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Name: Jackson Taylor
Age: He's a young adult. (19, will be 20 in December.)
Gender: Male
Appearance: Jackson is tall, standing at 6'2, with lightly tanned and calloused skin that comes from spending the majority of his entire life outside, in the sweltering heat. His facial features are rather strong and chiseled to a certain degree, his baby fat completely gone, leaving a ruggedly handsome jawline, and a face that seemed to be carved from marble. That's a bit of an overstatement, but, at the same time, it goes well to depict his facial structure. His body build is, as you would believe, rather muscular from, as you can also believe, spending the majority of his entire life outside, in the sweltering heat, working on tractors, hunting for wild game, and wrestling with chickens, cows, and horses. It goes rather well with his fair skin, and even greater with his shortly cut black hair, which slightly wisps upwards into a natural faux hawk. A light sprinkle of sun freckles dots above the bridge of his slim nose, which is slightly crooked on the tip, due to being broken numerous times in bar fights. During the plane crash, Jackson was wearing a red and gray flannel shirt, torn blue jeans with a buckle of a wolf fang, and cowboy boots. His shirt was promptly torn into shreds due to being tossed around mid-air, and he has a few welting red scars on his torso from the crash.
Personality: Jackson is certainly an interesting individual once you first meet him. Sharp witted, with the brain and social attitude of a lashing whip, or a steel sword, he isn't someone you would want to get into an argument with. While he is a sarcastic, 'keeping to myself' young man whom enjoys the solitary life rather than testing his lack-luster social skills with other humans, Jackson also has a crimson tongue - no, not a silver tongue, but a crimson one. He will slice you down with pure spat fire if necessary, which, when dealing with annoyances, it most definitely is. Quiet, with a slight frown tugging at his mouth, and his eyes focused, Jackson also has mediocre social skills at best, although his attitude tends to force him into ironical social interactions despite the man's best attempts at avoiding them. He could be seen as cold and brutally honest, due to him not pussy-footing over insults or wordings.
In general, he is a stoic, distant man who would rather date a knife, rather than an actual living, breathing female. As long as you're respectful, kind, and generally not an abominable hindrance, then you can expect him to treat you at arm's distance - sure, he can joke sometimes, but he's not your friend. If you're an idiot, then you can sort of expect a severe tongue lashing and a disdainful flick of the middle finger. Anymore than that? Well...let's just say that he won't be as forgiving. He's rather easy to get into an argument with, and despite him attempting to stay calm, he's also easy to anger and annoy. Jack is inwardly 'kind' despite his hard exterior, and he doesn't mind helping others; although he may seem gruff about it. He is a nice enough guy - maybe a bit too aloof and uncaring, but if you're not, in his eyes, frustrating, than he'll be kind to you as long as you return the favor. Under stressful situations, Jackson is usually the guy who takes charge, unless someone else does, which, in that case, he sits back and observes the proceedings with an analytical air.
Jackson could be pretty laidback if you catch him on a good day.
History: It's not anything heart-wrenching or dramatic. Jackson was originally born on a farm quite a ways away from Dallas, Texas, with his father and younger brother. His father was a hearty old cowboy, being in his late 40s, with a long gray beard and a shiny bald head. He went by the name of 'Ron'. Jack's younger brother, Kent, was only younger than him by one approximate year, and he was scrawny, quiet, shy, and caring, more often then not spending his time tending to the gardens, or calculating the taxes on their old dial up computer. Sadly, his mother had...passed away after having Kent, which was the secretive reason for why the young boy was so shy and soft in the first place. It wasn't anything Jackson or Ron could help with, so the two simply left Kent to his own thoughts. Eventually, the boy got his head on straight, although the silence and softness remained his defining traits.
On the farm, Jackson had a multitude of tasks to perfect - chasing down pigs and chickens, lifting bales of hay, picking corn, and more physically-demanding things. He perfected them, and quickly became a hardy 'rancher'. He lassoed horses, fought with cows and bulls, and journeyed into the mountains to herd sheep, and into the forests for days upon days, to hunt prey for the winters. It all became a part of his character, and he would have preferred the difficult lifestyle to anything else. He could even remember the first time he had gotten stuck in the large forest that surrounded their home. He had been 10 at the time, and he had went into the forest, chasing down their old hog. The boy only had on some bleached jeans, being bare footed and bare of chest. Long story short, Jack chased the hog miles into the forest, just as a storm hit, forcing him to take shelter. He stripped a few branches of their leaves, and used the leaf stems to tie the branches into a make-shift lean-to, which actually helped him survive until the next day, when his father, and Kent, came riding in on a horse.
After that day, Jackson quickly began melding into the country life. He went skeet shooting with Kent whenever the two made their way into the towns, learned to enjoy whiskey, had his first brawl in a bar, and started taking weekly camping trips in the tough winter. The boy turned into a man within years, and his skills of life melded into his mind. How to build tools in the wild, how to use a bow and arrow to kill game, the fundamentals of using a machete as a tool of craft, a tool of survival, and a pretty damn good weapon. This rock hard life became his life...until that faithful day. He had been on that damned plane, heading towards Vancouver for a small vacation - doctor's orders. Jackson could still remember that shitty 'landing'...if it was even a landing.
He had been in his seat, listening to some Skillet, and generally resting...when the panicked screams began. Tearing off his straps, and practically slamming the oxygen mask onto his lower face, Jackson breathed erratically, attempting to stay calm. He could feel the panic, the fire, the metal slicing into his tough skin...and then darkness. When he had awoke, he was dozens of feet underwater. Swimming lessons paying off, Jackson swam towards the nearest shore he could see, the salt water sealing up his cuts and awakening him to a life of Hell...or could it be paradise?
Belongings: Jackson has his compact, water-proof, and light backpack, dark brown in color, which is filled with five bottles of water, and a few large packs of granola bars; along with three apples wrapped in plastic. two packs of the granola bars were washed out in sea, but he managed to keep the other things.
Other: While he doesn't have a debilitating fear or disability, Jackson has a, like all men, fear of dying, and a fear of being deprived of all of his senses. Because of this, he has an unconditional fear/disability of being buried alive. Being under a few layers of dirt or sand is okay, but anything that blocks out his sensory abilities makes him go nuts, to where he's a danger to himself, moreso than the thing keeping him buried.
