Yayo's Ghoul Application

Karl Hale

[Steam Username]:✞AVE MARIA✞
[Steam ID]:STEAM_0:1:40776559
AGE: 188
-Species/Human or Robotic: Ghoul
-Character Advantages/Talents: Around before the war, general combat experience.
-Character Disadvantages/Weaknesses: Paranoid, getting weak and tired with age.

-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:
SuperMutants
Non-Passive Raiders[Event Character]
Non-Pyscho Raider[Requires Backstory Detailing Characters Sanity]
Settler[Standard wasteland Resident]
Robots
[You can apply for everyone, excluding Eyebots with a Enclave Duraframe mod]

-Current Equipment: R91 Assault Rifle. Busted Helmet. Coat / Duster.
-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.]

[DISCLAIMER - INCLUDE HOW YOU GOT YOUR GEAR
IN YOUR BACKSTORY]

He grew up without much parental guidance and never took a liking for school. He focused more on attending every party humanly possible by the time he hit high school instead of passing every test. Barely graduating, he didn’t know what exactly to do with his life. The parties were over and reality sunk in. Without any real skills in an increasingly gloomy world, he enlisted in the U.S military.

By than, Anchorage was nearly finished. He never saw combat on that front. Instead, he was put with a unit in newly annexed Canada. There, he dealt with riots. He had gone from going to parties to breaking them up. His days consisted of bullshitting with his comrades and intimidating locals. Eventually, protests and riots required more than intimidation. He left Canada with a body count.

He expected it all to end on the homefront. Instead, he was given orders to deal with food riots. It was even worse than Canada. His fellow americans were starving and he was being told to put them down. He couldn’t handle it. He deserted just a week after being deployed there, taking some car and driving into the countryside.

He was one of many deserters. Those who defected were usually rounded up and sent to military prison. He knew this could be his fate, so he stuck to the countryside. He helped locals in exchange for a place to sleep. Time dragged on and he met many new faces. Some were friendly, others were hostile.

He had kept his rifle and most of his gear throughout his journeys through rural America. Eventually, he found himself in North Dakota. Here a man offered him permanent stay, not just in his house but in his bunker. He needed someone for company, mostly. The two of them worked together and slept in the bunker - just-in-case - for a few months. Keeping his rifle and helmet, he let his new friend wear his military-grade combat armor and use his sidearm. The two dealt with the starving and the mad. They hid from military patrols. They hunted. They exchanged stories. For a few months, they lived.

Then one night, they woke up in the bunker, but found that the meters set up to look for radiation was detecting numbers off the charts. Presuming the nuclear hellfire had came, they stayed down there.

They watched holotapes. They played board-games. They made the most out of canned goods. They stayed down there for a while. Years, so long that he lost count. His friend was soon to lose count permanently. Radiation was seeping in and ghoulification began. His friend turned first. Then he followed. Their skin was torn off, their flesh ripped. They expected to die.

His friend, one day, had his eyes turn white. He went feral and had to be put down.

After that, he couldn’t stay in the bunker. Not with the body of his dead friend. He took what was down there and left. He spent a lot of time walking through the ruins of the world. He walked until he ran into a town, who rejected him. They saw him as an abomination. He left shooting.

He kept going until he found a town more friendly to his kind. He got stares, but he wasn’t lynched. He sold the combat armor he had and a lot of canned goods alongside his sidearm for ammunition, a hot meal, some new clothes and caps to live on. He then left, because his presence didn’t attract many people. He couldn’t find anyone really willing to talk to him. Even the drunkards rejected his attempts at conversation.

He took to being a nomad, for quite some time. Time began to blur. He went from place to place, looking for people willing to talk to him. Eventually, he found people who had warmed up to the idea of ghouls. He stayed with those towns for quite some time, but eventually kept going. His journeys brought him against many things - Eventually feral ghouls. After having to shoot his way through a place infested by them, he was left reminded of his friend in the bunker. He was also reminded of why many people were wary of him. He could go feral, couldn’t he? The next few years of his life were years of worry.

He met a few other intelligent ghouls in a coastal settlement. They had taken to a beach on the east coast, fancying it a vacation home. He stayed with them for twenty years. He made friends, got into fights, and enjoyed the wonder of alcohol.

However, he eventually grew bored of the place. Life was long for him. He didn’t want to rot away there, so he got up and left. He started talking jobs, town to town. He became a gun-for-hire. He shot things for caps. This kept him going, at least in terms of ammunition and food. He never really tried to buy anything more. His rifle was getting worn and puttering out with its age, but he kept it maintained. He didn’t need anything else, at least he thought.

He didn’t have much of a moral compass when he took jobs. One job he took was a heist. Funded by some shadowy figures, him and four others were told to draft and execute a plan to take from a casino in the remains of North Carolina. He didn’t do much planning, though.

He had a simple role in the heist. Shoot guards and get the unarmed out of the way. He sent the gamblers scattering and unloaded on the first guard he saw. He was then sent running from a shower of rounds. The place was better armed than all of them expected. One of the five was shot dead. Then another. Soon, everyone else was dead.

For a couple hours, the ordeal continued. Eventually, he decided to bail. The town wasn’t too happy with him, though, and pursued him as he fled. He headed north up the east coast, fearing the casino and his employer. Both were sure to send mercenaries after him. He felt like a man marked for death.
Now arriving in Maryland, he isn’t so keen about staying in one place for too long. Though he can’t run forever, he doesn’t see anyone out there as worth helping protect him. Though he might not even still be at threat, the whole scenario has made him extremely paranoid. He doesn’t want to die, yet, even as he nears 200 years old. Life is something he doesn’t necessarily want to give.

With the same old rifle that suppressed Canadian protesters and shot down casino guards, a cracked helmet, a suit he’s been wearing since his days as a gun-for-hire, he’s about to stumble into the swamps of Maryland.

Oh boy oh boy, I can see this guy and Kuan butting heads. Or maybe they'll become best friends and fuck up everything that stands in their way. Who knows.

All that aside, everything checks out to me. I'm going to accept this unless there are any interjections.