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The brief story of Antön Nikodim.

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He had lived on Namalsk since he was born. It was his homeland, his birthplace his only place in the world. It was 1991. He was 16, just a boy. Last night was a heavy storm, luckily the fire was on in their small shack east of Vorkuta. Lately his neighbours had disappeared. One night they were fishing together, the next day gone. His father worked at a factory in Lubjansk whilst his mother worked at home making clothes. Rumours had spread around for years from people vanishing and houses being destroyed. These were very secretive. The local police had kept quite for years and the governing body were rarely seen. The population was incredibly low; visitors were sparse. Namalsk had harsh conditions from it being in the Bering-Strait. Antön's family wanted to leave the island and head for Alaska. But they were stocking up on money for this.

So early on the Sunday morning, Antön completed his daily routine as he was shocked not to find his parents. It was a Sunday a day of rest in Namalsk much like many other places in the world. The tap was dripping continuously but he could not stop it. He decided to wrap up warm in layers of clothing and to head outside. As soon as he opened the door snow was pounding him all over. This was one of the years worst storms, if not the worst. He took a few steps outside of his small village and into the forest. Loud gunshots could be heard from Vorkuta. They repeated about every 3 seconds. Antön was bewildered by this and anxious, for his and his families sake. Without noticing, his distance from his village was increasing. Only once did he turn around, and at this time his whole village was on fire. Flames soared into the sky as the burning wood disintegrated. For sure now Antön thought his family was dead.

It was April, 2004. Antön inserted the magazine into his Dragunov sniper rifle. Boom. Blood sprayed all out of the man's head. Antön rummaged with his body for supplies. He could only find a small bottle of water which was mostly frozen. He had to kill anyone. Namalsk was a wasteland. No one was a friend. He had seen convoys go past as he would sit over-watching them. The dead man had no defence. Antön put him out his misery.

It was 2012. Antön had permanently lost his voice. He was sprinting down the coast as he saw a boat with an engine running. He hopped onto the boat and sped away as fast as he could. He was running from the snowy, bleak hell. About a day later he arrived on the coast of Russia. He wanted to head west. As far west. He regained strength and his voice started spluttering back. A sunny day was bliss for him. Russia took him back to normality. But something still wasn't right.

It was Late April, 2014. Antön had been travelling for two years. He was in the land of Chernarus. His voice was odd and croaky. He had travelled to the infection. Normality has been partly restored in him. He had spent 21 years on the horror ridden wasteland known as Namalsk. If he hadn't had travelled through Russia for those two years, he wouldn't have been himself. His tales could go on for a lifetime.

Antön Nikodim is settling down in Chernarus, offering his experience and help to others, physiologically and physically. He wears his gas mask to remeber himself of who he is. He had wore that gas mask for the 21 years he spent on Namalsk. Somehow he is stable even though he is traumatized still to the date.

Antön wears these clothes:


Along with his Namalskian gas mask:



I based it around the lore on Namalsk from this page: http://www.dayzrp.com/t-dayzrp-map-locations-and-lore?

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