“Men like him don’t survive the end of the world.
They inherit it.”
Julius Peppermint
Known on the street as: “The Candy Man” (mocking, whispered, never to his face)
Marking symbol: A black circle with a single white slash through it (found at scenes, sometimes in blood, sometimes in chalk)
(Currently one member.)
No hierarchy.
No recruitment.
No ideology pamphlets.
Just a name.
The Black Orchard is not a gang.
It is not a faction.
It is not a movement.
It is a promise.
An orchard is where things are planted.
Where things grow.
Where things are harvested.
The name is deliberate.
Julius Peppermint is a former soldier, a widower, a father, and a collector of things that should not exist anymore.
He lives in a repurposed bank turned fortress.
He maps the dead city like a chessboard.
He hunts like it owes him something.
He does not lead survivors.
He does not protect communities.
He does not rebuild.
He removes problems.
Quietly.
Permanently.
Without speeches.
People don’t join Julius.
They disappear because of him.
Julius was not born violent.
He was built.
Military service carved discipline into him.
Loss carved silence into him.
The outbreak carved clarity into him.
When the systems fell and the rules died, something in Julius finally aligned.
No more waiting.
No more paperwork.
No more restraint.
Just outcomes.
The Black Orchard is the name Julius gives to his long game.
It is his vision of a world where:
Predators are culled
Abusers do not get second chances
Warlords do not grow old
Monsters do not get comfortable
He does not save people.
He prevents futures.
Every kill is a seed removed before it can grow.
That is the orchard.
That is the harvest.
Julius does not believe in justice.
He believes in balance.
He believes that some people tilt the world too far.
And when that happens…
the world needs weight on the other side.
He does not torture.
He does not posture.
He does not rant.
He observes.
He confirms.
He acts.
There is no drama in it.
Which makes it worse.
Calm
Dryly humorous
Disarmingly polite
Surprisingly gentle in conversation
He will hold doors.
He will say “thank you.”
He will offer food.
This is not an act.
This is who he is.
Hyper-focused
Emotionally sealed
Ruthlessly patient
Deeply sentimental in private
He keeps small things:
Old photos
Ticket stubs
Notes
Trinkets that mean nothing to anyone else
He is not cold.
He is compartmentalized.
Protective. Quiet. Soft-spoken.
He does not hover.
He does not lecture.
He just makes sure nothing gets near them.
They rarely know he was there.
Empty.
No anger.
No hate.
No excitement.
Just procedure.
When Julius is not hunting:
He reads comics. Constantly.
He cooks real meals.
He listens to old music.
He plays arcade games alone.
He fixes things that don’t need fixing.
He sits on his couch in a dead bank, flipping pages, drinking coffee, looking like a man who should not exist anymore.
That contrast is real.
That contrast is terrifying.
Most people don’t know his name.
They know the pattern.
Warlords vanish.
Slavers don’t make it home.
Violent gangs collapse overnight.
Buildings burn with no witnesses.
Survivors whisper:
“Someone’s cleaning.”
“Something’s out there.”
“It’s not raiders.”
“It’s not infected.”
Some call him a guardian.
Some call him a devil.
Most just hope they never meet him.
Julius does not hide.
He nests.
The bank is his orchard house.
His armory.
His workshop.
His home.
It is lived in.
It is organized.
It is calm.
It feels wrong.
Like a shark tank with couches.
Julius Peppermint is not a hero character.
He is a pressure character.
He:
Changes power structures
Erases threats the players may never even see
Creates rumors and fear
Leaves aftermath instead of dialogue
He is the thing that makes factions nervous.
Because you cannot negotiate with a man who already decided.
Julius is not a badass because he is loud.
He is badass because he is inevitable.
He does not rush.
He does not miss.
He does not stop.
And he never, ever explains himself.
“Julius Peppermint doesn’t haunt the dead city.
He gardens it.”
You notice that he doesn’t belong.”*
Height: 6'3" – 6'5"
Weight: Solid, dense, not bulky. Built like a dockworker who never stopped moving.
