Azazeal Forsythe
The Slavers
Azazeal Forsythe isn't particularly known as nasty. He's harsh, stubborn, alright, maybe a little cruel, but he's never been described as nasty. Kudos to him, I suppose. But let's explore him a bit more, then we'll see if you agree with me or not. Azazeal was born in Conway Springs, Kansas. Pretty boring, huh. I mean, whatever could possibly happen in Kansas? You're probably expecting me to now go into detail about something interesting that happened there, but I'm going to burst that bubble for you. Nothing happened! Absolutley nothing. I'm pretty sure the only thing worth mentioning would be when Old Man Bates' dog died of old age. Was in the papers and everything. Well what does that have to do with Azazeal? Nothing. I was just setting the tone. Azazeal was not born with the name Azazeal. He was born as William Forsythe. Grew up in the town. Parents owned a run down comic book store and arcade in one. Like something out of a 60s movie. Well, little William didn't do much except help his dad around. He was a good kid with an average life. Parents got along great. He was an only child, so he was lonely, but it wasn't too bad. He would just hang around the store eating candy, drinking pop, read comic books, and play video games. He was a pretty chubby twerp with low self esteem and no real goals in life. His motivation level was at an astounding 2.5 out of 5000 and he figured he'd just take over the shop when his dad retired. He got along well with people, and many of the townsfolk were surprised about how much he liked to help people. Not that he was motivated to do it. It would just come out of the blue. Not things like repair cars or help old ladies across the street, but he would sit down, talk, and give advice. And he gave great advice. He even saved someone's marriage! So he would sit in his dad's shop or at school or on the porch of his house, and by and by, people would come and ask for advice. Sometimes they'd pay him too. William figured he could become some kind of therapist someday, but never pursued that thought too much. He was content, happy, and saw no need to do much else but what he was doing. Yes, things were going swimmingly for William. By the time he turned twenty, he was well liked around the town and everyone was going to him to fix their problems. Then it came. That horrible disease that turned everyone into flesh eating freaks. You wouldn't believe it, but Conway Springs was hit pretty hard. Very hard. William just managed to escape with his father and his uncle. A couple other people escaped, but William never saw them again. Something snapped in William then. It took a while to surface, but a severe change came over him. He found motivation. He found a new reason to exist. It was as if all the inherent instincts of adaptation and survival had just charged up to full power. He lost weight and regained it in muscle. He learned how to fight, and from his imagination and what he had gleaned from comic books, he even invented his own style. He developed tactics and built homemade wepaons. The three men: William, his father, and his uncle, survived the chaotic breakout well enough. His uncle was eventually eaten by a zombie and his father died of heat stroke. So William set off across the continent, going from place to place. Just wandering. He forsook the name William, considering it a part of an old life that he knew was now dead, once and for all. He came across the name Azazeal, and he took it for himself. He became Azazeal Forsythe, the hardcore zombie slayer of the apocalypse. He gained a little reputation, but it usually faded once he left an area. He eventually came across the Slavers and by that time, fit right in. He's tough, a fighter, calculative. All brains and brawn. What are the odds? He often gives the leader advice when it's asked for, and is hoping to become the second in command one of these days. He doesn't treat anyone harshly unless ordered to by a superior or unless the person deserves to be punished. It's been some time. Azazeal is now twenty-three years old. Towering at six foot six of heavy duty muscle and a freaking eight pack, he usually scares the crap out of everyone he meets, so there isn't much trouble around him and none really dare pick a fight with him alone. He has black hair, cut very short or even pretty much shaved. He has bright green eyes and an oddly soft yet strong face. He's always wearing military surplus and carrying weapons of some kind.
