Post by Zenios on Aug 16, 2013 9:56:48 GMT -5
Ha, remember that time that I made a character on PA who was really cool and then didn't do anything with him? That's happened like three times now.
Also this guy got approved on PA, but I wasn't sure if he needed to be approved or not and since I liked him I'm copypasta'ing him over. c:
Character Name: Alexander Soren Kristiansen
Nickname(s): Sander, less commonly things like Sandman or Sandy
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Age: Twenty-six years
Birthplace: Rivet City, Capital Wasteland
Height: Five feet, eight and one-half inches
Weight: One hundred forty-three pounds
Eye Color: His eyes are a bright emerald green.
Hair Color: Sandy blond, as his nicknames might imply. Naturally possessed of light brown hair, the sun has done a good job of bleaching it.
Hair Style: Sander prefers to wear his hair quite long - about shoulder length. He pulls it back in a ponytail from time to time, but favors a more natural look for the most part - swept back and let loose.
Facial Hair: He often possesses a good layer of stubble. Sander's just too lazy to shave every day.
Skin Color: Sander is pretty well tanned, probably as a result of spending so much time in the sunlight.
Build: Sander is a fairly slight man, muscles well-toned but not particularly bulky. He's thin, but athletic.
Distinguishing Features: Sander's most notable injury is probably the fact that he's missing the pinky of his left hand. If you could persuade him to take his shirt off, you might also find that Sander actually bears a surprising number of tattoos and scars. A couple bullet wounds; a couple knife wounds; bite marks on his left hand, right forearm, and the base of his neck, on the left. Just below where his artery there is. The tattoos don't mean much; the most intricate, meaningful one is a crude depiction of Grognak the Barbarian on his right shoulder blade. The largest is a tribal pattern tattoo occupying most of his left forearm, just a series of intricate lines that he thought looked cool. Sander just likes being inked. His facial features are pretty distinctive as well - they're fairly handsome in an almost noble sense: strong jaw, raised cheekbones, sharp eyes, proud brow.
Profession: Wanderer, mercenary, professional moocher
Skills: Small Guns, Speech, Sneak
Attributes:
Training: Sander's used a gun about as much as anybody in the Wasteland, but he generally refers to rely on luck he adamantly denies is bad (though it most certainly is) and a bit of smooth talking to get out of things. Of course, it's hard to smooth talk the crazies - and that's what the weapons are for.
Other Abilities: He's a pretty fast runner.
Apparel: As far as clothing goes, Sander tries to remain fairly clean-cut. His favorite shirt is easily a blood-red long-sleeved shirt he scavenged in fairly decent condition, dirty though it's become; he sometimes chooses to complement this with a leather jacket. Scavenged cargo pants are his favored type of lower-body attire, and to complete the ensemble Sander owns a pair of decent-looking brahmin-hide boots he almost always wears. He owns a pair of sunglasses for the brighter days, but doesn't often wear them. Leather gloves (minus one finger) are an item he keeps in a pocket, but not necessarily wears at all times.
Weaponry: Like any cautious person, Sander often carries three guns and admits to two. One is a 10mm submachine gun kept in decent condition, not especially clean but which fires okay, usually in a holster strapped to his right thigh. The second is a 9mm pistol often displayed openly in an underarm holster on his left side; and the third, a .357 Magnum revolver loaded with only two bullets, is a weapon with one purpose kept in his left boot. He also owns an old Chinese officer's sword and a decently-sized switchblade, keeping the latter sheathed across his back with the handle close to his left hand. The switchblade, he keeps in either his pocket or right boot. Neither sees much use.
Other Equipment: Sander usually keeps his extra stuff in a satchel: some extra ammunition, a little food, some caps and a stimpak or two.
Affiliation: Himself; whoever pays
Religious Belief: Atheist
Sexual Preference: Heterosexual
Relationship Status: Single
Personality: Sander Kristiansen is, perhaps, oddly idealistic for a wasteland dweller. He likes to think of himself as a fairly principled guy, a negotiator who prefers violence to be his last resort, not his first. He isn't really a big fan of killing people, especially not people who aren't in a position to hurt him, but sometimes you just can't avoid that kind of thing. He has a strong belief in wasteland justice - you'll get what's coming to you, whether at his hands or someone else's. The tough guy image he often sports is one that's really little more than aesthetic: while gruff on the outside, he's really quite a cultured and eloquent individual - this is something that comes to the fore about as often as he opens his mouth.
