'Irish', character sheet.

"Don't ever mess with a Irish...'cause chances are, laddy. 'Ell feckin' kill ya'."

Short story of my character.

"Ey there, lad. I believya' wanta' 'ear a tale? No? Reason why I feckin' got 'ere? Oh. Right. Asa' young lad, I developed alcoholism, after me'time in the service. I suffa'd greatly. I kicked the booze, but I fockin' did some bad shit, lad...really bad shit. I was in debt fora' loan shark. Hundred thousand or so pounds. Ya', I feckin' wasa' gambla'. But ya' know what, lad? I feckin' lived. I went here...paid me debt, and now look at me. Drinkin' feckin' ice water. Now, bugga' off. Tryin' ta' find me'self a way to Pripyat. Artifact artifacts artifacts..."

Morality.

"Me morality? Well. Like I usually feckin' say. Ya' fock witha' Irishmen...he's gonna feckin' kill ya'."

Sanity.

"I am as sane as me child'ood cat, lad."

Height: 5'10".

Weapon proficiency: "Snipers, 'n short ranged weapons a mite..."

Mental Disabilites: "I 'ave mild borderline PTSD and am bipolar. I'm also a wee bito' narcissism, justa' wee bit."

Aliases:"Conor McLennan." "Irish." "Pogue."

Blood Type: A+, unlike me high school grades.

Age: Thirty one.

Weight: 178lbs.

Motto: Follow the destiny allotted.

Relations.

Lover | Sham | Lad | Neutral | Despised | Feckin' Moron.

"Me'self; I believe I'm a good man."

"Mother. I miss 'er."

"Jeffery. A piece o' work, pompous lil' fock. But, I owe 'em. And 'es m' brotha' after all."
"But then he died."

"Freedom. Bunch o' pot 'eads with feckin' overpowered guns 'n armour. They still me friends, tho'."

Duty. Red's dead.

Monolith. Bunch o' drugged 'p fascist's.