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Dead Capital
Conor Thu Jun 16, 2016 1:20 am
- Introduction:
- 19th Century London.
Industrial. Progressive. Revolutionary. A city swallowed by promises of future and riches. Automobiles become carriages, electricity drowns out candlelight, and chamber replaces flintlock. Indeed, it is a vastly wondrous time to live - but only for a select few.
While some soak up the new pleasures of the expanding world, countless more suffer beneath their boots. The poor struggle day by day to make ends meet as, as the sweat is wiped from oily brows and skin is stripped from hardworking knuckles.
But soon, that sweat would become blood, and the hands will work the weapons, not the machines.
It was on a warm Tuesday night, in the Summer of 1846, when the plague struck London at her heart. From their tombs the dead began to rise, crawling out of the earth and consuming all who walked upon it. At first there were few, but that few slowly grew to many, until there were more corpses than people. Those who survived the onslaught found themselves infected by the devil's plague, slowly destined to meet the only fate worse than death, and join the undead ranks. London's population dropped severely, and rich or not, you were just as much a victim of the catastrophe.
But from the ashes of Britain rose the heads of survivors, bloody and starved, with little to nothing let but theirselves. The wealthy did what they could to secure their own fates, blocking off districts and using any provisions they had left to grow to power once more. Few were allowed in to the safe districts, the ones under privileged rule, least of all the poor-looking. How does one be poor, though, when everyone has nothing? Only when one has something. Everyone else, as a result, had to defend their own, whilst the moaning, dilapidated decay of humanity shuffled in the streets, houses, factories and fields of Britain.
And so, London fell, seized by evil and brought to her knees. She was just as much a victim as any of her inhabitants, eaten alive by the disease that had been inflicted upon her. but cry not for London, cry for yourself and ask - where do I go from here?
This RPG takes place in London during 1866, during an alternate timeline set 20 years after the dead have risen and taken over Britain. It is a survival roleplay, in which you will play as one of the remaining uninfected humans surviving in the city. While an element of realism is expected in the writing, the focus of this RP lies in giving players complete freedom over their character's story arc and the environment they are in. After all, you can only expect so much realism from what is essentially a zombie RPG. You will not be expected to follow any kind of plotline, though there will be an overarching narrative involving various enemy types. These include the remnants of the upperclass community of London, other, more violent survivors, and of course the zombies themselves as they span across the city and grow in size. To make this easier, you can find out about them in the factions list below. There will also be a section on weaponry and character creation, simply to adjust you to the time period the RP takes place in, but none of this is compulsory - you can skip straight to making a character if you feel you are well-equipped on your 19th century knowledge. Just note that everything between now and your signup is merely provided to help you with your factual writing, rather than to limit your imagination.
- Factions:
- Though it's not necessary to know the ins and outs of each faction, it will help you understand what you're up against, and the areas of London. As you probably know, London is divided by the River Thames, which seperates the North and South. Bridges once connected the two, but these have been destroyed long since the outbreak, meaning whatever side you're on, you're stuck in. Generally, however, London is split into FIVE districts - North, South, East, West and Central: HERE'S A MAP
The Upperclass - These are what's left of the wealthy and rich. They control the SOUTH (the entire red section of the map) and have completed cut it off from the rest of London, rendering it zombie-free. Though the Upperclass may not be exactly dangerous, they are the reason why you're not safe, and persuading them to let you in will take some doing.
Gangs - Like you, these guys are trying to survive the undead hordes - the only problem is their insanity. Gangs are usually violent and unnegotiable, mostly looking for supplies rather than friends. They control the EAST of London (the blue part of the map), but their bases can be avoided and/or taken over, if you have the right approach.
Zombies - Obviously, zombies are an enemy faction you will write about several times, and they will normally be cannon fodder for your character's awesome combat scenes. However, in numbers, they can be problematic. In this RP, however, you can write zombies how you like - you can have them run, climb, spit, hive, or you can limit them to the traditional shambling around with arms outstretched. It's up to you. Only one rule exists: if you get bit, you're infected. Zombies are all over the city, but CENTRAL London (green part of the map) has been completely overrun.
- Weaponry, Transport and Clothing:
- The 19th century was a weird time for the West, due to the amount of technological advances we somehow plucked out of nowhere. Combat, transport and general day-to-day life changed dramatically, especially with the introduction of electricity, automobiles and modern medicine. So here's a list of things to note when writing.
Guns - no more flintlocks! You can finally fire as much as you want! Providing, of course, your chamber isn't empty and you have bullets to load it with if you do. if you think about old Spaghetti Western films and the firearms they use in those, you'll have a generally good idea of what to expect - revolver pistols, bolt action rifles and primitive explosives are all things you can use - if you get stuck, try doing some research.
Transport - Though there are now car (technically) in the world, horses are used less. However, cars are also expensive, slow and, to be honest, kinda shitty at this point in time. If you want to get around in a way that's not running on rooftops and sneaking through buildings, I recommend a nice, quick stallion, and a carriage if you have company.
Clothing - It's not that important, but its worth remembering the kind of clothing people had access to in these times - less for designing your character, and more for defending them. Flack jackets, running shoes and cargo pants don't exist yet, so when thinking about your character's 'style', come up with creative alternatives to ground your character in the world.
Now that that's all out the way, we get to the signup - surprise, there isn't one!
Again, you have full control over your character creation. Just a few things to bear in mind, however;
- Your character doesn't have to be British. We'd discovered most of the world by now and were already exploring it, so use this to your advantage.
- The story takes place 20 years after the dead have risen, meaning your character either survived the initial outbreak or has been born into it. Write them accordingly!
- You can start your story anywhere. The South may be ran by the wealthy, but that doesn't mean you can't have a wealthy character. You can be a part of any faction you choose (bar the zombies, of course), and whether or not you betray them is up to you.
- You character's arc is important, and has a lasting effect on the city. If you blow up an entire district, it will stay that way. If you open up the gates from within the South district, you will probably kill a lot of people as a direc result and change the RP world completely. Think before you write, and imagine the consequences of each action. You can even f*** up things deliberately to effect other players.
