. She is fast learning that, as an Underling, this doesn't always work. As such, she's developed a vicious, icy stare

 

Mo knows that she will never again be elevated to the status of Domer; similarly, she knows that she has no one, save herself, to blame for this. She is determined to do the best she can with the unpleasant jobs set before her. Mo is also determined to improve the lot of Underlings in general. To this end, she provides what little medical assistance she can to her fellows. Finally, Mo hopes to improve relations between Domers and Underlings. She would ultimately like to see this caste system dissolved, but knows that it will not happen in her lifetime.

 

At 5'7", Mo is just on the tall side of average height. Naturally thin of build, her short time as an Underling has given her a ropy, wiry physique-- and the strength that comes with it. Mo has short, dark hair; brown eyes; and naturally dark skin, made all the darker by sun exposure and grime which is infrequently washed clean. She has an ugly, u-shaped scar on her right cheek, the product of the branding she received on being banished to the Underworks.

Mo dresses in the orange overalls and bare feet common to most underlings.

 

Because she's not a mutant and is kind of pretty, Mo is actually quite popular (as far as Underlings go). She is often selected for work that requires interaction with a Domer supervisor or Domers in general.

 

Morrisa awoke to someone prodding her ribs. It was annoying, to be certain, but not painful. Her face was another story. It burned with pain. Without opening her eyes, Morrisa reached up and ran her fingertips over her right cheek. She had felt such skin before, on her mother's burn patients. Morrisa's burn was in the shape of the letter 'u.' Underling. The events of the previous day raced through her still clouded mind-- the trial, the guilty verdict, the brand.

Morrisa's eyes opened, and, in a flash, she was up on her bare feet. I'm naked! A monster loomed over her. Easily seven feet tall, it watched her with the eyes of a child. Morrisa dropped one hand to cover her crotch, raised the other to shield her smallish breasts. The thing took a step toward her, and Morrisa took a step back. She stumbled and fell on her butt, exposing herself. The thing dropped something on her, rough fabric. Clothes? Is this guy seriously the welcoming committee to my new life? Shouldn't there be an orientation or something?

Morrisa's mind cleared. She'd seen mutants like this before, but never this close-- and never as social equals. She waved her hand at the mutant. Go on, turn around. I've got to get dressed, and you are not going to watch. Morrisa had heard that many of these larger mutants had simple minds, but she was nonetheless surprised when it did as she ordered. Hastily, Morrisa stood and slipped into the clothing the thing had brought her: a plain, white tee shirt-- at least it might have been white a long time ago-- and a pair of orange overalls. So this is it then? What do I do now? Morrisa couldn't believe she was asking the monstrously large, yet obviously simple creature for direction.

The mutant turned to look over it's shoulder at her. It smiled.

Obviously he approves of my new look.

Work, the mutant answered, follow me to work.

[MilkManDan007]

Humble Athena:

I hope this type of character fits into what you had in mind. Let me know if anything needs to be tweaked.

MMD.

Basic Information Name: Jonas Kimble Age: 28 Gender: Male Origin: Governor's Court Dome Type / Subtype: Human Occupation: Enforcer

Physical Description   Jonas Kimble is well-fed, muscular, and demands respect wherever he goes. Jonas stands six-feet tall, with wide shoulders and short-cropped black hair that matches his dark eyes.

Backstory   Jonas has been trained since he way young to help enforce the laws and keep order in the dome. He has little tolerance for law-breakers, even the smaller infractions that most of the other enforcers would overlook. He has spent years training with a bow and knife, weapons that do not rely on the highly prized ammunition stockpile that rarely gets issued.

Personality   Jonas has a short fuse and bad temper, often taking out his aggression on those who break even the most mundane laws. He has severe disdain for those who live outside the dome and enjoys picking on them and making their meager lives miserable at every opportunity. He also barely tolerates anyone who works in a scientific field, blaming them directly for the destruction of the world outside of the domes.

Goals/Motivations   Professionally, Jonas wishes only for law and order, and to be able to bring those who have broken the laws to justice as an example for the rest of the population. Under the surface, he still boils with rage for the outlander who killed his younger brother years ago, and has vowed to one day track him down and kill him.

[GleefulNihilism]

Name: Flint Remington AKA "Nobody"
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Origin: Outskirter
Type and Subtype: Psychic - Energy Absorber
Occupation or Role in Society: Scavenger/Hired Gun/Mercenary

 

Nobody isn't the type of guy to bring attention to himself when he can avoid it. Nobody by name, Nobody be reputation when he can arrange it. A survival move that comes with being an obvious freak of nature.

