Surely enough, when looked at closely there are calluses on his graceful hands that could only come from constantly holding a gun, his small body coming from a lifetime of running, his eyes are shadowed from a lack of sleep, (He's traveling alone for the first time in the wasteland, he will not bother with sleeping on the road alone, it is a risk.) and a manner that suggests he not only keeps his distance with customers a lot but also most people.

Despite all this, there's an undercurrent of earnest youthful purity within him, a desire for something bigger than him, bigger than the wastes. To find something pure and shining in this dust to hold on to.

He shakes his head. "No. There's no organized caravan's that wander in from places from east and far east, but I think that might change." He'd read that before the war, cities were often in trade with one another, maybe the regions were finally becoming less isolated.

"But really I'm just a wanderer with more things on my back."