MacabreMoth
Musoka
Otakuforreal
Name Krystal Marsh - formerly. Ten Thousand - currently
Gender Cis Female
Age 17
Birthplace Sheridan Montana
Previous Occupation High School Drop-Out | Hunter
Personality Before the apocalypse, Krystal was quiet, but never as quiet as she is now. She doesn't speak very much, letting her actions speak for her, though she doesn't often have someone to talk to. More often than not she's memorizing everything she can, counting her steps wherever she goes and learning the tells of those around her. She pretty to look at some days, but not exactly an approachable person, seeing as you're more likely to get shot than talk to her. A locked vault, she carries secrets as if they could save her life - in which some cases they can - and rarely speaks about herself. The hope in her eyes is dying, her willingness to forgive. Her disgust in humanity was bad before, it getting worse the mosre people she see's. If she was the last woman on Earth, she wouldn't give a damn. In a world where it's all about seeing tomorrow, there's no one more important than herself. Fuck the moral compass.
Occupation before the breakout High school student
Skills
- Huntress; Krystal, having been born into a rougher life than most, learned how to fend for herself at an early age. She understands nature, the balance and hunting better than she understands most people. She is capable of building snares, and tracking down prey animals.
- Accuracy; Over her life she has learned a variety of ranged weapons, including Sniper Rifles, Bows and Slingshots. It's rare that she misses her target either, as how evenly she times it with the wind.
- Observation & Calculations; Gifted in mathematics and psychology, this young woman has a gift for learning, but mental math is her specialty. She knows at a touch how fast the wind is going, at a sight how large something is. It has always been a skill of her own, though not one she oft used outside of hunting. She counts when under pressure or anxious.
- Auto-mechanics; Her older brother made it out of their home, working at an auto-shop where he taught her all he could about cars, trucks and everything else that moved on wheels. This was how her love of motorcycles was born.
- Sleight of Hand; Growing up as a thief, she has mastered the illusion and discretion of thievery. Picking locks, pick-pocketing etc, fall beneath her skill tree.
Fears
- Thunder; As a child, most of the traumatic events in her life happened either on rainy days or with voices that later thunder would remind her of. She enjoys the rain, and loves watching the clouds and lightning - it's the sound that she fears.
- Trust; Krystal finds it difficult to trust other people, especially with her own safety and equipment. As well when someone trusts her she feels the intense urge to destroy that trust - often she succeeds.
- Failure; "Failure is not an option"
Equipment
- Compound Hunting Bow
- Crossbow
- Arrow Quiver: 27 Arrows
- Bowie knife & Sheath
- Barrett .50 Cal Sniper Rifle
- Flatbed Pick-Up Truck with Bed Cover
- A box of assorted food
- Ten(10) feet of steel chain
- Three(3) gas canisters
- Two-man tent
- A dufflebag of clothes
- Two(2) bathtowels
- One(1) bottle of body wash
- Three(3) jugs moonshine & two(2) bottles of vodka
- A woodcutting Hatchet
Group Loner
[center]History
The young woman passed by the front of the church, haired pulled back in a loose ponytail, jeans stained with grass and blood, holes in the knees. Her gaze was downcast, avoiding looking at the people gathered in front of the building. She didn't want their scorning looks to be met. Ignore them, she told herself, but every Sunday she could feel their judgmental gazes following her as she passed by the front of the building. Perhaps she could have taken a different route, or gone out on a different day, but it was the most efficient path to the marketplace. The animal corpse slung over her shoulder, dead but not broken, clean save for a single thing: it's left eye was missing. This time it was a fox. Last week it had been three rabbits. The week before that a young doe. Whatever it was that she carried, it was her dinner that night and money in her pocket. She turned a corner, soft pale green eyes lifting as the religious folk lost sight of her, her pace slacking. She was not beaten, not truly. Not by them. It would only be a little while before she could leave home finally. Only a little longer until she was free.
---
The rev of the engine alerted her to the presence of a man outside. Not just any man. Her Brother. He was here? Why? She looked out the small window, broken as it was, to see him loading things into his truck. He called her name, but she didn't respond right away. Taking a quick glance back at the locked bedroom door she called over to him. He ran to her window, not wanting to alert their parents - assuming they were awake and sober. He looked concerned about something, though she couldn't see what it was before he thrust a dagger into her hand. "I'll be back at midnight. Stay safe."
---
She looked out the window, seeing the full moon high in the sky. Not quite midnight. Kyle was never late. Head snapped to the side at the sound of a latch coming undone, the door violently swinging open. She never heard the words that came out of the mans mouth, only saw the fist he made and felt it smash into the side of her face. Why would he come back? She was already locked inside! She must have blacked out at the next hit, because when she opened her eyes the man was on top of her, her clothes torn. He was fucking her already. Tears stung her eyes, a cry in the back of her throat. She would not give him that victory. She bit her tongue, fingers digging into the sheets. She smelled moonshine on his breath again. He looked at her, saw her defiance, hit her harder and flipped her onto her stomach, pinning her against the mattress. He shoved her face into the pillow. Every thrust pushed her closer to the edge, wanting to die, to stop feeling anything. His grip relaxed, her hands slipping free. He grunted. She faked a moan she knew he would like. Her hand dipped beside the bed, fingers finding the handle of the knife her brother had left her. Finally. Freedom.
---
A gunshot woke her again. Another one. Wet. Sticky. Warm. Pain. She must have passed out. Eyelashes stuck to her cheeks, blood dried on her naked skin. Blinking open her eyes she saw her brother in the doorway, an old shotgun in hand. Sawed off. Old. His first? Dazed, everything was hazy. Concussion maybe? After that there was nothing until two days later.
---
The apocalypse swept straight through Sheridan, it's small population of approximately 600 people, wiped out in less than two hours. Krystal and Kyle were at their home, not far from the edge of the town, but nothing noticed them there with their fathers rotting corpse by the highway. There wasn't much food in the house, but a lot of tobacco and moonshine and guns. It was a good supply. They were smart about how they used it, and never left the house alone. After a month gathering what they could get to from the more fortunate homes of the small town, they hit the road.
---
It was a year before they trusted anyone to be near them. That trust cost Kyle his life, and Krystal her humanity. She drank heavily when she knew she was safe. She hated herself for living. Hated those who killed her brother. In the end she hunted them down to, killing them. She never gave them mercy. Krystal moved on, never staying in one place long, taking what she could. Unfortunately, she no longer trusted anyone, or anything. It's a world of liars and killers; honesty and honor dead with Kyle.