That doesn't mean he's a lone wolf by any means. On the contrary, he's well aware of how survival can often depend on how well you work with others. And survival can depend on how well you play with others as well, just that he tries to socially blend in as much as possible. He's not the loud braggart, he's not the lone wolf in the corner, he's the slightly odd looking man in the bar about 3 seats down.

And yet, he does kind of hope that there was something more to life then just survival. The power helps, but there's got to be more then just cleaning up a mess or two.

 

The Outskirts. Home of the decedents of those who couldn't get into the domes and through sheer dumb luck managed to survive anyway. At least that's the story. You want my opinion? I think there were no survivors outside the domes. We're decedents of the trash the Domes would toss out because they didn't fit the program somehow. The Mutants, the Criminals, the Political Dissenters- you know, people that those in charge wouldn't mind making disappear.

It's not all bad though. Out here, say what you want about it- we're free. We're barely surviving at times, but out here a man can think, say, write, whatever he wants to do. Sure survival is a bit of a trick at times but it's a living. Name's Flint. Don't worry about me, I'm a Nobody.

You sure? Alright, I guess I'll tell you more if you're buying. My dad was nobody special either. A militia man, used to help defend the town from monsters and raiders. He did have a little side business, sometimes they'd catch a raider alive and interrogate them. My dad and some buddies of his would go out and try to make some money based on what they learned. Smart guy, but like I said- nobody special. He did find a real old diamond ring though, that was something. That's partly how he got my mom, poor bastard.

My mom though, she was someone special. Dome head honchos, I bet they tell those poor bastards inside that mutants are dangerous and are all tossed out. But my Mom- she'd tell me how they'd experiment with the mutants and psychics they found in the domes. She would know. She was one of the psychics. You see my mom, she was a real fire cracker. Red hair, fiery personality, and fiery psychic talent. You get her mad, and she could set fire to things with her mind. They used to tell me that when she was pregnant with me she once burned an entire raiding party to boots and ash, just one wave of her hands- WOOSH!

So yeah, a bunch of mutants and psychics and freaks and normal people living in the wastes. I got a dazzle too. Ma set fires, I put 'em out. Or a lot of other things really. A wave of my hands and things don't happen. Ah- but enough about that. I'm a Nobody. Saw you all leave the domes though. Makes a man wonder what you all are up to. But we're not here to talk about that, are we?

I mostly play militia man like my dad. Raiders, monsters- I get a gun and help. When we got a lead on usable things I go with a group of guys and we go survive in the wastes for a while to try to find it. Sometimes I go out with the farmers, see if I can make more land usable. But that's just a bit of a trick. So, I'm good with a gun, I'm good with surviving, and I got a dazzle that comes in handy. Think you can use a man like me?

 

At the moment, survival. Nobody just wants to irk out a living in the wasteland. There is actually some potential for success there, as given time he can do things like de-irradiate farmland. Unfortunately due to the scales involved that would take months. As a result he's more a spot absorbing guy and a hired gun on the side. The domes visible in the area to bring the occasional dream of something better but he figures life probably sucks there too- just in different ways.

 

Nobody is an Outskirter, born and raised. A sturdy frame and build if not particularly powerfully so. He's a rugged survivor if not an expert. The most dramatic element of his appearance is that he's a complete albino. Pale white skin, pale white hair, and pink eyes. Tries to avoid sunlight as much as he can and feels discomfort on his skin and in his eyes when under bright lights.

Nobody dresses to survive as best he can. Function being much more important then form he usually has at least a gun, water, and basic tools on him. He tries to cover up and prefers not to go outside when the sun is particularly bright. He often also wears sun-filtering goggles when he has to do something when it's not night.

 

Admittedly I'm still working on the mechanics of it, but here's what I'm envisioning.

Nobody's psychic abilities seem to be based on and expanded from a sort of anti-pyrokinesis. While pyrokinetics can generate heat energy and flame just by the power of their minds, "Nobody" does the opposite. With his mind he seems to cancel out energy, and supposedly he even takes the energy into himself.

What he can do with the energy isn't confirmed, seems to be very little. He may be able to use it to speed up his healing but mostly he just seems to hold it in and metabolize it. He has noticed that his apatite decreases the more he absorbs, that's all he's been able to confirm though.

