Name: George F. Walsh
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Appearance: George stands at 173cm (5'8") tall with a stocky, broad build. He is not fat, but has little in the way of visible muscle. He is gaunt faced, looking older than he really is in the way that the skin is drawn over his face. His features are fixed in an ever neutral stare, equal parts the result of corporate life and a naturally bored personality. He is fair skinned, under normal circumstances pale, but is typically burnt in patches of agitated red skin. His small, squinting eyes are a pale, mottled shade of blue. Topping his head are the remains of a once beautifully combed head of brown hair, now shaggy and running longer than he'd ever let it stay in the real world. It begins to curl only a tiny amount, and much like the rest of him is in true need of civilization and its amenities before they could return to being presentable.
He wears the tattered remains of a three piece suit. His jacket and tie are long gone and the rest of it is marred by grime and even a little blood. The vest has kept the best of any of his garments, a dark gray close fitting piece with a flat lapel. His shirt was previously white, but borders closer to a gray at this point. Its sleeves have been tattered or torn below the elbows. It has more than justified its cost in keeping together. His pants are black, and have stayed that way. They are neatly maintained and obviously expensive. Not the things he would have liked to stay the apocalypse in but the things on his back when he got there. He also wears a set of circular, wire-frame glasses to correct his mildly poor vision. They are dust-marked and one of the lenses got a little cracked along the way but he values them more than any of his other possessions.
Weapons: Sometime after he got out on the roads, George found a baseball bat. It's brand new, yanked from some nameless store in some nameless town, and made of arguably good quality wood. It is unused, and he sometimes doubts if he would have it in him to use it, but it was better than walking unarmed.
Personality: George was a cool headed, calculating man with little concern or regard for the people around him. He wanted to go his own way in life and find his own happiness wherever it lay. A week and a half in the Oklahoman sun, running from walkers and watching civilization go to waste in short order has brought him unhinged. On the exterior he's still the same man, cool headed and determined to keep himself under the radar, but he's begun to suspect that this is all some kind of purgatory. Indifference towards others has begun to shift towards paranoia. He does what he must to fit in and coexist in the new world, the same way he lived in the offices of old, but every day he questions why more and more.
History: Mr. Walsh was an accountant on the east coast. He grew up in, lived in, and was ready to spend the rest of his days in Boston when the retail firm he worked for decided to move one of its offices out west. It was tantamount to a promotion, he'd end up in charge of a section of new-hires rather than one of the drones himself, although it didn't mean much other than warmer weather to him. His flight had been stopped at an airport around Oklahoma city on layover, and shortly put into quarantine. That had only lasted a few days before the city was all but given up to the dead. George escaped with his life, barely, taking more scrapes from the frenzied refugees heading into the countryside than he ever did from the Walkers. Since he got out of the city, he's been avoiding people and making his way along the roads under the oppressive sun, no idea where he was going or what he was doing. He slowly became aware of just how futile his wanderings were, and had the good fortune to fall in with the Last Hearth community. From there, he's made his way pulling his weight and biding his time, the same as the rest.