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Hope Lover
TiName: Walker
Age: 55
Sex: Male
SPECIAL/Skills:
STR - 5
PER - 7
END - 4
CHA - 5
INT - 5
AGI - 8
LCK - 6
Guns - Proficiency at using weapons that fire standard ammunition.
Speech - Proficiency at persuading others or negotiating, to talk oneself out of a troublesome situation or gain better information and rewards.
Melee Weapons - Proficiency at using blades or bludgeons in close-combat.
Appearance: An even six feet tall, Walker weighs around one hundred and ninety pounds of leathery, redneck-tanned hide and sinew. Though he’s beginning to show his age, one can tell that there’s still iron under all the wrinkles, and his thin, veiny hands are still quick as ever. He squints to see things up close, but his striking, sea-green eyes still have a spark of the old fire. His solid white hair is beginning to recede, but remains thick, and he takes pride in grooming his mustache. A deep, bassy voice rolls out of his jaw with a slow, easy cadence, and a drawling southern accent.
Armor and Equipment:
Field Hand Outfit - A simple checkered shirt of red and white, faded at this point to a dull brown and dirty yellow. It’s tucked into a pair of dark denim jeans, which have been cinched up quite noticeably by a black leather belt–seems Walker’s lost some weight since he started wearing these. Plain brown, square toed cowboy boots are partially hidden by the jeans’ hem.
Bounty Hunter’s Duster - An old gray longcoat, with split tails in the back and an attached rainslicker mantle on the shoulders. Its hem is ragged and even blackened in places. There’s a small patch on the left breast that’s far less sun-faded and dirty than the rest of the coat, but whatever was once sewn there has been torn off.
Old Cowboy Hat - Made from black leather, a striped turkey’s feather has been slipped into the band at its base. It’s been patched more than once–but a bullet hole or two remains in the brim.
Little Old Book - The edges of the leather bound cover are peeling away, and the title has long worn to invisibility. The pages are yellow and crackling. But Walker seems to protect this book more fiercely than any possession he owns.
Weapons:
.357 Magnum Revolver, Long Barrel - A single action revolver that fires .357 Magnum and .38 special rounds. Though visibly worn, this weapon has been maintained meticulously. An old inscription along the barrel reads, “Run On.” The modified barrel length allows the cartridge’s burning powder to act longer on the bullet, thereby pushing it to greater speeds and inflicting greater damage on the target.
Bowie Knife - An old fashioned fighting knife, a staple of American Wild West culture. The long blade’s distinct point allows it to be used for a variety of survival tasks.
Varmint Rifle - A low powered hunting rifle often used for dealing with pests and small game such as geckos. Chambered for 5.56, it’s surprisingly accurate from long range even without a scope or PipBoy’s VATS function–but then again, so is Walker. He traded for this from the locals after arriving to Whitlash…And they’ve learned that if he reaches for his waist, instead of the rifle’s shoulder sling, then it’s not a gecko he’s about to shoot.
Personality:
Walker doesn’t seem to waste much effort, whether it’s speaking or working. But every movement he makes is smooth and precise, a far cry from the jerky or stiff movements one might expect from a man his age. And every word he speaks has a purpose–although he is known to joke around a bit. But beneath a stoic, hard to figure out old man is a warm and caring heart, especially any time women and children are involved. It’s rare to see him angry–or maybe he just doesn’t express it the same as most. It’s a hardness in his eye, a cold glare…a tight jaw, and a steady trigger finger. A combination of utilitarianism and a stern view of good and evil can make Walker seem compassionate and helpful to most, but unyielding to those who would dare threaten the weak or innocent.
Like any old man, he has plenty of stories to tell…just not many about himself or where he came from. But he never butts into a conversation or tries to one-up anyone. What he has to offer, he freely gives…but only to those who ask for it.
History:
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..."
Before the Great War, just about everyone in the great nation of the United States of America could tell you where that quote was from. Now it's hard to find folk who can read, much less know anything about the most widely read book of the Old World. But Walker walks...through valleys, over mountains, across the wasteland. Up out of the south. Far to the north. And he fears no evil.
When he first came to Whitlash, about five years ago, locals saw him from a ways off moving like a man on his last legs. One foot in front of the other…a pause. Arms hanging limp, he would tilt forward as if he were about to collapse. Then the other foot stopped him. One step at a time he came to the town’s edge, and what passed for the town’s guard at the time called out. A small community like this knew the danger of Raiders, of spies who pretended to be hurt or in need only to case the place for reavers and jackals. Walker didn’t answer, and despite warnings he just kept coming, one step at a time. The guard remembers raising a rifle to his cheek, fully prepared to pull the trigger–especially once he saw the glint of a gun under the billowing tails of that long coat–but then, as if by providence, a gust of wind whipped the old hat off Walker’s head. The old man looked up for the first time, staring straight down the barrel, never seeing the face behind it. He just…stood there. And then he said something, but the guard couldn’t hear him over a sudden cloud of dust that passed between them. The guard took pity on this broken down, dead-eyed fellow–just an old man, clearly sick or delusional–and lowered his weapon. Walker spat on the ground, then collapsed.