Frame: Wide shoulders, narrow waist, long arms. Predator proportions.
Posture: Relaxed, almost lazy… but perfectly balanced. Like he could move in any direction without shifting his feet.
He does not look like a gym rat.
He looks like someone who has carried weight for years.
Not plates.
Not gear.
Consequences.
This is where he becomes disturbing.
Julius is handsome in a way that feels wrong.
Not model handsome.
Not rugged handsome.
Clean. Sharp. Almost gentle.
High cheekbones
Straight nose, slightly broken once
Strong jaw, but not square — refined
Lips that naturally rest in something close to a polite half-smile
He looks like he should be selling suits.
Or teaching.
Or hosting a radio show.
Not this.
That contrast is intentional.
That contrast is the point.
This is the tell.
Color: Pale green, almost mint-colored in certain light (hence the nickname, whether he chose it or not)
Shape: Narrow, observant, never wide
Expression: Always calculating. Not paranoid. Assessing.
He does not stare.
He measures.
People often say:
“It felt like he already knew what I was going to say.”
He probably did.
Not military.
That’s important.
Julius does not wear a regulation cut.
Medium length on top
Sides kept clean but not shaved
Slight natural wave
Usually worn back loosely, sometimes tied with a black cord
When he’s working, it’s tied.
When he’s relaxed, it’s down.
He does not care if it looks “tactical.”
He cares if it’s in his way.
Controlled.
Light stubble most of the time
Clean-shaven when preparing for something serious
Never messy
Never accidental
Everything about him is chosen.
Julius is not clean.
He is mapped.
Scar through the right eyebrow (thin, clean)
Burn scar along the left forearm (old, ugly, industrial)
Small entry scar under the ribcage (bullet, probably)
Knife line across the back of his hand
None of them are dramatic.
None of them are showcased.
They are just… there.
Like punctuation.
This is where he becomes visually unique.
Julius does not dress like a soldier.
He does not dress like a raider.
He does not dress like a survivor.
He dresses like a man who stole from museums, tailors, and dead billionaires.
Upper Body:
Long, tailored coat – black or deep charcoal
Heavy fabric
Structured shoulders
Cut like an old-world overcoat, not tactical
Underneath:
Fitted shirt (usually dark green, burgundy, or bone white)
Sometimes a vest. Sometimes not.
He looks… formal.
Out of place.
Like he’s going to a concert, not a massacre.
Lower Body:
Reinforced trousers (custom, internally armored but invisible)
Clean boots, polished, lace-up, old-style
No cargo pants.
No MOLLE.
No obvious gear.
He is not trying to look dangerous.
He is dangerous.
He always has something mint-related on him.
Always.
A peppermint candy in his pocket
Mint gum
A small tin of mints
He will offer them.
Casually.
Politely.
Even in horrible situations.
Especially in horrible situations.
It unsettles people more than any weapon ever could.
This is the part that becomes legend.
Julius does not wear skulls.
He does not wear gas masks.
He does not wear tactical face wraps.
He wears:
Smooth
Featureless except for shallow eye hollows
No mouth
No expression
Held on by thin black straps.
It looks like a broken statue’s face.
Cold.
Elegant.
Wrong.
People who see it do not forget it.
They dream about it.
Always gloves.
Black. Fitted. Leather or reinforced fabric.
He does not like leaving fingerprints.
He does not like leaving evidence.
This is huge.
Julius does not stomp.
He does not swagger.
He does not rush.
He moves like:
A man in a quiet library
A surgeon in a hallway
A predator in tall grass
No wasted motion.
No sudden jerks.
When he turns, his whole body turns.
When he stops, he stops completely.
It is unnerving.
When people see Julius Peppermint, the reaction is not:
“Oh shit, that guy’s dangerous.”
It’s:
“…why do I feel unsafe?”
He looks:
Too clean for this world
Too calm for this situation
Too polite for what he is
Like something from a better timeline that learned how to kill.
Imagine:
A Victorian-era gentleman
in a dead city
with blood under his nails
and a mint in his pocket.
That’s Julius.