Supersoup the ronplayer

[Steam Username]: Supersoup
[Steam ID]: STEAM_0:0:35348807
NAME: Harrison Moors
AGE: 37
-Species/Human or Robotic: Human
-Character Advantages/Talents: Exceptional survival instincts and veteran experience of the land, so he'd be  talented with guns, first-aid, knowledge of a reasonable amount of the land, significantly tough and have a few good tricks with traps. He also knows how to be pretty persuasive, come to it with words or simple force owing to his straight-forward logic, and he'd have a keen eye for danger or opportunities alike.
-Character Disadvantages/Weaknesses: Not much of a enthusiast for technology, limiting him severely in terms of science and medical profession, and not much for smarts in general, outside of staying alive in a bad scenario. Despite his talent with persuasion he isn't much for mingling with the ruins of society, tending to rely on himself. he isn't exactly the most agile man in the wasteland as well, but he's fit enough to evade any particularly troublesome creatures.
-Faction
[Keep in mind some faction characters may be
subject to becoming event characters to prevent our server
from becoming faction wars roleplay]:
Faction Options:
Settler.

-Current Equipment: If you were to rummage through this mans backpack while he was unaware, unlikely as that would be, you'd find:
-A standard knife, well worn and covered in the dry blood of creatures.
-A pair of brass-knuckles, still new enough to not have any noticeable "battle-scars".
-A sawn-off shotgun, knackered but without a strong smell of sulphur, obviously not fired many times.
-A scoped hunting rifle, its condition evidence to many home-repairs.
-A few small bags of healing powder
-Some wrapped packages of unidentifiable meat.
-A compass, a self-drawn map (With a small signature not belonging to him), a canteen sloshing with liquid, small caches of .308 and a couple of shotgun slugs.
-A small worn book, with a rather short pencil to go with it.
If you were to inspect his being, he'd have some rugged leather armour donned on, with the pelts of golden geckos on various parts of it, like it's been jury-rigged to a fault. He'd also smell abit, but you wouldn't tell him that to his face.

-Backstory[10-20 Sentences Minimum; Be advised
all applicants that settle or go below the minimum app
requirement will be subject to a simple deny, spend time
on what you want, if you’re not passionate about your
topic to produce a few extra sentences or even paragraphs
then its a red flag- put some effort in here.]

Harrison liked to assume he was in a better position than many of the people here. He had adapted to this harsh hell-hole, unlike most settlers who just took themselves under the wing of powerful factions that had managed to scrape up enough pre-war tech to establish a power-head around the parts. Unfortunately he'd just be fooling himself, knowing true enough that anything can happen to him, no matter how cautious he is. But despite that, he knew enough that he could never act stupid, or at least stupid enough that it'd get him killed. Of course he drunk, of course he'd get angry, what else could you do if you were pitted in a situation this unfair? He had seen dumb wastelanders get caught at the hands of a group of drugged-up psychos, begging and crying into empty hands as those scumbags buried them six feet under. He'd once gotten angry enough at a situation like that, that he actually put a hole in one of them as they were about to slice up a poor kid. That had gotten him a bullet wound for his troubles, and the kid just ran off as they chased after him. It was reassuring that the kid wouldn't die, of course, but knowing the utter grim truth that kid is probably dead.

In truth, there isn't much to talk about Harrison, he's your average wastelander, only separated from the majority by being quite good at striving off what remains of the land. He's eaten enough irradiated dog to develop some immunity, even a taste, god-forbid, and he's smart enough to know that trying to kill a deathclaw won't be worth all the ammunition you spit into it if you somehow don't get torn in half. Unless you're being paid to kill it, of course. He tried deathclaw once, tasted alright even, but it still wasn't worth it. It'd be nice to have some pelt to attach to his armour though. His reclusive and paranoid state of talking idly about things like eating deathclaw didn't exactly earn him a position in the remnants of society as well, so even if he'd want to be in a position where he can criticise other peoples morals like a stiff-lipped hotshot, what do those yellow-bellies owe him for that?

If someone were to get enough interest to ask Harrison about himself, before indulging a bewildered look, he'd probably explain to them that he grew up on a farm with his mom and dad under the wing of some local faction. They never suffered but it wasn't exactly a utopia. And because it was a farm he had to eat these swollen vegetables day in, day out. Then he'd go into a rant on how vegetables are the bane of his existence, and pass out from all the rotgut he ingested. You'd probably make the assumption that he got sick of the tranquil life of a farmer and went out to set his destiny, or some nonsense like that. He was young, give him a break. Something must of clicked however because he didn't come crawling back with half of his body gone. He'd probably be good enough to tag along for serious missions, if his awful breath and tendency to talk about things he hates doesn't get on your nerves.