Mathias - Denmark [app] Done!

[Mathias Torbjørn]

Character's Name:
Mathias Torbjørn
Character's Age:
Looks to be about 25-28
Gender:
Male
Desired Faction:
Wastelander. No concrete alliances.
Character Description:
[Reference one.] [Reference two.] [Reference three.]

Though still tall and broad-shouldered, the last several years have not been kind to Denmark. Since the war, he has lost a great deal of weight and is no longer as bulky as he once was, leaving him rather stringy, but still strong and quick enough to have lasted this long. Most of his torso, back, and arms are zig-zagged with jagged scars from years of fighting and scraping to get by and are rarely seen by anyone else unless he has his sleeves rolled up. He has long since stopped bothering to maintain his hair, allowing it to grow out enough for him not to worry about it, though he does keep it on the short side to keep it from getting in his eyes, still as blue and as full of staunch determination as they have ever been.

Outfit/Weapons:
Practicality is key. He keeps his wardrobe light and easily manageable; black, fitting, and easy to move in, with thick boots and gloves. When out in the wastes, which he frequently is, he wears a heavy, leather trench coat to protect from the elements and whatever he can scrape up for armor, generally no more than knee pads and, if he's had a good week, a chest plate.

He keeps a respirator mask on him at all times, but only really wears it when he's outside. Not because he is worried about the toxicity of the air, everyone is already too far gone to be worrying about that, but because it is occasionally a necessary item to keep his own ragged lungs going, still too weak from the bombings in Copenhagen to properly cope with the acrid atmosphere. He keeps it in a sturdy, leather bag on his belt along with an old map, grease pencil, AM radio, spare ammunition, and a meager handful of first-aid supplies.

He keeps a Vapensmia NM149S with a mounted scope with him out of necessity. It's an old rifle, but it gets the job done. He's always preferred a more hands-on approach, however, and he spends at least an hour each day hunting for a proper axe. Still no luck, though.

Personality:
Much of the jovial cheerfulness he once had is gone, replaced with a cold, sarcastic bitterness that can make it difficult to get along with him. He is often times rather smarmy, bordering on rude, but on rare occasions, his old personality does come through, momentarily putting him back in the role of a fiercely protective older brother rather than a sneering pessimist. He is convinced the world has gone to shit and that there is no putting it back together. The only thing he remains truly optimistic about anymore is finding the other Nordics. He is always very, very focused on his mission of tracking them down and will never hesitate to put his boot in the face of anyone who implies it's a fruitless endeavor.

It's rare that he allows himself to get close to anyone anymore, but when he does, he is as loyal as they come and will do anything if it means keeping that person safe, often being very bossy and controlling because, obviously, it's for their own good. Though he'd never tell them, he is absolutely petrified of loosing anyone important to him ever again.

He won't admit it out front, but he has a weak spot for children. They are the one thing still left in the desolate wasteland he calls home that will always bring out the protectiveness in him and, regardless of the situation, he will always go out of his way to help them.

Strengths:
Very light on his feet and good at thinking on the spot, though his plans are often the same. He knows the wastes like the back of his hand from his wandering and as such, is a very, very good navigator. He's a decent shot, but his real strength in any sort of fight will always come from his own hands, whether simply in the form of a fist or holding a blunt object.

Weaknesses:
Very, very headstrong, to the point where he will often act alone if it means doing things his way. Doesn't take orders well and has an explosive temper that has gotten him into more trouble than he'd ever care to admit. He has a bit of a self-destructive streak, which generally does more harm than good to any given situation. Physical weakness comes to him in the form of stamina. He can walk for miles on end, but if he needs to run a long distance or is put in a situation where he must exert himself, he needs to have his respirator on, and even then, won't last long in a lengthy fight before his breath gives out.

History:
WWIII was hell on the Danish people. Neutral and caught in the middle, they were completely unprepared for the unprovoked attack, which leveled the small country entirely. The small number of fallout shelters that they did have built did not do much good and overcrowded quickly, leaving each to fend for their own on the surface. Some managed to flee to Greenland and the neighboring countries, leaving them as the last remaining ethnic Danes when the bare, charred country flooded into nothing more than a stripped gouge in the ocean, taking the fallout shelters with it.