The biggest downside to this power is that it has to be consciously turned on. It's an incredible defense but a defense that only works when Nobody sees it coming. Surprise him, and he's just as vulnerable as a baseline human.

 

The White Sox. It had to be the White Sox. Raider gangs never were the most civil bunch in the world, kind of comes with the territory. Hell, Flint's been rude enough to be a Raider himself- that wasn't the issue.

The problem was the White Sox. How does a Raider Gang become so obsessed with an old pre-bombs baseball team? How does a raider gang even hear about old pre-bombs baseball teams? How does a raider gang even hear about Baseball? Even in terms of Raider Gangs these guys were just plain nuts. The only good news was that while White Sox normally travel in teams of 9 this group quickly brought itself down to the 3 Outfielders. They liked to swat live grenades toward their targets with their bats, this time it they just clipped the grenade and it landed among their other grenades.

Three Outfielders with no grenades. For White Sox odds that was really good. The bad news was that the remaining White Sox were still very wild maniacs with guns, bats, and. . .was that a Bazooka?

"Say hello to the Grand Slam freak!" he hears one call out. Flint does all he can do, take a few pot shots at the bazooka guy who he tries to take cover. He hears a yelp as he ducks behind a boulder- please be the bazooka guy, please be the bazooka guy. . .

The actual rocket lands way behind and beyond him. Yes! He must of tagged the bazooka guy!

"God damn it, freak nicked my leg!" he would have heard one grumble if Flint's ears weren't ringing from the close call. He gets the point when he peaks. Three White Sox, 1 lightly wounded. The Sox open fire wildly, Flint is glad he has cover- he takes his time to place shots. One White Sox. Wait, the bodies near the former grenade pack. This cover gives a good few of them. One, two, three, four, five. . .

There's two White Sox left? Where's the sec-

A slight smell of ozone was his only warning he got before the world went black.

When he woke up he had a splitting headache, his hands tied behind his back, and a pair of rather ridiculously large guns aimed at his eyes.

"Gentlemen, something I can help you with?" Flint asks, if just to distract them from the little blade in his cuff getting to work on the rope at his hands.

"Where's the package?"

"What package?"

"Don't lie to us, we know you made it to the base, we know you got it, and we know you hid the package as soon as you smelled us- WHERE IS THE PACKAGE?"

The rope cut, Flint just needs some sort of break to get out of this. He can only think of one, and he inwardly curses how much it's going to suck. A quick tells him where his gun is- should be close enough if this works.

"You know the original White Sox were nowhere near here, right? They're from Chicago, that was nowhere near here. Like thousands of miles away. You guys are just huge dumbasses."

They look between themselves and actually shrug almost calmly.

"We were going to kill him anyway."

An inner mental switch goes just before triggers are pulled. Bullets. Small amounts of metal who uses small chemical explosives to impart a large amount of kinetic energy. Each shot trying to deliver the kinetic energy payload into Flint's body. How many shots were there? It feels like they emptied the clips!

"Haha! One less freak in the world." one White Sox laughs.

"Heheh. . .wait a sec. Where's the blood?"

Flint quickly rolls over and grabs his gun, counting on surprise and practice to keep his aim true- and ending a squad of White Sox. When he finally goes to get up it's slow and painful work.

"Damn it," he growls. Grabbing up the kinetic energy of all those bullets didn't quite go right. He can heal what damage it did do but- damn it that hurt. Well, at least the package can still be delivered as soon as he goes and gets it.

---

Nobody returns to the town with a bit of a limp now. Not bad for having the clips of two assault rifles emptied into you. The small metal box at least was light to carry, that was the only reason why he still was on the job- may as well. He slams the box down on the improvised table made of corrugated metal and cinder-blocks.

"Got it. Hell of a time getting here. White Sox were involved, got messy. Key to the box for the money."

The fat man smiles, and nods. Pulling up a bag from under the table, it's laid by the box. Flint raises his goggles to take a look and opens the bag. Satisfied, he closes the bag and tosses the key over.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Nobody. Before you go, want to see what you got for me?" the Fat Man smiles.

". . .Kind of, Actually."

The Fat Man smiles again and opens the box to reveal. . .

Twinkies. Pre-War Twinkies. A snack food? He did all that for a snack food? The Fat Man opens up one of the packages and starts to eat it.

