To preface- I haven't been on eliteskills in around 10 years - I have no idea how any of it works anymore. I don't even know where you find pictures anymore so I am out of my depth. Anyway, that aside.
100 years ago the world ended. It's not ideal, but you're coping - admirably, its a mess out there. Maybe you're with a group of people, maybe you're on your own. Could be you've escaped unscathed, relatively speaking, anyway. Maybe you and yours made out alright and you've got a safe little commune somewhere where you all take care of each other. Maybe you've got someone to watch over you while you sleep, maybe you don't.
Just because its the end of the world, doesn't mean it can't be about you.
Username: Your username… Name: What’s your character name? Age: Arsenal: Your character may only carry 2 weapons- a main and side. Additional: Anything else you would like us to know about your character?
Username: Seoven Name: Tin Age: around 30 Arsenal: Shotgun and a knife. Additional: Tin is a sociable creature who likes to find the best in people, especially when he can't find it in himself. He thinks he's funny (he's not) (Tin also doesn't have a picture yet because his creator doesn't know where to look for one, but he assures you, he's a handsome devil
The hangover is so brutal, Tin wonders if maybe the world hasn't just got on and finished ending. He's in a cot, somewhere, in some no name, dusty town scraping through the dirt to survive. He can't knock it, they're made of tougher stuff than he is.
The handle of his knife is digging into his side, painfully. That brings reality home quick and he sits- the world tilting unpleasantly, but as he does the movement jostles his shotgun. Not lost, but there by his side.
There is a shadow in the doorway and when he looks up to it, no one is there. His mouth tastes like a toilet, there is blood on his knuckles and the taste of it in his mouth, but for a moment he can almost smell the sunshine, green grass.
Day light is making its way, weakly, through the planks of the walls and roof, dust motes in the air and shadows in the doorway.He grimaces, runs his tongue along his teeth- his upper lip hurts, which explains the blood in his mouth, and on his knuckles. He hopes he won the fight, but supposes if he can't remember it, it doesn't matter, to his ego, anyway.
The sunlight, weak in the shack, almost burns his eyes, so he takes a moment to carefully, [i carefully] pull a pair of sunglasses out of his pack, wrapped like a sacred, blessed object, in everything soft he has. Then he puts them on, and even if he's hungover, the light is less crippling, and they're aviators, so he gets to feel like a badass as he stagger saunters to the only pre-death of the world building standing.
He sits himself at the bar and re-wraps the sunglasses. He'd been hunting and trapping for days, for this settlement, and this meal now is the last of his earnings. He'd had to sharpen his knife after skinning carcasses for meat and skin day and night, but it had got him a week free board, meals.
A man with a black eye claps him on the back. "No hard feelings, right?" Tin boggles at him. The man, big and heavy set, with a friendly smile and flint eyes, laughs.Understanding, Tin gestures at his own mouth and the man nods.
"No hard feelings. I probably started it."
"You're a mouthy shite, yeah."
Tin laughed. He could like this place, the people are hard but good, mean but not cruel. Fair without being soft. Which is why he [i can't] like this place. Why he's leaving today, even though his brain has decided to try to leak out of his ears and nose. [i Fuck what a miserable start.]
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