Name: 
[url=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/41/2f/0b/412f0b3a957f177afce4206cb23feea2.jpg]Richard "Ricky" Cline[/url]

Appearance: 
His lower arms and hands bear a collection of linear scars earned from practice with live blades. His left arm also shows off a nasty bite from a crocodile that had been a little too enthusiastic about getting an easy meal. His boots and his belt were made from just that beast's skin. He likes to keep his hair slicked back neatly, but has taken to neglecting it since the fall of civilization. Since his employment as a gaff hand he has taken to wearing a simple, but fairly heavy leather jacket, having discovered that it helped a great deal, though he wished he might have known that before a crocodile tried to have lunch at the expense of his arm. 

A more recent development is his decision to wear his knives strapped to his hips, making them much easier to access. A [url=http://www.tichbourneknives.com/webpage-ironwood_riverboat_NBL.jpg]Bowie knife[/url] rests on his right hip, and an [url=https://www.lamnia.com/en/p/3127/knives-and-folding-knives/knives/hibben-knives-old-west-toothpick/#]Arkansas toothpick[/url] sits on his left. He keeps his [url=http://forum.gon.com/attachment.php?attachmentid=309940&stc=1&d=1243173538]Colt Cobra[/url] in an ambidextrous holster that he carries inside his waistband. He will shift it around depending on what he is doing, but he prefers to carry it either against the small of his back, or right side, next to his appendix.

Age: 
27

Skill: 
Cooking, animal processing, knife-fighting

Preferred Weapons: 
Knives, snub-nosed revolvers

Stuff: 
In addition to his clothes and weapons, Ricky has recently picked up a backpack for himself, one he'd found while scavenging in an airport. It was plain, black, and had seen far better days, but it continued to serve him well. Into he'd stuffed a change of clothes, some canned food, a can opener, a box of powderless blue nitrile gloves, size large, and a box of fifty .38 special rounds he'd found in someone's house. It wasn't quite full, but he still had plenty left, in his opinion. His most important possession, however, is the waterproof tackle box he has stuffed full of the medication he requires to maintain his more rational thoughts. On the outside of the bag are strapped his one-litre water bottle, and his Tim Hortons mug, the latter of which is large enough to hold an entire pot of coffee, with a little room left over for cream and sugar. 

Personality: 
While seemingly friendly and cooperative, he has a slight tendency toward sociopathy, most notably he has a hard time understanding the value of life. Medication has helped in the past, increasing his impulse control and aiding in rational thought. 

Brief Bio: 
Ricky was born in the Great White North, but moved to the United States when he was just barely over a year old. His parents had wanted to try out life in Canada, but a family emergency drew them to the southern United States. That didn't stop them from visiting friends they had made in the Maritimes, however, and Ricky soon found himself holding dual citizenship and drifting from the eastern-most parts of Canada, down the coast to Louisiana. Most of his family settled in and around New Orleans around the time he finished high school. Around that time, he was also diagnosed with a mental disorder that doctors claimed was easily curable with medication. They made the mistake of thinking that the future stabilization of his hormones could result in his brain sorting itself out while also being affected by the medication. This would not be the case, and he found himself looking at a lifetime on medication. 

He moved back to Canada for a few years after high school to attend a community college where he earned a diploma toward getting his Chef's Red Seal. From there he moved back to New Orleans, where he was told there was an apprenticeship open for him. What followed was a great deal of confusion and a struggle to find himself a job. Work wasn't terribly difficult to find, however there seemed to be no apprenticeships available by the time he arrived to look into them. Eventually Ricky settled for a job on a crawfish boat, where he was given the exciting job of making sure nothing untoward got into the boat. That included anyone who thought they could go around stealing other people's crawfish traps. To that effect he began carrying a pair of very large knives into the swamps with him, having realized that people were barely phased by the sight of a shotgun, but the idea of a man with a knife seemed to strike fear into the hearts of most bayou pirates. His captain was even kind enough to gift him a snub-nosed Colt Cobra in .38 special, and while he appreciated the thought, and carried it everywhere, he spent more time honing his abilities with the knives he chose to carry, thinking it would take more practice to get good with close combat, than it would with a firearm. Unconcerned by his mistaken belief, the man was quite successful in deterring both thieves and small crocodiles, and found himself becoming an expert at more than just cooking animals. It wasn't the sort of work he'd been looking for, but the physical nature of the job appealed to him, and he found he didn't mind it as much as he'd thought he might.

By the time he finally found an apprenticeship, he was confident in his ability to dress any kind of wild game, something that helped him immensely as he worked toward his red seal. His time on a crawfish boat had been inspiring, however, and he didn't let his fighting skills lapse just because he didn't necessarily need them any more. Of course he still did little in the way of practice with his revolver, managing only to keep it maintained in case he did need it. Instead he focused on maintaining his own physical shape and his abilities with a knife. Unfortunately, he'd find zombies overthrowing the world before he ever earned his red seal. The worst part, he thought at the time, was the fact that it happened in the middle of his vacation. He'd been visiting friends across the border when he heard about the initial stages of the disaster. He thought he could wait out this sort of thing, but it didn't take long to realize that the airport wasn't going to be running when it came time for his return flight. With gas stations out of fuel and nothing to do about it, he started a long walk to Louisiana, hitching or stealing rides when he could, but finding he spent more time on his feet than behind a wheel. When he came to terms with the idea that these were zombies, and not people, he stopped feeling anything about ending their unlives. Not even medication could give him any sort of feeling toward the things. That didn't stop him from raiding every pharmacy he could find on the way toward his home, however, as he was reluctant to lose more touch with reality.

The trip south took far longer than he liked, and even after so long in transit, the hordes of undead seemed unshrinking when he witnessed the streets of New Orleans. He gave up on trying to get home, and instead focused on surviving once more, like he had for the last ten months. Unfortunately, at this point he was lost, unsure where exactly he was. Nearly a year without civilization to maintain the area left it in tatters, and the chef took to wandering aimlessly, and considering drifting his way back to Canada...