#amora rambles

Like ya'll love explosions and you've gotten an endless supply of exploding ants right here. You're just, not gonna tame them?

Red Lucy is the organizer/leader of the Thorn, which is basically a wee gladiator bloodsports arena that's housed in the sewer system under westside. It's got a sign and everything.

She has you like do quests to find animal eggs, stuff like cazadors, nightstalkers and even deathclaws, then you can like fight them later for coin but mostly bragging rights really. Like "yea I fought 3 deathclaws at once for a paying crowd and I Crushed it."

Personality wise she's like, intense? Like she's got this philosphy about the wasteland only respecting you if you can overcome it, and only really respects you the character when you show you're capable.

I also like that even after doing her quests and stuff she will still just flat refuse to tell you how the thorn trains the animals. Like it makes sense, it's like her livelihood, place where shit clicks for her and you cant be asking for trade secrets.

But yes Red Lucy is like, she's great, I try to pop to the Thorn and help out whenever I can really. I wanna write something about her but havent decided what yet.

Rusty Trailer in Goodsprings: Very chic very minimalist, one well aged mattress, two whole boxes to put all your items into, very aesthetic broken shelf. 4/10 - There’s no ramp for encumbered couriers to climb up so they can enter.

Novac Motel Room: Moderately spicy water source, good dressers to store knives in, several containers you can use for specific storage, big bed that comes with a free teddy, first floor living. 8/10 - Novac Motel Room you’ve outdone yourself darling but please get something I can cook on.

The Sink: High tech, virtual snobby butler, virtual family if you find them all, very high up. 2/10 - Too clean and proper, the water doesn’t even burn on the way down.

What does it mean, to be a super mutant.

Super to mean exceptional.

I remember my time as a human, a miner. The trade forced me to build up the strength to swing a pickaxe, prying gold from the pleading fingers of the earth we so carelessly invaded. I recall the pride I took in my form, in the way I could work until the fatigue settled in my bones long after others had given up. I was exceptional surely among the miners.

All that pride mattered little when the insects came. Men in metal armour that hissed like it was alive and set their bug like eyes on us. Snatched up and herded away to a place buried below the ground, familiar but lined with more metal than earth and a sickening radiance.

Mutant to mean a deviation from the norm.

Old world comics sometimes tell stories about rejected heroes, shunned for strange powers and appearances. Deviations but no weaker for their difference; skin of steel, able to kill with a touch, the strength of a charging big horner. Some born with their powers but others born from accidents.

Our captors never intended for it to happen. They intended to use us till our bodies failed to be sure, but never to elevate us. Old world tales tell of tusked green creatures, their blood full of anger for anything not of them. Dangerous, barbaric, but ultimately closer to perfection.

Super Mutant to mean an exceptional deviation

What is armour when your fists can warp metal with a blow, what is a laser to skin tougher than concrete and what is fear of death to one who has drank deep of despair. 

I remember the pride I had in my shucked form and I can only feel pity for them. Their misguided attempts to modify their shell when it was little more than a gilded cage.

Jason Bright: Talking at length about how the Courier coming was fate.