Rally
Local Dingus
- Joined
- Mar 28, 2020
- Messages
- 14
- Points
- 3
- Location
- Texas
Character Name
Lincoln Whittaker
I Agree
Yes
Has this character appeared in a previous lore?
Yes
Age
55
Blood Type
A+
Personality
INFP: Whit is a confident individualist. He doesn't spend much time thinking about how people might view him, but rather focuses internally, dealing with obstacles according to how he feels about them, or how they fit into his system of values. Experience matters more to him than logic or practicality. When making decisions, he foremost consults the advancement of honor, beauty, morality and virtue. By the same token, it isn't difficult for Whit to see someone eye to eye. Listening to other people and understanding their plight comes easy, though not without its cost. Too many friends or social entanglements can be detrimental and have proven taxing in the past, so he chooses them carefully. He's also been known to drift into deep thought for extended periods of time, enjoying to contemplate the hypothetical and the philosophical, but left unchecked may start to lose touch or become withdrawn. Bringing him back from these intermissions can be demanding work for those he's placed his trust.
Character Motivations
Whit's primary concerns seemed particularly focused upon survival and homesteading, attempting to teach what he can to people who never learned, and to pass the torch of stewardship to the individuals he believes to be the most competent and capable leaders of generations to come. He's fond of writing, and spends his free time penning a book he one day believes might see more eyes than his own.
Physical Appearance
Most days, Whit didn't take to grooming. He had a casual regard for keeping up appearances, doing what was necessary purely for the sake of hygiene, but it was difficult to hide the type of man he was without an extensive or bothersome attention to detail. His palms were made rough by manual labor. The prison tattoos that once covered his hands and forearms, his back and chest, twisting in elaborate patterns that ended under his jaw, had been painstakingly covered after what he refers to as the "Great Fall" with rudimentary, handmade tools. Among them were the sort of redneck fashion that had once accompanied lock-up in Huntsville: the Lone Star with great frequency, still uncovered; Confederate battle flags, busts the likes of Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson that had been redesigned into depictions of natural Kentucky, the trees and the hills; vines and flowers, skulls and bones; his corrections ID number, which was now but a black bar and a distant memory; "TEXASBOY" etched across his knuckles; crests, shields, and broken swords made into dragonflies or filled in messily, to hide that he was once a purveyor of violence. The beard he wore was thick and overgrown, shaped by an old pair of trimming scissors with dual purpose, to manage a short crop of greying hair that had once been very copper, which now seemed almost entirely absent. Hard, green eyes hinted that he'd seen his share of ugly, and wanted little more to do with the burdens of socialization.
The clothes best suited to his lifestyle were worn by necessity, and often alternated between whatever he could find: jeans if he could help it; a thick jacket when the weather called for it; simple t-shirts and sleeveless tops; a brown leather belt with a large, silver buckle that seemed to be from the days before; sturdy boots for working or hiking; and some sort of hat, preferably with a rim, though he wasn't picky. Often, he smelled of earth and smoke, cypress and mesquite, like he'd manifested in all its silent and wild majesty from some open range lost to history. And though he wasn't a particularly tall man, he was athletic by most considerations. Tight lipped, certainly. An endless appreciation for quiet and solitude. Still waters.
Character Image Link
Mechanical Occupation
Park Ranger: Stout, Outdoorsman | High Thirst, Smoker, Slow Reader
In-Character Occupation
Trapper, Hunter, Farmer, Conservationist
Biography
In trouble most of his life, unwilling or incapable of settling into a socially normalized routine, Lincoln, or Whit to his close friends, was never more at home than when the world fell apart. His father, a stubborn son of a bitch who spent more time in prison than out, had left him to the care of his trailer-trash girlfriend for as long as he could remember. She wasn't a terrible woman either, but for the drinking and the carrying on, she just wasn't equipped to raise a boy who was born with a legacy for mischief. In and out of South Texas school districts, chartered to more juvenile facilities than he'd care to admit, it wasn't until he was nineteen that he received his first adult charge and arrest, one that would ultimately land him in the same prison as his father for the following twelve years.
