Eugene Hart

Character Name: Eugene Hart

Nickname(s): Mister Hart, Vicious Hart, Yu-jeen (Native Name), Heart

Race: Caucasian Human/Semi-Native

Sex: Male

Age: 31

Birthplace: An unknown native shack, far into the wilderness of stumpy point



Height: 6'2

Weight: 188lb

Eye Color: Right eye is Dark Green, the Left Eye has a Blood-Red white-of-the-eye and an orange-green Iris

Hair Color: Dirty Black

Hair Style: Smooth Wave, with several bald patches around the back

Facial Hair: Clean Shaven for the most part, occasional piece of stubble

Skin Color: Pale Peach

Build: Eugene has a lightweight build, but this doesn't mean he is in any way weak. He is more muscled than your average wastelander, but is clearly underweight/underfed

Distinguishing Features:

Eugene's left eye is hidden beneath an Eye-Patch, and beyond that it is sewn up. Beneath the stitches and ragged cloth, Eugene's left eye is extensively mutated, giving him the ability to see in a sort of Radiation-Induced Thermal Vision. However, this became a nuisance for him when he planned to enter civilised Wolven towns and thus he sewed it shut when he was 28.

He also has a piece of his nose missing on the left side, exposing his left nostril. This, along with eye-patch, always seem to crop up in small conversation and he always says the same thing; "A 'gator took it off... tha's all I'm sayin' about it..."

His mouth, to all who meet him, seems to be a peculiar shape. This is the least distinguishing, but people still remember his "funny-shaped" mouth.



Profession: Native Raider (formerly), Wandering Wasteland "Doctor", Drifting Alcoholic

Skills:

Medicine/First Aid, extensive (however most of his surgical and practical skills were learned from experience over time and experimentation, making his methods and skills often very makeshift showing that his medical skill is still very amateur for a man who has been helping people that long)
Survival, moderate-extensive
Small Firearms, moderate
Persuasion/Speech, moderate

Training:
Being taught how to read and write was rare in his village, but it allowed Eugene to read the few books they possessed; extensively. The one book he read the most was the infamous book carried by many Wasteland Doctors; The D.C. Journal of Internal Medicine, first edition. He became the healer of his Native Tribe. When people were injured, they came to him. When people didn't feel right, they came to him. Although having only limited medical supplies, Eugene made a good job of keeping his people alive before he left... or so he believed. His skills were amateur and makeshift and because the natives didn't know any better, he felt like he was a professional; an expert.

Food and clean water were scarce in his village, so any of the latter two had to be fought over. Eugene rarely won the food from the must-strong mutated native children, and so had to make do with insects and plants. Over time, he made a list of what was safe to eat and what wasn't, and it never stopped growing... even after he left the village

The village made a lot of what they had from raiding traders and travelers that wondered past. In the beginning, they used guns to intimidate and kill people, but as Eugene grew older he tried a different tactic; persuasion. He persuaded people to come to the village, or that he had been injured and needed help (luring them into a trap). Up until his departure, he performed both of these techniques well.

Other Abilities:

The all-seeing eye
When he plucks up to strength to open his left eye (after painfully removing the stitching), he can see the heat signatures left by animals, which comes in useful at night or in swampy, rural areas. However, he has to shut his right eye to utilise is properly, making his shots less accurate and he also has to bear the pain of even opening it, as he never prefers not to show it in public areas e.g. towns, villages or to wanderers/traders.

I can smeeeeell youuuuuu...
His nose may not be pretty, but it sure is useful. Over time, Eugene has learned how to track certain animals or plants by their scent, and his partial loss of vision and exposed nostril helped him adapt to make his sense of smell more acute. However, some smells he cannot bear (mainly those of the swampfolk), sometimes making him throw up if they are that bad.

DeathJaws? That's cute...
When nobody around you knows how to cook and fuel for a fire is damn near impossible to find, you just have to tear off the meat from a slain animal with your teeth... Eugene had been doing this ever since he could walk, making his jaw and teeth much stronger and more adept.

Apparel:

Eugene is often seen sporting a dirty brown longcoat, accompanied by a smoke-damaged, dirtied shirt and tie, a pair of torn grey-brown slacks and a pair of water-proof wellington boots. Sometimes he is also seen wearing a spearhead, tipped with blood, around his neck which is held there by a rope necklace. Fingerless gloves are also part of his common attire.

