Athoriel

The Blessing of a Curse

Name: Peter Guillian
Age: 16

Appearance: Pete is a big lad for his age, standing at around 6'3" and still believed to be growing, he has a well muscled, heavy build, that contrasts oddly with his gentle nature. He has dark blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, that glimmer like two chips of ice from behind his messy veil of hair. He would be considered handsome if it weren't for his hooked nose, sharp angular chin and a forehead that he feels is too big, but other than those undesired features he gets by alright.

Personality: Peter has a grim determination about him to not be worn down by the institute and it's various cruelties. He's highly caring and often unthinking of his own safety when others are in trouble. His time here has taught him to be accepting of the evils that take place in the world, it's all merely the way of things and no matter what one does, you can never wash out the bad from the good, nor the good from the bad. Hell, he couldn't even hate the children he grew up with whom became Corrupted, it was an enticing lifestyle, lavished with benefits, he didn't blame them. Although if prodded too far he can develop a righteous anger, a short burst of rage where none are safe, friend or foe, from his ire.

Class: Patient

Weapons/Abilities: Miracle blood: His power manifested in an odd way, almost deemed a failed experiment, it was later discovered that his blood possessed incredible healing abilities, although it doesn't appear to affect his own natural healing, for the blood must be exposed to the outside elements and attain an abnormally large amount of oxidization gained through it's new genetic means, to take effect.

Other: He has a certain weakness for custard, his favourite treat.

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Tommy squinted suspiciously at the new comer, he had snapped around upon first hearing her voice, his gun however was lazily aimed as the tension began to sober him up. Oh! Lucky am I? He thought bitterly, he had seen her kind before, hot shit mercenaries that thought they were all that before they enjoyed a last meal in the form of a bullet. Fuck em' and fuck her! His brow knitted together in a frown, hidden from view behind his mask, cautiously lowering his gun, but not removing his hands from it so as to promote a more easy exchange between them.

"And why should I tell you anything?" He replied in as civil a manner as possible, but despite himself his words were laced with a venomous anger at how she demanded so much of him. "I don't know you, nor you me." He added as an afterthought, rolling his right shoulder to combat the stiffness he felt from his unease, biting down onto his lip hard as he re-opened the wound on his side. A fresh flow of crimson washed down his side, expanding the previous dark mass as it washed away the dried blood from hours ago, but he stood through it with nothing but a grimace, thankful for his mask, as it was all that hid his discomfort.

Tommy inclined his head carefully to track the source of a new voice, all the while ensuring he kept an eye on the Merc, behind her he briefly saw the figure beneath the lad stirring, but quickly reapplied his attention. Holy shit, I nearly shot the poor thing. He thought, a feeling of guilt swelling up inside him, the lady looked to be in dire straits with a busted arm. Dislocated most likely. With one last weary glance at the Merc, Thomas made a move toward the lady on the ground, biting the insides of his cheeks til he drew blood as pain lanced up his side, like a fire burning beneath his skin.

"Yo-you alright?" He asked with a voice thick with pain. Stupid! Speaking was a mistake, and of course she isn't okay, just look at that fucking arm! Tommy steeled himself as he crouched in front of her, doing his best to recover from his folly by talking over his previous question. "Do you mind if I...?" He asked, trailing off the last part to his question as another wave of pain washed over him, instead gesturing to her arm with a nod of his head. Carefully placing his gun on the ground as he waited for her permission.

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Gonna get a post up in a bit.

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@Raiven Raine UTC+10.00

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What Tommy stumbled onto was clearly the ass end of an interesting encounter, a once proud and fiercely feared Death claw lay in a growing puddle of it's own blood, its limbs all blown to hell and jagged bit of wood sticking out of its head. How's that for modern art? Ha! Leaning on the wall beside him, Thomas slowly lifted himself to his feet only swaying for a few seconds before gaining his composure, steadily he looked down his rifles sights to search out what had done the beast in, much to his surprise he found a small boy firmly planted on his ass among the rubble. This has gotta be the luckiest little shit in the entire wasteland, maybe I should ask him for a lock of hair for good luck, that wouldn't be weird right? No, that'd definitely be fucking weird. He thought with a grimace, shaking his head to clear out his drunken internal ramblings.

