Abram Osborn

Discussion in 'Character Biographies' started by Anonymous, Apr 8, 2019.

  1. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest

    Abram Osborn
    Basic Information
    Name:Abram Osborn
    D.O.B: March 7, 1968
    Height: 5'10"
    Weight: 177 lbs.
    Episode Information
    First Seen:1-1
    Last Seen:1-1
    Pre-Apoc Occupations
    Botonist:Lab Worker
    Botonist:Vegetable Stand Owner
    USPS:Rural Carrier Associate
    Post-Apoc Occupations
    Survivor: Bookkeeper
    Botonist: Farmer
    Botonist: Herbalist
    Known Information:

    The old man is a traveler, smalltime farmer, botanist,
    and herbalist. Often bustling from camp to camp, he
    frequently has a number of salves, poultices, and herbal
    potions for sale to help the weary, the injured, and the sick.
    While he is said to be a trader, he frequently offers goods
    for free to various groups--often before bustling off, once
    more, to whatever daily task he is about.

    The man is said to have a small hovel in the Valley's
    far eastern farmland, one which rests against dark woods
    and turning paths. While few have traveled to the farm,
    it reportedly houses a number of supply trucks, produce,
    dry rations, and farming equipment. These days, Abram
    Osborn has been seen bustling about the Valley Station
    Mall, either taking brief journal notes of stock, dropping
    off herbal goods, or working on various barricades
    within the complex.


    Abram stands at 5'10" and weighs 176 lbs. His hair is ashy
    for his age, fading into a thick beard. The man has well-defined
    cheekbones and a slim, slightly athletic build.
    He often wears a dark jacket, blue jeans, and worker's boots.

    The man is reportedly in his late 40s or 50s, yet his mop of hair
    and somewhat haggard stature betrays what little youth is left
    in the man. He has a somewhat bulbous nose between
    two bright, blue eyes and bushy, ashy gray eyebrows.

    More often than not, the man can be seen traveling with goods
    and nature's wares for trade via two Alice packs drawn together
    with hemp and slung about his shoulders--an herb bag at his
    side which clips an assortment of woodland instruments and
    tactical tools.

    It's said the man is kind enough, often offering food, water,
    and supplies in whatever abode he resides in. An herbalist,
    botanist, and resident farmer, it isn't rare to see the man
    bustling about the river or woodland edge in search of
    herbal remedies and edibles to satiate local survivors.

    Known to be a somewhat stern man upon first appearance,
    Abram normally folds to that of a kindhearted demeanor to
    those he's lucky enough to call his friends. Still a bit old-fashioned,
    the man might chortle off a moral saying or two in difficult times,
    despite the trials and errors inherent in a desolate landscape
    filled with conflict--and in his own mistakes.

    He's reportedly a father, a husband, and decent enough
    of a friend to those he travels with. Sometimes unabashedly
    'fatherly' to his companions, his is a friendship which is normally
    unwavering to those who get to know him. The man might
    seem haunted by his past, at times, growing increasingly quiet
    as if he's aged yet another few years in just the previous weeks.
    He often disappears for days at a time, only to return with
    fresh foods, a story or two, and resolve to help wherever he can.

    Such a distance and ease of comradery could certainly be
    considered odd, yet the man is allegedly a kindred spirit who
    simply has his quirks about him. It isn't rare for him to nose
    about, often learning about those he travels with as he shares
    a campfire tale or two himself.

    #1 Anonymous, Apr 8, 2019
    Last edited by a moderator: May 7, 2019
  2. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest


    Abram Osborn’s distant Norwegian relatives arrived in South Africa
    in the 1700s and 1800s as fishermen and whalers. The man's great
    grandfather moved to Scotland in the early 1920s, met his wife, hopped
    the pond, and had Gabe Amber in 1932--who then married Nell Osborn in 1964.

    Much of Abram's childhood was spent in the normal manner:
    school, socializing with friends, playing by the river, and going to the park
    were regular occurrences. A man lucky enough to be blessed with a healthy childhood,
    Abram is a brother to four siblings. Between the gaggle of them,
    there was always something to do.