"Want one?"

Nobody is in shock- all that for Twinkies, that was the stupidest, craziest, dumbest. . .

Well, may as well savor victory.

"Sure, why not. You're just a crazy as the White Sox, you know that?"

"Probably." the Fat Man smiles, and Twinkies with warm Beer are shared in the wasteland moonlight.

[animeconquerer]

Name: Daren Connor
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Origin: Domer
Occupation: Mercenary
Type/Subtype: Human

 

Daren is kind, caring young man. He is incredibly curious, and always attempts to see things the end. As his father is a low ranking officer of the law, Daren understands that laws are there for a reason. He also understands that it isn't a terrible thing to ignore the law and have some fun, as long as nobody ends up getting hurt. While he understands that it is unreasonable, he always feels responsible for those who are with him, and attempts to keep everyone around him safe.

 

Daren was born as the second of five children. His father, Seamus, was a low ranking enfocer in his Home-Dome. His mother, Robin, spent the majority of her time worrying over and caring for Daren and his siblings. Rissa, his elder fraternal twin, is the smarter of the two.She constantly spent her time diving through what little books she could find, and was always hungry for more knowledge. After realizing the wealth of knowledge that could be hidden outside of the domes, she decided to leave the dome and study in the wilderness. Daren became a gun for hire to look through the wilderness while protecting scavengers, hoping to reunite with his impulsive sister and see what has become of her.

 

Daren is a tall pale skinned man. He stands at approximately 6'2'' and has well defined muscles. Wrapped around the front of his throat is a wide, jagged scar mark, a reminder of a confrontation he had attempted to stop between two drunks in a scavenger caravan, as one had attempted to stab the other with a broken bottle, and caught Daren's throat when Daren attempted to stop him. His voice is deep, and guttural, thanks to the scar across his throat.

 

While Daren may not be the brightest person you'll ever meet, he is an incredibly curious person. He has no true goal in life, Daren merely wishes to continue his current life, protecting others from the dangers of the outside world while looking for his Rissa, as well as seeing what else is out there.

 

In progress

[Nate]

Name: Mikhail Stukov
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Origin: Dome
Occupation: Doctor
Type/Subtype: Human

Personality: WIP

Backstory: WIP

Physical Description: WIP

Goals/Motivations: WIP

[AllanyaKT]

Name: Shav Milner

Age: looks to be about 9 or so

Gender: too finely featured for a boy

Origin: Outskirter, a stable though mobile settlement

Type and Subtype: Mutant (midget)

Occupation or Role in Society: weaver, child care, miscellaneous

 

Shav is an adult, though those who do not know her would not likely believe it. But it's true, despite her size, she holds 26 years to her credit. It's not her fault her twin sister sucked their mother dry, leaving no milch for her. Born three quarters of Rayna's size, that differential stayed consistent all the way up, with Rayna growing to equal their strong, sturdy mother, while Shav stayed dainty and small. Their youngest brother, at just over eight, is already taller than she, and he is years from even starting his man's growth. Likewise, Rayna's firstborn, a niece, is almost as tall already.

Growing up very, very small was a challenge. "You're too little," was the bane of her existence, and prompted her to develop techniques to compensate for her size and strength. The adults often tried to toss her into the next age groups down for lessons and chores. She didn't mind so much for the chores, for the lighter ones were better suited for her small frame. But in order to get decent lessons, she had to get very good at discreetly reminding them that she should really be going with Rayna's age group, her twin.

As the only adult female in the tribe without any children of her own, Shav has plenty of extra time as compared to the other women. She often assists with supervising the children, especially the four to six year olds who are big enough to not need picking up while small enough to still see her as big enough to obey. She weaves when the tribe is settled, and rides her bicycle with the shepherds when the tribe follows the sheep to new grounds. And when the scouts discover a new cache and need someone tiny to get through a tight spot, or skilled hands to undo a delicate latch, those tasks fall naturally to Shav, as well.

 

Shav is a cheerful, practical person. (WIP)

 

Shav has an intense need to prove herself. Always too small for "real work", she has never held adult status. She longs to do something more important than gather firesticks or sing drowsy children to sleep. She wants to be the someone who everyone looks up to, the first person to see something.

