Dogs in the Junkyard
Very worn black leather jacket and trousers, army boots, American Football shoulder pads, grey vest, faded black scarf, worn black fingerless gloves, webbing with pouches – LOTS of pouches stuffed with oddments, things that might come in useful, ammo, small bits from cars, and shiny things.
worn, scarred face, several days of stubble, scruffy short hacked hair
A no shit driver
My other car’s a tank
sawn off double barrel shotgun
Jinx : 0
Marshall : 0
Doom : -1
Wheezer : 0
[ ], [ ], [ ], [ ], [ ]>Improvement!
“I don’t remember much of my childhood. All that remains are memories. I remember a time of chaos, ruined dreams, this wasted land. Most of all, I remember the man we called Jax, the Road Warrior. Our saviour. On the roads it’s a white-line nightmare. Only those mobile enough to scavenge, brutal enough to pillage, survive. Gangs rule the highways, waging war for a tank of juice. Good brave men are battered and smashed. We used to travel as a group, in our caravan, and hope for safety in numbers. But there was no safety. Until we met him. It was him who truly saved us, and him that I owe everything to. He lives now, only in my memories…”
Colt grew up as a semi feral kid, living amongst the caravan of survivors. He remembers a time when his aunt was there looking after him, and friends of his aunt trying their best. But really the only person who taught him anything of note was The Road Warrior, Jax. It was through his friendship that Colt began to come out of himself and act in a more civilised way, from him that he learnt how to take care of himself and as he grew how to drive and how to fight. Eventually, before walking off into the night never to return, Jax gave Colt his most treasured item. The keys to Jax’s car, The Pursuer.