Azazeal Forsythe isn't particularly known as nasty. He's harsh, stubborn, alright, maybe a little cruel, but he's never been described as nasty. Kudos to him, I suppose. But let's explore him a bit more, then we'll see if you agree with me or not. Azazeal was born in Conway Springs, Kansas. Pretty boring, huh. I mean, whatever could possibly happen in Kansas? You're probably expecting me to now go into detail about something interesting that happened there, but I'm going to burst that bubble for you. Nothing happened! Absolutley nothing. I'm pretty sure the only thing worth mentioning would be when Old Man Bates' dog died of old age. Was in the papers and everything. Well what does that have to do with Azazeal? Nothing. I was just setting the tone. Azazeal was not born with the name Azazeal. He was born as William Forsythe. Grew up in the town. Parents owned a run down comic book store and arcade in one. Like something out of a 60s movie. Well, little William didn't do much except help his dad around. He was a good kid with an average life. Parents got along great. He was an only child, so he was lonely, but it wasn't too bad. He would just hang around the store eating candy, drinking pop, read comic books, and play video games. He was a pretty chubby twerp with low self esteem and no real goals in life. His motivation level was at an astounding 2.5 out of 5000 and he figured he'd just take over the shop when his dad retired. He got along well with people, and many of the townsfolk were surprised about how much he liked to help people. Not that he was motivated to do it. It would just come out of the blue. Not things like repair cars or help old ladies across the street, but he would sit down, talk, and give advice. And he gave great advice. He even saved someone's marriage! So he would sit in his dad's shop or at school or on the porch of his house, and by and by, people would come and ask for advice. Sometimes they'd pay him too. William figured he could become some kind of therapist someday, but never pursued that thought too much. He was content, happy, and saw no need to do much else but what he was doing. Yes, things were going swimmingly for William. By the time he turned twenty, he was well liked around the town and everyone was going to him to fix their problems. Then it came. That horrible disease that turned everyone into flesh eating freaks. You wouldn't believe it, but Conway Springs was hit pretty hard. Very hard. William just managed to escape with his father and his uncle. A couple other people escaped, but William never saw them again. Something snapped in William then. It took a while to surface, but a severe change came over him. He found motivation. He found a new reason to exist. It was as if all the inherent instincts of adaptation and survival had just charged up to full power. He lost weight and regained it in muscle. He learned how to fight, and from his imagination and what he had gleaned from comic books, he even invented his own style. He developed tactics and built homemade wepaons. The three men: William, his father, and his uncle, survived the chaotic breakout well enough. His uncle was eventually eaten by a zombie and his father died of heat stroke. So William set off across the continent, going from place to place. Just wandering. He forsook the name William, considering it a part of an old life that he knew was now dead, once and for all. He came across the name Azazeal, and he took it for himself. He became Azazeal Forsythe, the hardcore zombie slayer of the apocalypse. He gained a little reputation, but it usually faded once he left an area. He eventually came across the Slavers and by that time, fit right in. He's tough, a fighter, calculative. All brains and brawn. What are the odds? He often gives the leader advice when it's asked for, and is hoping to become the second in command one of these days. He doesn't treat anyone harshly unless ordered to by a superior or unless the person deserves to be punished. It's been some time. Azazeal is now twenty-three years old. Towering at six foot six of heavy duty muscle and a freaking eight pack, he usually scares the crap out of everyone he meets, so there isn't much trouble around him and none really dare pick a fight with him alone. He has black hair, cut very short or even pretty much shaved. He has bright green eyes and an oddly soft yet strong face. He's always wearing military surplus and carrying weapons of some kind.
Foxy
The Slavers
Foxy is a slender, fair girl of nineteen with rich, curly red hair and opalescent blue eyes. She's rather meek and docile, and does anything she's bid. She was brought here a few years ago and doesn't see much of a way out. She has fire in her, but her spirit was broken and that blaze has turned to embers. She pleases the men willingly, to a point. She only does it to avoid being hurt or worse. In her heart of hearts, she'd love to see them all burn in hell, but she plays the good little girl and the whore to keep their attentions off or on her as need be. She is rather skilled in her art of deception. She is also a fabulous healer. Studying the woodland plants and herbs, she can make remedies for many things from what the nature provides. She can also cook and sew and clean, but most manual labor tires her out very quickly. She's not especially strong despite her incredible stamina. She's thin, as said before, and doesn't always take care of herself, a neglect that stems from her depression. She doesn't act depressed, but she is suffering from depression. It's only natural considering the state of the world and her situation. Foxy always had a sweet, loving disposition, and this new world of hate and evil has been cruel to her. She came from a loving family. A loving home. Only to be forced from it, dragged across numerous states, only to be dumped here where men had their way with her day and night before tossing the exhausted girl into arduous work. They called her stupid because she didn't understand much English, having been born in Scotland and only came to America a month before the zombie outbreak. She still talks in a heavy, Scottish accent, and speaks enough English to get by. They called her Foxy. A kinky little name for their newest whore. But when she is alone, she calls herself Cairistine; a name similar to English Christine. But none of the men ever call her that for she never tellsthem. Even if she did, she is "Foxy", and that's what they would keep calling her. She's not particularly sly, but she's so waif-like, quick, and smart, it's hard not to think of her as a fox. She's not particularly good with any sort of weapon save knives, but even those she doesn't wield save little wooden or flimsy metal things for cutting food or cloth. Sometimes she imagines running away. Escaping. But it's a part of that spirit that is broken, and just as quickly as those thoughts come, they leave.