    Young Adulthood:
    Abram started out as Rural Carrier Associate in 1984, part-time,
    and soonbecame a USPS processor at the age of 18. After two years with
    RCA, he stepped up to Mail Carrier, delivering packages to his community.
    The pay was decent, at almost $20 an hour--full federal health
    benefits with full-time and such.

    Abram turned it down to pursue a life as a botanist. He'd put himself
    through community college with a degrees in both plant biology and
    general biology, taking care of pocket expenses with the crossover
    credits and the RCA job.

    It was in these years he took side hobbies related to studying books,
    comparative mythology, and religion. While his career was with the
    drives and plants, his heart soared in the realms of the imagination,
    stories, and self-discovery.

    At age 26, he stepped into his Master's degree program for plant science, too.
    While much of his research kept him quite happy, he was working double shifts
    between his university's paid TA job and package delivery.

    It wouldn't be long before Abram would drop his Master's program in medias res,
    flying solo for the rest of his education. He was soon out in the field and working in
    a local laboratory. From Monday through Friday, he continued work with
    USPS--creating a nice schedule for himself.

    By 30, he married Irene Sekker and had two children. He raised them with care,
    alongside Irene, and watched them grow from childhood into adulthood.
    Throughout Abram's 30s, he lived a peaceful life running packages and studying plants.
    At age 38, he left any semblance of formal education once more;
    he left the lab and opened a vegetable stand.

    Middle-Age Years:
    It wouldn't be long before Abram left the Postal Service, either.
    Before long, most of his time was dedicated to raising crops as a
    part-time farmer--growing a variety of fruits and veggies.
    He began things the old-fashioned way, with hard work and creativity.

    What began as a roadside, swap-shop project destined to fail under
    the pressure of big-name produce providers soon found its grounding.
    Irene and he soon balanced the harvest with the business side of things,
    scaling a small business into a free-form produce shop.
    The two would spend a majority of the decade there, raising and
    selling healthy produce at bargain prices.

    Several times, local grocers offered to buy out the business--to which
    Abram humbly refused. The man isn't against big business, but he prefers
    equal opportunity for the less fortunate--as well as those who need to
    save the spare change, so to speak.

    It was around this time Abram started attending the Lutheran church
    alongside his wife, to get back in touch with his spiritual side.
    His background in mythology research remained throughout his
    college years and adulthood, too—and before long the man was
    teaching scripture at the church as Father Abram Osborn.

    Eventually, work was a little too demanding for him to continue.
    Plus, his own background in comparative mythology made it a
    little difficult to connect with the age-old diehard patrons of the church.

    Regardless, he still returned to teach youth groups and at high
    school religious retreats when possible. the couple's shop remained
    fully stocked, visited, and successful into the present time, too.

    Throughout his late 40s, nothing much had changed.
    Abram is a family man, through and through. He kept in touch
    with his kids, worked the shop with his wife, and was simply
    happy for the breath in his lungs and the clothes on his back.

    He'd soon find himself as the sole surviving member of the
    Kirby Street Neighborhood Homes quarantine of West Point, KY
    (a rather small holdout, during initial U.S. Armed Forces effects)
    alongside his wife. Abram soon headed east—towards the river
    in hopes of city-wide evacuation.

    The world was crumbling. Amidst the crowd of similar surviving
    denizens, he was separated from his wife in the fray.
    His two children were reportedly safe in their respective adulthood
    homes of Louisville, KY, and Orlando, FL, yet he yearned to
    reconnect with them at the soonest opportunity.

    When the Valley Bridges were blown, any immediate hope of
    locating his wife faltered; his best bets stemmed from
    Knox County--whispers of a larger quarantine, deep within the Valley.

    He traveled alone, more often than not, spare a survival pack
    and a large walking stick at his side. The man was lucky enough
    to not meet any adversaries or looters along the way down
    the highway—as he mostly relies on ole’, good-natured
    Kentucky hospitality to those he meets.

