Boivin

Character Sheet

• The Basics

  • Name: Boivin
  • Gender: Male
  • Played by: Dat_Guy_Dingo
  • Race: Ghoul
  • Class: Ranger
  • Alignment: Chaotic Good
  • Deity: None / Atheist
  • Age: 300+ years
  • Body Type: Athletic
  • Height: 6' 0"
  • Weight: 170lbs
  • Complexion: Rotted / Mottled
  • Hair: None
  • Eyes: Pale/Milky green
  • Handedness: Ambidextrous
  • Scars: Many
  • Relationship Status: Single
  • Personality: Caustic/World-weary, with a heart of gold
  • Mannerisms: Brusque, closed off
  • Inspiration: Randall Clark, "Fallout: New Vegas"

• S.P.E.C.I.A.L

  Strength
  Perception
  Endurance
  Charisma
  Intelligence
  Agility
  Luck

• History

  As with some of the oldest ghouls, Boivin was alive before the Great War. A little over twenty one years ago, give or take, as he might say. Born a French-Canadian in Quebec, Boivin was the only child his parents had, and after having thought for several years that his father was sterile his parents thought him to be a blessing from God or some other higher power.
  
  He grew up in the back woods and many of his younger years were spent hunting and foraging with his father, learning needle-work and similar crafts from his mother, and only going into Quebec City to attend school. He made few friends and found himself to be a bit of a loner through many years of his life - more comfortable in the woods by himself, hunting, than in school socializing.
  
  Shortly after graduating high school, an all-around average student by most measures, the United States annexed Canada. Though rather stereo-typically having the desire to see Quebec break away from the rest of Canada, his family's political ambitions were more passive than anything else, and his parents and he treated the whole affair as almost a secondary concern. That was, until the call for a draft. Able-bodied young men and women, Boivin included, were plucked up by the US military, and sent to serve in a war that Boivin had never considered his own until then.
  
  Boivin will not talk often or to any great depth about his time in the military. Those who have heard him speak of it can say that he served in a branch he identifies as the United States Marines - which is one of the few moments when he talks about the past that he seems prideful. By his own account, his service was given notice by higher authorities, and at some point before the bombs fell he was commissioned as an officer. He saw Alaska, China, and was apparently on his way to Anchorage when the bombs fell.
  
  In his own words, on that day there was a light so bright some people went blind. He jumped into water that slowly boiled to where it could have melted skin. And he saw more death in that one day then he had at any point in his life before.
  
  Somehow, some way, he survived. Boivin will even admit that he doesn't know exactly how it is that he survived. Somehow he dragged himself ashore after jumping from the deck of a sinking aircraft carrier and found that he was one of the only ones still moving when bodies starting washing up on the shore-line.
  
  Then at some point in the next few weeks as he eked out his survival, he had it in his mind to return to his homestead so that he could find his parents. But it was many miles between Alaska and Quebec in peaceful times. A journey that would have taken even months on foot took the better part of years. Skin began to peel and change color. He heard and felt the rasp that came to his throat as he talked. And he found himself sometimes walking every direction but the one towards his old home. He found himself carrying many titles with the passage of time.
  
  Scavenger. Murderer. Raider. Rapist.
  
  And finally, wanderer. Boivin would never claim he was ever a good man.
  
  Boivin knew even then that his journey wasn't going to end with a bittersweet reunion. His parents had been going gray even before he'd left home and that had been with the luxuries of the world before the war. But each passing day into months into the final two years had only made the idea more and more apparent for him. So when he finally trudged up a snow-filled trail that he hadn't walked in so many years, the state of the old cabin didn't surprise him so much as that it was still standing at all.
  
  The door falling out of the frame with a harsh tap of the barrel didn't surprise him, either.
  
  If he'd had any tears left, they wouldn't have even fallen at how he found his parents. Burned and withered with time and radiation. Wrapped in each others' arms. And with one of his father's old revolvers laying nearby. Only two spent shells in the cylinder. Boivin will admit he found a note left there. A vainly hopeful one, left for him. He'll never speak a word of what it said till the day he dies.
  
  But it put things - the last years of his life - into a harsh perspective. And made Boivin think on what he'd done.
  
  Their graves were shallow, but impressively deep considering how frozen the soil had been. Their markings were nothing officious or gaudy, like the people they represented Boivin would say. He buried them beside one another just outside the cabin, stayed there for a week, and then gathered what he could of supplies before heading out. Up until that day he'd always had a goal. Even if it was forgotten under a haze of drugs, or booze, or violence - he had always had that final destination in mind.
  
  Now he had no such thing.
  
  No final destination.
  
  No greater cause to keep him moving forward.
  
  But he had an idea. A new way to look at life.
  
  Boivin had never been a good man. But he could be close.

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