Weaponry:

Webley MK VI Service Revolver /w HD Cylinder



Baretta TomCat Pocket Pistol, carried in a leather pocket holster in Eugene's longcoat



Other Equipment: Mold-Covered Duffle Bag, containing: 9mm Pistol Ammo(40), 357. Magnum Ammo(32), Several Bottles of Purified Water(4), Eugene's own "Alligator Steaks"(2), Several Books and Magazines on Medicine(3)



Affiliation(s): Himself, His native tribe and whoever he makes friends with

Religious Belief: None (although he was taught to believe in some kind of holy spirit)

Sexual Preference: Prefers to keep it unknown

Relationship Status: Single/ Not readily available

Personality: Eugene grew in savagery, and firmly believes that the ends justify the means. He knows certain things have to be done, no matter how immoral or evil they may seem. He is often cynical among company, wisecracking and moaning. He is also very open about most things, aside from his native background (especially in Wolves-controlled territory, such as the Southern Shores). He is also prideful and stubborn, the kind of person who wouldn't stop arguing if you ever got into an argument, no matter whether they were right or wrong.

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Born amongst ashes... Eugene was born prematurely, so it was unlikely he would survive in the native's society (with there being no modern medicine). However, he seemed to have inherited his father's powerful immune system (however, this was odd as his father wasn't a native). He was less disfigured and mutated than other children his age, due to his father not being a native of the tribe, which lead to him being bullied ironically.

His mother, corrupted by the swampfolk's superstitious pseudo-xenophobic propaganda, was encouraged to abandon Eugene and leave his father to raise him (which was probably for the best). His father taught him to read with the few books they had for his age (four-five) and taught him to secretly go against all the strange, twisted, degenerate traditions of the Swampfolk, and that is the one lesson he never forgot.

By the time he was 10, his deformities were in clear sight. Half his nose hadn't developed, and the gruel-like food he had been living off had made his upper lip slowly disappear to suit his meals. He begun to take an interest in the books they had taken from travelers passing by, and begun to read them. To his father's surprise (and delight), he had begun reading and easily understanding "The D.C. Journal of Internal Medicine". The swampfolk, although scornful of him and his father, had decided this could be an advantage to them. On his eleventh birthday, he received his first patient; a man with a broken leg. He was short on supplies, but found that a damaged medical brace and some leather belts tied around his leg along with the little amount of bandages they had could serve as temporary treatment.

That was the first of many incidents. He often thought his medical skills were excellent, but the Swampfolk wouldn't complain no matter how wrongly he treated their ailments (not knowing any better). Three years later, the Swampfolk had grown wise to his father's secret warnings of the Swampfolk's dark religion. When he was fourteen, his father disappeared. The swampfolk claimed an Old World ghost took him, but he was wise to their act. He ran up to the leader of their village, jumping as he got close and holding on tightly as he ripped chunks of flesh out of the leader's arm using only his well-adapted teeth. The Swampfolk, although angered and ready to finally be rid of him, knew that this was a pivotal moment in their history; someone had challenged their leader.

The leader was understanding of the boy's pain, not having had a father or mother himself. Eugene didn't care. The leader agreed to let the boy remain with them, provided he healed and treated his arm. Eugene agreed, his peculiar smile playing across his face...

He began with the old leather belt treatment, but just as the leader was becoming comfortable, Eugene retrieved his rusted kitchen knife and dug it through the leader's arm and into his auxiliary artery (having known where it is from reading medical documents and books). The leader screamed and began to bleed... bleed hard. The blood ran like the river Styx down his arm, some of it squirting upwards and creating a shower of blood; a red rain. Slightly disorientated, the wounded leader tried to stand... tried, and failed. Eugene grabbed one of the leather belts, placing it around the leader's neck with glee, tightening it's grip. A struggle followed, with the wounded and disorientated leader losing. This was the end of an era for the natives.

The 14 year-old boy emerged from the leader's cabin, bent down and gritting his teeth, the dead body of the leader on his back. He placed it down on the ground in the center of the village, a great weight being lifted from him; from the tribe. Blood seeped into the murky water, making a dark green-red colour. The natives all came out, astonished; astonished that anyone had challenged "the leader". Eugene proclaimed that he was the new leader, by right.. and who would dare to argue?