    Into the Fold
    It wouldn't be long before a wayward looting venture at a
    grocery store would yield tragedy for many of his current companions,
    as well as the introduction to the new: Lincoln, Arthur, Theo,
    Russel, and Wes would soon become his newest travel
    companions--each with trials, tales, victories, and losses of their own.

    The crew pressed onward, eastward, for hope of an established
    quarantine--or some semblance of hope--in the wayward
    wastelands of a falling Kentucky. It wouldn't be long before
    the group made it to the Valley Station Mall.

    Into the Breach
    It wouldn't be long before the mall quarantine collapsed into chaos.
    Alongside his companions, Abram Osborn departed the mall not two days
    before its eventual explosion. Soon after, disaster would strike again--separating
    Abram from his friends. Amidst the backdrop of a smoky skyline engulfed in
    the shadows of collapsed attempts to rebuild, Abram took to his car.

    He'd soon find his current home abandoned amidst a cindering pile of metal scrap and
    wood debris. He made haste to another shelter, scouring the local area for
    word or sight of his companions.

    Into the Woods
    Beyond the Red Eyes, scrounging survivors, and the good and wicked rests
    stranger shreds of societies which have crumbled. Abram's journey would
    soon lead him to the oddities which rest beyond the thickets of well-traveled
    woods. His entire world turned upside down, soon, would be turned inside
    out upon stumbling into a place between places--where, likely, no others
    have lived to tell the tale.

    #2 Anonymous, Apr 10, 2019
    Last edited by a moderator: Apr 20, 2019
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  3. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest



    (OOC Note: All content within this bio is fictional;
    none of it reflects the RPers OOC thoughts or opinions.
    Often, journal entries will feature altered names and
    perspectives to maintain the integrity and OOC info
    about other characters--so as to prevent metagaming. Cheers.)

    February 14, 2015: Campfire One

    I sit aside a low-glow campfire betwixt forgotten elements of soon-to-be old:
    A backpack with no label, navy blue; Timberland hiking boots,
    a Christmas present from Irene; and a collection of eggs, herbs, and a
    carton of milk--the only mainstay of a broken journey to salvage what
    one might salvage from the Knob Creek market which is now bloodied
    like our clothes and the bodies we've scrambled from.

    I feel it is time to create a collection of writings from the past and present.
    Forgive me, to those who stumble upon this mess of scrap and musings--
    it is not orderly. By all marks, I haven't the faintest of what our futures hold.
    We make for the police checkpoint, nearest the crossroads between Hayford
    Drive and Retail Row. In high hopes, those we meet will be friendly.

    I suspect we'll soon lose connectivity to the digital world as our batteries drain;
    as our watch batteries falter, and as wall clock hands stagnate,
    it will be all one can manage to tell the time--or the date. For this reason,
    such writings will be listed in order according to the campfires which host them.
    This current campfire exists off the side of a dug and bailed canal nearest
    Third Avenue on the cusp of The Highway Debris.

    Forward: I have scrapped together the remains of a torn notebook of poetry
    Irene once gave me, too. At times, these entries may hold her poetry.
    It is said, in tales such as The Iliad and The Oddyssey, that one who prays
    to God & the muses of faith is one such soul redeemed and protected in life and death.
    I pray for my wife, and her safety. I pray for my two children, Russel and Anne.
    For myself: I pray only for a restored faith in that which I have lost:
    May it be enough to guide myself, my friends, and my family abroad into a
    semblance of hope in these dark times.

    February 15, 2015: Campfire One

    It is nearly morning, but the campfire grounds are unsettled from the day just before.
    Scott is fearful, witnessing the horrid atrocities we've witnessed.
    I am fearful; I am fearful for these same reasons. Monk weaves a basket from
    pine needles stowed in a grocery bag, deep in thought. Carlo questions why
    we linger upon the cusp of woodland gunfire reports--which strike the sky,
    to the East. Or is it North?

    I cannot help but question this myself, despite an attempt to appear as a man
    with some sense of direction. As I see, currently, yet another joins our fold as
    we press onward. Yet we are all lost: Those of the rambling brook, clambering
    in resigned silence and with a protest against fate itself. Suffice it to say,
    words escape our band when asked where we've arrived from.