And in case you're super stuck, here's a brief template:
Name:
Gender:
Ethnicity:
Age:
Personality:
Weapons:
Misc:
Bio:
CHARACTERS
- Milo/Damxge:
- "My name is Milo, I am but a humble painter," I said loudly, my voice echoing in the expansive room in which I sat. I was about to say more when movement caught my eye and I spun to face it, broken glass crunching beneath my boot. There, upon a tripod of bones that had been lashed together sat a painted canvas, and upon this canvas was a person, a face, that glared out at me in most vivid detail. It was in full color, but with am emphasis on brown, particularly around the clothing. And there is where from it stared, my own reflection, painted in such elegant prose. My grey eyes staring straight at me, a sneer on my thin lips, my crook nose scrunched in disgust. Strands of brown hair reached down over my face, a haphazard ponytail containing most of it. I looked gaunt, but muscular, like a wildman, I thought. I wore a shirt of brown, the sleeves ripped from it, making it little more than a flour sack with holes. My legs were clad in cutoff brown canvas pants, rough and jagged, one leg clearly longer than the other. On my feet were leather wrappings of the most disgusting appearance. As I took this in, I turned my nose in disgust, the painting mimicking me.
"Filthy and disgraceful," I spat as I turned back to my present piece before me.
"Likewise," My portrait responded in equal disdain.
"W-What the f*** is wrong with you?" Trembled a new voice, a man's voice, and I remembered my guest.
"Why, there's nothing wrong with me," I laughed, gliding from my stool and out from behind the canvas to face the man, a short fellow with black hair and a bloodsoaked broken face, where he was tied to a chair using rather sharp wire that cut into his skin. He sat at the very center of the room, next to a hole in the floor, the dying sunlight filtering in from the massive stained glass windows behind him illuminating the dust in the air of the old church and deepening the sea of shadows that lurked behind each pillar.
"You're mad," He said as I placed my face near his.
"Say hello to my beloved for me, won't you dear?" I whispered softly, simultaneously nudging the chair backward a fraction of an inch, causing it and the man it contained to fall backwards into the hole, down into the sewer, to the delight of the hole's occupants. With a chuckle, I swung about and half skipped, half walked back to my painting and hoisted it up.
"My, my, I've outdone myself this time," I laughed as I carried it to the nearest pillar and hung it from a peg I had waiting for it, "I cannot WAIT to find my next subject,"
---------------------
In case the story wasn't enough, here's a character sheet of his base traits.
Name: Milo
Appearance/Clothing: My grey eyes staring straight at me, a sneer on my thin lips, my crook nose scrunched in disgust. Strands of brown hair reached down over my face, a haphazard ponytail containing most of it. I looked gaunt, but muscular, like a wildman, I thought. I wore a shirt of brown, the sleeves ripped from it, making it little more than a flour sack with holes. My legs were clad in cutoff brown canvas pants, rough and jagged, one leg clearly longer than the other. On my feet were leather wrappings of the most disgusting appearance.
Personality: f***ing batshit crazy.
- Duncan Weaver/Conor:
- "Duncan, you're a god damn fool!"
We stood on the roof of the factory, looking out over the East end as it succumbed to the day's dusk. On the horizon, a plume of smoke crawled into the sky, an orange glow emanating from its base. I stood on the rim of the buildings ledge, peering out to the scene in front of me from beneath the peak of my flat cap. We were down wind, and with the breeze came the stench of flesh, both fresh and rotten. Over time, you began to recognise the difference.
"I did what I had to." I answered the voice behind me in a thick Northern brood "It was a matter of whether we take 'em down with us, or we don't. There was no getting out." I heard a pistol cock behind me, and my heart skipped. But through a plain face and icy, lifeless eyes, i hid the fear. With my back still to my supposed maker-meeters, I gave a short prayer.
"You got out." came the voice again, no doubt sending droplets of spit flying onto the back of my suit jacket. "Explain that."
"I was lucky," I vouched quickly "The explosion launched me through a window, and I was fine, so I ran. I barely escaped wi' me life, George." the pistol barrel bumped against the back of my skull, tilting my head down to see the sight i had been trying to ignore below me. if I fell, i hoped the three story drop would kill me, because I wasn't about to be a meal. i counted fifty, all scratching and clawing upward towards me, moaning and groaning and baring teeth laced and knotted with flesh. Some you could still tell were people, but others... "Look at me George," I began once more, gesturing over my raggity-looking self "Do I look like I've just been through a stroll in the meadows?"
"You brought 'em 'ere!" George countered, and I jumped. Not off the ledge, mind, just in shock. "They followed you and you led 'em 'ere!"
"Indeed, but not purposefully! Why would I risk our lives, George? After we've gotten this far?" I let out a half-hearted laugh, and directed my vision to the dulling sky overhead. "They'll carry on till nightfall, and won't stop then. We can only get through this if we work together, George. They'll get in eventually, and when they do-"
"Shut up!" George yelped, the noise aggravating a simultaneous groan from the horde below. "I can make it, don't you worry 'bout that. But i ain't taking you with me. Seven men you killed today, Duncan. Seven good men." I edged my head sideways, trying to look at him. George was a bigger man than me, myself being rather slim and spry. With his thick workman's arms and muscly stature, I didn't fare my chances. Especially with the gun. He wore a flat cap, like me, and through a thick, ginger beard he murmured: "God's abandoned me, but I never thought you would too, brother. I'll make it quick."
I heard the pistol cock, the chamber turning and locking into place. I looked up to the sky once again, the sky now blackening over. I drew a breath, savouring it as my last, before i voice echoed from behind me - that of a younger individual, Jack, one of our last lads. The hatch of the roof sprung open, and I could just imagine Jack's scruffy, freckled face poking out from it.
"They're in!" he gasped, panic-stricken. I sensed George's stature relax, and grasped the opportunity. In a smooth motion i turned, pushing the gun away from me and hurling myself at George's mass, and away from the ledge. He shot once, then with his almighty strength he pushed me back - but I was latched on like a terrier, gripping to George's clothes and skin with my fingers and teeth. As the momentum carried me, we both fell, George stumbling over me, yelling at Jack to help as he went, my body still attached to his. As we flipped George managed to curl his fingers around the lip of the roof, stopping him suddenly and throwing me sliding down his chest and grabbing onto his foot. As his legs swung, arching outward towards death and back, I was flung towards the building, losing my grip and being hurled forward, crashing through a window on the lower floor.
i rolled upon landing, broken glass sinking into my back as I did so. And to my feet i sprung, my hat still miraculously a top my dome as I felt for it. I ran to a set of wooden railing, peering over to the ground floor to see a few undead forcing themselves through the tiniest of gaps in the sheet metal walls near the door, their flesh peeling from their bones as they squeezed and pushed. One soon became many, and as the numbers grew larger so did the gap in the wall, breaking open under the demanding force of countless infected. They began to lurch upstairs, up and over the idle machinery in any way they could, smelling the fresh meat above them.