He took the tribe forward and out of their backward ways. He taught them all to read in the following year, and how to write in the next 3 months after that. Once they had been educated, he had to show them how to fight. Trading caravans passed through the area quite rarely, due to the haunting, disturbing rumours. The ones that dared to enter were making a costly mistake... Eugene taught the tribe formations and strategies, and in the next six months they managed to raid three caravans, providing them with limited but sufficient supplies. However, many of the natives had degenerated far beyond his aid, and were unteachable. These were used as muscle for the tribe, to help carry heavy objects and attack caravans. It was not until the Wolves claimed the land that more caravans came through...

Rumours of the wolves had now reached the native tribe. Eugene, only 16 years-old, had to make a decision;stay and fight or run. Most of the neighboring native tribes had made the decision to stay.. But Eugene saw the wisdom and advantages of moving on; not just this once, but permanently being nomadic... He cared not for the tribes opinion, and began moving further and further into the unexplored wilderness. They came across a ruinous Manor House; untouched by any scavengers it seemed... they entered in their battle formation, but that broke up as soon as they saw it.

Bodies... hanging from the ceiling. At least twenty. And one of them... one of them seemed familiar. Eugene saw his father, in the center of all the hanging corpses, a smile frozen on his cold, dead face. Tears came to his eyes, but soon departed. At least he knew the tribe hadn't killed him... but he still wanted to know who did.

The tribe gathered the dead bodies and scavenged what they could from them: weapons, food and armour. Eugene found a particular body in one of the closets, and began to remove his clothing and weapons. It was slightly big on him, but that left room to grow... figuratively and physically.

And so the tribe went on for many years, peacefully and with plentiful supplies and weapons. Until one day, 12 years after they had moved in... they came... maybe they were the original inhabitants of the old manor house, but more likely just raiders. The ones responsible for the hanging bodies... could it be them? They marched in through the big doors, Type 56 assault rifles in hand, dressed in Leather Armour with the appearance and expressions of your generic raider. They seemed to be an independent, not part of a larger group. Many were listening to the "wiseman" of the tribe in the main hall, and thus many were slain by the myriad of lead flying every which way but up. Eugene was alone, in his room... alone... as every single member of his group was slain, he sat alone in his room, hiding...

He waited, quietly, patiently... until they had given up trying to open his reinforced, locked metal door and scavenged all they could from the tribe. Eugene emerged, crying for the time in a long time. His work was nothing now, all his teachings, all his raids meant nothing. He ran outside, still crying, crying like a child.. until he reached a pool a clear, clean water.. a small pond of some kind, full of fresh, clear water. He threw of his clothes and waded into the deepest part of the water, shivering from the cold temperature of the water. He removed the war paint from his face, the blood from his body and the foeces from his anus. The pool was ruined; full of blood and shit. It was symbolic of what their tribe had done to the lands nearby.

After he was completely clean, he went inside and dried himself, re-equipping his attire, beginning to cut away his long, curly hair. He looked in the ruined, cracked mirror afterwards and an awesome stranger starred back. He smiled, pleased that he had lost his tribal appearance. His left eye twitched, reminding him that he could never lose his deformities... but he could mask them. He dashed to the medical kits, removing some of the equipment and stitching up his left eye, moaning in pain, satisfied. He then donned an eye-patch from that day onward. Leaving behind his old life, he left through the big doors at the front, standing tall among the corpses behind him.

The journey to the Southern Shores was hard, taking him a week due to numerous disruptions on the way. Once he had arrived however, one of the Wolves' Guards accused him of being a native, and warned him that if he didn't leave he would be spot. He explained that his nose and lip deformities were the results of a nasty fight with a Swamp Thrasher the previous year, and the guard reluctantly believed the lie. After a small awkward silence, he went on to explain that he was a Wandering Doctor, and asked where he could get a room to rent. The Wolven Guard told him, slightly misleading him for a laugh. After an hour of hilarious misdirection, he found the place where he could ask to rent a room. The prices were steep for a shithole like this, but he figured with the flow of customers here and there, he could manage. The years went by, and during this time he'd managed to keep a steady flow of customers, but his poor medical skills often meant questions were asked about his methods. Seeing as he was the only contractible "doctor" in the Southern Shores, no-one could really complain . His extra caps fueled his oncoming alcohol addiction, and the Wolves were still slightly distrusting of him. He still remains there, receiving customers and drinking his days away...