Name:
William Renault
Group:
Walkers
Age:
19
Occupation:
None
Family:
Unknown
Eye/Hair Color:
Pale Gray/Dark Brown
Height/Weight:
5'5"/137 lbs
Blood Type:
B- (Immune to the virus)
Gear:
Will travels light- Really light. The only things he's seen to carry are the clothes on his back and his weapons, as well as a large pouch of things at his belt- Yeah, it's a fanny pack. But it's a god damn manly one, and he keeps it stocked with an impressive array of medicinal herbs, bandages, painkillers, and some small survival things- Flint and steel, a fletching kit, compass... Things of that nature. He also keeps a small journal and a few pens in an inside pocket of his jacket.
Speaking of jacket, his clothes are fairly simple- A pair of jeans, some excellently made boots, a T-shirt that was probably white once, and a tough, worn leather jacket- With a just-as-tough leather belt. All of it has seen inevitable wear and tear, but in general, for clothing worn during the apocalypse, is in pretty good shape.
His weapons are few, but well cared for- Most importantly, his bow. A longbow with a ninety pound draw of excellent craftsmanship, the wood polished lovingly, every curve and groove made with the greatest of care, painted a deep black, this bow is his main weapon for both offense and defense. He can't hit the broad side of a barn with a gun- But put him anywhere within reach of that longbow and he'll cut the tail off a rat without killing the little shit. No really. He's done it before. He keeps a full-length quiver at his hip, two dozen arrows stocked into it at all times
Other than the bow, he has a survival knife strapped to his thigh- Single edged eight inch blade, saw-tooth spine, and an edge hard and sharp enough to cut flesh like butter and bone like wood. He also has his brain and his body. Both are very useful tools, wouldn't you say?
Appearance:
Despite being short, and thus rather light, Will is surprisingly strong- He won't be winning any muscle man competitions of course, or arm-wrestling the hulk. But he draws his bow- At ninety pounds in draw weight- like it's nothing, and can out-run, out-climb, and out-punch the best of them. Most of the time.
His hair is dark brown in color, and hangs ragged and messy to about his shoulders. Though he doesn't seem to bother cutting it, as it continues to grow out. His eyes- Wild, full of instinct and a survival-driven willpower, are a light gray color, and in those few moments where he is around people -not- trying to kill him, a dry kind of humor born of waking up in what he considers to basically be hell.
He's covered in scars from the recent years- And some array of scars from before the rising. Most are small and inconsequential, but two in particular are of note. One, an obvious bite scar on his left tricep, clearly from a being of... Undead nature. The second, a ragged, blotchy scar along the back of his head, hidden by his hair. Must have been one hell of a blow- And is likely from the hit that gave him his... Problem.
History and Personality:
Will's history is.... Well, a complete and total mystery! At least before eight months ago. It was around then that, somehow, he took a bar stool to the back of the head, and woke up with no idea who he was or where he was. He found an ID in his wallet that placed him as "William Renault", but beyond that and his age, he couldn't make heads or tails of the other things listed on the card- The mysteries of Amnesia, in this case apparently also including the names of the states. Or what states were. Or governments, for that matter. Thankfully, his understanding of English remained in tact.
Along with English, he also discovered he could bring to mind a long list of things that would be useless... If he weren't surrounded by walking dead people and bandits. Botany, biology, zoology, and a lot of smartass remarks. He also found, after a chance encounter with some unfortunate bandits, that he had in muscle memory a -very- good understanding of how to use the bow he woke up with.
So, for the past year and a half, he's roamed around aimlessly, just looking for -anybody- who wasn't trying to kill him.... And maybe some key to his past.
William Renault
Group:
Walkers
Age:
19
Occupation:
None
Family:
Unknown
Eye/Hair Color:
Pale Gray/Dark Brown
Height/Weight:
5'5"/137 lbs
Blood Type:
B- (Immune to the virus)
Gear:
Will travels light- Really light. The only things he's seen to carry are the clothes on his back and his weapons, as well as a large pouch of things at his belt- Yeah, it's a fanny pack. But it's a god damn manly one, and he keeps it stocked with an impressive array of medicinal herbs, bandages, painkillers, and some small survival things- Flint and steel, a fletching kit, compass... Things of that nature. He also keeps a small journal and a few pens in an inside pocket of his jacket.
