[b]Name:[/b]  Corrine Doolak 

[b]Age:[/b] 41 

[b]Race/Gender:[/b] human/female 

[b]Brief physical description or picture:[/b] A woman of average height (5’ 7”), shoulder length dark blonde hair streaked with greys.  Slight of frame in all aspects, not busty, not curvy.  She has brown eyes, and her face features signs of premature aging (fine lines around her eyes, laugh lines).  

Clothing/Armor/Weapons:  unremarkable/basic clothing as expected of a harbour dweller.  She tends to wear multiple layers and suffers from chills, and feels this more acutely as her life revolves more around being drunk at The Plank instead of on the Island gathering tech.  Typically carries a handful of basic tools for lockpicking and/or dismantling items.  Armed with a grossly undermaintained 10mm pistol as a side arm, prefers to use a modified fishing spear featuring three serrated heads.  

[b]Brief Background:[/b]

Corrine Doolak (“DuLac” being the correct form of the name, due to her French-Canadian ancestry, but this has been long forgotten over the centuries) a born and raised islander, spent her life trawling ruins with her junk-trading parents.  If you asked her profession, she would huff and call herself a “scavenger,” but truly she was a junk dealer.  Corrine always had a knack for a delicate touch and could turn a single pre-war radio into at least a dozen useable, saleable parts. The family abandoned the stand when the fog began its slow creep to take over the island, after her father was mauled to death by an angler that had made its nest next to the road the Doolaks had considered safe for decades.  Her brother took up fishing, and her mother committed suicide by drowning herself a year or so after her father’s death.  Corrine’s ability to retrieve delicate components made for a lucrative livelihood, often finding herself contracting out to traders and villagers alike for elusive parts and for a high price.

Corrine found herself needing to slow her pace by her mid-thirties, the joints in her fingers having taken on the fog into her bones (or what would otherwise be termed as, early onset arthritis).  She still managed to get by well enough, having settled near Far Harbor for the good part of fifteen years, but the fog eventually forced her to Far Harbor proper with its condensers.  Occasionally, she would pick up some piecemeal work by dismantling junk for Brooks for him to sell, but as the fog grew worse, so did her arthritis, to the point where she could hardly manipulate the tiny screws and gears as she did when she was younger.  Unfortunately for her, between the pain in her hands, and the elevated danger associated with journeying into the fog, she found herself in her early forties with little to do but drink away her days at The Plank.