The town warmed to the stranger, especially once they’d nursed him back to health and he proved himself a hard worker to repay them. But he never quite seemed to warm to them the same way–the most anyone has put together being that he’s from Texas, and that he used to work as some kind of bounty hunter or lawman. They don’t even know if “Walker” is his real name. But any fears that he might be a Raider agent were quelled the night one such gang tried to storm the town, and no one knew about it until the next morning—because seven corpses with spiked bits of armor, tattoos and piercings out the wazoo, and a handful of weapons lay one beside the other right on the outskirts. Six had a single bullet hole through a single vital organ on each body. The last had his innards spilling out of a slash all the way across his belly, and a few tufts of white hair clenched in one fist. They found Walker back in town, sitting on his ramshackle porch with a bandage wrapped around his temple, cleaning his gun and reading from his little book:
“Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed…”
When they asked him what had happened, he raised an eyebrow at them as if that were a stupid question. Then he spat on the ground.
Extra:
Age: 55
Sex: Male
SPECIAL/Skills:
STR - 5
PER - 7
END - 4
CHA - 5
INT - 5
AGI - 8
LCK - 6
Guns - Proficiency at using weapons that fire standard ammunition.
Speech - Proficiency at persuading others or negotiating, to talk oneself out of a troublesome situation or gain better information and rewards.
Melee Weapons - Proficiency at using blades or bludgeons in close-combat.
Appearance: An even six feet tall, Walker weighs around one hundred and ninety pounds of leathery, redneck-tanned hide and sinew. Though he’s beginning to show his age, one can tell that there’s still iron under all the wrinkles, and his thin, veiny hands are still quick as ever. He squints to see things up close, but his striking, sea-green eyes still have a spark of the old fire. His solid white hair is beginning to recede, but remains thick, and he takes pride in grooming his mustache. A deep, bassy voice rolls out of his jaw with a slow, easy cadence, and a drawling southern accent.
Armor and Equipment:
Field Hand Outfit - A simple checkered shirt of red and white, faded at this point to a dull brown and dirty yellow. It’s tucked into a pair of dark denim jeans, which have been cinched up quite noticeably by a black leather belt–seems Walker’s lost some weight since he started wearing these. Plain brown, square toed cowboy boots are partially hidden by the jeans’ hem.
Bounty Hunter’s Duster - An old gray longcoat, with split tails in the back and an attached rainslicker mantle on the shoulders. Its hem is ragged and even blackened in places. There’s a small patch on the left breast that’s far less sun-faded and dirty than the rest of the coat, but whatever was once sewn there has been torn off.
Old Cowboy Hat - Made from black leather, a striped turkey’s feather has been slipped into the band at its base. It’s been patched more than once–but a bullet hole or two remains in the brim.
Little Old Book - The edges of the leather bound cover are peeling away, and the title has long worn to invisibility. The pages are yellow and crackling. But Walker seems to protect this book more fiercely than any possession he owns.
Weapons:
.357 Magnum Revolver, Long Barrel - A single action revolver that fires .357 Magnum and .38 special rounds. Though visibly worn, this weapon has been maintained meticulously. An old inscription along the barrel reads, “Run On.” The modified barrel length allows the cartridge’s burning powder to act longer on the bullet, thereby pushing it to greater speeds and inflicting greater damage on the target.
Bowie Knife - An old fashioned fighting knife, a staple of American Wild West culture. The long blade’s distinct point allows it to be used for a variety of survival tasks.
Varmint Rifle - A low powered hunting rifle often used for dealing with pests and small game such as geckos. Chambered for 5.56, it’s surprisingly accurate from long range even without a scope or PipBoy’s VATS function–but then again, so is Walker. He traded for this from the locals after arriving to Whitlash…And they’ve learned that if he reaches for his waist, instead of the rifle’s shoulder sling, then it’s not a gecko he’s about to shoot.
Personality:
Walker doesn’t seem to waste much effort, whether it’s speaking or working. But every movement he makes is smooth and precise, a far cry from the jerky or stiff movements one might expect from a man his age. And every word he speaks has a purpose–although he is known to joke around a bit. But beneath a stoic, hard to figure out old man is a warm and caring heart, especially any time women and children are involved. It’s rare to see him angry–or maybe he just doesn’t express it the same as most. It’s a hardness in his eye, a cold glare…a tight jaw, and a steady trigger finger. A combination of utilitarianism and a stern view of good and evil can make Walker seem compassionate and helpful to most, but unyielding to those who would dare threaten the weak or innocent.
Like any old man, he has plenty of stories to tell…just not many about himself or where he came from. But he never butts into a conversation or tries to one-up anyone. What he has to offer, he freely gives…but only to those who ask for it.
History:
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..."
Before the Great War, just about everyone in the great nation of the United States of America could tell you where that quote was from. Now it's hard to find folk who can read, much less know anything about the most widely read book of the Old World. But Walker walks...through valleys, over mountains, across the wasteland. Up out of the south. Far to the north. And he fears no evil.