Speaking of jacket, his clothes are fairly simple- A pair of jeans, some excellently made boots, a T-shirt that was probably white once, and a tough, worn leather jacket- With a just-as-tough leather belt. All of it has seen inevitable wear and tear, but in general, for clothing worn during the apocalypse, is in pretty good shape.
His weapons are few, but well cared for- Most importantly, his bow. A longbow with a ninety pound draw of excellent craftsmanship, the wood polished lovingly, every curve and groove made with the greatest of care, painted a deep black, this bow is his main weapon for both offense and defense. He can't hit the broad side of a barn with a gun- But put him anywhere within reach of that longbow and he'll cut the tail off a rat without killing the little shit. No really. He's done it before. He keeps a full-length quiver at his hip, two dozen arrows stocked into it at all times
Other than the bow, he has a survival knife strapped to his thigh- Single edged eight inch blade, saw-tooth spine, and an edge hard and sharp enough to cut flesh like butter and bone like wood. He also has his brain and his body. Both are very useful tools, wouldn't you say?
Appearance:
Despite being short, and thus rather light, Will is surprisingly strong- He won't be winning any muscle man competitions of course, or arm-wrestling the hulk. But he draws his bow- At ninety pounds in draw weight- like it's nothing, and can out-run, out-climb, and out-punch the best of them. Most of the time.
His hair is dark brown in color, and hangs ragged and messy to about his shoulders. Though he doesn't seem to bother cutting it, as it continues to grow out. His eyes- Wild, full of instinct and a survival-driven willpower, are a light gray color, and in those few moments where he is around people -not- trying to kill him, a dry kind of humor born of waking up in what he considers to basically be hell.
He's covered in scars from the recent years- And some array of scars from before the rising. Most are small and inconsequential, but two in particular are of note. One, an obvious bite scar on his left tricep, clearly from a being of... Undead nature. The second, a ragged, blotchy scar along the back of his head, hidden by his hair. Must have been one hell of a blow- And is likely from the hit that gave him his... Problem.
History and Personality:
Will's history is.... Well, a complete and total mystery! At least before eight months ago. It was around then that, somehow, he took a bar stool to the back of the head, and woke up with no idea who he was or where he was. He found an ID in his wallet that placed him as "William Renault", but beyond that and his age, he couldn't make heads or tails of the other things listed on the card- The mysteries of Amnesia, in this case apparently also including the names of the states. Or what states were. Or governments, for that matter. Thankfully, his understanding of English remained in tact.
Along with English, he also discovered he could bring to mind a long list of things that would be useless... If he weren't surrounded by walking dead people and bandits. Botany, biology, zoology, and a lot of smartass remarks. He also found, after a chance encounter with some unfortunate bandits, that he had in muscle memory a -very- good understanding of how to use the bow he woke up with.
So, for the past year and a half, he's roamed around aimlessly, just looking for -anybody- who wasn't trying to kill him.... And maybe some key to his past.
Name: Terry M Burnard
Age: 43
Occupation: Fireman.
Family life: Married. Wife, three kids all deceased.
Hair: black.
Eyes: brown.
Weight: 205 lbs.
Group: Walkers (currently with Fuad)
Appearance:
Blood type: A+
Immune: yes
Gear:
T-burn keeps a good supply of lighters flammable, rather explosive items with him. After all, fight fire long enough and you learn how to start one, to. Other then that, he has a crowbar and his hands.
Bio: Terry, or T-Burn was living the good life. His childhood was modest, but they had more than a lot of people, and he was taught to see that and appreciate it from his parents. Terry’s father was a chief at a fire station in Texas and his mother was a social worker, so they instilled in him, an only child, that a job that didn’t help anyone wasn’t worth working. At the end of the day, you find substance and worth in the people you help. Terry’s grandfather was also a fireman for the same station, though long retired.