I began to sprint, buying my time, as they still had another floor to go before they got to me. The sound was overwhelming, the creatures excitement growing as food became closer. I took a right, running out of the main factory and into a small batch of empty office rooms, which we had converted into a sleeping area. There, i saw my gun, machete and rope grapple, which George had forcefully taken from me upon my return. His paranoia knew no limits.
I scooped up my equipment, not even noticing Jack stood at the other end of the room. He, too, held a pistol - the first time I'd seen him armed.
"I'm not letting you live," he began, his arms shaking, tears swelling in his eyes "This is your fault." I raised my arms slowly, walking away from the door with care as the noise of the hordes grew closer. As I walked, Jack mimicked my movement, maintaining distance. it wasn't long before we had completely switched sides.
"Now, son... We can still survive this, if you work with me." the howls of the undead grew closer "Just chuck me the gun, and follow me." My eyes wide from the adrenaline, I didn't even flinch upon Jack's actions. He pulled the trigger, but from the gun came no bang, as the hammer had not been cocked. Unfortunately for his sake, Jack had no experience with guns.
I saw my chance, whipping out my own pistol, cocking it swiftly and shooting the boy in the chest. He stumbled back through the door, whereby I ran and closed it behind him, heaving a shelf by its hinges to block the way. I heard the footsteps grow, followed by Jack's screams, but they didn't last long.
But i was not trapped. Above me was the hatch to the roof, and as I clambered up I felt the door behind me begin to get pushed through. The thin walkways of the factory must have been swelling with undead, the weight alone heaving through my defense. I got my legs up and over, only to find George stood a top of me, a knife in his hand. His pistol must've not made the fall.
"For f***'s sake, George!" I screamed in defeat as I stood "We need to leave, there's no time for this!" it was then i heard the office door below me give way, the first infected crawling its way through and seeing the open hatch.
"We're both gonna die today, Duncan. But i'm gonna be the one to kill you, not them." George seemed exhausted, panting and gasping for air. I shrugged, and gave a look of disbelief.
"George, I have a pistol, you have a knife. Just give up, will ya?" but despite my efforts, George shook his head.
"Not gonna happen, Duncan." i paused a moment, before shrugging once more, this time with indifference.
"Fine." I grunted, pulling the pistol from my holster and aiming it for George's heart. But before I could the trigger, a bony hand clenched my wrist. I looked to my right to see the face of an infected, stripped of half its flesh and one-eyed, the rest of it crispy and burnt. Skin flaked from its knuckles as they tightened around my arm, its head lurching in for the kill. I reacted quickly out of fear, whipping its head away with the butt of my gun and flinging it George's way. Taken by surprise as the creature jumped at him, arms outstretched, I saw my chance just as more began to filter through the office hatch, snatching at me legs. With a deep breath i huffed and ran towards George, tackling him and his attacker from the roof and into the air. With all my hope left i slung my rope grapple aimlessly at a site of scaffolding close to our site, and as if god himself had allowed it the rope wrapped around a steel beam and latched on.
As we all fell, myself, George, and the undead, i felt the slack of the rope begin to tighten as my drop became a swing, flicking George and the infected from me as their grip slid away. George tumbled into the horse below, but I didn't stop to watch.
I carried on swinging, smashing into a half-bricked wall but managing to pull myself up to find a foothold. I scrambled my way into the construction, gripping a web of scaffolding and perching a top of it. The undead from the roof simply tumbled down to the ground, their necks breaking as they connected with the soil below, rendering them alive, but disabled. But no George in site.
I gasped, and almost cried. But day time was no more.
Name: Duncan Weaver
Age: 29
Hair: Dark and short
Clothing: What's left of a full grey tweed suit, a grey flat cap, leather gloves and a blue rag tied around the neck.
Weapons/Tools: Revolver Pistol - Machete - Rope Grapple
Previous Occupation: Gangster and Gun Smuggler
Last edited by Conor on Thu Jun 16, 2016 8:09 pm; edited 4 times in total
Conor- Infected
Re: Dead Capital
Damxge Thu Jun 16, 2016 12:29 pm
OH HO HO! This looks nice. Awesome idea!
"My name is Milo, I am but a humble painter," I said loudly, my voice echoing in the expansive room in which I sat. I was about to say more when movement caught my eye and I spun to face it, broken glass crunching beneath my boot. There, upon a tripod of bones that had been lashed together sat a painted canvas, and upon this canvas was a person, a face, that glared out at me in most vivid detail. It was in full color, but with am emphasis on brown, particularly around the clothing. And there is where from it stared, my own reflection, painted in such elegant prose. My grey eyes staring straight at me, a sneer on my thin lips, my crook nose scrunched in disgust. Strands of brown hair reached down over my face, a haphazard ponytail containing most of it. I looked gaunt, but muscular, like a wildman, I thought. I wore a shirt of brown, the sleeves ripped from it, making it little more than a flour sack with holes. My legs were clad in cutoff brown canvas pants, rough and jagged, one leg clearly longer than the other. On my feet were leather wrappings of the most disgusting appearance. As I took this in, I turned my nose in disgust, the painting mimicking me.
"Filthy and disgraceful," I spat as I turned back to my present piece before me.
"Likewise," My portrait responded in equal disdain.
"W-What the f*** is wrong with you?" Trembled a new voice, a man's voice, and I remembered my guest.
"Why, there's nothing wrong with me," I laughed, gliding from my stool and out from behind the canvas to face the man, a short fellow with black hair and a bloodsoaked broken face, where he was tied to a chair using rather sharp wire that cut into his skin. He sat at the very center of the room, next to a hole in the floor, the dying sunlight filtering in from the massive stained glass windows behind him illuminating the dust in the air of the old church and deepening the sea of shadows that lurked behind each pillar.
"You're mad," He said as I placed my face near his.
"Say hello to my beloved for me, won't you dear?" I whispered softly, simultaneously nudging the chair backward a fraction of an inch, causing it and the man it contained to fall backwards into the hole, down into the sewer, to the delight of the hole's occupants. With a chuckle, I swung about and half skipped, half walked back to my painting and hoisted it up.