He was thirty-one when finally released from Huntsville, left a piece of land near Brownwood, Texas when his father died that had once housed a deer hunting blind and a small shack. The time he served inside allowed him the education to write and publish a book of poetry, "Alone With The Universe", and the resources to receive his first degree, a bachelors in forestry, which he used to further his goal of living as far away from civilization as he could reasonably afford. Admittedly, it wasn't far enough, and probably never would have been.
Six years alone in the woods had done strange, or at the very least unexpected things to Whit. He wasn't as quick to anger. He spent more time thinking and less time talking, though he wouldn't have had anyone to talk with, regardless. The days were filled with simple labors, like maintaining his vegetable garden and hunting from the blind, or reading old books he had mailed to his P.O. Box just inside the city. He didn't own a radio or a television either, and had little other contact with the world at large, so when the outbreak in Austin broke free into the rest of Texas, he was caught unaware. It was only by happenstance that in those early days he stumbled across a caravan of survivors that welcomed him into the fold, and together they marched onward, north.
In Kentucky he had hoped to find solace, even if for a spell. The long journey from Texas had left him depleted and weary, and though despite with other survivors he was quickly becoming friends, he could never shake the inherit desire, the return to nature and the surrender of ones self to the soil. The old man, Abrams. The Soldier, and the group he met at the road block on his way into Valley Station in 2015. Many he still thought of in high esteem, and yet still he drifted away. He could not stand to see more of them die, and had suffered enough. Perhaps he preferred to die alone, with his boots on, not to leave that burden with someone else. For twelve years, where he has been or what he's been doing would have been difficult to determine, but rumor has developed of an old hermit wandering the wood, passing his knowledge to those that would listen.
Would you like your character to start with any items?
A Hunting Knife, A Saw
Would you like to be placed in a random group at the start of the lore?
Yes
What is your Discord username?
Rally
Is your character a member of a group application?
No
Lincoln Whittaker
I Agree
Yes
Has this character appeared in a previous lore?
Yes
Age
55
Blood Type
A+
Personality
INFP: Whit is a confident individualist. He doesn't spend much time thinking about how people might view him, but rather focuses internally, dealing with obstacles according to how he feels about them, or how they fit into his system of values. Experience matters more to him than logic or practicality. When making decisions, he foremost consults the advancement of honor, beauty, morality and virtue. By the same token, it isn't difficult for Whit to see someone eye to eye. Listening to other people and understanding their plight comes easy, though not without its cost. Too many friends or social entanglements can be detrimental and have proven taxing in the past, so he chooses them carefully. He's also been known to drift into deep thought for extended periods of time, enjoying to contemplate the hypothetical and the philosophical, but left unchecked may start to lose touch or become withdrawn. Bringing him back from these intermissions can be demanding work for those he's placed his trust.
Character Motivations
Whit's primary concerns seemed particularly focused upon survival and homesteading, attempting to teach what he can to people who never learned, and to pass the torch of stewardship to the individuals he believes to be the most competent and capable leaders of generations to come. He's fond of writing, and spends his free time penning a book he one day believes might see more eyes than his own.
Physical Appearance
Most days, Whit didn't take to grooming. He had a casual regard for keeping up appearances, doing what was necessary purely for the sake of hygiene, but it was difficult to hide the type of man he was without an extensive or bothersome attention to detail. His palms were made rough by manual labor. The prison tattoos that once covered his hands and forearms, his back and chest, twisting in elaborate patterns that ended under his jaw, had been painstakingly covered after what he refers to as the "Great Fall" with rudimentary, handmade tools. Among them were the sort of redneck fashion that had once accompanied lock-up in Huntsville: the Lone Star with great frequency, still uncovered; Confederate battle flags, busts the likes of Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson that had been redesigned into depictions of natural Kentucky, the trees and the hills; vines and flowers, skulls and bones; his corrections ID number, which was now but a black bar and a distant memory; "TEXASBOY" etched across his knuckles; crests, shields, and broken swords made into dragonflies or filled in messily, to hide that he was once a purveyor of violence. The beard he wore was thick and overgrown, shaped by an old pair of trimming scissors with dual purpose, to manage a short crop of greying hair that had once been very copper, which now seemed almost entirely absent. Hard, green eyes hinted that he'd seen his share of ugly, and wanted little more to do with the burdens of socialization.