Foxy is a slender, fair girl of nineteen with rich, curly red hair and opalescent blue eyes. She's rather meek and docile, and does anything she's bid. She was brought here a few years ago and doesn't see much of a way out. She has fire in her, but her spirit was broken and that blaze has turned to embers. She pleases the men willingly, to a point. She only does it to avoid being hurt or worse. In her heart of hearts, she'd love to see them all burn in hell, but she plays the good little girl and the whore to keep their attentions off or on her as need be. She is rather skilled in her art of deception. She is also a fabulous healer. Studying the woodland plants and herbs, she can make remedies for many things from what the nature provides. She can also cook and sew and clean, but most manual labor tires her out very quickly. She's not especially strong despite her incredible stamina. She's thin, as said before, and doesn't always take care of herself, a neglect that stems from her depression. She doesn't act depressed, but she is suffering from depression. It's only natural considering the state of the world and her situation. Foxy always had a sweet, loving disposition, and this new world of hate and evil has been cruel to her. She came from a loving family. A loving home. Only to be forced from it, dragged across numerous states, only to be dumped here where men had their way with her day and night before tossing the exhausted girl into arduous work. They called her stupid because she didn't understand much English, having been born in Scotland and only came to America a month before the zombie outbreak. She still talks in a heavy, Scottish accent, and speaks enough English to get by. They called her Foxy. A kinky little name for their newest whore. But when she is alone, she calls herself Cairistine; a name similar to English Christine. But none of the men ever call her that for she never tellsthem. Even if she did, she is "Foxy", and that's what they would keep calling her. She's not particularly sly, but she's so waif-like, quick, and smart, it's hard not to think of her as a fox. She's not particularly good with any sort of weapon save knives, but even those she doesn't wield save little wooden or flimsy metal things for cutting food or cloth. Sometimes she imagines running away. Escaping. But it's a part of that spirit that is broken, and just as quickly as those thoughts come, they leave.
Wrath
Rogue
A godforsaken human being with no name save the cruel title of "Wrath", this individual is a freak that nothing moving should ever cross. A heart turned to stone, eyes dark and dead, he's no better than the mad monsters sweeping the ruins of the world. He kills everything: man, beast, zombie, you name it. If it moves, he renders it mobile no more. He takes pleasure in the kill, the thrill. A psychopath without anyone left to stop him. People are too worried about their impending doom to pause and hunt him down. He's too much trouble to try and catch anywhere. Here one minute, gone the next. He does as he pleases, or as he doesn't. He won't blame his actions on voices in his head or divine intervention. He knows he's evil and that someday he'll pay the price. But ever since the world went to pot, he's just been moseying along, doing his thing, which usually involves hacking, slicing, dicing, and chain-sawing through anything that moves. It's a world with no more rules, restrictions, or people breathing down his neck. He loves it. Everything's free range and he's going hunting. Never concerned with the past or future, he's always sticking to the present. He lives in the moment, because the moment is all he has. If he ever cared for his life before, or even remembers his life before, it's a mystery. Wrath is rather handsome, and a bit scary looking. He has messy, medium length black hair that's always going this way and that. His eyes are dark gray to the point of being black. He has well tanned skin. Despite the layers of muscle on his body, he is uncharacteristically lean and even a bit hollowed, as if he's starving to death. He may as well be. It's rather hard to come by good food in the wild. He wears a black gas mask, black clothing, and often carries random objects around for weapons. Anything he can find that he finds useful. He prefers weapons that don't need to be reloaded or need to be plugged in, recharged, etc. Give him a crowbar or a hammer or an axe. He likes stuff that's reliable even if it is close range. He's a very proficient killer from years of experience, turning everything he touches and even himself, into a weapon.
