Lincoln Jessup Whittaker NicknamesWhit, Red Age37 Height5'9 ft. Weight172 lbs. HairGinger EyesGreen More Information BirthdayJanuary 16th, 1978 BornDublin, Texas PersonalityINFP SkillsSelf Sustenance Acoustic Guitar Singing, Writing Amateur Tattoo Artist PhilosophyTranscendentalism More StatusAlive MusicLink 1 & Link 2 Physical Appearance: Spoiler: Lincoln Whittaker, 2015 Most days, Whit didn't take to grooming. He had a casual regard for keeping up appearances, doing what was necessary to skirt by unnoticed those odd occasions that lead him to town, but it was difficult to hide the type of man he was without an extensive or bothersome attention to detail. His hands were made rough by manual labor. Prison tattoos covered his hands and forearms, his back and chest, twisting in elaborate patterns that ended under his jaw on the left side of his neck. Among them were the sort of redneck fashion that accompanied lock-up in Huntsville: the Lone Star with great frequency, Confederate battle flags, busts the likes of Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson, vines and flowers, skulls and bones, his corrections ID number, "TEXASBOY" etched across his knuckles. The beard he wore was thick and overgrown, shaped by an old pair of trimming scissors. His hair was ginger and cut short. Hard, green eyes hinted that he'd seen his share of ugly. The clothes best suited to his lifestyle were worn by necessity: jeans broken in; a thick, plaid jacket when the weather called for it; simple t-shirts and sleeveless tops; a brown leather belt with a large, silver buckle; sturdy boots for working or hiking; and from time to time, the relic of a cowboy hat passed down by his father. Often he smelled of earth and smoke, cypress and mesquite, like he'd manifested in all its silent and wild majesty from some open range lost to history. And though he wasn't a particularly tall man, he was strapping by most considerations. Tight lipped, certainly. An endless appreciation for quiet and solitude. Still waters. Biographical Information: In trouble most of his life, unwilling or incapable of settling into a socially normalized routine, Lincoln, or Whit to his close friends, was never more at home than when the world fell apart. His father, a stubborn son of a bitch who spent more time in prison than out, had left him to the care of his trailer-trash girlfriend for as long as he could remember. She wasn't a terrible woman either, but for the drinking and the carrying on, she just wasn't equipped to raise a boy who was born with a legacy for mischief. In and out of South Texas school districts, chartered to more juvenile facilities than he'd care to admit, it wasn't until he was nineteen that he received his first adult charge and arrest, one that would ultimately land him in the same prison as his father for the following twelve years. He was thirty-one when finally released from Huntsville, left a piece of land near Brownwood, Texas when his father died that had once housed a deer hunting blind and a small shack. The time he served inside allowed him the education to write and publish a book of poetry, "Alone With The Universe", and the resources to receive his first degree, a bachelors in environmental sciences, which he used to further his goal of living as far away from civilization as he could reasonably afford. Admittedly, it wasn't far enough, and probably never would have been. Six years alone in the woods had done strange, or at the very least unexpected things to Whit. He wasn't as quick to anger. He spent more time thinking and less time talking, though he wouldn't have had anyone to talk with, regardless. The days were filled with simple labors, like maintaining his vegetable garden and hunting from the blind, or reading old books he had mailed to his P.O. Box just inside the city. He didn't own a radio or a television either, and had little other contact with the world at large, so when the outbreak in Austin broke free into the rest of Texas, he was caught unaware. It was only by happenstance that in those early days he stumbled across a caravan of survivors that welcomed him into the fold, and together they marched onward, north. Personality: Whit is a confident individualist. He doesn't spend much time thinking about how people might view him, but rather focuses internally, dealing with obstacles according to how he feels about them, or how they fit into his system of values. Experience matters more to him than logic or practicality. When making decisions, he foremost consults the advancement of honor, beauty, morality and virtue. By the same token, it isn't difficult for Whit to see someone eye to eye. Listening to other people and understanding their plight comes easy, though not without its cost. Too many friends or social entanglements can be detrimental and have proven taxing in the past, so he chooses them carefully. He's also been known to drift into deep thought for extended periods of time, enjoying to contemplate the hypothetical and the philosophical, but left unchecked may start to lose touch or become withdrawn. Bringing him back from these intermissions can be demanding work for those he's placed his trust.