#f!courier

Chapter 26 - Ain’t No Grave is out now!!! 💕

Excerpt:

Benny swung again without giving her a chance to recover, but she swerved. Face twisted in delight, she veered left, the blade an extension of her hand. Benny tried to block, but with a crack, her blade hit its mark and buried deep into the flesh of his arm. From the screams, Inculta figured she’d hit bone, and as she yanked the weapon free, he could see he was right. Flesh and sinew hung above his elbow, keeping upper and lower connected with hope and prayer.

Desperate, he switched his blade to his working arm, but it buckled under the weight of her blows, sending him screaming into the bloodied sand, cradling his mangled limb.

Do it. End it now.

Read here!!

A murder(er) at the goodsprings saloon~

Ars poetica, ars belli

Fallout: New Vegas, F!Courier x Vulpes Inculta fic

Rating: M

Chapter 9 is up! I have also included my inspo/character design for the Courier and Vulpes below (courtesy of artbreeder) for those who were curious! ;)

Courier Six Stats:

S: 4, P: 7, E: 5, C: 3, I: 8, A: 6, L: 5

Karma: Good

Tagged skills:

Science - 78, Repair - 77, Explosives - 76

(Dabbles in Sneak (64) and Lockpick (62)

Age: early 20s

Race: Mixed - Native American and Hispanic (Navajo and Mexican descent)

Character History:

Former resident of Vault 21. Would have been Vault's librarian/archivist according to results from GOAT Exam. Formerly worked with Followers of the Apocalypse. Former companion to Arcade Gannon. Likes Goodsprings. Adored by the Boomers. Not a fan of Mr. House or the NCR. Took care of Benny by convincing Swank he was a fink all along. (Maybe had a little crush on Swank.)

Got mixed up in Legion business believing she could form a temporary alliance with the Bull for personal gain/revenge against Mr. House as well as assistance in pushing the NCR out of the wasteland. (The Legion had also made not-so-subtle threats to kill Rex and Arcade should she refuse.) Somewhat agoraphobic, being a vaultie and all. Prefers night to day. Hoards pre-war books and reads a lot. Loves all things Latin/Roman/Greek poetry, mythology, and philosophy.

Still haven't thought of a name for her... hmmm... TBD!

I love sprinkling tidbits of this Courier's lore here and there! More to come as I update APAB! :)

Click read more to see all of the links for my written works (aka, fanfiction) <3

Find me on AO3.

A snippet from my in waiting/slowly on-going Dispatches from New Vegas.

I’m not sure if this one will actually make it into the chapter. I think it will, but this thing’s been changing on me constantly (as in, I still don’t have the chapter prior to this written because I wrote it and it needs to change and take on a whole new format.)

___________________

When Vulpes returns to camp his appearance is met with no more than a few subtle nods from the two legionaries who are still awake, one on watch and the other working on mending weapons and armor before he settles for the night.

He slinks to the far side of the fire, away from them, stares into the flame.

Not far away, in the alcove of a rocky outcropping, he imagines the Courier might be doing the same, kneeling before her tiny, dying fire, considering her next move. Attempt to stow the bodies of the drug addled desert gang before some wasteland creature comes scavenging? Or pack her gear and continue down the road to find another resting spot?

He’s certain she’ll choose to move on rather than risk becoming a meal or victim for whatever animal passes by.

But, he has to admit, there’s something stirring about the thought of her dragging the bodies of her would-be killers into a pile for the animals to feed on.

He recalls the way she twisted beneath the weight of the gang leader as the man tried to drive a knife into her shoulder, as the blade snagged on her armor—cutting skin but saving the muscle—how she’d shoved the butt of her gun back into his nose, then used his own recoil to flip him so that he was beneath her and driven her knife into his chest.

He’d thrown his own opponent back long enough to pause and admire the sight of the courier, spattered in blood, tendrils of hair tumbling into her eyes without the aid of her bandanna to hold them back.

Shifting, Vulpes reaches into the pouch on his cingulum, pulls out the strip of blue and white fabric she’d been wearing around her head at Nipton and, still, when he’d pulled her from her fire into the shadowed alcove of the boulders.

The fabric is relatively clean. New, he thinks, recently bought or traded for. He twists it around his fingers, brings it to his nose, inhales slowly, deeply. There’s a sharp bitterness of Mojave dirt, but beneath it, a sweet musky scent that seems a mix of Agave—a moisturizing ointment, perhaps—and her own sweat.

Agave moisturizer. Silken undergarments the color of midnight water. She’s a creature of the road, but still one who likes certain comforts.