While his mother worked a low key job that got very little recognition (albeit good pay), his father was more known through the city. He saw that and wanted it. People respected his father because he was a good man, he respected others. So as soon as he graduated high school, he asked his father to help him through fire fighter training. After talking with both his parents, they decided to go ahead and do it.
He wasn’t the largest man, not the fastest, and not the smartest, but they called him the “Bulldog” at training because no matter what Terry wouldn’t quit. He was bullheaded and he had heart.
And the tradition of a Burnard being in the local fire department carried on for a third generation. Eventually he settled down and married and had kids of his own. Two of his own children expressed interest in fire fighting (the third more interested in banging drums and wearing black clothing) so that would have made for a potential 4th generation if it hadn’t been for the awakening. His father had retired for some time, and Terry made it to Assistant Chief and after 21 years was about to retire himself.
Then the calls started flooding in. People sick. Dying. Then attacking. Violence in the streets. But not near his home.
Not immediately anyway. Then one day, there was a call to his own house and he panicked as he and the emergency response units scrambled and headed out. They arrived at the scene and before anyone could explain what happened, shots were fired. Then more shorts. He went to make his way into the house, but was blindsided to a form who bit deeply into his forearm. He struggled with the thing and they fell on his steps, Terry landing on top. He picked up and bashed the woman’s head into the stairs, repeatedly until it stopped.
It was then that he realized it was his oldest son’s girl friend. A cop grabbed him and told Terry not to go in, they were all dead.
As the chaos around him picked up, Terry sat the numb. Then, anger over took him, anger at not being there, at failing to protect his family, anger at…the whole world. He swung his axe clean into the face of the next undead that shambled by.
Since then, he’s been killing his way east, hearing of a hold out location in South Carolina.
Age: 43
Occupation: Fireman.
Family life: Married. Wife, three kids all deceased.
Hair: black.
Eyes: brown.
Weight: 205 lbs.
Group: Walkers (currently with Fuad)
Appearance:
Blood type: A+
Immune: yes
Gear:
T-burn keeps a good supply of lighters flammable, rather explosive items with him. After all, fight fire long enough and you learn how to start one, to. Other then that, he has a crowbar and his hands.
Bio: Terry, or T-Burn was living the good life. His childhood was modest, but they had more than a lot of people, and he was taught to see that and appreciate it from his parents. Terry’s father was a chief at a fire station in Texas and his mother was a social worker, so they instilled in him, an only child, that a job that didn’t help anyone wasn’t worth working. At the end of the day, you find substance and worth in the people you help. Terry’s grandfather was also a fireman for the same station, though long retired.
While his mother worked a low key job that got very little recognition (albeit good pay), his father was more known through the city. He saw that and wanted it. People respected his father because he was a good man, he respected others. So as soon as he graduated high school, he asked his father to help him through fire fighter training. After talking with both his parents, they decided to go ahead and do it.
He wasn’t the largest man, not the fastest, and not the smartest, but they called him the “Bulldog” at training because no matter what Terry wouldn’t quit. He was bullheaded and he had heart.
And the tradition of a Burnard being in the local fire department carried on for a third generation. Eventually he settled down and married and had kids of his own. Two of his own children expressed interest in fire fighting (the third more interested in banging drums and wearing black clothing) so that would have made for a potential 4th generation if it hadn’t been for the awakening. His father had retired for some time, and Terry made it to Assistant Chief and after 21 years was about to retire himself.
Then the calls started flooding in. People sick. Dying. Then attacking. Violence in the streets. But not near his home.
Not immediately anyway. Then one day, there was a call to his own house and he panicked as he and the emergency response units scrambled and headed out. They arrived at the scene and before anyone could explain what happened, shots were fired. Then more shorts. He went to make his way into the house, but was blindsided to a form who bit deeply into his forearm. He struggled with the thing and they fell on his steps, Terry landing on top. He picked up and bashed the woman’s head into the stairs, repeatedly until it stopped.
It was then that he realized it was his oldest son’s girl friend. A cop grabbed him and told Terry not to go in, they were all dead.