 

Shav is a very small, very dainty person. At first glance, many people will count her among the children she's keeping an eye on. Only those who look very closely at her face will reckon her true age, from the slight thickening of the cartilage at her button nose and earlobes and the slight roughening of her sun-kissed skin and the faint laugh lines just starting to form around her hazel eyes and full mouth. She keeps her sunbleached curls cropped closely to frame her cherubic face.

Such a small size creates an unusual sample of the feminine. Her body does not have the characteristic shape of either a woman or a girl, but is caught somewhere in between, on the verge but never quite reaching menarche. Her torso is proportionally large on her, so that her arms and legs are not quite as long as would be expected in a child of her height. Long skirts worn very high on the waist keep most of that deformity under wraps. Her arms, though, are not so easy to hide.

 

"But Shav, you're drawing it all wrong," said a girl of about five to another who looks several years older.

"Ah, Maisy, but there are many ways to draw Morris," the older one replied knowingly. "You can put the triangles and squares together any way you like, and other shapes, too." She demonstrated by sketching a very complex board in the dirt. "Any way you can get your rival to agree on, that is, right Bren?"

The third girl in the cluster, about Maisy's size, laughed.

Shav brushed out the advanced board and finished sketching the simpler one she had been drawing at first. "I'm building this board out of right triangles surrounded by left triangles. See?" She pointed to different spots along the board. Morris is a great way to teach the littles their shapes, especially the triangles and squares used so often in the weaving patterns. And counting, too, but there's not much need of that beyond their fingers.

"What makes them be right or left?" Maisy asked.

Shav only shrugged. "I can't say for sure why they're called that. It's just how they are. But think of it this way. When your parents pitch your tent, they want the post upright and they tie the leading cable from the top of the post to the ground over here. But a tippy post would make a very bad tent. See?" She sketched out the same explanation for the girls that she had been taught many years ago. "So a right triangle makes a good tent, and if it's not right, it's got to be left. Okay?"

The youngsters nod thoughtfully though still puzzled.

"come on, girls... If you can remember that the little dog runs a circle around the great tree and then jumps through the hoop," she tapped the knot at her belt significantly, "then you can keep right and left triangles in your head too."

Maisy nods again, and Bren sighs at the Morris board.

"Fine, the lecture is over. But think about it as you play. Here, Bren, there are limestones for you and granites for you, Maisy. Come tell me who wins two of three." She smiles at the girls' relief as they settle into their game.

 

Apology:
I'm building this with my 3e books and using the 4e Lite and the Update guide to get it to 4e. My math might not be quite right!

Concept:
My basic concept is a small but healthy person. This could be configured a couple of different ways. The first build (18 pts) shows the stats bought down to 9 year old levels (and then bought back one level of ST) and then compensated by advantages. The second build (16 pts) shows healthy stats reduced by disadvantages. I could go either way. The first one has a nice rogue buff. The second one would survive trauma better. Thinking on that, I added the third stat build (also 16 pts). This one combines the nice rogue buff with the better HT. I strongly favor this third build. Skills below are valued with the third build in mind.

 

-24 ST - 7 (-30)
. Extra Hits 3 (6)

-30 DX - 8 (-40)
. High Manual Dexterity +4 (20)
. Short Arms (-10)

80 IQ - 14 (80)

-13 HT - 7 (-30)
. Extra Fatigue 3 (9)
. Resistant to Disease +3 (3)
. Resistant to Poison +3 (5)

5 Speed - 15/4 = 3.75
. Increased Speed .25 (5)

 

-24 ST - 7 (-30)
. Extra Hits 3 (6)

-20 DX - 10 (0)
. High Manual Dexterity +2 (10)
. Reversed Talent - Whole Body Skills -2 (-20) (talent includes DX-based skills not covered by High Manual Dexterity)
. Short Arms (-10)

80 IQ - 14 (80)

0 HT - 10 (0)

-20 Speed - 20/4 = 5
. Reversed Increased Speed (reduced 4 levels) -1 (-20)

 

-24 ST - 7 (-30)
. Extra Hits 3 (6)

-30 DX - 8 (-40)
. High Manual Dexterity +4 (20)
. Short Arms (-10)

80 IQ - 14 (80)

0 HT - 10 (0)

-10 Speed - 18/4 = 4.5
. Reversed Increased Speed (reduced 2 levels) -.5 (-10)

 

I really considered taking the -15 point disadvantage Dwarfism. I decided against it because the height and weight requirements were too restrictive. I want Shav to be 75% of average, not 60%. Also, her appearance and move have already been adjusted, so the disadvantage would be largely redundant. Besides, I didn't need the points.

