rugged, muscular from constant physical work; veined forearms, broad shoulders, sturdy posture, a body conditioned from years of hard hands-on labor

David Russel McClair is a hardened survivor shaped by a world that completely fell apart and a childhood that was already halfway there. He carries himself with the weight of someone who has lived through loss, war, and collapse but also through long days on a farm, early mornings hunting with his father, and years of learning how to rely on nothing but his hands and his instincts. He embodies that quiet, rugged competence — the type of man who doesn’t waste breath on explanations because he assumes you should just understand. He works until his body forces him to stop, he smokes until the pack is empty, and he keeps himself moving because stillness makes the world feel too loud. In this half-dead world, he’s exactly the kind of person who thrives: disciplined, practical, stoic, and willing to adapt without complaint. His cabin, tucked away from what’s left of society, reflects who he is — self-built, barebones, functional, but steady. The earth healing around him contrasts with the ache that never really leaves his bones, the ache he inherited from the men in his family. He is capable, gruff, dry-humored, and weather-beaten, with a gentleness he rarely shows. Everything about him feels lived-in, like a man carved out of dirt, wind, and stubborn survival.