    No, an older man might say to the wandering passerby betwixt the thickets
    and dug and bailed canal. Yet hope soon drives me. Hope for a reprieve off the road.
    Perhaps the police checkpoint will yet provide sanctuary for the lost, weary, and
    hungry--if only our troupe can yield to the gamble of roadmen in black and blue.
    Still, hope has gotten me this far, lest it not disprove itself in these wandering times.

    Februay 16, 2015: The Mall

    What much more can be said? Men, women, and children seek shelter
    from the same shelters which’ve fallen before. Where the mall is considered,
    I only pray for a reprieve from my own past—as well as the decisions we,
    as humans, have made in such dark times. The mall, itself, isn’t quite awful.
    In fact, it is a testament to the goodwill of mankind to gather such a diverse
    population beneath one roof.

    Februay 21, 2015: Gas Station

    Still, as they say: What goes up must also come down. After several
    disagreements with the locals—namely, several such who were delegating
    tasks and armed with search parties, myself and my companions left the place.
    Disaster followed, and before we could turn back there was a hail fire of
    firearm reports. Lest we be caught in the crossfire, we remained elsewhere
    until contact could be made.

    Februay 23, 2015: Campfire Two

    It wasn’t until after we’d learned of the apparent breach in security we’d
    contributed to. We aren’t the first knuckleheads to fall into such a folly,
    however, and we certainly won’t be the last. I only hope those in the
    mall are safe—wherever they are. It wasn’t until I was once more separated
    from my friends that I witnessed smoke upon the horizon—brimming
    straight from the belly of the beast itself.

    February 26
    I bare witness to either an astounding figment of the imagination or
    a willful act of God or the devil in these frigid woods. I cannot even begin
    to recount the events in writing, as they are too extraordinary for the
    perception--let alone some haphazard, guided attempt to capture the ephemeral
    and commit it to these hands. I have witnessed a miracle.

    February 28
    I fear I may have lost my voice. Mercy. Grief. Mercy.

    March 20: Farm
    They say lettuce letters and spinach speech impeach arching logic in a pinch.
    I do not believe this. I believe the brain is a beehive; believe words,
    sordid or dizzying, to be drizzled honey.

    I believe we walk through ourselves—
    that we speak through others—in outstanding ways.
    I believe people are not the enemy.
    I feel fear is.

    It is greed. It is pride driven deep, dependent on the same indented
    fear which precedes all. Every day, I see the world lose another honeycomb
    mind like another anther or pistil stepped on by stigma, or a pistol.
    And then, no pollen for bees.

    I love the English language. I will not apologize for this.
    But I love those I've been lucky enough to have met in my travels.
    I apologize for any mistakes I've made which have hurt them.

    It is a thought contagion which ought to gain an entourage for more
    than red rage, but does not. As the sick slice like kissing knives,
    the well let themselves become worse—or say some worrisome things.

    Things which could neg an eagling eggling before it hatches,
    clipping its wings with wit or a fat lip.

    This is why those which fly fairly are often alone—
    lo and behold, a beehive behaves and has astounding honey
    when alone but not lonely. All who wander are not lost.

    Good folks say this:
    If you feel alone when surrounded by people, there is a problem.
    What they do not say is this:
    Lonely folk tend to impose loneliness on others.

    We live in interesting times. The Internet is gone—
    and with it depletes the inherent power-play of negging which
    has saturated our culture. Yet, still, a red pill methodology survives
    which fails to capture the spirit of Marcus Aurelius’s labors in Meditations,
    replacing it with shallow, shared hatred for one another which masks
    self-loathing derived from the same fear of people in general.

    And so, the cycle continues: Men and women, young and old,
    spreading disparity without once pausing to ask themselves if they,
    themselves, spread such callousness which isolates all things unfamiliar,
    lambasts discourse, and negs out of fear—a notion which pegs the
    truly kind as sycophantic and slowly bleeds magnanimity until
    magnanimous actions are but a distant memory.

    If you discriminate, you are not a kind fellow.

