Name: Harold Glade
Weight: (Sorry, I have absolutely no idea. Uh, whatever the average weight for that height is, minus a bit.)
Eye Color: Green
Hair Color: Greying reddish brown
Pre-infestation profession: Homeless, busker.
Personal skills: 'Urban survival', shall we say? He's damn good at scavenging and finding shelter, he's got good stamina and can hold his own in hand-to-hand combat. He can also be fairly sneaky when he wants to be. He also plays a mean fiddle.
Jobs in the apartment: Scavenger, scout, entertainment.
Harry looks like he hasn't changed his clothes since the initial outbreaks. Other than the odd jacket or worn out pair of trousers, he probably hasn't. He certainly hadn't for several years before then. Still, now there's people to watch his back, at least he's a lot cleaner than he once was. He wears army surplus boots, blue jeans, a ratty old Tshirt, a black wool hat and a thick woolen overcoat. He's a fairly scrawny-looking guy, with virtually no fat on him. He's got long, slightly matted hair and an unkempt beard which covers most of his jaw. He carries all of his important posessions (namely, the fiddle, some food and a blanket) in a battered pack that looks almost as old as he is.
-Small: Box of .357 ammunition (10 rounds), bag of 12g. shotgun shells (14 shells), zippo-style cigarette lighter, pen knife, hip flask containing whiskey.
-Medium: Colt Trooper .357 magnum revolver, bowie knife
-Large: Sawn-off double barrel shotgun, fiddle.
Looking at him, you would think that Harry is a glum, dour man. Truth be told, he just doesn't often display his emotions. He could be heartbroken or completely elated, and he'd be showing the same near-expressionless face. He never tells jokes, but definitely enjoys listening to them. One of his favourite pastimes is playing music on his fiddle. He finds it extremely rewarding to see the reactions of his audience as he plays, giving them something other than the harsh existence they live in, even just for a short time.
He has a strong sense of right and wrong, and tries to act gentlemanly whenever possible. He is extremely loyal to those he considers to be friends. He often has nightmares about his experiences since the chaos began.
Harry Glade had a great life. He came straight out of college and into a high-paying office job, picking up a fancy house, an expensive car and a pretty wife along the way. Yes, life was grand for him.
It turned sour in his mid thirties. His marriage became strained, the once-lovers becoming distant and eventually hostile. Eventually, his wife left him, taking a large chunk of his money with her. He took it badly, drinking a lot and gambling more than he should have. This had an adverse effect on his performance at work, and eventually he was laid off. Unemployed and in debt from the roulette wheel, he soon ran out of money. He sold the car to cover some of his losses, but it wasn't enough. Eventually, he had to leave his house. having nowhere else to go, he turned to the streets. He took with him little more than the clothes on his back and his fiddlewhich he had played in a band in college and kept for sentimental reasons.
He was lucky- with the fiddle and the skills to use it, he had something that many other homeless did not- a source of income, if meagre, and something that gave him pleasure and enjoyment.
Several years passed, during which he learned the skills needed to survive on the street. It was certainly a very different life to the one he'd had previously. More than once, he was forced to defend himself against guys who wanted his earnings to buy drugs or booze.
One night while sleeping in an alley, he was woken by a woman screaming and went to investigate. It sounded like whoever it was was in an adjacent alley, not too far away. He went as quickly as he could, but when he got there there the place was empty. No one around, not even a dropped purse. Shrugging, he went back to his 'bed'.
The next morning, he was awoken again, this time by someone grabbing his arm. He found himself staring into the bloody face of a young Hispanic woman. He recognised her- she was a hooker, sometimes walked the streets not too far from here. Her nose and upper lip were gone, torn off. Harry cried out in surprise and was about to get up to call for help when she realised, she wasn't pleading for aid. It was almost like she was attacking him.
It was when she bit his arm, his thick coat preventing her teeth from doing any damage, that he made his mind up. Harry pushed her away, grabbed his pack and ran for his life. Frantically, he tried to warn people about what was happening, but who listens when a crazy hobo yells that something bad's happening? He was proven right a week or so later, when there was more of them. A lot more.
He spent a long time after that on his own, scavenging for what he needed and avoiding the zombies whenever possible. He armed himself as best he could with weapons taken from the dead. A few months ago, a small group of survivors found him, hearing his fiddle playing and drawn to the sound. He's stayed with them since, glad to have some human company.