Sander has a deep-seated hatred for cannibals and raiders, however; much of the reason he wanders the wastes as he does is to get a second chance to finish off the group that killed his old scavenging group.
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Sander grew up within the relatively safe confines of Rivet City, to Thomas and Elisabet - he a fifth-generation American of French-Canadian descent, her a fourth-generation Danish-American. Both worked to guard Rivet City from raiders, mutants, and the like, often on the same shift - at least, up until Thomas was killed on the job a good three months before Sander was born. So Elisabet raised him on her own, named him after her father. It wasn't what Sander might have called an easy life, looking back, but then nothing in the Wasteland really was. He learned to read, to shoot, from her, how to defend himself as he grew up. He also learned morality from his mother, that same kind of idealism with only a hint of jaded outlook to it.
When he was nineteen he left town with a band of scavengers, armed with little else beyond a nine-millimeter pistol and a switchblade - the only real weapons he could have afforded, working as he had for a year or so. The leader of this little band, an older man by the name of Matthew, had decided to take Sander under his wing - gave him a hat to shield himself from the sun, taught him the art of good scavenging. Much of it, really, was just being sure you looked everywhere. The rest, knowing how to get out of trouble. So he taught Sander a bit of being a good speaker, as well, all while the kid scavenged his way into some decent gear before he could start making a profit. He found a nice pair of boots on one of the very first corpses they came across, ones that fit his feet more or less perfectly - those replaced his shoddy old shoes fairly quickly. He found his sword there, too, held on to it initially just because he didn't really have any other weapons and later just because he liked it.
It would have been five or six years later when a group of raiders came upon Matthew's band of scavengers in the night, killing many and capturing others. Sander had been on watch, raised the alarm and then hid while the raiders did their work. Of the maybe fifteen scavengers, ten died; four were captured; and Sander managed to escape in order to return and free his friends. He scavenged some equipment from the dead during his escape: a submachine gun, some ammunition, some medical supplies, and then he went on his way to do what he could. It was at dawn the next morning that Sander returned to the site of the battle, noting six of the surviving raiders--he didn't know how many had been there originally--still scavenging the battlefield and evidently having their fill of the dead.
Sander had made sure to get a good look at those raiders, well enough to remember what they looked like, before he struck. The initial firestorm killed three of them, grouped together; two others retreated in the face of the surprise attack; and the last, perhaps the most crazed of them, had lunged forward to try and take Sander with him. A swing of Sander's sword took off one of the cannibal's arms at the elbow; the backswing, half his other hand. So the cannibal decided to tackle him, then try and rip Sander's throat out with his teeth. The first try took the pinky off the hand Sander shoved into the psychopath's mouth; the second, a chunk out of his other forearm; the third, his neck just a hair too low to kill him before Sander could get his freshly pinkyless hand on his switchblade.
The raiders, however, had been fortunate enough to pile the equipment of those they'd captured. So Sander perused that, vowing to put what he could to good use. He grabbed Matthew's old revolver almost immediately, noting that it only held two more bullets - an excellent kind of revenge weapon, one bullet per surviving scavenger. He tucked that into his boot, grabbed what else he could - mostly food and medical supplies - and then looked for a nice place to lick his wounds and seek medical attention. As luck would have had it, the bite wounds infected rather quickly; only the timely fact that he had stumbled into a trading caravan's path before lapsing into unconsciousness saved him. So he spent a few weeks with that group to repay his debts, and then set off again - he had some scavengers to avenge.
Sander's been wandering the wastes in the six months since, looking and looting. A bit of scavenging here, a bit of mercenary work there keep caps in his pockets and food in his belly, and he's been known to visit Rivet City when in the area to say hello to his mother - still going strong, still a guard there - to keep his spirits up.