    I pray to remember the words of my father, a man named Gabe:
    “You can tell the quality of a person not by how they treat their superiors,
    but how they treat their inferiors.”

    I will amend this in apologizing for my own father’s culture which
    nurtured some hierarchy, itself. He was an earthly man, a bird-watcher,
    a hard worker, and dear friend to all who knew him.
    But he was, admittedly, a striking man who was at times bullheaded in his beliefs.

    My wife, Irene, her words—they are more sufficient:
    “We are all equals. Assume nothing.”

    April 24: Farm
    I love people.
    And I will try, my very best, to do them justice.

    For this reason, I pray for courage and strength to speak my mind
    against those who may simply laugh me off as an 'insane person,' as well
    as against those who might promote such a response to silence true words
    by playing upon the misfortunes of those who truly need help.

    I write, now, with a green pen I have found in the grass near a compost pile.
    My pencil has run dry, and my voice has returned.
    And, by God, I have a story to tell:

    Deep in the thickets of Valley station, there are blessings and horrors.

    Statues with names, they are. Screaming, crying, angels which depict
    and pick the minds of the meandering, daring, and lost alike.
    They…whisper like horse whisperers, funneling and projecting
    the various terrors, griefs, and testaments of men and women in the
    likeness of woodland animals.

    One, it is named 'Mercy.' Mercy rests in the distant Southern Woods,
    resting atop a stout plot of land which, on map, is depicted as a
    hunting cabin residence. Mercy, the angel, hath projected itself in
    the likeness of a large, brown, bear which emplores the imagination
    and employs good-natured intentions. It is a kind being, one which I
    feel blessed to have met.

    The second being, it is a wraith masquerading as 'Grief.' Grief appeared,
    to me, as a thundering, ravenous black bear which sought to rip me limb
    from limb. I broke my jaw upon a slick stone, losing my tongue and voice.
    As soon as my body folded to defeat and my soul's demise, the bear vanished.
    Along with it--so, too, did my injuries. I felt muted by the encounter, having lost
    semblance of 'voice' in my own head and succumbed to the failures of idle hands
    which could commit no word to paper.

    These beings are separate from the Red Eye pandemic, sprung from the depths
    of the darkest thickets, gliding between the trees in noteworthy landmarks like
    creatures of the night.

    To whomever reads this journal: Do not travel the woods alone--and never without light.
    I will press onward to study these creatures, may I be blessed or cursed to commit
    what remains of my old years to fathoming the unexplainable phantasms which rarely
    lurk between the trees in the land of a red river.
    #3 Anonymous, Apr 10, 2019
    Last edited by a moderator: Apr 29, 2019
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  4. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest


