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Server time (UTC): 2023-01-27 22:44

Michael Taylor
Character information
  1. Alias
  2. Mental
    Quiet, Reserved, but never afraid to get blood on his hands if it even slightly benefits his group or his survival odds. Finds peace and relaxation from taking the lives of scumbags
  3. Morale
    Stable, yet fragile
  4. Date of birth
    1998-10-13 (24 years old)
  5. Place of birth
    London, England
  6. Nationality
  7. Ethnicity
  8. Languages
  9. Relationship
    Abbi Barker
  10. Family
    Brian and Molly Taylor
  11. Religion


  1. Height
    175 cm
  2. Weight
    95 kg
  3. Build
  4. Hair
    Dark Brown
  5. Eyes
  6. Alignment
    Chaotic Good
  7. Equipment
    Hunting jacket, Black beanie, Alice pack, and a bolt action rifle
  8. Occupation
    Welder, Metalworker
  9. Role
    Designated Marksman


Born and raised in England, UK, I never spent much of my life around weapons or firearms of any kind, the worst being my collection of airsoft rifles. I drifted from job to job after leaving college, unable to find my place in the world, struggling with imposter syndrome and an unhealthy anger for how people are treated by the rich and powerful. One day, while at a job fair, I applied to become a welder and got the job before my trial shift even ended! After a few years I felt confident enough to work as a sole trader, travelling across the country and working for all kinds of people, but refused to do jobs for wealthy people, mostly out of principle. Their wealth never meant you'd be paid more, it just meant you'd be treated worse. On my 21st birthday, I was called up and offered double my yearly salary to offer my services to a charity based in Nyheim, and leapt at the opportunity!

While in Nyheim, I was repairing cars for working class people for free. At first, I didn't think much of those clickbait article titles of "The dead come back" and other such nonsense, I figured it would all just blow over. It didn't... It got worse. Not long after the outbreak, I got stuck here during the quarantine. I tried to get a return flight home, but we were not allowed to leave. I even reached out to the British Embassy and was told I'd the same bullsh*t script about doing my part for international safety and security. I was trapped here... far from home... After a while of trying to find a way back to England, I gave up. I hated feeling so helpless, so I spent my free time shooting bottles and tin cans, with scavenged hunting rifles and varmint rifles, improving my aim in the process. This practice actually saved my life once or twice, even helping me take down groups much larger than little old me, helping me gain a slight edge against the roaming mobs of gangsters and murderers. If I cant get off this cursed island, then I might as well thrive on it...


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