Also this guy got approved on PA, but I wasn't sure if he needed to be approved or not and since I liked him I'm copypasta'ing him over. c:
Character Name: Alexander Soren Kristiansen
Nickname(s): Sander, less commonly things like Sandman or Sandy
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Age: Twenty-six years
Birthplace: Rivet City, Capital Wasteland
Height: Five feet, eight and one-half inches
Weight: One hundred forty-three pounds
Eye Color: His eyes are a bright emerald green.
Hair Color: Sandy blond, as his nicknames might imply. Naturally possessed of light brown hair, the sun has done a good job of bleaching it.
Hair Style: Sander prefers to wear his hair quite long - about shoulder length. He pulls it back in a ponytail from time to time, but favors a more natural look for the most part - swept back and let loose.
Facial Hair: He often possesses a good layer of stubble. Sander's just too lazy to shave every day.
Skin Color: Sander is pretty well tanned, probably as a result of spending so much time in the sunlight.
Build: Sander is a fairly slight man, muscles well-toned but not particularly bulky. He's thin, but athletic.
Distinguishing Features: Sander's most notable injury is probably the fact that he's missing the pinky of his left hand. If you could persuade him to take his shirt off, you might also find that Sander actually bears a surprising number of tattoos and scars. A couple bullet wounds; a couple knife wounds; bite marks on his left hand, right forearm, and the base of his neck, on the left. Just below where his artery there is. The tattoos don't mean much; the most intricate, meaningful one is a crude depiction of Grognak the Barbarian on his right shoulder blade. The largest is a tribal pattern tattoo occupying most of his left forearm, just a series of intricate lines that he thought looked cool. Sander just likes being inked. His facial features are pretty distinctive as well - they're fairly handsome in an almost noble sense: strong jaw, raised cheekbones, sharp eyes, proud brow.
Profession: Wanderer, mercenary, professional moocher
Skills: Small Guns, Speech, Sneak
Attributes:
- Strength: 4
- Perception: 6
- Endurance: 4
- Charisma: 7
- Intelligence: 6
- Agility: 6
- Luck: 3
Training: Sander's used a gun about as much as anybody in the Wasteland, but he generally refers to rely on luck he adamantly denies is bad (though it most certainly is) and a bit of smooth talking to get out of things. Of course, it's hard to smooth talk the crazies - and that's what the weapons are for.
Other Abilities: He's a pretty fast runner.
Apparel: As far as clothing goes, Sander tries to remain fairly clean-cut. His favorite shirt is easily a blood-red long-sleeved shirt he scavenged in fairly decent condition, dirty though it's become; he sometimes chooses to complement this with a leather jacket. Scavenged cargo pants are his favored type of lower-body attire, and to complete the ensemble Sander owns a pair of decent-looking brahmin-hide boots he almost always wears. He owns a pair of sunglasses for the brighter days, but doesn't often wear them. Leather gloves (minus one finger) are an item he keeps in a pocket, but not necessarily wears at all times.
Weaponry: Like any cautious person, Sander often carries three guns and admits to two. One is a 10mm submachine gun kept in decent condition, not especially clean but which fires okay, usually in a holster strapped to his right thigh. The second is a 9mm pistol often displayed openly in an underarm holster on his left side; and the third, a .357 Magnum revolver loaded with only two bullets, is a weapon with one purpose kept in his left boot. He also owns an old Chinese officer's sword and a decently-sized switchblade, keeping the latter sheathed across his back with the handle close to his left hand. The switchblade, he keeps in either his pocket or right boot. Neither sees much use.
Other Equipment: Sander usually keeps his extra stuff in a satchel: some extra ammunition, a little food, some caps and a stimpak or two.
Affiliation: Himself; whoever pays
Religious Belief: Atheist
Sexual Preference: Heterosexual
Relationship Status: Single
Personality: Sander Kristiansen is, perhaps, oddly idealistic for a wasteland dweller. He likes to think of himself as a fairly principled guy, a negotiator who prefers violence to be his last resort, not his first. He isn't really a big fan of killing people, especially not people who aren't in a position to hurt him, but sometimes you just can't avoid that kind of thing. He has a strong belief in wasteland justice - you'll get what's coming to you, whether at his hands or someone else's. The tough guy image he often sports is one that's really little more than aesthetic: while gruff on the outside, he's really quite a cultured and eloquent individual - this is something that comes to the fore about as often as he opens his mouth.