    People and Notes
    (Names in Alphabetical Order)
    Anne Osborn (Daughter)
    Safe, hopefully, in Orlando.
    A natural leader, strong, and quick-witted,
    Anne is the most wonderful daughter
    in the world.
    Gabe Osborn (Father)
    A good man, and the best father a man
    could ask for. While stubborn, the man's
    inner wisdom is carried on.
    I miss him dearly.
    Irene Osborn (Wife)
    I hear her whispers in the wind.
    I know she is alive, out there, somewhere.
    By Lord, I will find her.
    Isabelle Osborn (Sister)
    I pray she withstood the initial outbreak
    shock at the hospitals. Kind and loving,
    she is the best sister a man could ask for.
    Ned Osborn (Brother)
    Kept us together, through many
    rough family years. I only pray he
    brings a similar sense of comradery to
    those lucky enough to meet him in
    their travels.
    Nell Osborn (Mother)
    The best mother a man could ask for,
    and wise in her many years. I miss her
    Russel Osborn (Brother)
    One of the sharpest men out there.
    I am sure he's safe, wherever he is.
    Russel Osborn (Son)
    He was in Louisville when it fell.
    I pray to hear from him soon, may the
    Lord provide and protect him in these
    dark times.
    Seth Osborn (Brother)
    Competitive, and a prankster,
    but always was one of the best brothers
    a man could ask for. I miss him dearly,
    and I pray he is alright.
    Like Family
    (Names in Alphabetical Order)
    Arthur Hillock
    We bury the past, a little more, every day.
    A man seemingly haunted by his ghosts, as we
    all are. Still, saved my neck more 'n once.
    Arthur is truly a good man who finds himself
    pinned between the poor deeds and mistakes
    of others often. I pray for his safety,
    wherever he may go.
    Margaret Cooper
    I will keep her safe, best I can.
    She's incredibly bright, a tenacious farmer,
    and a caring person. I only hope I do not fail
    to keep trouble away from her.
    She has a soaring spirit, one which
    I feel will take her far in life.
    Theo Garcia
    The lad reminds me much of my own son.
    Quick-witted, sharp, and much more to him
    than meets the eyes. I will try to keep him
    safe, best I can. We have traveled a long ways,
    our group. Through safety, danger, highs,
    and lows. We were separated,
    at the storage lots. I pray for his safety.
    (Names in Alphabetical Order)
    Cody Shepherd
    Man has quite the reputation, and he is both
    cunning and kind. I can't say or justify some
    of the mistakes he's made--but I can't say I
    haven't made some of my own. Wherever he is,
    I'm sure he's makin' the world a little brighter.
    Don Jones
    Don is a good man, a tough worker,
    and hella' quick-witted. He's one of them
    types who flies into action, and I only pray
    this world doesn't pull him down. I'm keen
    on letting the past remain in the dirt, and I feel
    we're gettin' along on better footing--both as
    trade partners and in a growin' friendship.
    Lincoln Whittaker
    An incredibly hard worker, tough 'round the gills,
    and a man who puts action before words.
    Whit's a good friend, and I can only hope the
    world is treatin' him alright wherever he is.
    Been keepin' an eye out for him, but can't
    seem to get track.
    Wesley Glover
    The kid speaks with his heart, which is
    much more than most folk can do, these days.
    Not much fools him, and I'd wager he's
    doing alright--wherever he may go.
    (Names in Alphabetical Order)
    Abigail Baker
    I haven't seen her in a while, but I do
    hope she is doing alright--and that she
    finds her grandparents.
    I pray for the young woman.
    Chelsea Barnes
    She is incredibly young to have found herself
    in a world so violent, and I only hope she
    finds those who will give her a kind home--
    away from the monstrosities of the world,
    if this is even possible.
    Clarence Emerson
    A bit quiet, but seems like a decent man.
    It's nice, knowin' I ain't the only older fella,
    around here, who isn't a youngin' runnin'
    round every which way. Man has a kind heart.
    Heaven Adkins
    One of those fellas who seems like they've
    got plenty of calculations runnin' between the ears.
    Don't know much about her, but where brief
    encounters go I'd say she seems like she has a kind heart.
    Isaac Castillo
    Seems like a good man, a sharp planner,
    and one of the more reliable fellows folks
    can be lucky to be near. Wishin' him well,
    wherever his travels might take him.
    Ivy Lance
    She's a sweetheart, just from first
    impressions. I feel she's had a tough childhood,
    but I feel her type of bright personality will
    make her plenty of good-natured friends.
    Jill Jackson
    She is multifaceted, quick, accommodating,
    and rather polite--given her likely profession in
    a fallen world. We have an interesting friendship,
    Jill and I. No, I don't trust her, not entirely.
    Still, I feel much about her--like Beth--is slightly
    misunderstood. Regardless, I only hope to not
    get on her bad side--and, hopefully, help her move
    away from the darker shades of life's modern
    offerings. I hope she is alright.
