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Server time (UTC): 2019-07-23, 14:22
Murdoch Komarov
Character information
  1. Alias
  2. Mental
  3. Morale
  4. Date of birth
    1992-02-27 (27 years old)
  5. Place of birth
    Nizhny Novgorod, Russia
  6. Nationality
  7. Ethnicity
    East Slavic
  8. Languages
    Russian, English, ASL, Morse Code


  1. Height
    182 cm
  2. Weight
    70 kg
  3. Build
    Wire-like, skinny
  4. Hair
  5. Eyes
  6. Alignment
    Chaotic Neutral
  7. Features
    -Scar over left eyebrow, cutting across the middle vertically
    -Major burn mark on collarbone, left side
    -Scars on last joint of fingers on left hand, like gashes presumably from a carving knife
  8. Equipment
    Carving knife
    Wooden figurines (Owl, fawn, buck, doe, wolf)
  9. Occupation


Mur grew in a nomadic life, never staying in the same spot for too long. His father was a quiet man when it came to anything but trading, he had a way with words that could get any poor sucker to buy something useless. The deceit, is what Mur thought of it as. Truth hidden behind anything were lies, there was no grey area. The caravan that he had been born into was settled in Novgorod at the time, business and trade were booming. Leaving little time for any interaction with his own family. By age sixteen he had started to grow distant and cold to anyone in the caravan, blaming them for negligence, the caravan had entered Moscow's outskirts, in Mur's eyes, it was an opportunity. A once in a live time one at that, to explore, to see the world in his own view.

On his little adventure Mur saw nature in its full beauty, he had wandered no more than a kilometer away, but just the shrubbery had filled a void in him, if it wasn't people he could talk to, maybe it could of been the other organisms.

On his nineteenth birthday his father gave him a knife. The carving knife had an engraving on it, but he couldn't quite understand it, it was a symbol of a city, with birds flying around it. Father's buddy had carved it in to the knife before he fell ill. A knife to carve and a knife to eat with, it would give life and take life. But nonetheless hadn't been known for any of that.

The day after his birth day, father had gotten himself into a ruckus, he had apparently scammed the wrong person, Mur didn't hear much else than, "We have to leave, now." and he didn't see much else except the fear in his father's eyes, that of a cowardly animal.

Traveling South to run from fear, to run from change, running... from freedom. They reached a bordering satellite state, and settled. It had been the first time in years since they had stopped. They had made it to a lush country, teeming to the brim with nature. 'This, was home' Mur thought. The land of South Zagoria. July 9th, day of opening doors, the day of great bounds, they had crossed the border. The land of endless fields, endless time. Though the country had been in shambles when Murdoch arrived, it hadn't bothered him. The military didn't even seem to be there, for him at least, though in reality they were everywhere. He heard of strange people wandering around in towns attacking others, and eating them. It had sparked a curiosity but hadn't convinced him of the danger that looms in Chernarus. His father's mental state worsened from being a fearful man to a paranoid one, the camp they had set up once vibrant in color, not covered in leaves and washed of color. The rest of the caravan had settled in Severograd, before the bombardments in the nearby areas. Contact between the two had ceased, becoming no more than radio static. Presumably dead.

The constant ramblings of his father grew to much for him, the constant sneezing, he had already grown ill. With the constant tapping of rain on their tent, it had come to a rythm, a sweet melody of nature. His father had already become blind, Murdoch assumed it was of old age. Already being distant it didn't even bother him with the idea that came to his head. Why not just... kill him? Murdoch thought. The silence of death, the bringer of rot, and the leaver of souls, death would cleanse him at the least Murdoch continued pondering. And! he continued, He is infected, the signs are clear....

The storm subsided, leaving only the colorless tents, the radio now silent, and a grave. The outbreak had been a call of freedom to him, to his father. Packing up his camp he set out to see the wasteland.

| Personal Entry |

Father was quiet and seemed to always look over his shoulder

Never talked to me about anything, always moving, always restless. The only time father would speak is when he told me of his family, his time, and his life, but not his to own his words were cold and distant. Scared he seemed to me at the time, all the time, always scared, like a frightened animal.

Why was father scared?
He had to be scared of something, for something. He had loved someone, had no love for me, he saw me as a creature, a curse, he hated me, despised me, he could barely look at me. A burden on his soul chained to him by a promise he had made to someone, I wish I knew… knew what had happened, why he was scared, and why he didn’t like me. I know of no other time than with him.
Now, there is solace in life, for life is full of sorrow, solace and salvation, salvation found in the dead, cold night, and the everlasting winter. I was taught this by nature herself, oh beautiful nature… The bird, yes… the bird, an owl!

I had watched on one of the moonless nights when the stars were the only light, but for an owl, there is always light. Light in death, light in heart, light in soul! The feathered friend had always had an eye out for me, always cocked its head and shriveled its feathers when it saw me, in only a way that it can be told as, acceptance. Now the bird, the wise owl, hunted, and waited. The one who accepted me, the one who watched me, now watched for prey. It hadn’t saw me as prey, but it did see me, it saw through me.

The hunter, with its freedom, a creature of nature, without fear, or hate, or sorrow, it only knew survival. Now my father, he didn’t know survival, he knew of fear, sadness, and ale. I can’t even see him as a father, he doesn’t look anything like me, he doesn’t THINK like I do. Now a light shines on him, a light that shone on things with no spark, no thought… I must leave, leave this place, not for fear, but for survival, I will bring the owl, oh sweet owl.. The carving knife brought life to a lifeless branch of wood, now it brings life to me, ever red, and never less a home for me.

Goodbye, father.



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