Appearance: [hider=picture][img]http://fc02.deviantart.net/fs44/i/2009/061/9/2/David_and_Beard_by_jenniebee.jpg[/img]
Tattoo on his arm: [img]http://th01.deviantart.net/fs71/PRE/i/2011/041/5/e/day_of_the_dead_russian_dolls_by_paulorocker-d3985wo.jpg[/img][/hider]

He regularily wears a camo jacket, one of the things that they had managed to scavenge from nearby places. Under that he has a black t-shirt, nothing too fancy. No necklace, as that can only be grabbed by the zombies. He has burgundy chino pants on, with black anke boots underneath. It's nothing too special and doesn't stand out much. He has a tattoo on his arm (pic included in hider).

Name: Pavlov Redd Marshall
Age: 23
Noteworthy Skills: no noteworthy skills at all. Rather useless fellow, this one.
Weapons: a hunting knife tucked into his boots, a Glock holstered and a Lee Enfield slung over his shoulder with a strap.
Personality: Pavlov is not what people generally label a calm man, and always needs something to keep him occupied and busy. He likes taking risks, believing the pay off is always higher when you take a risk. Either that or you die. He seems indifferent to the whole situation, but that is probably just the result of being in this hell ever since the Fall. For that reason he's not too good at making friends, despite being a loyal dog to who ever he is with. He's not the type to take leadership and will probably fail when this should ever happen, but perhaps if he does well enough he will get more comfortable with it.
Because he likes to take risks, he'll volunteer for the more dangerous things that need to be done around the perimeter, such as cleaning out the fences of any stragglers, clearing breached areas if the need arises, etcetera. 

Because he only arrived a few months back he doesn't yet feel very comfortable in the group and considers himself a bit of an outcast. He's eager to get into the group though, and willing to work for it. He lost most of his gear before he came to the airport and hasn't yet explained why, but he feels he has to work for it to earn back gear and supplies from the airport survivor group, not willing to just take stuff from them or accept gifts. 

History: Pavlov was born an American, but named a Russian because of his mothers Russian background. Mom's side of the family moved to Alaska in 1923 and slowly the families spreaded a bit more through America. His mom couldn't take the cold and the pressure of their parents breathing down their necks so moved to Kansas with her boyfriend in 1991 when she was 34, and got pregnant there. Out came Pavlov and his sister, both at once. 

When he was 18 he started working at a hospital as a cleaner, not having quite the education to be a doctor or even a nurse. His mother was somewhat dissapointed but understood his wish for other things, because when she was younger she experienced the same. The father was gone by then, something Pavlov never quite forgave him for. He worked there for 5 more years, until shit hit the fan. He was pretty close to Kansas' patient zero when he came in, thinking back to that moment, he was cleaning a hallway when the green, scab covered man was wheeled in on a hospital bed. They rolled him past him and Pavlov looked into the mans eyes, seeing nothing but white. 

The next day he called in sick due to slight stomach cramps. A few hours later everything went flipside and got screwed over in a matter of minutes. Pavlov was lucky to be inside his crappy small appartment, where nobody in the building ever left their appartments. He wasn't a part of the first casualties probably because he stayed home that day. Speak of luck. Once the news about the zombie outbreak hit the news, being referred to as ''some sort of infection spread by open wounds and blood'' or whatever the hell they said, Pavlov decided to pack his shit and go somewhere else. He tried phoning his sister, who had moved back to Russia, and heard something resembling a crying girl. It was obviously his sister though, marked by the characteristic hysterical sounds. They spoke in Russian for a bit, Pavlov trying his best to remember the little Russian he learned. She calmed down and said she'd go somewhere safe. Pavlov hasn't heard from her since, but then again who has heard from anyone nowadays?

Pavlov left his city and went around the rural area, scavenging supplies which were scarce now that the initial wave of looters had already passed. It was much worse in the city though. Even before the television told about the outbreak people had already panicked and started looting the shops, nothing daring to stand in their way as the cops themselves were sometimes involved in the looting as well. 

Life wasn't good, but he got by. He met a few people, talking to a few, but most told him the same thing. ''Head north.'' Head north, ofcourse, yeah, that's where everyone goes. Everyone with a gun included. Pavlov didn't like that really, it would just be a slaughter. Some offered to take him in with their group but he always said no and thanked them. You never know what kinda people you're going with, could very well be cannibals. People do freaky shit when they are desperate. That's not saying Pavlov wouldn't do freaky shit, but he'd prefer not to. When he lost his gear in a presumed bandit incident where he was forced to drop his bag, he decided he needed protection in numbers and started actively looking for a community he could join. Somehow he ended up at Billings Muncipal Airport a few months before the current day (Pavlov has no idea what day it is) and again, somehow got taken in for reasons Pavlov can't understand himself. He considered himself a useless fellow mostly. He had gun experience, but never shot to kill and never on humans either. The only things that fell to his gun was animals and zombies, and he even felt some remorse for both of them. Didn't really have any other skills either. Either way, there he is, Pavlov Redd Marshal, ready to take on the world, or die trying. He'll probably die though, this is the apocalypse after all.