 

Social
4 Appearance (Attractive - cute as a button)
5 Charisma x2, -50% Accessibility Restriction of Young Children Only
1 Above Suspicion (how big people perceive her charismatic charm)

Mental
5 Absolute Direction
1 Deep Sleeper
5 Eidetic Memory
20 Talent (Outdoorsman +2)
5 Versatile

 

-5 Post-combat shakes (12)
-15 Wierdness Magnet (This is my favoritest disadvantage in the whole wide book!)

 

-1 She loves little kids, but she doesn't like them once they get big enough to try taking advantage of her petite size. That gets annoying very quickly, and she gets back at them by passing them over to the other adults who supervise heavier chores.

-1 She follows Spider as a totem. Please don't kill spiders. It's not nice. Besides, they eat mosquitos.

-1 She doesn't like riding, even though that is the best way to get around. Anything bigger than a donkey is too big for her, and how many donkeys are trained to saddle and bridle... Thank goodness for bicycles!

-1 Her moods vary. Sometimes she gets irritated when people assume she's a child, and sometimes she takes gleeful pleasure in letting them underestimate her, especially merchants.

-1 Her favorite time of day is twilight, when everyone gathers for storytelling and music.

0 Hidden beneath the hems of those long skirts, she wears platform boots. (Gasp!)

0 She is jealous of the Domers for their super-nice machine-made fabrics, and for the machines that make beautiful textiles so quickly and easily.

0 Single point disadvantages that seemed to fit: imaginative, nosy, responsive.

0 Alcohol is always fun - low tolerance, sleepy drinker, stands on tables and sings off-key.

 

Scout Skills

Pts # Type Skill
4 - 16 - IQ/E Area Knowledge [eidetic memory]
4 - 10 - DX/E Bicycling
1 - 13 - IQ/A Cartography/TL [eidetic memory][absolute Direction]
4 - 14 - IQ/H Naturalist [outdoorsman +2]
1 - 13 - IQ/A Navigation/TL (Land) [outdoorsman +2][absolute Direction]
2 - 14 - Per/A Survival/TL (Local Terrain) [outdoorsman +2]
1 - 13 - Per/A Survival/TL (The Next Terrain Over) [outdoorsman +2]
1 - 15 - IQ/A Tracking [outdoorsman +2]

1 - 16 - IQ/E Camouflage [outdoorsman +2]
2 - 13 - DX/E Knot-Tying [manual dexterity +4]
1 - 17 - IQ/A Lockpicking/TL [manual dexterity +4]
1 - 13 - IQ/A Search
1 - 14 - IQ/E Scrounging
1 - 17 - IQ/A Traps/TL [manual dexterity +4]

4 - 10 - DX/E Knife (Melee)
4 - 10 - DX/E Pistol

Village Skills (including some basics at default)

Pts # Type Skill
1 - 12 - IQ/H Diplomacy
2 - 18 - IQ/E First Aid/TL [manual dexterity +4]
1 - 12 - IQ/H History (Oral Tradition) [eidetic memory]
1 - 12 - IQ/H Literature (Oral Tradition) [eidetic memory]
0 - 9 - IQ/A Cooking
0 - 9 - IQ/A Cooking (Beverage-making)
0 - 9 - IQ/A Cooking (Food Storage)
0 - 9 - IQ/A Professional Skill (Distiller)
0 - 10 - Per/E Fishing

Professional Skills (including some hobbies at default)

Pts # Type Skill
1 - 18 - IQ/A Merchant (Textiles) (specialist bonus)
x - 12 - IQ/A Merchant (All Other Goods) (reduced by 1 per specialist rules)
1 - 16 - IQ/H Artist (Needlecraft) [manual dexterity +4]
8 - 14 - DX/A Professional Skill (Weaver) [manual dexterity +4]
0 - 10 - IQ/E Games (Morris)
0 - 12 - IQ/H Musical Instrument (Pipes) [manual dexterity +4][eidetic memory]
0 - 12 - IQ/H Artist (Whittling) [manual dexterity +4]

 

My concept is fairly complete as written. The remaining points, and any points I missed in the cobbled calculations, may be assigned by the DMs for secret advantages or latent abilities. :-)

[Arte]

Name: Desmond Blake

Age: 23

Gender: Male

Origin*: Outskirter

Type and Subtype**: Human

Occupation or Role in Society: Runner (intersettlement delivery)

 

A generally pretty happy guy making the best out of his life. Extremely laid back, even to a fault, not always as serious as he should be. Prone to mood swings between manic and depressive.

