Name:
Lyle Lucien "Scythe" Forsythe
Age:
27
Gender:
Male
Ethnicity:
Caucasian
Appearance:
Scythe stands at a tall 6'4, which, coupled with his less than savory appearance, makes the man somewhat of an intimidating sight. The man has a pair of dark brown eyes, with three, equally spaced scratches—which had been freshly dug into Scythe's otherwise smooth skin—beneath the right eye that run horizontally from his ear to his cheek, a gift given to him by a foul-mooded hand. The set of scratches are quite visible against his tanning skin, which was the direct result from his recent extended stays out in the sunlight. Scythe has medium length, raven-black hair which is messily combed forward—probably by hand—with the bangs brushed down, somewhat in his eyes. A small, healing cut is on his bottom lip, moving from the top of his lip down to the skin just under it. Scythe has a slight stubble, black like his hair, that is only noticeable when up close, implying that, even in the midst of all the chaos that is going on, Scythe still takes time out of his day to shave. If only they could see him now, though. Oh so different he was now compared to the formal, clean-cut man he was before everything went to hell. His light, almost reclusive-colored skin now rich in color; his perfect, 'beautiful' face now riddled with the wages of war; his hair—well, his hair had pretty much always been a chaotic and tangled web that portrayed a general lack of effort and care toward his appearance, though that was certainly not the case, but it was now longer and, if possible, even messier.
Though he used to favor a fancier sort of clothing, not to say he didn't wear casual wear while at home or at other places, such as suits or designer clothing, Scythe has switched favor for an attire that would better suit him for this hellish event, as well as hopefully increase his life expectancy in this new worlds of dangers. He wears a simple, white t-shirt, slightly stained with blood but otherwise clean of dirt. Over it, Scythe wears a dark green, unzipped cargo jacket, packed full of small gadgets and the like. For pants, Scythe wears a pair of khaki cargo pants—close to a wet, sandy beach shade—filled with supplies and is held up by a simple, black belt. A pair of black, steel-toed shoes cover sit snugly around Scythe's feet. Around Scythe's neck hangs two necklaces: one a decent sized piece of string with roughly about twenty or so different kinds of rings hanging from it and the other a silver cross that was half-tarnished connected to a black string.
Weapons:
Scythe uses the semi-automatic rifle, AR-15, equipped with a scope, as well as a strap, and uses thirty round box magazines. A weapon he came across during a military attempt. Scythe also cares around a large meat cleaver he first went for—and has since kept—during his first encounter with an infected.
Lyle Lucien "Scythe" Forsythe
Age:
27
Gender:
Male
Ethnicity:
Caucasian
Appearance:
Scythe stands at a tall 6'4, which, coupled with his less than savory appearance, makes the man somewhat of an intimidating sight. The man has a pair of dark brown eyes, with three, equally spaced scratches—which had been freshly dug into Scythe's otherwise smooth skin—beneath the right eye that run horizontally from his ear to his cheek, a gift given to him by a foul-mooded hand. The set of scratches are quite visible against his tanning skin, which was the direct result from his recent extended stays out in the sunlight. Scythe has medium length, raven-black hair which is messily combed forward—probably by hand—with the bangs brushed down, somewhat in his eyes. A small, healing cut is on his bottom lip, moving from the top of his lip down to the skin just under it. Scythe has a slight stubble, black like his hair, that is only noticeable when up close, implying that, even in the midst of all the chaos that is going on, Scythe still takes time out of his day to shave. If only they could see him now, though. Oh so different he was now compared to the formal, clean-cut man he was before everything went to hell. His light, almost reclusive-colored skin now rich in color; his perfect, 'beautiful' face now riddled with the wages of war; his hair—well, his hair had pretty much always been a chaotic and tangled web that portrayed a general lack of effort and care toward his appearance, though that was certainly not the case, but it was now longer and, if possible, even messier.
Though he used to favor a fancier sort of clothing, not to say he didn't wear casual wear while at home or at other places, such as suits or designer clothing, Scythe has switched favor for an attire that would better suit him for this hellish event, as well as hopefully increase his life expectancy in this new worlds of dangers. He wears a simple, white t-shirt, slightly stained with blood but otherwise clean of dirt. Over it, Scythe wears a dark green, unzipped cargo jacket, packed full of small gadgets and the like. For pants, Scythe wears a pair of khaki cargo pants—close to a wet, sandy beach shade—filled with supplies and is held up by a simple, black belt. A pair of black, steel-toed shoes cover sit snugly around Scythe's feet. Around Scythe's neck hangs two necklaces: one a decent sized piece of string with roughly about twenty or so different kinds of rings hanging from it and the other a silver cross that was half-tarnished connected to a black string.
Weapons:
Scythe uses the semi-automatic rifle, AR-15, equipped with a scope, as well as a strap, and uses thirty round box magazines. A weapon he came across during a military attempt. Scythe also cares around a large meat cleaver he first went for—and has since kept—during his first encounter with an infected.