As the chaos around him picked up, Terry sat the numb. Then, anger over took him, anger at not being there, at failing to protect his family, anger at…the whole world. He swung his axe clean into the face of the next undead that shambled by.
Since then, he’s been killing his way east, hearing of a hold out location in South Carolina.
Name:
Jane Langford
Appearance:
Eye Color:
Green
Height/Weight:
5'00" 106 lbs
Blood Type:
O+ (Immune)
Age:
17
Gear:
Jane is in full support of making men believe that purses are bottomless, even in these dangerous times. Her only apparent bag is a single mid-sized purse, kept close to her side... In which she stores a change of clothes, spare ammo for any gun she happens to pick up in place of makeup, a book, a jacket, food, water, a few old items of sentimental value, her phone- Because she is -determined- to find somewhere that still has power to charge it and have her gods damned music- and an entire bag of first aid supplies. Weapon-wise, she'll just use whatever small arms she comes across and has ammo for. Big guns tend to knock her over, determined or not.
Bio:
Growing up in a somewhat shitty neighborhood in New York City, New York, Jane has always been the epitome of the fiery redhead. Brought up by a caring single mother, she was taught to put her fiery ways to use with that common new yorker attitude, vicious and highly self-sufficient, growing up in the concrete jungle just -suited- her. She couldn't imagine life anywhere else. Elementary, middle, and highschool all went by with fair ease- She wasn't the smartest gal in the universe, but she was definitely up there.
But of course, things always have to go sour. When the rising began, her mother was quick to pack Jane and what few belongings they cared to take with them in the car and get the hell out of dodge, driving as far west as the little car would take them, hoping to find a safe haven -somewhere-, anywhere. And yet, even that couldn't last. When they stopped to camp out- Jane can't remember exactly where- they were fallen upon by a group of zeds. Jane made it out... Her mother didn't. From there she traveled aimlessly, one place to the next, stealing food to survive and hiding in trees to sleep. Eventually, she wound up with a pair of guys that she found to be decent and trustworthy company- Terry and Fuad, they called themselves. The Two Kings, in joking conversations. She turned out to be a fairly quick study and good shot in the realms of firearms, and has stuck with the two wherever they went since finding them.
Much to Terry's false irritation.
Jane Langford
Appearance:
Eye Color:
Green
Height/Weight:
5'00" 106 lbs
Blood Type:
O+ (Immune)
Age:
17
Gear:
Jane is in full support of making men believe that purses are bottomless, even in these dangerous times. Her only apparent bag is a single mid-sized purse, kept close to her side... In which she stores a change of clothes, spare ammo for any gun she happens to pick up in place of makeup, a book, a jacket, food, water, a few old items of sentimental value, her phone- Because she is -determined- to find somewhere that still has power to charge it and have her gods damned music- and an entire bag of first aid supplies. Weapon-wise, she'll just use whatever small arms she comes across and has ammo for. Big guns tend to knock her over, determined or not.
Bio:
Growing up in a somewhat shitty neighborhood in New York City, New York, Jane has always been the epitome of the fiery redhead. Brought up by a caring single mother, she was taught to put her fiery ways to use with that common new yorker attitude, vicious and highly self-sufficient, growing up in the concrete jungle just -suited- her. She couldn't imagine life anywhere else. Elementary, middle, and highschool all went by with fair ease- She wasn't the smartest gal in the universe, but she was definitely up there.
But of course, things always have to go sour. When the rising began, her mother was quick to pack Jane and what few belongings they cared to take with them in the car and get the hell out of dodge, driving as far west as the little car would take them, hoping to find a safe haven -somewhere-, anywhere. And yet, even that couldn't last. When they stopped to camp out- Jane can't remember exactly where- they were fallen upon by a group of zeds. Jane made it out... Her mother didn't. From there she traveled aimlessly, one place to the next, stealing food to survive and hiding in trees to sleep. Eventually, she wound up with a pair of guys that she found to be decent and trustworthy company- Terry and Fuad, they called themselves. The Two Kings, in joking conversations. She turned out to be a fairly quick study and good shot in the realms of firearms, and has stuck with the two wherever they went since finding them.
Much to Terry's false irritation.