 

A life in the Outskirts settlements is hard. The life of a caravaner travelling between them nine months out of the year is even harder. Desmond grew upon one of these caravans with his father and a dozen other men. It was a rough childhood in a rough world. The caravan Desmond and his father worked on often dealt in delivering thing people don't want seen. Things like weapons, stolen goods, and ocassionally drugs passed through the groups transport. This meant that the men who worked and lived with the young Desmond weren't the most savory of characters. They were a lazy yet deticated, uncaring yet passionate, calm but unexpectedly violent when provoked. It might have been the inconsistency in his life that started the shift in desmonds moods. It started small, a slight souring in his mood everyonce in a while. Then the shifts became bigger. They are never fast or unexpected, they are slow boiling feelings that fester then bubble to the surface. Desmond learned over time how to deal with the anger and saddness. He learned to control himself to a degree and he also learned to isolate himslef when he feels overwhelmed. In the pursuit of a relaxing, non-stressful life Desmond left the caravan as soon as he had the money. When the job as a Runner, one of the settlment drifting "delivery men" came up, Desmond took it without questions. The job let him work MOSTLY for himself. He could work as much or as little as he liked. Often he would accept local packages, letters, and messages until he had enough money for the journey to farther reaching settlments.

 

Desmond's long term goal is to get enough money to support his current roaming lifestyle. His day-to-day goal is to enjoy himself and to follow his intrests.

 

He is a slim, muscular man who looks a few years over 21. He has muted green eyes and long shaggy hair that he either keeps bound up or held back by his goggles. He likes to keep his goggles dangling around his neck. He uses them to keep out dust and grit while travelling between Outskirt settlements.

 

The cloud of dust quickly passed over the remains of some ancient, abandoned highway. It moved on and settled, adding yet another layer of grime to broken and decrepit debris. Most of the debris consisted of rusting pieces of scrap metal and the skeletal remains of automobiles from year past. In the beginning, this jungle of broken machinery and swirling dust storms was a concrete conduit of the masses. The panicked crowds had clogged the vaulted overpass that soared a dozen meters above the rest of the ruined landscape. The vehicles sat bumper to bumper until the people abandoned them in favor of their own feet. They were trying to escape the fate forced upon them by the political machination of powers they didn’t understand. The end had come, and they weren’t prepared. So they ran. They rioted. And finally, they died.

The dust stirred gently, in one of the few clearings in the wreckage, as if it intended to rise again but stilled quietly. The silence stretched for a long moment before it was broken. The sudden clatter of metal on metal finally broke the fleeting peacefulness. It was quickly followed by the grinding of metal shifting and the pounding of feet. The loud barking and hacking of a wild animal sounded from a short distance away. The loud footsteps were soon joined by bursts of swearing and the clatter of someone moving quickly over the ruined cars. A small clearing between an overturned big rig and a bus, rent almost in two by an old highway sign, lay as if in waiting for motion. Its silent wish was soon granted.

Today! Why today!! Of course, it has to be within sight of the city, too! I swear, more and more of them every year. The source of the noise soon burst into the clearing. The young man who suddenly came hurtling over the ruined bus skidded to a halt as he landed. A swift survey the clearing brought another exclamation from the man’s mouth. Finally! Thought I’d never make it. Almost as in answer to his sudden optimism, a loud crash reverberated from close behind. A low growl and wheezing bark spurred the man into motion. Without waiting to meet the vicious sounding animal so close behind him the man resumed his run and swung a small backpack of his shoulder. As his foot hit the side of the tanker, one smooth swing of his arm threw the pack on top and let him grab the lip of the rig. A few quick seconds later, the man was crouched over his bag. The bag had a large patch which showed a silver trident on a field of red. Below the patch a smaller tag read RUNNER - Desmond Blake.

It only took a moment for Desmond to unstrap and grab his rifle and shrug off his leather duster. Almost as if it were a clock to race against, the crashing and coughing came closer and closer to revealing the beast they came from. The hurried Desmond crouched and pulled a fistful of ammunition from his pocket and dropped it in front of him. He picked up a round and tried to load the ammo as quickly as he could. His hands fumbled and the round dropped and clattered to the pavement below. A quiet string of curses rose as Desmond grabbed another bullet and loaded it carefully. A round was loaded into the chamber with a satisfying click of the bolt.

