smol lobster @smollobster@tabletop.social

players: oh shit, cool, the Brotherhood of Steel are showing up
me: yeah, there are literally 22 of them total with four suits of power armour to go between them. they're not doing great.
them: ...how is the enclave doing
me: there's literally three of them, they can't decide who is President, Vice-President, and Secretary of State so they draw straws on it daily, and they rule over a single eyebot

revision 1.1: hp is end + agi + luck

RACHEL'S HECKING RAD FALLOUT D20 SYSTEM

Use the FNV build generator to build your character
SPECIAL checks are d20 + the value against a roll
HP is End + Agi
Tagged skill checks are +1 on top of the SPECIAL check

For enemy rolls, add dice based on threat level (A deathclaw is 5d20 for standard)

party gets betrayed and left for dead, shit stolen, villain flees north with the access codes to a vast arsenal that will turn the tide of the conflict in their favour

PARTY: WHAT THE FUCK RACHEL
me: one sec i forgot to post something
me: posts the *WAR. WAR NEVER CHANGES.* speech I'd had pre-written since before the campaign began
me: okay so now the campaign ACTUALLY starts

and that was the story of the party's short trip to DEATHCLAW HELL

Then, after a few moments. Everything is silent, and the party stands dead still.

But they're out of Deathclaw territory for now, and the players are mostly pre-occupied with shouting "YOU FUCKING BITCH RACHEL I SWEAR TO GOD"

The thunderous stomping of the pack of Deathclaws stops dead as the piercing rattles of a pack of Rad-Badgers draw their attention, trying to encroach onto the Deathclaws' territory whilst they're distracted.

The Deathclaws hurtle off towards the more pressing concern.

Leaving the party to wade through the river, as slowly and quietly as possible, as the shrieks and wails of rad-badgers fill the air.

Fewer of them by the second.

At this point I need to switch to OOC, because this was only supposed to be an introductory combat encounter and I'm actively trying to save this schoolbus full of idiots, so I roll a few distraction rolls.

His rifle jammed. The Deathclaw's

well

I mean, they're called DEATHCLAWS for a reason. They tear ragged gashes across his back.

One of the other party members runs back and just BARELY beats the roll needed to carry him away, but not without taking hits herself.

Even then, they're not in the clear yet.

He near enough breaks his collarbone on the landing, but manages to outrun the limping monster and dive into the river. Where the Deathclaws would, hopefully, lose his scent.

One of the other party members is not as lucky.

He rolls a Nat 1 on a d100 for his AGI roll.

Stuck between SEVEN DEATHCLAWS coming from behind them and one prowling on the highway, the party takes their chances against the one, and make a break back for the highway, hoping to cross over to the river.

One of the party climbs onto a truck to take potshots at it. The Deathclaw tears through the cabin like it wasn't there.

He jumps onto another truck. The Deathclaw slams its entire body into it, toppling the truck and sending it hurtling over the barrier.

So, the Deathclaw promptly roars in agony.

And another roar answers.

And another.

And another, and yet more. Eight, in total, and it becomes apparent that the others are coming from behind the fence.

'Stampede' would be an understatement.

The Deathclaw turns, hard, and BARRELS down the highway, slicing through the cars with swipes of its claws and tossing anything it can't swipe from its path, carving a bloody swathe of destruction as it clears the distance between itself and the party.

Bullets are barely scratching its hide. One of the party has a Gauss Rifle, though, so she slams in a MF pack and tags the Deathclaw, punching a whole through its thigh.

Screeching metal gives way to the crash of thunder, growing ever closer, and ever louder, until each footstep of the hulking monstrosity on the I-43 rattles the ground itself. Through the rain and dirt and the mud, the faint outline of the creature's hunched form becomes visible. Towering ten feet tall, or maybe fifteen, or even twenty. Standing just as wide.

One of the party members, wisely, starts firing his rifle at it.

He gets close enough to the fence to notice that the fence was boarded up from the outside.

The fence wasn't designed to keep them out.

It was designed to keep whatever was inside, in.

He's about to turn around and shout to the rest of the party, but he's cut off by a thunderous

CRASH

as the sliced up hunks of a Chryslus Highwayman get hurled from the highway onto where the party *used* to be, kicking up mud and dirt.

A pause. Followed by the hideous screeching of metal against concrete.

One of the party's from Colorado, so he's heard stories of what they are and what they can do. But he's off perched in a tree, too far away to yell.

Even then, he knows they hunt through sound, so he's staying quiet.

The rest of the party don't know that they hunt through sound. One of them shouts, vaults the highway, makes a break for the fence.

They argue over whether to carry on down the road to a town they know is ahead, or stop off for the night in the shelter. There's boards up, it might be abandoned, there's no lights coming from the building and there's a big hole torn in the side of the fence and signs too thick with mud and dirt to be legible from a distance.

Then there's another booming sound behind the party.

This one's closer.

The Highway runs parallel to a thousand acre stretch of marshland that used to be a research station for birds of prey. Surrounded by a perimeter wire fence patched up with boards, wood, and other detritus found along the highway. Signs that *someone* had been through there in the recent past.

There's a booming sound behind the party.

They dismiss it as distant thunder.

It's dark, and thundering, and the rain won't stop any time soon. A thick fog descends across the marshland as the party heads north along I-43 in search of a lost cache of pre-war technology.

One of the lanes has crumbled with age, and with no opportune routes for the run off to go, the whole stretch of highway has flooded, forcing the party to instead take the road crowded with the wrecks of cars trying to escape the metropolitan areas when the bombs fell.

okay friends, it's time for a motherfucking tabletop story:

and it is called WELCOME TO DEATHCLAW HELL