The clothes best suited to his lifestyle were worn by necessity, and often alternated between whatever he could find: jeans if he could help it; a thick jacket when the weather called for it; simple t-shirts and sleeveless tops; a brown leather belt with a large, silver buckle that seemed to be from the days before; sturdy boots for working or hiking; and some sort of hat, preferably with a rim, though he wasn't picky. Often, he smelled of earth and smoke, cypress and mesquite, like he'd manifested in all its silent and wild majesty from some open range lost to history. And though he wasn't a particularly tall man, he was athletic by most considerations. Tight lipped, certainly. An endless appreciation for quiet and solitude. Still waters.
Character Image Link
Mechanical Occupation
Park Ranger: Stout, Outdoorsman | High Thirst, Smoker, Slow Reader
In-Character Occupation
Trapper, Hunter, Farmer, Conservationist
Biography
In trouble most of his life, unwilling or incapable of settling into a socially normalized routine, Lincoln, or Whit to his close friends, was never more at home than when the world fell apart. His father, a stubborn son of a bitch who spent more time in prison than out, had left him to the care of his trailer-trash girlfriend for as long as he could remember. She wasn't a terrible woman either, but for the drinking and the carrying on, she just wasn't equipped to raise a boy who was born with a legacy for mischief. In and out of South Texas school districts, chartered to more juvenile facilities than he'd care to admit, it wasn't until he was nineteen that he received his first adult charge and arrest, one that would ultimately land him in the same prison as his father for the following twelve years.
He was thirty-one when finally released from Huntsville, left a piece of land near Brownwood, Texas when his father died that had once housed a deer hunting blind and a small shack. The time he served inside allowed him the education to write and publish a book of poetry, "Alone With The Universe", and the resources to receive his first degree, a bachelors in forestry, which he used to further his goal of living as far away from civilization as he could reasonably afford. Admittedly, it wasn't far enough, and probably never would have been.
Six years alone in the woods had done strange, or at the very least unexpected things to Whit. He wasn't as quick to anger. He spent more time thinking and less time talking, though he wouldn't have had anyone to talk with, regardless. The days were filled with simple labors, like maintaining his vegetable garden and hunting from the blind, or reading old books he had mailed to his P.O. Box just inside the city. He didn't own a radio or a television either, and had little other contact with the world at large, so when the outbreak in Austin broke free into the rest of Texas, he was caught unaware. It was only by happenstance that in those early days he stumbled across a caravan of survivors that welcomed him into the fold, and together they marched onward, north.
In Kentucky he had hoped to find solace, even if for a spell. The long journey from Texas had left him depleted and weary, and though despite with other survivors he was quickly becoming friends, he could never shake the inherit desire, the return to nature and the surrender of ones self to the soil. The old man, Abrams. The Soldier, and the group he met at the road block on his way into Valley Station in 2015. Many he still thought of in high esteem, and yet still he drifted away. He could not stand to see more of them die, and had suffered enough. Perhaps he preferred to die alone, with his boots on, not to leave that burden with someone else. For twelve years, where he has been or what he's been doing would have been difficult to determine, but rumor has developed of an old hermit wandering the wood, passing his knowledge to those that would listen.
Would you like your character to start with any items?
A Hunting Knife, A Saw
Would you like to be placed in a random group at the start of the lore?
Yes
What is your Discord username?
Rally
Is your character a member of a group application?
No
