What may be Scouts Bios

[The Laughing Knight]

Or perhaps not. As a word of forewarning! This may contain charachters I will never use but want to have a consistent flow of information on, as a backup. ON WITH THE SHOW!

[The Laughing Knight]

Thread: Upcoming thread 'The Plauge'

Name: Father Avery "Laughingstock" Slightman
Age: 45
Height/Weight: 5'8"/210 lbs
Possessions: well worn wool waistcoat, silver cross embroidled with rubies, old shoes, suit-pants, a small (4") knife, a .38 Ruger 7 shot revolver, and a few keepsakes such as cash and a picture of his parish and his congregation.
Previously infected with Tripps: Yes
Recovered: Yes, with only one sore remaining on his neck

Father Slightman was a stereotypical Preist before the outbreak of the Superflu. He was a drunkard, a man of the cloth who didn't mind taking a sip or three of gin during a sermon to give himself the extra fire nececary to preach his poison religion, one which he barely beleived himself. Wouldn't belive it, had it not been for the drink making him soft in the head.

"If you don't stop drinking, you will die, Avery." His doctor had told him, not unkindly, as they sat together in a seedy bar and truck stop east of Fuck Nowhere, America.

"If God doesn't have faith in my bottle and the hand that holds it, may he strike me down now!" Avery had yelled, and they both laughed, neither one belivers in what the Faddah preached.

Roughly two days later, the outbreak had started, and Avery was one of the first to catch sick.

Being a man of his age, one would think even with the modern medicines he might have been one of the first to go. Take in the account of his hard drinking for nearly twenty five years and you have a man prone to catch ill in one way or another.

As the doctor died beside him, too weak to move, the father laid back, on his deathbed, and uttered a prayer to any god who would hear him. He swore that he would give up the drink if they would aleviate him of his ails. Ironicaly, it might not have been a god that answered him, and later he would reflect on this and wonder, but he did sleep that night, and the next day awoke feeling better. Within a week he was whole again, Mind sober and clear for what felt like the first time in centuries.

Amazingly, he did keep his promise, tossing out the drink like a young woman might toss out a bothersome cat. He left his place, once of death, now an almost holy place to him, and wondered where he should go...

The Dreams, he thought, the dreams must mean something...

And the dreams were pointing him west... Twoard the dark man, the walking dude, as he was called in the east. He shrugged, considering it the best lead he had, and walked, west.