"My, my, I've outdone myself this time," I laughed as I carried it to the nearest pillar and hung it from a peg I had waiting for it, "I cannot WAIT to find my next subject,"
---------------------
In case the story wasn't enough, here's a character sheet of his base traits.
Name: Milo
Appearance/Clothing: My grey eyes staring straight at me, a sneer on my thin lips, my crook nose scrunched in disgust. Strands of brown hair reached down over my face, a haphazard ponytail containing most of it. I looked gaunt, but muscular, like a wildman, I thought. I wore a shirt of brown, the sleeves ripped from it, making it little more than a flour sack with holes. My legs were clad in cutoff brown canvas pants, rough and jagged, one leg clearly longer than the other. On my feet were leather wrappings of the most disgusting appearance.
Personality: f***ing batshit crazy.
So, you know what he looks like, you know he's a murderous loonie, I'll leave the rest a mystery for now if that's okay. (I can PM you a full character sheet if you'd like, I've already got him planned out.)
"My name is Milo, I am but a humble painter," I said loudly, my voice echoing in the expansive room in which I sat. I was about to say more when movement caught my eye and I spun to face it, broken glass crunching beneath my boot. There, upon a tripod of bones that had been lashed together sat a painted canvas, and upon this canvas was a person, a face, that glared out at me in most vivid detail. It was in full color, but with am emphasis on brown, particularly around the clothing. And there is where from it stared, my own reflection, painted in such elegant prose. My grey eyes staring straight at me, a sneer on my thin lips, my crook nose scrunched in disgust. Strands of brown hair reached down over my face, a haphazard ponytail containing most of it. I looked gaunt, but muscular, like a wildman, I thought. I wore a shirt of brown, the sleeves ripped from it, making it little more than a flour sack with holes. My legs were clad in cutoff brown canvas pants, rough and jagged, one leg clearly longer than the other. On my feet were leather wrappings of the most disgusting appearance. As I took this in, I turned my nose in disgust, the painting mimicking me.
"Filthy and disgraceful," I spat as I turned back to my present piece before me.
"Likewise," My portrait responded in equal disdain.
"W-What the f*** is wrong with you?" Trembled a new voice, a man's voice, and I remembered my guest.
"Why, there's nothing wrong with me," I laughed, gliding from my stool and out from behind the canvas to face the man, a short fellow with black hair and a bloodsoaked broken face, where he was tied to a chair using rather sharp wire that cut into his skin. He sat at the very center of the room, next to a hole in the floor, the dying sunlight filtering in from the massive stained glass windows behind him illuminating the dust in the air of the old church and deepening the sea of shadows that lurked behind each pillar.
"You're mad," He said as I placed my face near his.
"Say hello to my beloved for me, won't you dear?" I whispered softly, simultaneously nudging the chair backward a fraction of an inch, causing it and the man it contained to fall backwards into the hole, down into the sewer, to the delight of the hole's occupants. With a chuckle, I swung about and half skipped, half walked back to my painting and hoisted it up.
"My, my, I've outdone myself this time," I laughed as I carried it to the nearest pillar and hung it from a peg I had waiting for it, "I cannot WAIT to find my next subject,"
---------------------
In case the story wasn't enough, here's a character sheet of his base traits.
Name: Milo
Appearance/Clothing: My grey eyes staring straight at me, a sneer on my thin lips, my crook nose scrunched in disgust. Strands of brown hair reached down over my face, a haphazard ponytail containing most of it. I looked gaunt, but muscular, like a wildman, I thought. I wore a shirt of brown, the sleeves ripped from it, making it little more than a flour sack with holes. My legs were clad in cutoff brown canvas pants, rough and jagged, one leg clearly longer than the other. On my feet were leather wrappings of the most disgusting appearance.
Personality: f***ing batshit crazy.
So, you know what he looks like, you know he's a murderous loonie, I'll leave the rest a mystery for now if that's okay. (I can PM you a full character sheet if you'd like, I've already got him planned out.)
Damxge- Rook
Re: Dead Capital
Conor Thu Jun 16, 2016 5:55 pm
I really like how you've made a short paragraph to introduce your character. It would also be awesome if everyone else tried this when signing up. I'm gonna try it now.
Also, great to have an unstable character already. This is the kind of grungy vibe I was going for. Nice one!
And by all means PM me the deets.
Also, great to have an unstable character already. This is the kind of grungy vibe I was going for. Nice one!
And by all means PM me the deets.
Conor- Infected
Re: Dead Capital
Conor Thu Jun 16, 2016 7:14 pm
"Duncan, you're a god damn fool!"
We stood on the roof of the factory, looking out over the East end as it succumbed to the day's dusk. On the horizon, a plume of smoke crawled into the sky, an orange glow emanating from its base. I stood on the rim of the buildings ledge, peering out to the scene in front of me from beneath the peak of my flat cap. We were down wind, and with the breeze came the stench of flesh, both fresh and rotten. Over time, you began to recognise the difference.
"I did what I had to." I answered the voice behind me in a thick Northern brood "It was a matter of whether we take 'em down with us, or we don't. There was no getting out." I heard a pistol cock behind me, and my heart skipped. But through a plain face and icy, lifeless eyes, i hid the fear. With my back still to my supposed maker-meeters, I gave a short prayer.
"You got out." came the voice again, no doubt sending droplets of spit flying onto the back of my suit jacket. "Explain that."
"I was lucky," I vouched quickly "The explosion launched me through a window, and I was fine, so I ran. I barely escaped wi' me life, George." the pistol barrel bumped against the back of my skull, tilting my head down to see the sight i had been trying to ignore below me. if I fell, i hoped the three story drop would kill me, because I wasn't about to be a meal. i counted fifty, all scratching and clawing upward towards me, moaning and groaning and baring teeth laced and knotted with flesh. Some you could still tell were people, but others... "Look at me George," I began once more, gesturing over my raggity-looking self "Do I look like I've just been through a stroll in the meadows?"
"You brought 'em 'ere!" George countered, and I jumped. Not off the ledge, mind, just in shock. "They followed you and you led 'em 'ere!"
