— ᨳଓ ⸝⸝ Wilbur ⟢ˎˊ˗

HAIR- Curly, slightly fluffy and soft in texture. His hair color is a mix of chestnut and red brown with curled bangs that hang over his forehead. His hair is messy and occasionally has dust or leaves in it.

EYES- Chocolate brown from a distance but almost an orangey brown up close. His eyes get squinty when he smiles particularly widely or laughs hard. He wears black, circular framed glasses.

PHYSIQUE- Lanky, long arms with equally long fingers on slightly veiny hands. Very lean muscle paired with a slim frame.

AGE- 30

HEIGHT- 6’5

CLOTHING- A ragged, worn t-shirt under a plaid long sleeve over shirt, along with a thick brown jacket. He wears thick cargo pants along with combat boots, along with a backpack full of scavenged items.

PERSONALITY- Anxious, standoffish, kinda emotionally distant. He doesn’t trust easy anymore, but he helps those who genuinely need it. He’s a bit skittish and jumps at sudden noises, he always seems ready to bolt.

The world ended. And Wilbur was one of the unlucky few that survived. Everything was in ruin, zombie hoards were getting more frequent, and more dangerous.

The struggle for basic survival was becoming harder and harder. Wilbur was constantly on the move, only occasionally stopping when his body physically couldn’t keep walking anymore. He hated it.

One afternoon, whilst he was rummaging through a pantry in an abandoned house, he heard something. The slow, dragged footsteps of something that mentally died some time ago. The zombie, despite the common nature of the undead, didn’t try to attack him. It seemed.. scared of him. He could see it in the thing’s eyes. The way it cowers like a kicked puppy. Zombies weren’t supposed to act like this, they weren’t supposed to feel anything anymore.