"Hey! Hey kid." He called out, lowering his rifle to cradle it in his arms. "You alright?" He asked in addition, waving a free arm to draw the lads attention. It was just then that he noticed the old fellow the lad was seemingly sat on top of. Of course the boy couldn't have done it alone you idiot, hell you heard shots from a lazer rifle and the boy clearly only possesses a pistol, the bloody thing is still holstered at his hip.

Tommy felt his hand sliding down the well worn contours of his rifle to rest at the trigger, his finger hovering over it before he made a mental effort to pull it back away, if there were others, any hostile moves might result in his end. All of a sudden a crash came from a nearby building, followed by the gentle chiming of broken glass raining down, before he even knew what it was Tommy had whipped his rifle around and fired a shot that splintered the wooden globe, that came hurling out, into a hundred pieces. Fuck me, let's hope 12 bullets is a lucky number.

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@Lunar You can't delete, but you can edit and just leave it as -removed-

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Note to self, don't post first thing in the morning before you've had time to wake up properly,

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What a shithole... well, I suppose the whole Commonwealth is.

The stray thought crossed his mind as he sifted through more worthless scrap, an entire day in Concord had netted him little of worth and had cost him more dearly after a run in with a pair of raiders. They had to be part of a bigger group, they looked like they had been patrolling around, or perhaps he had been too inebriated and had merely failed to realise that they hadn't actually moved at all. Regardless, after he'd been spotted, the skirmish that took place was a vicious struggle, the coppery taste of blood still lingered in his mouth from where he had hit the ground too hard and bit down on his tongue. All to just avoid getting riddled by the clearly modified pipe pistol that cranked out rounds faster than a mole rat on jet, he had damn well gone through his last bottle of whiskey to calm his nerves and numb the pain before popping out from his cover to shoot the fucker.

By some ungodly miracle he had made it out of that alive, with little more than a flesh wound to his side, which had dampened and darkened his clothes, on his right side, with blood. Alas he had only been brave enough to loot the closer of the two bodies, which unluckily for him was not the holder of the modded weapon and held only a handful of .38 rounds for the pipe pistol in her hand. Other than that she held a couple of bottle caps tucked in her shoe as a lot raiders did, a broken silver fog watch, Ha! probably only kept it cos it's shiny in some parts where it's not rusted to hell, and a blunt combat knife tucked away in the aforementioned shoe as well.

The sudden Explosion drew him away from his reminiscing, and he let the various scrap metal and wire he held in his hand drop to the floor. "What the bloody hell was that?" He muttered to himself quietly, reaching for the .308 rifle he kept slung over his pack. I only got 13 bullets dammit. He thought bitterly to himself, of course he had more rounds for the pistol, but as far as he was concerned, that shooter was as good as a BB gun.
With a last nervous gulp of his drink, he would clumsily remove the headgear from his pack to place unceremoniously over his head as he moved out with a sigh, crouching and moving out into an alleyway to get a better view of the action that was unfolding in Concord.

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Name: Thomas
Nickname: Tommy
Age: 22
Race: Human

Morals: He's been a scavver for most of his life, venturing out into the Commonwealth in hopes of finding a big enough score to keep him well fed for a year or so. He's good at heart, and hates to see folk in trouble, but struggles with the idea of being a hero. If you can't look out for yourself, you can't look out for others, and he's barely getting by as it is.

Flaws: He's an alcoholic, there's little he'd choose over a bottle of whiskey.

Faction: N/A

Background: Tommy grew up in Diamond city as an orphan, a few folks would take pity on him from time to time and give him food and shelter, but never for long. When he was 13 he would take up scavenging from the surrounding city, using his small size to navigate around dangers and get at some good loot, however as he grew older, larger and more dependent on the drink he was forced into more and more combat situations as he lost his edge in stealth. Despite this, if one can get him sober enough they'll find him an ample scout, skilled at moving around undetected, yet as fate would have it, his aim suffers profusely as he gets the shakes in his hands.

Looks:

Beneath this attire he has a mess of dirty blonde hair that's usually swept back out of his emerald eyes, he has a long hooked nose and a sharp chin that define him more than anything.

Other: Loves listening to the radio, even if it'll alert hostiles to his location.

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Here's a CS, If you're looking for another person of course.