"Indeed, but not purposefully! Why would I risk our lives, George? After we've gotten this far?" I let out a half-hearted laugh, and directed my vision to the dulling sky overhead. "They'll carry on till nightfall, and won't stop then. We can only get through this if we work together, George. They'll get in eventually, and when they do-"
"Shut up!" George yelped, the noise aggravating a simultaneous groan from the horde below. "I can make it, don't you worry 'bout that. But i ain't taking you with me. Seven men you killed today, Duncan. Seven good men." I edged my head sideways, trying to look at him. George was a bigger man than me, myself being rather slim and spry. With his thick workman's arms and muscly stature, I didn't fare my chances. Especially with the gun. He wore a flat cap, like me, and through a thick, ginger beard he murmured: "God's abandoned me, but I never thought you would too, brother. I'll make it quick."
I heard the pistol cock, the chamber turning and locking into place. I looked up to the sky once again, the sky now blackening over. I drew a breath, savouring it as my last, before i voice echoed from behind me - that of a younger individual, Jack, one of our last lads. The hatch of the roof sprung open, and I could just imagine Jack's scruffy, freckled face poking out from it.
"They're in!" he gasped, panic-stricken. I sensed George's stature relax, and grasped the opportunity. In a smooth motion i turned, pushing the gun away from me and hurling myself at George's mass, and away from the ledge. He shot once, then with his almighty strength he pushed me back - but I was latched on like a terrier, gripping to George's clothes and skin with my fingers and teeth. As the momentum carried me, we both fell, George stumbling over me, yelling at Jack to help as he went, my body still attached to his. As we flipped George managed to curl his fingers around the lip of the roof, stopping him suddenly and throwing me sliding down his chest and grabbing onto his foot. As his legs swung, arching outward towards death and back, I was flung towards the building, losing my grip and being hurled forward, crashing through a window on the lower floor.
i rolled upon landing, broken glass sinking into my back as I did so. And to my feet i sprung, my hat still miraculously a top my dome as I felt for it. I ran to a set of wooden railing, peering over to the ground floor to see a few undead forcing themselves through the tiniest of gaps in the sheet metal walls near the door, their flesh peeling from their bones as they squeezed and pushed. One soon became many, and as the numbers grew larger so did the gap in the wall, breaking open under the demanding force of countless infected. They began to lurch upstairs, up and over the idle machinery in any way they could, smelling the fresh meat above them.
I began to sprint, buying my time, as they still had another floor to go before they got to me. The sound was overwhelming, the creatures excitement growing as food became closer. I took a right, running out of the main factory and into a small batch of empty office rooms, which we had converted into a sleeping area. There, i saw my gun, machete and rope grapple, which George had forcefully taken from me upon my return. His paranoia knew no limits.
I scooped up my equipment, not even noticing Jack stood at the other end of the room. He, too, held a pistol - the first time I'd seen him armed.
"I'm not letting you live," he began, his arms shaking, tears swelling in his eyes "This is your fault." I raised my arms slowly, walking away from the door with care as the noise of the hordes grew closer. As I walked, Jack mimicked my movement, maintaining distance. it wasn't long before we had completely switched sides.
"Now, son... We can still survive this, if you work with me." the howls of the undead grew closer "Just chuck me the gun, and follow me." My eyes wide from the adrenaline, I didn't even flinch upon Jack's actions. He pulled the trigger, but from the gun came no bang, as the hammer had not been cocked. Unfortunately for his sake, Jack had no experience with guns.
I saw my chance, whipping out my own pistol, cocking it swiftly and shooting the boy in the chest. He stumbled back through the door, whereby I ran and closed it behind him, heaving a shelf by its hinges to block the way. I heard the footsteps grow, followed by Jack's screams, but they didn't last long.
But i was not trapped. Above me was the hatch to the roof, and as I clambered up I felt the door behind me begin to get pushed through. The thin walkways of the factory must have been swelling with undead, the weight alone heaving through my defense. I got my legs up and over, only to find George stood a top of me, a knife in his hand. His pistol must've not made the fall.
"For f***'s sake, George!" I screamed in defeat as I stood "We need to leave, there's no time for this!" it was then i heard the office door below me give way, the first infected crawling its way through and seeing the open hatch.
"We're both gonna die today, Duncan. But i'm gonna be the one to kill you, not them." George seemed exhausted, panting and gasping for air. I shrugged, and gave a look of disbelief.
"George, I have a pistol, you have a knife. Just give up, will ya?" but despite my efforts, George shook his head.
"Not gonna happen, Duncan." i paused a moment, before shrugging once more, this time with indifference.
"Fine." I grunted, pulling the pistol from my holster and aiming it for George's heart. But before I could the trigger, a bony hand clenched my wrist. I looked to my right to see the face of an infected, stripped of half its flesh and one-eyed, the rest of it crispy and burnt. Skin flaked from its knuckles as they tightened around my arm, its head lurching in for the kill. I reacted quickly out of fear, whipping its head away with the butt of my gun and flinging it George's way. Taken by surprise as the creature jumped at him, arms outstretched, I saw my chance just as more began to filter through the office hatch, snatching at me legs. With a deep breath i huffed and ran towards George, tackling him and his attacker from the roof and into the air. With all my hope left i slung my rope grapple aimlessly at a site of scaffolding close to our site, and as if god himself had allowed it the rope wrapped around a steel beam and latched on.
As we all fell, myself, George, and the undead, i felt the slack of the rope begin to tighten as my drop became a swing, flicking George and the infected from me as their grip slid away. George tumbled into the horde below, but I didn't stop to watch.
I carried on swinging, smashing into a half-bricked wall but managing to pull myself up to find a foothold. I scrambled my way into the construction, gripping a web of scaffolding and perching a top of it. The undead from the roof simply tumbled down to the ground, their necks breaking as they connected with the soil below, rendering them alive, but disabled. But no George in site.
I gasped, and almost cried. But day time was no more.
Name: Duncan Weaver
Age: 29
Hair: Dark and short
Clothing: What's left of a full grey tweed suit, a grey flat cap, leather gloves and a blue rag tied around the neck.
Weapons/Tools: Revolver Pistol - Machete - Rope Grapple
Previous Occupation: Gangster and Gun Smuggler
We stood on the roof of the factory, looking out over the East end as it succumbed to the day's dusk. On the horizon, a plume of smoke crawled into the sky, an orange glow emanating from its base. I stood on the rim of the buildings ledge, peering out to the scene in front of me from beneath the peak of my flat cap. We were down wind, and with the breeze came the stench of flesh, both fresh and rotten. Over time, you began to recognise the difference.