When he first came to Whitlash, about five years ago, locals saw him from a ways off moving like a man on his last legs. One foot in front of the other…a pause. Arms hanging limp, he would tilt forward as if he were about to collapse. Then the other foot stopped him. One step at a time he came to the town’s edge, and what passed for the town’s guard at the time called out. A small community like this knew the danger of Raiders, of spies who pretended to be hurt or in need only to case the place for reavers and jackals. Walker didn’t answer, and despite warnings he just kept coming, one step at a time. The guard remembers raising a rifle to his cheek, fully prepared to pull the trigger–especially once he saw the glint of a gun under the billowing tails of that long coat–but then, as if by providence, a gust of wind whipped the old hat off Walker’s head. The old man looked up for the first time, staring straight down the barrel, never seeing the face behind it. He just…stood there. And then he said something, but the guard couldn’t hear him over a sudden cloud of dust that passed between them. The guard took pity on this broken down, dead-eyed fellow–just an old man, clearly sick or delusional–and lowered his weapon. Walker spat on the ground, then collapsed.
The town warmed to the stranger, especially once they’d nursed him back to health and he proved himself a hard worker to repay them. But he never quite seemed to warm to them the same way–the most anyone has put together being that he’s from Texas, and that he used to work as some kind of bounty hunter or lawman. They don’t even know if “Walker” is his real name. But any fears that he might be a Raider agent were quelled the night one such gang tried to storm the town, and no one knew about it until the next morning—because seven corpses with spiked bits of armor, tattoos and piercings out the wazoo, and a handful of weapons lay one beside the other right on the outskirts. Six had a single bullet hole through a single vital organ on each body. The last had his innards spilling out of a slash all the way across his belly, and a few tufts of white hair clenched in one fist. They found Walker back in town, sitting on his ramshackle porch with a bandage wrapped around his temple, cleaning his gun and reading from his little book:
“Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed…”
When they asked him what had happened, he raised an eyebrow at them as if that were a stupid question. Then he spat on the ground.
Extra:
- When David and Honey came to town two years ago, Walker probably gave them the heebies. For the first week they began to settle in Whitlash, it seemed like they kept running into the old man–even when sneaking out in the brush to hunt. Turn a bend in the trail, open the door to the saloon, or look up for a moment, and there he was. Always at a distance, just…watching. But on the seventh day of these encounters, Walker met David’s eyes, nodded once with a tip of his hat, and then walked away.
- Jimmy’s boundless enthusiasm sometimes earns him an odd look from the locals he works alongside, being that they’re jaded wasteland survivors with little use for ideals and all that. However, he’s had the distinction of being one of a literal handful of people in town Walker has ever smiled at wide enough to show his teeth.
- Eliza was once approached by Walker, who indicated–mostly by hand signs–that he wanted to see her weapon. Wastelanders being curious about her more tech-y weapons wasn’t unusual, but Walker shook his head at that. The .45 was the object of his inquiry, and after examining it in an expert manner he whistled appreciatively and handed it back to her. Then he patted her shoulder and walked away.
- Walker once came to Elijah's shop, placed his revolver reverently on the counter, and said "Trigger spring." with a steely, almost scowling glare. Due to the weapon's age and distinction, Elijah had to machine the part himself rather than simply find a replacement. During the whole process, Walker sat in the corner and watched him the way a mother bear watches someone handling her cub. Afterward they took it to the range, and Elijah saw Walker somehow get two shots out of what seemed like only one fan of the hammer--three times. The older man pursed his lips, nodded very slowly, and paid the repair fee plus 50% without a word.
- The night the Mormons held their first sermon in Whitlash, Walker was seen moving unusually quick through the town thoroughfare. He sat in the front row, intensely focused on the speaker. Then at one point, he spat on the ground, stood up, and walked out. He's refused to have much interaction with most of them since...but once offered Conor to "sit a spell, drink coffee," after getting patched up by the young medic.
- One day, Walker and a few of the locals were having a discussion of some sort that turned into a minor disagreement. It wasn't anything big--no one even remembers what it was about, now. But ever the listener and debater, Alexander thought to offer some intellectual insight to try and convince Walker--the minority--to go along with the rest of the group for peace's sake. His points were succinct and well-worded, and backed up by sound logic. He ended the statement with the question, "--don't you think so?" Walker narrowed his eyes, spat on the ground, then said "No." and walked away.
- When Raven was digging his well, the young man often worked long into the night so that the blazing sun wouldn't be overhead while he was down in that hole. But a lone man in the dark, down a big pit, screams "trapped prey" to wild animals. Once, Raven heard the howling of wolves getting far too close for comfort--followed by four lightning-fast cracks from a gun. By the time he scrambled out of the well, there were only blood spatters and a fading trail where something had been dragged through the dirt. When he asked around no one ever owned up to the deed--but a few days later someone said they saw Walker selling freshly tanned pelts at the general store.
