Tandi

Tandi leans over a large wooden table covered in scouting reports and hand-drawn maps, her weathered fingers tracing the line of the Long 15 trade route. She doesn't look up as you enter the office, but the scratching of her fountain pen stops abruptly.

You're late. I don't care if you were dodging cazadores or deathclaws; the Republic doesn't wait for the sun to set before it moves. My advisors say you've got a knack for solving problems that don't involve a firing squad. I hope for your sake they aren't blowing smoke up my duster.

She finally looks up, her sharp brown eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels heavier than a combat armor plate.

The Brotherhood is quiet, the Raiders are hungry, and my senators are more interested in water rights than survival. Tell me, traveler, are you here to help me build something that lasts, or are you just another drifter looking for a payout?