"I did what I had to." I answered the voice behind me in a thick Northern brood "It was a matter of whether we take 'em down with us, or we don't. There was no getting out." I heard a pistol cock behind me, and my heart skipped. But through a plain face and icy, lifeless eyes, i hid the fear. With my back still to my supposed maker-meeters, I gave a short prayer.
"You got out." came the voice again, no doubt sending droplets of spit flying onto the back of my suit jacket. "Explain that."
"I was lucky," I vouched quickly "The explosion launched me through a window, and I was fine, so I ran. I barely escaped wi' me life, George." the pistol barrel bumped against the back of my skull, tilting my head down to see the sight i had been trying to ignore below me. if I fell, i hoped the three story drop would kill me, because I wasn't about to be a meal. i counted fifty, all scratching and clawing upward towards me, moaning and groaning and baring teeth laced and knotted with flesh. Some you could still tell were people, but others... "Look at me George," I began once more, gesturing over my raggity-looking self "Do I look like I've just been through a stroll in the meadows?"
"You brought 'em 'ere!" George countered, and I jumped. Not off the ledge, mind, just in shock. "They followed you and you led 'em 'ere!"
"Indeed, but not purposefully! Why would I risk our lives, George? After we've gotten this far?" I let out a half-hearted laugh, and directed my vision to the dulling sky overhead. "They'll carry on till nightfall, and won't stop then. We can only get through this if we work together, George. They'll get in eventually, and when they do-"
"Shut up!" George yelped, the noise aggravating a simultaneous groan from the horde below. "I can make it, don't you worry 'bout that. But i ain't taking you with me. Seven men you killed today, Duncan. Seven good men." I edged my head sideways, trying to look at him. George was a bigger man than me, myself being rather slim and spry. With his thick workman's arms and muscly stature, I didn't fare my chances. Especially with the gun. He wore a flat cap, like me, and through a thick, ginger beard he murmured: "God's abandoned me, but I never thought you would too, brother. I'll make it quick."
I heard the pistol cock, the chamber turning and locking into place. I looked up to the sky once again, the sky now blackening over. I drew a breath, savouring it as my last, before i voice echoed from behind me - that of a younger individual, Jack, one of our last lads. The hatch of the roof sprung open, and I could just imagine Jack's scruffy, freckled face poking out from it.
"They're in!" he gasped, panic-stricken. I sensed George's stature relax, and grasped the opportunity. In a smooth motion i turned, pushing the gun away from me and hurling myself at George's mass, and away from the ledge. He shot once, then with his almighty strength he pushed me back - but I was latched on like a terrier, gripping to George's clothes and skin with my fingers and teeth. As the momentum carried me, we both fell, George stumbling over me, yelling at Jack to help as he went, my body still attached to his. As we flipped George managed to curl his fingers around the lip of the roof, stopping him suddenly and throwing me sliding down his chest and grabbing onto his foot. As his legs swung, arching outward towards death and back, I was flung towards the building, losing my grip and being hurled forward, crashing through a window on the lower floor.
i rolled upon landing, broken glass sinking into my back as I did so. And to my feet i sprung, my hat still miraculously a top my dome as I felt for it. I ran to a set of wooden railing, peering over to the ground floor to see a few undead forcing themselves through the tiniest of gaps in the sheet metal walls near the door, their flesh peeling from their bones as they squeezed and pushed. One soon became many, and as the numbers grew larger so did the gap in the wall, breaking open under the demanding force of countless infected. They began to lurch upstairs, up and over the idle machinery in any way they could, smelling the fresh meat above them.
I began to sprint, buying my time, as they still had another floor to go before they got to me. The sound was overwhelming, the creatures excitement growing as food became closer. I took a right, running out of the main factory and into a small batch of empty office rooms, which we had converted into a sleeping area. There, i saw my gun, machete and rope grapple, which George had forcefully taken from me upon my return. His paranoia knew no limits.
I scooped up my equipment, not even noticing Jack stood at the other end of the room. He, too, held a pistol - the first time I'd seen him armed.
"I'm not letting you live," he began, his arms shaking, tears swelling in his eyes "This is your fault." I raised my arms slowly, walking away from the door with care as the noise of the hordes grew closer. As I walked, Jack mimicked my movement, maintaining distance. it wasn't long before we had completely switched sides.
"Now, son... We can still survive this, if you work with me." the howls of the undead grew closer "Just chuck me the gun, and follow me." My eyes wide from the adrenaline, I didn't even flinch upon Jack's actions. He pulled the trigger, but from the gun came no bang, as the hammer had not been cocked. Unfortunately for his sake, Jack had no experience with guns.
I saw my chance, whipping out my own pistol, cocking it swiftly and shooting the boy in the chest. He stumbled back through the door, whereby I ran and closed it behind him, heaving a shelf by its hinges to block the way. I heard the footsteps grow, followed by Jack's screams, but they didn't last long.
But i was not trapped. Above me was the hatch to the roof, and as I clambered up I felt the door behind me begin to get pushed through. The thin walkways of the factory must have been swelling with undead, the weight alone heaving through my defense. I got my legs up and over, only to find George stood a top of me, a knife in his hand. His pistol must've not made the fall.
"For f***'s sake, George!" I screamed in defeat as I stood "We need to leave, there's no time for this!" it was then i heard the office door below me give way, the first infected crawling its way through and seeing the open hatch.
"We're both gonna die today, Duncan. But i'm gonna be the one to kill you, not them." George seemed exhausted, panting and gasping for air. I shrugged, and gave a look of disbelief.
"George, I have a pistol, you have a knife. Just give up, will ya?" but despite my efforts, George shook his head.
"Not gonna happen, Duncan." i paused a moment, before shrugging once more, this time with indifference.
"Fine." I grunted, pulling the pistol from my holster and aiming it for George's heart. But before I could the trigger, a bony hand clenched my wrist. I looked to my right to see the face of an infected, stripped of half its flesh and one-eyed, the rest of it crispy and burnt. Skin flaked from its knuckles as they tightened around my arm, its head lurching in for the kill. I reacted quickly out of fear, whipping its head away with the butt of my gun and flinging it George's way. Taken by surprise as the creature jumped at him, arms outstretched, I saw my chance just as more began to filter through the office hatch, snatching at me legs. With a deep breath i huffed and ran towards George, tackling him and his attacker from the roof and into the air. With all my hope left i slung my rope grapple aimlessly at a site of scaffolding close to our site, and as if god himself had allowed it the rope wrapped around a steel beam and latched on.