    Lexi Cole
    Kind enough woman, and knows her way
    about the mall. Haven't seen her in ages.
    Leslie Ulysses Kerr
    He seems like a good-natured man who
    sometimes loses himself in his anger.
    I wish I could help him, if possible.
    I feel he's misunderstood, but that
    --like most of us--isn't impervious to
    mistakes. I hope he does well on his
    travels, wherever he may go.
    Locke Hawthorne
    Good Lord, this man is a kind soul.
    It is refreshing to meet someone so
    clear-hearted and who looks for the best in
    people. I do hope to see him again,
    and I feel he brings out the brightest in people.
    Logan Spencer
    Don't know her that well, but she seems
    like she's a bright young woman.
    Her and her husband have a small farm,
    in the outskirts, near my own.
    Octavia Benette
    I can't make heads or tales of her, frankly,
    though I don't know her well. She is kind
    enough, though, and she is a woman of medicine.
    I also feel she is a rather quick wit,
    I hope she does alright on her travels,
    wherever it is she and Cody have gotten off to.
    Omar Foch
    I don't know him well, but he seems like
    he is a good fellow, a good planner, and a
    true-blue country fellow who just wants to
    help folks. I wish him the best on his travels.
    Miles Krueger
    We've had our spouts, no doubt 'bout it.
    I can't say I agree with his decisions, morally,
    but I'd be lying if I said the man wasn't simply
    honest about what we all hide. He is quick, decisive,
    and calculating--which is frightening to be in the
    presence of. Still, he also appears to be a man who's
    damned to the devil's work for a gaggle of fellows
    who're just as guilty--including myself.
    Much like Jill, I sometimes can't make
    heads or tales of him--but, for what it
    is worth, his decency and ability to help others
    thrive appears to weigh things out. Odd man, indeed.
    Robert Winston
    He seems like a kind enough fellow.
    Works on cars, and seems like a
    mechanical whiz--which is both rare and
    valuable to those he likely encounters.
    Russel Cruz
    Haven't seen the fellow in a while,
    but I do hope he is alright wherever
    the wind might take him.
    Serena Evans
    I am so, so sorry Serena. You were a
    good person of ingenuity, and a welding guru.
    I doubt I will ever forget what happened,
    for as long as I live.
    Summer Dawson
    I. . .I saw her be ripped apart by
    the Red Eyes. I can't even think of it.
    Don't know much about her,
    but I'd imagine she's seen a few
    oddities on the roads she's traveled--
    or lack of roads, rather.
    Thomas Parish
    He is another good young man who has
    found himself in the depths of our world's
    darkest hour. I only hope he manages to
    withstand the wanton violence and atrocities.
    I do hope to see him again, and I hope he
    is doing alright--either bein' watched over
    by those who might guide him, or by himself
    as he grapples with the world's troublesome questions.
    Tom Spencer
    He seems like a good fellow, and he speaks
    with a sort of cutting grace which is rare, these days.
    I do not know him well, but I do hope he and
    his wife are alright, on their farm.
    Tyler Aaron
    He seems like a good-natured man who
    lost control of his own thoughts. I do not know
    much about him, sans what he has done--
    or has tried to do--to the mall.
    (Names in Alphabetical Order)
    Bethany Hartman
    I. . .I tried. I have failed. When I think of Bethany,
    I wonder what we have become, as people.
    I believe there was a chance. A chance to help her.
    A chance to develop something which might not
    have ended in bloodshed. But I cannot deny the truth:
    She would have hurt people--possibly, many people.
    If'n there was a way to go back, I don't know if
    things would have turned out differently--
    just with more of the same bloodshed; red-stained hands,
    and the pain of innocent people.
    John Mcmalian
    I do not know where the man has gone,
    but I feel he is a loose powderkeg waiting to explode.
    Still, I feel there are those who might be misunderstood--
    and I pray his is a road which takes him in a
    brighter direction. I pray for him,
    but I am incredibly wary of him.
    Bad Trouble
    (Names in Alphabetical Order)
    The Red Eyes
    . . .
    Campfire One
    Cody's Place
    Mercy Place
    Grief Place
    Police Checkpoint
    Storage Lots
    #4 Anonymous, Apr 10, 2019
    Last edited by a moderator: May 7, 2019
  5. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest

    -bio, relationships, thangs, n' stuffs
  6. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest

    update 2
  7. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest

    -updated green book
    -updated red book
    -added char personality
    -cleanliness with spoiler tags n stuff
  8. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest

    -Updated Journal, March 20
    -Updated Journal, April 24
    -Small Relationships bump
  9. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest

    -Updated relationships
    -Added known info for IC use
    -New picture
    -New song
    -All that jazz