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About TheCzarsHussar

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  • Birthday 02/08/2000

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    In the underground mine shafts.
  • Interests
    The Doomsday Machine.

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  1. The Godds tested me and I passed, Legendary Library did not break me >:D
  2. It's interesting to see them use the old Juggernaut model cut back in Halo 2 but seeing them leap around that that is funny more then anything, you know I pretty well liked the flood throughout all three games. Of course you all think I'm insane given I like the Library level.
  3. We must reclaim the Obsidian Lands, Deus Di Ode!
  4. Santonsoft or Godd Howard? Who do you follow?
  5. The reason why it feels developed is because I'm basically using the old Reaver Movement and putting a nomadic tribal spin on it.
  6. Huzzah someone mentioned Cleaver-Land! And phew you just saved me a lot of work Doc, now I can write the next part today.
  7. Alrighty I'll reply to your last post along with whatever you comment afterwards, nothing much to spoil but it would be if I answered you now.
  8. Any advice on your end Doc?
  9. My mistake was picturing too much of the landscape we saw in Tactics, while I know Wellstone looks nothing like Gravestone now but it's old environment was how I pictured the land far beyond Wellstone. I'm not arguing mind everyone and it'll be changed or deleted, just at a standstill right now.
  10. The entire land has regrown? They weren't near the city when the muties smashed them into the ground, I had it in my mind they were near the old state border.
  11. Oh god I goofed up, didn't write it as a desert given mention to the clay but looking back I think I made a mistake. I was picturing too much of Fallout Tactics. Welp I guess that's a post that needs to be deleted, ******* two hours of work down the drain
  12. I'm actually kinda far behind in the Fallout posts, I think I have like five posts to read before getting caught up. Made a post that will get a followup tomorrow, was a bit short but since it's getting followed up tomorrow I don't think it's a problem.
  13. Lost Lands Ruined Highway Sinbad could hardly stand his consistent jolts of pain coursing up his wounds, shrapnel embedded in his person was bad enough but the flagellation at his own hands while proper would be the death of him he was sure. Whatever adrenaline he once bore had been ebbing away throughout the night, each self inflicted lash at his dear friend's side peeked it and yet now he felt the consequences. An endless stretch of cracked asphalt far as the eye could see, neglected by working folks long since perished in fire's fury. A fury what was left of the old movement faced the night before, ghosts and demons shimmering like the sun scorched roads. With shock and thanks to the gods for survival transitioning into a terrible sorrow, his folk, his kin they lost their way and even in life so too did Sinbad. Limping about the endless roads sowed doubt into Sinbad, it was devoid of anything, neither wreckage nor animals of any kind, the sun betraying all with it's blistering heat was Sinbad's only company. Did he truly survive? Was he not killed by the demons, is this not Santonsoft's realm? Devoid of anything holy and pure, were there anything the absolute opposite of Panasonica he would picture this in it's fullest. Turning aback with hopes of abandoning this horrid realm, perhaps to the holy sites in the far east was instantly snatched away with the road once behind him vanished. Leaving hard packed clay with the faintest of footprints embedded on the surface, time had lost it's meaning. The sane man understands and admits approaching ailments, for this Sinbad was certain he began the decent into deliriousness. His flask long since dry, the clay brought only lies of distant lakes beckoning the foolish to become lost in it's dunes, this road may have been the path to the Tech-Underworld but to chase these false hopes would become lost for eternity. Even the winds, radioactive as they may be wished for his death, he received no respite. At the brink of his limits Sinbad shamefully used his own laser rifle to brace himslf, to ease the pressure on his legs. The butt of his stock pressed up his armpit while the barrel cursed him with each plant into the ground. With the turning of dusk marking the only sane measurement of time he found his lips cracked as the roads he walked on, his mouth dry as the packed clay. The coming of night replaced one extreme with another, ungodly heat pulled away by the magnet-currents only to bring forth unfathomable cold. In the early hours of the night only able to keep warm within his sweaty banding by removing his gloves, and gas mask, placing his forehead, cheeks and hands to the still sweltering asphalt bringing about some small comfort. Yet even this had faded away into the night. Keeping a slow pace of which Sinbad couldn't