As we all fell, myself, George, and the undead, i felt the slack of the rope begin to tighten as my drop became a swing, flicking George and the infected from me as their grip slid away. George tumbled into the horde below, but I didn't stop to watch.
I carried on swinging, smashing into a half-bricked wall but managing to pull myself up to find a foothold. I scrambled my way into the construction, gripping a web of scaffolding and perching a top of it. The undead from the roof simply tumbled down to the ground, their necks breaking as they connected with the soil below, rendering them alive, but disabled. But no George in site.
I gasped, and almost cried. But day time was no more.
Name: Duncan Weaver
Age: 29
Hair: Dark and short
Clothing: What's left of a full grey tweed suit, a grey flat cap, leather gloves and a blue rag tied around the neck.
Weapons/Tools: Revolver Pistol - Machete - Rope Grapple
Previous Occupation: Gangster and Gun Smuggler
Conor- Infected
Re: Dead Capital
LordTomyh Wed Jun 29, 2016 6:38 pm
The sound. That was what got him the most, the quiet, the silence. He remembered and missed the sounds of the capital, and now not even the crows dared sing, if there were any even left.
Alfred let out the breath he was holding, and squeezed the trigger. The noise was sure to attract every shambling corpse through the dead center, maybe even some of the living, but the walking cadaver of what was once a young girl dressed in a frilly spoiled white dress fell down dead as dead can be, a hole in her head and the contents of her skull plastered against a wall.
Cycling the round Alfred stood up and looked around the deserted street. He could hear the sounds of the dead coming for him already and quickly moved off, carefully making as little noise as possible but moving with haste. He crossed streets that longed for the days of old, the ghosts that roamed them a memory as the old soldier threw himself against the corner of a building and peeked down the street. In the middle of the cobbled road was a wicker basket bearing the French colours starting to wear under from the weather, the remains of a balloon blanket the streets. Both were covered by dried splotches of blood, a skeleton laying in front of the basket missing an arm and both legs. He had been told by the commander of the south city that the basket had been carrying information from their neighbor as well as intelligence about Northern France and South England; Alfred had heard that the balloon may even be carrying some form or experiment weapon or blueprint that could potentially change the situation. No one knew how the balloon had sailed over the south city and crashed into the grave center; perhaps it had been the weather, perhaps it had been the French. Either way the balloon was a target priority, which was why Alfred was sulking through these ghostly streets dodging cadavers and corpse and human dredges out for food and resource to fine it. Hell, these may even be a waste of time, Alfred thought as he raised he rifle and stepped onto the street quickly walking towards the downed air craft. Someone may have already come and taken whatever was in the basket he had to collect.
Nothing moved, nothing made a sound besides his boots on the stones as Alfred approached the basket; it was as if the whole world was holding its breath. Alfred reached the basket, paused in his step and let out a breath.
3.
Alfred stepped right up to the basket and raised his gun on the interior, watching for anything that moved. Nothing did, and after a few more pregnant seconds he lowered his gun and began to scan the contents. Everything had been thrown around the basket, either from the crash or by looters he couldn't tell, but his old eyes fell on a leather bag strapped to the basket itself by chain and key where the pilot would normal stand. It seems the French didn't take any chances with this bag, the old soldier through as he climbed into the basket and pulled a small tarnished key from his belt pouch. He had been given the key just before he left, and he surely hoped to the forsaking God that it fit, or else he's have to get creative. And creative meant ill omens in a city ruled by the dead.
The key clicked in the lock and it opened, thank Christ. Alfred quickly pulled the bag free of the bindings and threw open the cover, making sure its contents were secure. His shoulders slumped as he saw that the papers stained with water-run ink and blood, ruined. Holding back a curse Alfred closed the lid of the bag and threw it over his shoulder. The papers may be damaged but maybe someone could find something from them, and the leather binder sealed with wax probably contained the more important documents anyway.
Alfred exited the basket and raised his rifle before moving down the street, heading back to the south city, and, here's hoping, a good drink. The city seemed to have run down of most alcohol since it fell to the dead.
Name: Captain Alfred Haywood.
Age: 54.
Hair: Light brown, starting to turn silver.
Clothing: Standard uniform of the British army, minus the hat.
Weapons/Tools: Standard issue army rifle, revolver pistol, officer’s sword and bayonet (which'll be his combat knife).
Previous Occupation: Soldier in Her Majesty's Army.
Appearance: Alfred is average height and well-built, even for his age. His hair is a light mousy brown starting to turn silver and kept short, coming to around his ears. His face is lines from age and from stress, and his blue-grey eyes are weary and tired. He has a scar in his leg from a bullet. He carries himself like a tired soldier: straight back, ever watchful, but quiet, tend to wander mentally and watch everything with a weary eye.
Sorry for taking so long with this. And i feel more comfortable in Third Person
Alfred let out the breath he was holding, and squeezed the trigger. The noise was sure to attract every shambling corpse through the dead center, maybe even some of the living, but the walking cadaver of what was once a young girl dressed in a frilly spoiled white dress fell down dead as dead can be, a hole in her head and the contents of her skull plastered against a wall.
Cycling the round Alfred stood up and looked around the deserted street. He could hear the sounds of the dead coming for him already and quickly moved off, carefully making as little noise as possible but moving with haste. He crossed streets that longed for the days of old, the ghosts that roamed them a memory as the old soldier threw himself against the corner of a building and peeked down the street. In the middle of the cobbled road was a wicker basket bearing the French colours starting to wear under from the weather, the remains of a balloon blanket the streets. Both were covered by dried splotches of blood, a skeleton laying in front of the basket missing an arm and both legs. He had been told by the commander of the south city that the basket had been carrying information from their neighbor as well as intelligence about Northern France and South England; Alfred had heard that the balloon may even be carrying some form or experiment weapon or blueprint that could potentially change the situation. No one knew how the balloon had sailed over the south city and crashed into the grave center; perhaps it had been the weather, perhaps it had been the French. Either way the balloon was a target priority, which was why Alfred was sulking through these ghostly streets dodging cadavers and corpse and human dredges out for food and resource to fine it. Hell, these may even be a waste of time, Alfred thought as he raised he rifle and stepped onto the street quickly walking towards the downed air craft. Someone may have already come and taken whatever was in the basket he had to collect.