A godforsaken human being with no name save the cruel title of "Wrath", this individual is a freak that nothing moving should ever cross. A heart turned to stone, eyes dark and dead, he's no better than the mad monsters sweeping the ruins of the world. He kills everything: man, beast, zombie, you name it. If it moves, he renders it mobile no more. He takes pleasure in the kill, the thrill. A psychopath without anyone left to stop him. People are too worried about their impending doom to pause and hunt him down. He's too much trouble to try and catch anywhere. Here one minute, gone the next. He does as he pleases, or as he doesn't. He won't blame his actions on voices in his head or divine intervention. He knows he's evil and that someday he'll pay the price. But ever since the world went to pot, he's just been moseying along, doing his thing, which usually involves hacking, slicing, dicing, and chain-sawing through anything that moves. It's a world with no more rules, restrictions, or people breathing down his neck. He loves it. Everything's free range and he's going hunting. Never concerned with the past or future, he's always sticking to the present. He lives in the moment, because the moment is all he has. If he ever cared for his life before, or even remembers his life before, it's a mystery. Wrath is rather handsome, and a bit scary looking. He has messy, medium length black hair that's always going this way and that. His eyes are dark gray to the point of being black. He has well tanned skin. Despite the layers of muscle on his body, he is uncharacteristically lean and even a bit hollowed, as if he's starving to death. He may as well be. It's rather hard to come by good food in the wild. He wears a black gas mask, black clothing, and often carries random objects around for weapons. Anything he can find that he finds useful. He prefers weapons that don't need to be reloaded or need to be plugged in, recharged, etc. Give him a crowbar or a hammer or an axe. He likes stuff that's reliable even if it is close range. He's a very proficient killer from years of experience, turning everything he touches and even himself, into a weapon.
Samrathe Clegane
Samrathe Clegane
Loner
Reddard Clegane (brother)
Samrathe is just a kid. Barely fifteen, he's been saddled with the duty to guard his baby brother and stay alive. It's harder than it seems. When the whole 'zombie apocalypse' hit, there was no warning. No sirens wailed, no radio messages or TV broadcasts came on. Sure, there had been news of odd sightings and an entire obsession with "zombies" that spread like a virus across the net, but when the world ended, no one had been prepared. How could they be? When it hit, Sam's dad took off running and never came back, leaving Sam alone with his pregnant mother. He had abandoned hope, but his mother hadn't. She brought them out of the fire and on to better places. They learned how to survive together. They hunted, fished, built shelters, fought and ran together. Samrathe found hope in that. He hated his father and would never forgive the man for leaving, but he found hope that he and his mom would be okay. His brother was born, and when Sam held him for the first time, it was an instantaneous bond. He cared for Reddard and guarded him closely. While his mother recovered, he took care of them both. Then when she was better, he focused all his attention on Reddard. He often carried Reddard on his back wherever he went since his mother insisted on carrying the heavier things. He would go off alone sometimes and talk to Reddard, telling his brother about everything he was going to teach him and all the things that the three of them were going to do together. He even fantasized they'd find someplace where zombies couldn't survive and build a home there. Just the three of them. But it all changed one night. Unknowingly, the little group had walked into some unwelcoming territory. A band of men came on motorcycles, wielding shotguns and other weapons Sam had never seen before. They said things... things he didn't like. They made a move at his mother and he tried stopping them. But he was just a kid, only thirteen at the time. They just laughed. He grabbed one of the guns and shot two of the men. One died, the other just got shot through the leg. The group descended on him and beat him within an inch of his life, literally. His mother defended him viscously, best she could, but they overpowered her easily enough. They were bigger, faster, stronger, and not half-starved and exhausted. Then they forced Samrathe to watch as they raped his mother over and over again. Samrathe begged them to stop but they didn't. Obviously. It went on for hours. When they finished, she was dead. They lit the undergrowth on fire, got on their bikes and left. The forest soon became ablaze, and it was all Samrathe could do to crawl over to Reddard, grab him, and run. They barely escaped, and for the next few weeks, they were always in danger and vulnerability. Sam's injuries didn't have time to heal and kept reopening. They came close to starving to death, and it wouldn't be the last time. Zombies seemed to be everywhere. The shadows seemed darker. Samrathe just kept going, fighting the fear and the pain. He hated it. Being so vulnerable. Being so alone. He had Reddard to protect but no one to protect him. He has made Reddard his top priority. He plans to keep moving until he finds somewhere safe. It's been two years, and still no luck. On and on he goes. Where he goes, nobody knows. Someday he'll just drop to the ground and never stand up again. That's the only thing left in store for him. To give up. He's thought about it. He came close to killing himself and his brother more than once, end their suffering. But he's never gone through with it. Perhaps he still has hope. He doesn't know.
