ᚠᚱᛟᛗ ⸻ joseph gilgun. cis man. he/him. ⸻ i saw GARY TURNER around the COLONY HOUSE, you know? the 42 year old that was driving from GALLOWAY FOREST, SCOTLAND when they saw the tree on the road. GAZ has been here for SEVEN years and I think he was a CARPENTER/LABOURER before he got stuck in the town. with the way things are now, he is now now struggling to maintain a sense of normalcy and seek a way out without losing himself or dying. lets hope you at least survive the night. ⸻ NEON, they/them, 30+, GMT, triggers: dementia, cancer.
GENERAL INFORMATION.
full name: gary james turner.
nickname: gaz, gazza, lurch.
age: 42.
gender: cis man.
sexuality: bisexual.
marriage status: widower.
place of birth: preston, england.
date of birth: april 20th, 1983.
former occupation: carpenter. labourer. jack of many trades.
positive traits: friendly, outgoing, charming, good-natured, chivalrous, funny, compassionate, charitable, hard-working, inviting.
negative traits: moody, secretive, avoidant, hedonistic, overly exuberant, self-deprecating, scruffy, self-destructive.
faceclaim: joseph gilgun.
PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.
height: 6ft4.
hair: dark brown. unkempt. generally cropped short but forms loose curls when grown out. hairline beginning to recede.
eyes: hazel green. hooded. warm and soft when looking at someone, but melancholic otherwise. corners wrinkle when smiling. often carry a glint of playfulness. puppy dog.
eyebrows: thick and dark. masculine. strong ridge.
nose: aquiline. long. previously straight but roughed up and scarred by previous breaks.
lips: thin. pronounced smile lines. prone to shit-eating grins and soft, tender smiles.
other: masculine face shape. strong chin and high cheekbones. possesses either a five o'clock shadow or dark, thicker scruff. somewhat large ears. beginning to develop wrinkles due to his age.
physique: long limbs. lanky. wiry. ectomorph. inverted triangle. large hands and feet. broad shoulders.
other: pale skin with a rosy undertone. pronounced veins in hands and forearms. decorated by a variety of black-work tattoos from head to foot. stretched earlobes.
BIOGRAPHY. ( tw alcoholism, domestic abuse, parent death, police brutality. )
it's april 20th, 1983, when you take your first breath and are placed in the arms of your mother. the one pound coin is introduced the next day, and margaret thatcher ( rest in piss to her ) wins a landslide election a mere couple months later. as a newborn, you're completely unaware of the shift in your parents. your father's a miner, you see. both he and your mother are staunch working-class left-wingers and fear for the security of your futures; their fears are not unfounded. you're only a year old when the strikes begin. the british coal industry has been deemed uneconomic, and your father's job is on the line. despite all the pickets and the aggressive pushback, there's a thick sense of futility in the air. you can only stand in the way of the inevitable for so long before it consumes you. it's at a clash similar to the battle of orgreave that your dad receives blunt force trauma to the head. the police put it down to drunken, yobbish stumbling; but your dad's friends know better. they see the weight of a truncheon crack across the back of his skull and hear the impact before he collapses. it puts him in hospital, breaks his body, and ends his career. clive turner is never the same from that point on. once a fit and friendly man, he withdraws into himself and bottles of cheap cider to dull the pain. aggression and resentment follow suit, leading to bruises that should never decorate a wife's skin. his friends all fall by the wayside over time, and what's left behind is a broken, violent shell of a human being. one who once had such hopes for the future. you're fifteen years old when you break your father's nose and throw him out onto the streets. he never returns, dying from a combination of his alcoholism and copd a mere year later. you don't mourn him until your mother sits you down and tells you stories of the man he used to be. your first tattoo is a memorial to his former self. you're nineteen when you meet your future wife and soul mate. claire. she's a local lass with a fire in her eyes and a swagger to her step. she picks you out of a crowd and drags your heart home with her. a few years later, after much back-and-forth, you settle down together. you're both in your mid thirties when the rug is pulled out from under you by that damned tree.
what was meant to be a camping trip up in scotland ends in claire's violent death and you being trapped in hell. though you try, you cannot escape, and simply embracing death would be an insult to her memory. so you keep going. you rebuild an abandoned mansion up into something hospitable and vow to help and to protect others. for her.
the past seven years have weighed heavy on your soul. but you've always been a stubborn bastard.
FACTS ABOUT GAZ:
still wears his wedding band and visits claire's grave at least once a week.
arrived in his work van with his fully decked out, vintage caravan attached. the tools in his van (and the waccy baccy he was hiding in it) were instrumental in rebuilding the colony house into what it is today.
both the caravan and work van are now available to be used for their... ahem... privacy. just grab the keys from the kitchen and make yourself at home. don't be greedy, though, because gaz'll hunt you down.
fancied himself a bit of a survivalist and therefore kept multiple books about various topics such as foraging, campfire building, bushcraft, etc.
doesn't talk about the night he lost claire but experiences frequent nightmares about it.
on the event of his death, wishes to be buried next to his wife.