Nothing moved, nothing made a sound besides his boots on the stones as Alfred approached the basket; it was as if the whole world was holding its breath. Alfred reached the basket, paused in his step and let out a breath.
3.
Alfred stepped right up to the basket and raised his gun on the interior, watching for anything that moved. Nothing did, and after a few more pregnant seconds he lowered his gun and began to scan the contents. Everything had been thrown around the basket, either from the crash or by looters he couldn't tell, but his old eyes fell on a leather bag strapped to the basket itself by chain and key where the pilot would normal stand. It seems the French didn't take any chances with this bag, the old soldier through as he climbed into the basket and pulled a small tarnished key from his belt pouch. He had been given the key just before he left, and he surely hoped to the forsaking God that it fit, or else he's have to get creative. And creative meant ill omens in a city ruled by the dead.
The key clicked in the lock and it opened, thank Christ. Alfred quickly pulled the bag free of the bindings and threw open the cover, making sure its contents were secure. His shoulders slumped as he saw that the papers stained with water-run ink and blood, ruined. Holding back a curse Alfred closed the lid of the bag and threw it over his shoulder. The papers may be damaged but maybe someone could find something from them, and the leather binder sealed with wax probably contained the more important documents anyway.
Alfred exited the basket and raised his rifle before moving down the street, heading back to the south city, and, here's hoping, a good drink. The city seemed to have run down of most alcohol since it fell to the dead.
oOo
Name: Captain Alfred Haywood.
Age: 54.
Hair: Light brown, starting to turn silver.
Clothing: Standard uniform of the British army, minus the hat.
Weapons/Tools: Standard issue army rifle, revolver pistol, officer’s sword and bayonet (which'll be his combat knife).
Previous Occupation: Soldier in Her Majesty's Army.
Appearance: Alfred is average height and well-built, even for his age. His hair is a light mousy brown starting to turn silver and kept short, coming to around his ears. His face is lines from age and from stress, and his blue-grey eyes are weary and tired. He has a scar in his leg from a bullet. He carries himself like a tired soldier: straight back, ever watchful, but quiet, tend to wander mentally and watch everything with a weary eye.
Sorry for taking so long with this. And i feel more comfortable in Third Person
LordTomyh- Rook
-
Re: Dead Capital
ValleyGirlBlondie Thu Nov 10, 2016 6:35 pm
"Mary Grace! you are utterly wild!" Elizabeth said, looking at me with complete shock. I wasn't entirely sure of what was so shocking about a woman doing the right thing and defending herself.
"Betsy, please. I'm just doing the right thing as a good, Christian woman. Thou shalt not suffer the spawn of the devil to taint the earth. Ain't nothin' right about this whole sit'ation." I retorted, my pistol still gripped tight in my delicate hand. Devillishly dressed undead men and women lay on the floor, with my dear cousin Elizabeth and myself being the only ones still standing alive out by the stables. Elizabeth had come to free the horses, and I came as protection in case of any strange happenings.
"Put that thing away, Mary. It's giving me a fright just looking at it." Elizabeth complained again, getting on my nerves for the last time.
"Why don't you just go back inside and lounge about the drawing room all purrdy and docile, while the real heroes here go a'huntin'?" I scoffed, storming off and leaving Elizabeth in my dust. If she was only ever going to complain about my pistol, fine. She didn't deserve my protection anyways.
Walking as fast as I could with my corset and crinoline restricting my movement, I kept holding my gun tight. After a while, I'd walked off the estate, my bonnet secured and a shawl thrown carefully over my shoulders to shield me from the cold. If I was to survive in such a world, I was holding onto class and dignity with all my might, as it was the only thing so many women like myself had left. A blur of rose pink and beige, thanks to my dress, shawl and gloves, I made my way off the estate and out into the living hell known as England. To my detriment, as an American, I was a fish in a different pond. A pond infested with the undead, like something out of a fiction novel.
Making sure I was dressed proper and that my parasol was secured in one hand, I gave a small, silent prayer, and held my gun close.
Name: Mary Grace Langston
Age: 25
Hair: Long and blonde
Clothing: A rose pink dress, white petticoats, beige gloves, beige shawl, beige bonnet with pink flowers and black ribbon, rose pink gloves, black lace-up boots.
Weapons/Tools: Colt Pistol - Parasol
Previous Occupation: No previous occupation.
"Betsy, please. I'm just doing the right thing as a good, Christian woman. Thou shalt not suffer the spawn of the devil to taint the earth. Ain't nothin' right about this whole sit'ation." I retorted, my pistol still gripped tight in my delicate hand. Devillishly dressed undead men and women lay on the floor, with my dear cousin Elizabeth and myself being the only ones still standing alive out by the stables. Elizabeth had come to free the horses, and I came as protection in case of any strange happenings.
"Put that thing away, Mary. It's giving me a fright just looking at it." Elizabeth complained again, getting on my nerves for the last time.
"Why don't you just go back inside and lounge about the drawing room all purrdy and docile, while the real heroes here go a'huntin'?" I scoffed, storming off and leaving Elizabeth in my dust. If she was only ever going to complain about my pistol, fine. She didn't deserve my protection anyways.
Walking as fast as I could with my corset and crinoline restricting my movement, I kept holding my gun tight. After a while, I'd walked off the estate, my bonnet secured and a shawl thrown carefully over my shoulders to shield me from the cold. If I was to survive in such a world, I was holding onto class and dignity with all my might, as it was the only thing so many women like myself had left. A blur of rose pink and beige, thanks to my dress, shawl and gloves, I made my way off the estate and out into the living hell known as England. To my detriment, as an American, I was a fish in a different pond. A pond infested with the undead, like something out of a fiction novel.
Making sure I was dressed proper and that my parasol was secured in one hand, I gave a small, silent prayer, and held my gun close.
Name: Mary Grace Langston
Age: 25
Hair: Long and blonde
Clothing: A rose pink dress, white petticoats, beige gloves, beige shawl, beige bonnet with pink flowers and black ribbon, rose pink gloves, black lace-up boots.
Weapons/Tools: Colt Pistol - Parasol
Previous Occupation: No previous occupation.
ValleyGirlBlondie- Known
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