Loner
Reddard Clegane (brother)
Samrathe is just a kid. Barely fifteen, he's been saddled with the duty to guard his baby brother and stay alive. It's harder than it seems. When the whole 'zombie apocalypse' hit, there was no warning. No sirens wailed, no radio messages or TV broadcasts came on. Sure, there had been news of odd sightings and an entire obsession with "zombies" that spread like a virus across the net, but when the world ended, no one had been prepared. How could they be? When it hit, Sam's dad took off running and never came back, leaving Sam alone with his pregnant mother. He had abandoned hope, but his mother hadn't. She brought them out of the fire and on to better places. They learned how to survive together. They hunted, fished, built shelters, fought and ran together. Samrathe found hope in that. He hated his father and would never forgive the man for leaving, but he found hope that he and his mom would be okay. His brother was born, and when Sam held him for the first time, it was an instantaneous bond. He cared for Reddard and guarded him closely. While his mother recovered, he took care of them both. Then when she was better, he focused all his attention on Reddard. He often carried Reddard on his back wherever he went since his mother insisted on carrying the heavier things. He would go off alone sometimes and talk to Reddard, telling his brother about everything he was going to teach him and all the things that the three of them were going to do together. He even fantasized they'd find someplace where zombies couldn't survive and build a home there. Just the three of them. But it all changed one night. Unknowingly, the little group had walked into some unwelcoming territory. A band of men came on motorcycles, wielding shotguns and other weapons Sam had never seen before. They said things... things he didn't like. They made a move at his mother and he tried stopping them. But he was just a kid, only thirteen at the time. They just laughed. He grabbed one of the guns and shot two of the men. One died, the other just got shot through the leg. The group descended on him and beat him within an inch of his life, literally. His mother defended him viscously, best she could, but they overpowered her easily enough. They were bigger, faster, stronger, and not half-starved and exhausted. Then they forced Samrathe to watch as they raped his mother over and over again. Samrathe begged them to stop but they didn't. Obviously. It went on for hours. When they finished, she was dead. They lit the undergrowth on fire, got on their bikes and left. The forest soon became ablaze, and it was all Samrathe could do to crawl over to Reddard, grab him, and run. They barely escaped, and for the next few weeks, they were always in danger and vulnerability. Sam's injuries didn't have time to heal and kept reopening. They came close to starving to death, and it wouldn't be the last time. Zombies seemed to be everywhere. The shadows seemed darker. Samrathe just kept going, fighting the fear and the pain. He hated it. Being so vulnerable. Being so alone. He had Reddard to protect but no one to protect him. He has made Reddard his top priority. He plans to keep moving until he finds somewhere safe. It's been two years, and still no luck. On and on he goes. Where he goes, nobody knows. Someday he'll just drop to the ground and never stand up again. That's the only thing left in store for him. To give up. He's thought about it. He came close to killing himself and his brother more than once, end their suffering. But he's never gone through with it. Perhaps he still has hope. He doesn't know.
Reddard Clegane
Reddard Clegane
Loner
Samrathe Clegane (brother)
Reddard, or just Red, is a young boy of about three years old. His mother died when he was one, leaving his older brother to take care of him. He doesn't understand much, being only a little kid yet, but he tries, he really does. He's very sweet and carefree, and the Nasty Things scare him a lot. Sometimes he feels like his brother is mad at him, and this makes him very unhappy. He's generally a shy boy around other people when they chance upon them, having never been around other people except Samrathe. He tries to help out where he can, but his skills are severely limited at this age. He can't hunt, fight, or really defend them, never mind himself. So he does other small things. He thinks seeing the empty towns are fun and adventurous, but his brother is always worried that the Nasty things will come out and attack them.
Loner
Samrathe Clegane (brother)
Reddard, or just Red, is a young boy of about three years old. His mother died when he was one, leaving his older brother to take care of him. He doesn't understand much, being only a little kid yet, but he tries, he really does. He's very sweet and carefree, and the Nasty Things scare him a lot. Sometimes he feels like his brother is mad at him, and this makes him very unhappy. He's generally a shy boy around other people when they chance upon them, having never been around other people except Samrathe. He tries to help out where he can, but his skills are severely limited at this age. He can't hunt, fight, or really defend them, never mind himself. So he does other small things. He thinks seeing the empty towns are fun and adventurous, but his brother is always worried that the Nasty things will come out and attack them.