Desmond swung the rifle around and pulled it to his shoulder without a second to spare. A dangerous growl rose from the darkness of the maze of rusted metal. A shadowed figure that could only be called a monster slowly materialized from the blackness. The unseen predator stayed firmly in the shadows revealing no more than the gleam of eyes the size of a baseball and the glint of teeth that resembled razor blades. A choking wheeze escaped the twisted shapes maw and a growl emanates from its throat. Desmond tapped the trigger of the gun lightly and looked down the sights. The guns sights came to rest squarely between the beast’s eyes. Desmond knew he only had one chance once the brute showed itself. Desmond’s gaze locked with the menacing glare coming from the shadowed eyes. Only a heartbeat passed before Desmond screamed at the creature. Come on, you cursed demon of the wastes! The cry echoed for a moment then with a roar the beast charged into the light.

Desmond only had a moment to actually look at the creature bounding towards him. It bound forward on four legs.The matted fur that covered the monster was a sickly shade red with mottled orange patches. The jaws dripped a viscus fluid that smoked as it hit the ground. It crossed half the clearing in the blink of an eye. Desmond took a deep breath and kept his gun trained on the animal’s head. One shot Des, Once chance, Desmond thought to himself. The creature flexed its hind legs and crouched to leap at him without slowing at all. Just as the creature’s front legs left the ground Desmond pulled the trigger. The muzzle flashed and blood exploded from the creatures neck. The animal crumpled and its own momentum carried it another 15 feet before it slid to a halt. Desmond let out a shaky breath and felt the tension rush out of his muscles. Grabbing his bag and resting his gun on his shoulder, Desmond hopped down from his perch on the giant truck. He held his bag in one hand and the rifle in the other as he looked down on the walled town in the shadow of the overpass. The angry grimace melted off Desmond's lips revealing a relaxed smile. As he started walking towards the town, Desmond put away his rifle and felt his fingers start to twitch. Walking at a slow pace Des let out a sigh and a big stretch. Well, all in a days work I guess.

[BangBangTequila]

 

Name: Miroslav "Grim" Dvorský
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Origin*: Outskirter
Type and Subtype**: Psychic - Telepath (2-way)

Occupation or Role in Society: Combination Mercenary, Bounty Hunter, and shameless thief of valuables and information for sale to the highest (and often first) bidder.

Physical Description: Miroslav is an unassuming man at just under 2 meters tall (6'1") and 80 kg (175 lbs), with closely cut black hair. He has startling eyes, a blue so bright they resemble a husky more then a man, and the reactions of many people and his own respect for subtlety often drives him to wear a pair of mirrored sunglasses, even at night. He wears a surprisingly well fitting set of clothes, a pair of old military fatigue pants, dirty and closely fitting white shirts and a leather bomber jacket. His boots are of the black leather variety, and while seemingly clunky, they belie his quickness. He does walk with a swagger, a gentle roll to his shoulders that speaks of confidence.

Personality: Miroslav is quite the contradiction. He's somewhat of a loner, in that he makes few friends and cares little for the thought of family. The contradiction lies in that he hates to be alone. His...gift, or curse, has bombarded him with surface thoughts and tides of emotions for decades, and life without that unique flavour is like life without colour, or taste, or sound. So, he hides in the throngs of society, using his ability to have friends for days at a time, lovers until he gets restless, and help or hinder whomever he pleases. This selfishness and arrogance is what makes him a valuable asset to anyone who needs his services and a bane to those on the receiving end of his talents, as he has none of the morale compunctions one might expect from a psychic. He appreciates subtlety as a sign of intelligence and tact, and sees self-control and discipline as a threat far greater then thuggery.

Personal Backstory:
Personal Goals/Motivations:

Other:[/B] Anything else you feel will help define the character, that doesn't fit into the above categories.

IC Writing Sample: Please include one, but no need for a novel. Links to previous posts in other games are also acceptable.

P.S. I greatly appreciate people who use spoilerbuttons to organize large sections of text.

 

Creation Points: 100
Disadvantage Points Allowed: -50
(This is the extreme limit, but by no means is it necessary for PCs to take a full -50 points of disadvantages. In fact, it may be prudent not to. Also, disadvantages will be enforced.)

[/QUOTE]