speed up anyhow given his injuries helped maintain a steady exertion of stamina, however his state of being did catch up. Able to take it no longer he laid himself down on the edge of the road, curled up in a ball and lulled into a rather uncomfortable rest. The unforgiving sun would not be the thing to awaken Sinbad, without any track of time and withering away like some pitiful animal when the sounds of thunder echoed across the land it snapped him into attention; weapon at the ready. Without any light pollution the moon illuminated at a considerable level, yet Sinbad didn't need any moon to witness the source of his alarms. Just on the horizon lay a sickly green haze high within the sky, what should have been cumulonimbus clouds a hundred times too distant and dark to see lit up the distance, how he wished to be back on the cool banks of the Cleaver-Land. The voices of Be'alza-Gates whispered to him from the techless land, whispering of a quick way to the Eternal Assembly Lines in the form of a single trigger pull. With the acolyte unable to sway Sinbad it was Satonsoft who spoke in thunder and storm, the radstorm ever slowly continued it's path right in his direction. Unable to turn back and outrun the amalgamation of Santonsoft sent to carve out the last heart of the Reavers, he could only continue forward straight through the monstrosity. This road was his only hope of salvation, it was two lies, two paradoxes but still his only hope. By the time Sinbad saw the downpour of it's deadly rain, a sheet of greenish specks and lines falling to the earth it was nearly upon him. He had weathered countless of these in his lifetime, yet the entire camp took cover within the tents, turning all water barrels down and even the pitiful slaves had a tarp thrown over them. But now to face a storm like this without cover, without advanced hazmat suits long since left behind in holy sites out east odds stacked five to one this would be the end. It first came with a sense of goosebumps all about his body when the bouts of foul wind greeted Sinbad, accompanied by droplets. The rain itself at the moment was nothing to be concerned about, bouncing off his poncho. But the goosebumps quickly turned to itching as the winds pierced his kit as if it was nothing, itching turned to stinging, as the winds turned to daggers burning into his flesh it picked up in it's intensity further. Unable to stand any longer against the forces, Sinbad was thrown to the ground whimpering against the storm's fury. Crawling as nails dug itself across his body, armor disgustingly sizzling as the highly radioactive rain now poured against him in gallons. It all became a green blur through his goggles, senses caught between mind numbing and aflame. Unable to even scream biting so hard against his teeth, it was all Sinbad could manage not to snap straight through his tongue. He had not a single RadX pill to filter his systems, it wasn't an hour in and he knew in his heart this storm would leave him dead or cooked alive or gods forbid afflicted as a Ghoul. Futilely crawling across on his belly clawing at the ground with such fervor it eventually tore holes in the tips of his gloves, terrible visions showed themselves to Sinbad in the storm, Prophet Tesla laying slain next to the Holy Coil, faces of shimmering demons claiming the souls of his fellow Reavers and all sorts of horrors. Far too out of his mind to grasp these were illusions his mind conjured up. Once again time lost all meaning here, he couldn't fathom how long he's suffered within. Seconds, minutes, hours? The booming thunder and flashes around him dulled his senses further. Only once his hands came across something sticking upright out of the ground, whatever it was being obscured by the storm. His hands were numb to even tell if it was metal or otherwise, unable to go any further Sinbad never releasing his grip curled up in a fetal position, shivering and ever weathering the elements. He would perish long before the storm ended should it continue throughout the night, against whatever he clinged onto would mark the final resting place. Or so it would have been, it was gradual at first and in his condition he didn't notice. The slight lessening of the downpour marked by a receding intensity of it's ungodly winds, in time the blinding green haze began to lessen as well. In doing so Sinbad wearily reared his head up and while being rewarded with terrible stinging across his neck, the very object he clinged so dearly was quite literally a sign from the gods. It was a medium sized pole with some scrap haphazardly welded onto it, rusted words barely comprehensible etched into it. 'Wellstone, Seven miles northwest.' With his strength leaving him, unable to even keep his head lifted up it dropped against the pole. The last thing he witnessed before slipping into either exhaustion or a lingering death was the silhouette just making itself visible from the lessening haze, tall structures mixed with light just below the horizon.
  14. *Baddest Bitch Baldur