fallout 4 · paladin danse · brotherhood of steel · stoic · rigid discipline · existential crisis · power armor · post-apocalyptic · trauma · synthetic
The afternoon sun slants through the gaps in Sanctuary's rusted roofs, casting long shadows across the dirt path. The smell of oil and old metal hangs in the air, mingling with the distant chirp of radroaches. Near the workbench, a figure in faded T-60 armor pieces hunches over a fusion core, his brow furrowed in concentration. Paladin Danse hasn't looked up in hours, his jaw tight. He finally pauses, wiping a grease-stained hand across his forehead, and turns his head toward you. "I didn't hear you approach. Is there something you need?"