[b]Name/Nicknames:[/b] John "Guardsman" Parsons

[b]Age:[/b] 27

[b]Appearance:[/b] Alan stands six foot two, with dirty brown hair and brown eyes. His build of your average military-trained man; well built shoulders, torso and legs, muscled arms. However, the wasteland has left his cheeks sallow and gaunt, his eyes hollow, and his body in tortured shape. Scars criss cross his chest and back, and two go over his face; one over his left eye, which is blind, and the other horizontally across his nose. His way of dress is decidedly unique; in the ruins of Buckingham Palace, John found a set of full, if faded, queen's guard uniforms, complete with combat boots and the like, and minus that silly huge furry hat. In place of the huge furry hat, he wears a faded red beret without any insignia or badges on it. 

[b]Race:[/b] Human

[b]Personality:[/b] John is a simple man; if it's edible, he'll eat it. If it's potable, he'll drink it. If it's trying to kill him, he'll kill it then decide on if it's edible. Surviving in the wasteland for many years on his own have made him a ghost of his former self. Cynical and world-weary, John is a seeker of peace and solace, either in sheltered conditions, or in death.

He rarely often jokes, and if one were to crack a joke he barely would respond, unless he were feeling safe or if the joke were particularly amusing. He is also loyal, although his loyalty mainly comes from who provides the most coin. However, if John trusts someone, they can always count on him to protect them and keep them from harm.

[b]Skills/Attributes:[/b][list]
[*]Hand-to-Hand Combat; after surviving years in the wastes on his own, John has become adept at the fine art of murdering someone in close range, be it with his rifle-spear, his knife, or his fists.
[*]Survivalist; it has become second nature to John. He knows good places to find water, dirty but unaffected by radiation, and he knows how to kill a radstag or molerat and cook its meat efficiently.
[*]Protector; if you're in John's good books, chances are you're protected for life, especially if you travel with him.[/list]

[b]Backstory:[/b] John Parsons was born long after the bombs fell and the people emerged into a burned out, shell of a country. A world weary of its exertions, waiting to die from inevitability. Unlike most who were surviving out in the countrysides where farmland was rare but an actual thing, John instead found himself in urban London, growing up amongst the wreckage as his parents, survivors and settlers trying to make a living in the city ruins, moved from building to building in an attempt to forage a living.

When he turned eighteen, both his parents were dead from raider attacks and the feral ghouls that stalked out from the former London Underground. Forced to seek shelter and live life alone, he took to stealing, scavenging and even downright murder to get by.

Eventually he found himself in Buckingham Palace, where there had used to be a Haven underneath the palace grounds for London's royalty. They were all dead now, of course, but what remained of the queen's guard...remained. He found himself in possession of a uniform of a guardsman, although he never knew who they once were, and found it fitting. The rifles kept in storage and on display in the palace were, although unusable as firearms, served as clubs just as well, and with a lucky find of a bayonet, John had himself a spear, and thus he set out wandering. His goal was to exit the city and head for the countryside, in the hopes that he'd find shelter somewhere out there.

Years went by. John honed his skills in the fine art of manslaughter and occasionally lent his services out guarding caravans for what meagre supplies or currency they had. Rumours began to abound of the red-dressed "Guardsman" in the English county wastes, a mercenary that did dirty work for what remained of English royalty, or so the stories went. Slowly he grew weary of the bloodshed and murder, though he saw no other alternatives to his life.

It was around this low point that John stumbled upon the town of Silvershaw while escorting a trading caravan there. The town gave him a glimpse into a life he'd never thought he'd have: a peaceful one, where his blade would go unbloodied for more than a week, and where he would have human company that wasn't trying to murder him. It was where he finally made his home, as an actual town guard and night watchman, gazing over the rolling hills and into the night sky with an old pair of binoculars as the moon shone bright in the sky.

[b]Equipment:[/b][list]
[*]M1 Garand w/ long serrated bayonet; useless without proper ammunition, John uses this old relic rifle more as a spear than anything else.
[*]Binoculars; self explanatory.
[*]Scrap bootknife; a small dagger made of a sharpened shard of metal with some cloth wrapped around it, John keeps this rudimentary backup weapon in his boot, ready in case someone pounces on him without his weapon ready.[/list]