Denmark himself refused to leave his people. Injured and burning from the inside out, he struggled alongside the survivors, providing what aid he could until the water began to rise and was eventually too weak to do more than listen to the anguished cries of his dying people, laid out in the skeletal remains of an old truck.

By the time a rusty tank boat came to haul him away from the last patch of dry land, he was too frail and delirious to protest, or to even remember the journey from his sunken country to the wasteland. To this day, he has no recollection of who it was that took him from his home and onto the ship or who brought him to a shelter to recover. He spent months in a fevered, wheezing haze, fighting to regain his strength and at the mercy of the other inhabitants in the shelter, relying on the kindness of people whom were just as sick as he.

Eventually, he began to recuperate and set to worrying as soon his brain was clear enough to do so. Not knowing where he was or even what day it was anymore, he began to pick at the others for information, desperate for any sign that the Sweden, Finland, Norway, and Iceland were okay or, at the very least, still breathing. No one knew for sure, but most of them simply told him to accept the fact that they were probably dead and to focus on himself. Unable to even fathom such a thing, he spent the next several months bartering and trading what few items he had until he had an outdated map and the respirator mask that would allow him to breath properly again. Soon, the only item he still retained that he came in with was the small, cross-shaped hairclip that had miraculously survived both the attacks and journey over. It was worth more than anything else he had, but was the one thing he would never, ever trade.

He left the shelter as soon as he was able to walk on his own two feet again, ignoring the warnings of the others, and set out to explore the wasteland, completely determined to find his Nordic brothers again. He never bothered to settle anywhere and simply took to the haggard roads and towns, seeking information from anyone willing to speak, marking and updating his map as he went, unafraid of the creatures that prowled the wastes and focused only on his mission.

He’s been at it for years now with no luck and continues to search to this day.


Additional Information:
People often speculate that he is trying to run himself into the ground to escape the loneliness and grief of loosing everything.

He will always deny it.

RP Sample:

Mathias sighs heavily and hauls himself up to the long, wooden platform at the top of the decimated church, sitting himself against the charred support beams and allowing his legs to dangle over the side. He’s never been one for heights, but with how low he is on ammo and how many packs of rabid dogs there has been lately, he supposes that he can’t really afford to take any chances and when it comes time to pack it in for the night, he finds himself a perch as high up as possible with still being close enough to the ground to be a non-fatal fall should there be an emergency.

“Or if those stupid birds show up again…” he mutters to himself, unzipping his coat enough to pull his bag open. He pulls out the map and carefully unfolds it, mindful of the frayed corners and small tears that he’s had to tape up, and neatly pulls a thick line through the last town and part of the river with his pencil; it’s been another unrewarding day. He had caught a rumor from a trader in the train yards about a young man with snow white hair hiding out in a bunker ten miles east, but after a day full of travel, all Mathias had found was the withered corpse of an old man in the spindly remains of a greenhouse.

He looks at the map for a moment before gingerly folding it up again. He’s going to have to make a trip to the nearest trading post in the morning. He needs a new pair of gloves and bullets, not to mention a new filter for his mask. He tucks the map away and pulls the respirator out, turning it over in his hand to inspect the filthy netting of the filter, sighing again and stuffing it back away. The air seems to be getting worse rather than better, and he can practically taste the pollution with each rattling breath he takes. It’s worse in the flats than it is in the mountains, but it’s still caustic enough to be plenty uncomfortable.

He resituates his coat and starts to lie down on the platform, but the smallest glint of silver on the distant horizon catches his attention. He frowns deeply. There shouldn’t be anyone out here other than the grotesquely modified animals and he can’t think of any creature that would be wearing anything reflecting. He quickly picks up his rifle and shoulders it, bringing the scope to his face to peer out into the slowly darkening plains, his eyes widening when he catches the source of the shine.

“What the hell is that…?”

[Feliciano Vargas]

A Dane! Yay nice app! I love and it is approved! Welcome to the wastes, hope you find a friend!