Size: 6'1
Physical Shape: Michael's body is well taken care of. At a healthy weight, and broad-shouldered, he has a lean, muscled physique, that comes with years of eating meat and vegetables, handling rowdy animals, and drawing bows taut. Hunting has garnered him a steady food supply over the time of the apocalypse, so starving has never been something that he has really experienced at this day and age.
Personality: Michael can come off as unapproachable, but that's mainly because he tends to be a bit on the quiet side, having spent literally the majority of this apocalyptic journey alone - thus making silence something he is intimately familiar with. While a bit cold-shouldering, Michael is a very down-to-earth, realistic man, calloused from witnessing the deaths of his loved ones. Focused on the task at hand, and mature, Michael can take on a leadership role rather easily - although he tend to be a loner, due to the fact that groups can easily limit mobility and survival chances. He isn't secretly evil, and is a naturally humane person. If he sees someone in trouble, there's a high chance of him helping. However, as stated before, he's realistic, and if there's no chance in Hell of them being saved without major loss on both sides, he will move on, albeit with a heavy heart. These trying times have made him merciless in certain situations, and he no longer hesitates to end the life of a human, if that human poses harm or threat to him or anyone close to him. Serious, and focused, Michael's first rule of survival is...'Survive'. Although he may not seem it at first, there are rare times where Michael will let down his guard and laugh/joke, but it's extremely rare. With close friends, he may let down his guard a tad, and crack jokes or engage in some type of banter, but don't expect it to be an often thing. Even then, him getting all laughy and hyperactive is a no-go.
Occupation: Hunter/farmer by trade, lived in the country with his grandpa and grandma. Sold animal fur/meat to a nearby small-town city.
Equipment: Michael's equipment consists mainly of;; A pair of rugged black cargo
pants, tucked into dark brown, water-proofed
boots, a short-sleeved, form-fitting black shirt, and a dark green/black, cloth-padded, hooded
jacket. The jacket contains, in the pockets, a multi-tool, a scarred lighter, a small flash-light light, and a wallet - containing some money and a picture of his grandparents.
Inventory: A heavy-duty, lightweight hunting backpack, dark black and brown. Inside the small pocket at the front are: Two small, speed-sticks of deodorant, a worn toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, and a compact pack of purification tablets. Hooked to the side is: A worn, dented, and reusable canteen. Inside of the main compartment are: Five small zip-lock bags of dried, packed balls of salted deer-meat, three bottles of purified water, torn rags, and a worn, miniature first-aid kit, containing two small bottle of alcohol and two small spindles of clean bandages. The bottles and spindles are re-filled/wrapped at different stops. His inventory is light-weight and essential, which he had in mind when he packed it all. He keeps this maintained and kept, private, in his own room, just in case shit hits the fan and he needs to leave fast.
Weapons: A worn, yet highly-maintained and sturdy recurve bow, a leather-wrapped quiver with self-made, sturdy arrows, and a sharpened utility knife. His arrows are reusable, which he makes great use of, and is virtually silent;; It's rare that you would see him with a gun. The utility knife is strapped securely to his pants, and the bow is latched to a strap on his backpack; easy access. The quiver is peeking over his right shoulder, strapped to his back. A solid, light-weight crowbar is strapped to the other side, opposite to his canteen.
Background: Michael had always been raised to be a humble, hardworking young man. Born in a country home, in a plot of land where the forest was cut-off at, hard-work was always a part of his daily life. Cutting wood for the fire, tending to the cows and pigs, and going hunting with his grandpa, deep within the woods...that's how his life was. His mother was single, and had died giving birth to him, leading him into the custody of his grandparents. He didn't mind;; to him, those two would always be his real parents, no matter what. He was taught his studies by a hired tutor, and was taught how to be a man by his grandfather.
He speared fish in the lake behind their home, he rode horses down the dirt trails, he helped build sheds and different contraptions for the animals and vehicles, and, the most fun of all, he hunted animals with Mother Nature, selling the fur and hide in the market whenever they went down into town - which wasn't often. When all of this happened, Michael and his grandparents knew nothing of it. They were getting old, and it was up to Michael to provide for the family;; he did so efficiently and immediately, spending his time roping the horses, tending to the pigs, chickens, and cows, and hunting deer, boars, and hogs in the forest. Whilst in the middle of tying down a dead boar to his old four-wheeler, he heard strangled screams, along with groans and gunshots from back home. Dropping the boar, Michael leaped onto his ride and blazed a path of leaves through the woods, going straight through the trail and blasting into his yard. What he saw...he would remember forever. His grandmother, her body bleeding out in her garden.
His grandfather, bleeding from multiple bite wounds on the neck and chest, feebly aiming a bloodied and spent shotgun at this...this thing. There was a lot of these things, and Michael's first instinct was to scream bloody-murder and charge in. Logic prevailed, and it was like watching for third person. bring up bow, notch arrow, shoot...through the heart. No luck. Notch, aim, shoot...through the back of the head. The rotten human fell. He began taking out the shambling walkers, dodging over tractors and crouching on top of old trucks as they began to move after him. Eventually, the herd fell, and Michael crossed the distance between his grandparents. After that, the memory got hazy.
Ever since then, he has been travelling, after burying his only family, and gathering his supplies. He drives in a slightly fortified Dodge Ram truck - good gas mileage and decent enough speed. Good for hauling things, as well. He had met up at the military camp only a few days ago, mainly because he was told by another survivor that it was a good place to hole up for a while. Having been with different camps and groups in the past, Michael knows that it won't last forever, but sees no problem with using it as another means to survive until then. Cold-hearted, sure, but who isn't these days?
Half Pint