Sander has a deep-seated hatred for cannibals and raiders, however; much of the reason he wanders the wastes as he does is to get a second chance to finish off the group that killed his old scavenging group.
[/img][/center]
Sander grew up within the relatively safe confines of Rivet City, to Thomas and Elisabet - he a fifth-generation American of French-Canadian descent, her a fourth-generation Danish-American. Both worked to guard Rivet City from raiders, mutants, and the like, often on the same shift - at least, up until Thomas was killed on the job a good three months before Sander was born. So Elisabet raised him on her own, named him after her father. It wasn't what Sander might have called an easy life, looking back, but then nothing in the Wasteland really was. He learned to read, to shoot, from her, how to defend himself as he grew up. He also learned morality from his mother, that same kind of idealism with only a hint of jaded outlook to it.
When he was nineteen he left town with a band of scavengers, armed with little else beyond a nine-millimeter pistol and a switchblade - the only real weapons he could have afforded, working as he had for a year or so. The leader of this little band, an older man by the name of Matthew, had decided to take Sander under his wing - gave him a hat to shield himself from the sun, taught him the art of good scavenging. Much of it, really, was just being sure you looked everywhere. The rest, knowing how to get out of trouble. So he taught Sander a bit of being a good speaker, as well, all while the kid scavenged his way into some decent gear before he could start making a profit. He found a nice pair of boots on one of the very first corpses they came across, ones that fit his feet more or less perfectly - those replaced his shoddy old shoes fairly quickly. He found his sword there, too, held on to it initially just because he didn't really have any other weapons and later just because he liked it.
It would have been five or six years later when a group of raiders came upon Matthew's band of scavengers in the night, killing many and capturing others. Sander had been on watch, raised the alarm and then hid while the raiders did their work. Of the maybe fifteen scavengers, ten died; four were captured; and Sander managed to escape in order to return and free his friends. He scavenged some equipment from the dead during his escape: a submachine gun, some ammunition, some medical supplies, and then he went on his way to do what he could. It was at dawn the next morning that Sander returned to the site of the battle, noting six of the surviving raiders--he didn't know how many had been there originally--still scavenging the battlefield and evidently having their fill of the dead.
Sander had made sure to get a good look at those raiders, well enough to remember what they looked like, before he struck. The initial firestorm killed three of them, grouped together; two others retreated in the face of the surprise attack; and the last, perhaps the most crazed of them, had lunged forward to try and take Sander with him. A swing of Sander's sword took off one of the cannibal's arms at the elbow; the backswing, half his other hand. So the cannibal decided to tackle him, then try and rip Sander's throat out with his teeth. The first try took the pinky off the hand Sander shoved into the psychopath's mouth; the second, a chunk out of his other forearm; the third, his neck just a hair too low to kill him before Sander could get his freshly pinkyless hand on his switchblade.
The raiders, however, had been fortunate enough to pile the equipment of those they'd captured. So Sander perused that, vowing to put what he could to good use. He grabbed Matthew's old revolver almost immediately, noting that it only held two more bullets - an excellent kind of revenge weapon, one bullet per surviving scavenger. He tucked that into his boot, grabbed what else he could - mostly food and medical supplies - and then looked for a nice place to lick his wounds and seek medical attention. As luck would have had it, the bite wounds infected rather quickly; only the timely fact that he had stumbled into a trading caravan's path before lapsing into unconsciousness saved him. So he spent a few weeks with that group to repay his debts, and then set off again - he had some scavengers to avenge.
Sander's been wandering the wastes in the six months since, looking and looting. A bit of scavenging here, a bit of mercenary work there keep caps in his pockets and food in his belly, and he's been known to visit Rivet City when in the area to say hello to his mother - still going strong, still a guard there - to keep his spirits up.
