View a character sheet

Race :

Human

Age :

26

Gender :

Male

Level :

1

Experience :

(0/1000)

SPECIAL :

Strength: 5 Perception: 7 Endurance: 6 Charisma: 5 Intelligence: 6 Agility: 7 Luck: 4

Hit Points :

(32/32)

Armor Class :

Armor Class: 15 Poison Resist: 30% Radiation Resist: 12% Gas Resist: 0/0 Electricity Resist: 30%

Other Info :

Action Points: 8 Sequence: 14 Carry Weight: 150lbs Melee Damage: 1 Critical Chance: 4% Healing Rate: 2

Traits :

None

Perks :

Skills :

*Small Guns: 53% Big Guns: 14% Energy Weapons: 14% Unarmed: 54% Melee Weapons: 44% Throwing Weapons: 28% First Aid: 26% Doctor: 18% *Sneak: 46% Lockpick: 24% Steal: 21% *Traps: 44% Science: 24% Repair: 18% Pilot: 28% Speech: 25% Barter: 20% Gambling: 20% Outdoorsman: 24%

Inventory :

Knife (ST: 2, W: 1 lb., Dmg: 1d10+1, Rng: 1, AP S: 3, T: 4, B: N/A) Leather Jacket (W: 5 lbs., AC: 8, N: 0/20, L: 0/20, F: 0/10, P: 0/10, E: 0/20) M17-A Carbine (Min. ST: 4 W: 7 lbs. Dmg: +9 Rng: 20 AP S: 5 T: 6 B: N/A) 20 x 7.62mm (1d10) 1 x Lighter 1 x Pack of Cigarettes 1 x Stimpaks 64 x Caps

Description :

Though there's a seemingly perpetual stubble on his face and he usually bears a somber expression, Harrow makes for a handsome young man. His bright blue eyes contrast sharply against his dark auburn hair, and his tall, lean figure suggests active physical exercise. His smile is wry, often lop-sided. It gives off the impression that he's enjoying a private joke of some sort, possibly on the expense of those around him - and that whatever humor it may contain, it is of a dark nature.

Character Background :

It has been 7 years since Gareth had seen the light of day. Or so he believed - without the sun and moon to tick off the bells, the whens and hows become hazy. Time is peculiar in that manner. Without the benefit of record - things to look forward to - you live your life from one now to the next. The old man whom he had shared his cell with had already marred each stone with obscure hashes, overlapping into a confused jangle of scratched years. It had been years for Gareth, but decades for the old man. "Name's Harrow, kid. It's important. I'm important.. was important. Remember that," the old man would tell him. He must have known his death was near, one way or another. As time moved on, the old man passed, withered and rot away in the very same cell, and Gareth was alone. This is how he learned of death; that it need not always be the reaper dramatic, the tragedy of the stage. The thing that kills you in here, he often mused, isn't the cold or the damp or the sores. It isn't the dysentery or slow rot. What kills you is the answer inside your head when you ask yourself, over and over, "How did I end up here?". When moments go by unmeasured, you have plenty of time to consider fate and justice, life and longing. If the pining doesn't kill you, you get the chance to concentrate on surviving. At least, until your name is called. Until then, the guards never even saw your faces. And one day, indeed, his name was called. "You," called an apathetic voice from the gloom. The familiar damp air and the stench of feces that had long impregnated the walls of the prison returned him to the rotten reality, and old sores washed over as his eyes adjusted to the dim light in his cell. "What's your name?" It demanded. His body went rigid with the fear of finally being shot and fed to the dogs. He then told the most important lie he had ever uttered. "Harrow," he said. "It's your lucky day, then. They say you're free to go." The door opened, and he was thrown out to the wastes. Blinded by the first ray of light in years, his laugh sounded like a dying animal. Even as he felt the displaced ribs scrape under his skin, Gareth laughed and laughed for the first time since he was a boy. Freedom, at long last, was his.