|Karma||Renegade of the Wastes|
|Face Claim||Norman Reedus|
Blurb Goes here
At one point in time the Barton Ranch covered a good chunk of the Mojave between Primm and Nipton,and the vast number of Brahmin roaming the land gave Heck Gunderson's a run for their money. Conor was born at the height of the ranch's success, the youngest of four siblings, and it seemed that things were all set for smooth sailing.
Yeah, and when was the Mojave ever that kind?
First Pa went, trampled by a Bighorn that got spooked by a Radscorpion skittering by. Then came the big wave of salmonella that took not only a third of the cattle but Conor's oldest brother. Few years later his second oldest sibling got snatched up by slavers when they were out looking to trade Brahmin meat. Which was followed closely by the Gecko infestation that left the livestock without food and the land all but barren.
By the time Conor was 20 the ranch had sunk to half its size, and nature had a funny way of making sure the Barton family's numbers kept dwindling. Nieces and nephews came and went as quickly as the remaining Brahmin, a short-lived marriage crumbled in the midst of it all, Ma passed on from old age, the ranch shrunk to a mere fraction of what it once was, and when it was all said and done there was Conor, a little worse for the wear and more than a little off kilter, left with two choices: stay and watch over the ramshackle remains of his family's legacy, or get the hell out of dodge.
Most anyone would have gone full Okie and headed out west Cali-for-nee way, but if Conor was anything, it was stubborn as hell. The ranch may be more of a junk yard these days, the Brahmin few and far between, but dammit, home is home, even if it looks like the season finale of Hoarders could be filmed on location. Conor sells the odds and ends he manages to gather up, scrap metal and robot parts mostly, and the occasional Brahmin to anyone with and interest and the caps. But mostly it's just him and his mangy, ancient "guard dog"Skidmark hanging around the dilapidated farm house that can barely be called such.
If you're looking for a charming wit or a stellar conversation, you're gonna want to turn tail and run. Conor has never prided himself on being an intellectual, because he simply isn't. Books were either hard to come by or ignored, schooling was a non-issue for a ranch hand, and by the time he was old enough to know any better he was too far behind to give a damn. Street smarts and a clever mind filled in where academia failed, and for better or worse, it helped shape the sort of man Conor is today.
What sort of man is that? A stubborn one. Conor's life reads like some sad old country song, wife getting fed up and running off, kin and kind dead and buried, only an old mangy mutt left to keep him company, the whole nine yards. Some men would buckle under all that heartache and hardship, but there's something strong and mean in Conor, and at the end of the day, it usually wins out. He looks over the last remnants of his family's ranch, fully knowing it's never going to be as expansive as it once was or turn any sort of substantial profit again, but to Conor, that's not the point; the ranch is home. Children might live in the spaces of others, but men make that space for themselves.
He lives by the code "be hard but not cold." In a world like this, a man's gotta make his way the best he can, but Conor's in the business of believing that doesn't mean you need to be a dick. That is, unless you're given a reason to the contrary. Anyone who rolls up to the Barton Ranch will get the same level of skeptical caution from him as the next, be you a wanderer or an NCR trooper. But a fair chance is just that, fair, and the first sign of trouble will be met with the metal end of a shotgun.
Living alone for so long after trekking through the sheer amount of shit Conor has has understandably left him a bit mentally shaken, though aside from a few ticks here and there and a tendency to mutter nonsensically to himself, there's few visual clues that anything's wrong. Still, like anyone left solely to their own devices for any length of time, Conor has his moments, especially when it comes to anyone or anything that may put his homestead in jeopardy. He's overly protective of his property and what little livestock is left living on it, and while he'll trade with any interested parties that pass by, he treats trading the Brahmin on his land as if he were adopting out children rather than cattle. He has a general soft spot for animals in general, kids too, but other adults... eh, he could generally take 'em or leave 'em.
There are some Wastelanders who go to great lengths to maintain their appearance even in the face of dust, dirt, and desolation. Conor is not one of those Wastelanders. There's an almost constant sheen of grime covering any exposed bits of his skin and finding this man clean shaven is like finding a ghost in a snowstorm; you ain't gonna. Raggedy clothes and a hard-to-place, potent aroma are layered over a toned but perpetually unshowered body. Squinty, shifty blue eyes sit under matted, messy brown hair, and those teeth...yeesh. Conor is prone to trailing off into a twangy mess of syllables rather than ending his sentences in any sort of traditinal manner, and his regular pitch is a few octaves higher than most everyone around him.
- Name (Relationship, status)