- [b]Name:[/b] Rusting Bits
- [b]Race:[/b] Earth Pony

- [b]Physical Appearance:[/b]
Dusty brown young-adult stallion with dark-red brown stockings. His mane is pale golden yellow. Green eyes with a distant waxing stare.

Generally dresses in a heavily stitched and padded coat laden with large pockets and a heavy backpack. A pair of cracked goggles rests over his eyes over-top a molted red handkerchief wrapped around his forehead. Physically no stranger to the natural wear of the wasteland with a patchy natural coat worn thin or bare in spots, even with the taming of the weather over much of the desolate country.

- [b]Backstory:[/b]
No stranger to the art of the road, Rusting Bits was born to a clan of caravaneers wandering the wastelands trying to irk out a living from savaging refuse and repairing or reselling gear, looted or sold to them otherwise. The nature of the Caravaneer market kept them moving in all without rest.

As of this, Rusting was born rather literally on the road. He was still in his wrappings with the work of labor barely dry on his coat when he and his family moved on, pack brahmin in toe. And being on the move rarely afforded appropriate luxury and as soon as he was able his family had him tending to his role in the Caravan. Without play he knew only work, and with only work he was never formally educated. For the most part he learned reading from road signs and old pre-war advertisements that still clung to life high above the ruined and snaking highways of war-time Equestria. But this was hardly a true education and only went as far as to help him with the names of the countless settlements that littered the Wasteland and identifying any standing and functioning structure that might aid his survival: the clinic, general stores, the bar.

Even as a busied and troubled filly, young Rusted did hold to that common fear of his cutie-mark. Most often he dreaded the possibility of being born simply to shovel brahmin shit or to evade raider's bullets. The anxiety was only more-so given that he was by all means a late bloomer. He had the distinct humiliation of being beaten to knowing his life's talent after his younger half-brother and cousins learned their own. This compounded a whole new fear: of being useless and fit for glue. But his troubles never seemed to connect with the adult stallions and mares, who in their tired empathy only smiled half-heartedly at his blank-flank frustrations.

He would though – like everypony – come to find his purpose. But not in doing and more in accepting. He had tried everything in the tortured ritual of attempting every conceivable thing down to even attempting to spellcast. But in jury-rigging a broken rifle and battle saddle he came aware of his talents as he watched his brother's amble through. Earth Pony magic was strange, and in realizing he earned his cutie mark: the rusted illustration of bolt, screw, and scrap.

The relief was tremendous, but celebration brief. Soon after he was awarded a hearty toast, introducing him to his taste for alcohol. And then: they were on the move.

The following years were defined by the quest to simply keep living, and the adventures into mares to forget the problems he had at every town they crossed through. He would earn his wages from work and bartering, to then blow it on prostitutes and booze. In his young age, with purpose, and like-minded stallions with him it was easy to forget that - when not being shot at by raiders - life could change.

Shortly after leaving behind them Flankfurt to adventure back towards Canterlot the family caravan cantered into a raider's trap. Hidden in the rocks, trees, and knolls of the highlands outside of Hoofington gun fire opened on the group, cutting much of them down and scattered the rest. Rusted Bit had little actual experience in combat, and though tried was shot in the shoulder and collapsed. In less than four minutes his kin were killed, and the rest sold as slaves. He was left for dead as the bandits rifled through their gear and took off with what they could.

Rusted was found roughly twelve hours later by a separate group of travelers who found the ruin of the caravan. Finding Rusted alive, if barely there, they attended to the fallen stallion; healing his wounds and cleaning out the infections beginning to fester there. It wasn't until days later that after a regimine of healing potions to repair extensive damage to his right-front shoulder blade and lungs could he walk off. A shattered stallion.

Having nothing else to do, Rusted had no choice but to continue the life of a caravaneer, but a more somber dealer. He moved quieter, made no significant contact, and spent a large amount of time slumped across a table with the end of a bottle of Staliongrad's Best in his mouth. He still worked magic with his hooves, and to keep up with the bills offered himself out in a more diverse set of skills. Handiman, courier, and briefly both kinds of escort.

Traveling all over, he was one to become jealous of the New Canterlot Republic and its care-free wealth and sense of safety. But although jealous he was frustrated he could not be a part of it. He had no money. And he couldn't stay rooted. It was much the same for elsewhere in the wasteland from East Coast to West. Tenpony to Vanhoover.

- [b]Other:[/b]
Karma: 0 (Nobody Traveler)

[b]SPECIAL:[/b]
S - 7
P - 4
E - 6
C - 6
I - 5
A - 6
L – 6

[b]TRAITS:[/b]
[i]Road-Worthy Barter – A life on the road and dealing with others for caps and food has installed a life-time's neccesaity in knowing the working of caps. You can also bullshit. +5 barter and +3 speech[/i]

[i]Scarred – The brutality of the open wasteland isn't a stranger. Knives, bullets, bombs, stingers, and claws have all gracelessly graced your skin. The build of scars and roughening of your coat is almost a layer of defense in itself. +1.5% defense from all damage types (exempting radiation, poison, and taint)[/i]