Zzyzx Rururu
Zzyzx Rururu
Law Town Guard
Zzyzx was born for this life. He just knows it. He's always possessed inherent survival abilities and a higher level of instinct than reason. He can take care of himself and others, which actually makes him quite an efficient guard. He may not look all that strong, but he's proficient with all manner of weapons. He prefers anything that doesn't make a noise. Guns just draw attention. Grenades draw even more. He's a fairly quiet person and prefers fighting quietly. He's a magnificent hunter and scout, and it's well known that he goes off into the outskirts often enough when not on guard duty. He cam to the town about three months after its establishment, and he fits in well enough. He pulls his own weight, does his job, and never disobeys. He knows the place will only run so long as everyone's working together, so he quells any rebellious feelings or spirit that most teens get. He's pretty much over the teen stage anyway, and especially after the whole zombie apocalypse, he's pretty much turned himself into an adult. At eighteen years old, he acts far more mature for his age, and will sometimes take on more adult duties, even leadership ones when the case arises. He's fairly calm in social settings, not particularly shy, just quiet and observant. He gets his point across, he's polite, he says what needs to be said, but otherwise he keeps his mouth shut. Zzyzx could hold his own in a fight if he had to, but he rather keep his mouth shut and not risk saying something that might start a fight. He's lean and appears wimpy as previously stated, but he's strong. He's tall with a willowy build, broad in the shoulders and he has a very strong core, giving him an adept sense of balance. He has dark brown, slightly wavy hair that he keeps cut short. He stays clean shaven, and he has somewhat fair skin despite all the time he spends outside. He has inquisitive, bright brown eyes, the color of almonds. He's almost always got an animal in tow, having an odd knack with them. Usually it's a dog, but sometimes he finds cats. They don't last long. People have to eat, you know. And sometimes dogs and cats are all they got. Zzyzx understands. He doesn't like it, but he understands. He will always go scrounge up a new companion though, and he usually protests them eating his pets, but it's their survival that comes first, and he understands in the end. The longest pet he's had so far is a happy-go-lucky Caanan dog he calls Piper. The two of them go off hunting, and Piper has proved rather valuable, smelling when zombies or other forms of danger are nearby. And Piper knows how to be quiet and sneaky, just like Zzyzx.
Law Town Guard
Zzyzx was born for this life. He just knows it. He's always possessed inherent survival abilities and a higher level of instinct than reason. He can take care of himself and others, which actually makes him quite an efficient guard. He may not look all that strong, but he's proficient with all manner of weapons. He prefers anything that doesn't make a noise. Guns just draw attention. Grenades draw even more. He's a fairly quiet person and prefers fighting quietly. He's a magnificent hunter and scout, and it's well known that he goes off into the outskirts often enough when not on guard duty. He cam to the town about three months after its establishment, and he fits in well enough. He pulls his own weight, does his job, and never disobeys. He knows the place will only run so long as everyone's working together, so he quells any rebellious feelings or spirit that most teens get. He's pretty much over the teen stage anyway, and especially after the whole zombie apocalypse, he's pretty much turned himself into an adult. At eighteen years old, he acts far more mature for his age, and will sometimes take on more adult duties, even leadership ones when the case arises. He's fairly calm in social settings, not particularly shy, just quiet and observant. He gets his point across, he's polite, he says what needs to be said, but otherwise he keeps his mouth shut. Zzyzx could hold his own in a fight if he had to, but he rather keep his mouth shut and not risk saying something that might start a fight. He's lean and appears wimpy as previously stated, but he's strong. He's tall with a willowy build, broad in the shoulders and he has a very strong core, giving him an adept sense of balance. He has dark brown, slightly wavy hair that he keeps cut short. He stays clean shaven, and he has somewhat fair skin despite all the time he spends outside. He has inquisitive, bright brown eyes, the color of almonds. He's almost always got an animal in tow, having an odd knack with them. Usually it's a dog, but sometimes he finds cats. They don't last long. People have to eat, you know. And sometimes dogs and cats are all they got. Zzyzx understands. He doesn't like it, but he understands. He will always go scrounge up a new companion though, and he usually protests them eating his pets, but it's their survival that comes first, and he understands in the end. The longest pet he's had so far is a happy-go-lucky Caanan dog he calls Piper. The two of them go off hunting, and Piper has proved rather valuable, smelling when zombies or other forms of danger are nearby. And Piper knows how to be quiet and sneaky, just like Zzyzx.
Drucilla "Dru" Woodchild
Drucilla "Dru" Woodchild
Law Town Doctor
As the doctor of Law Town, it's Drucilla's job to make sure everyone is healthy and fit for duty. But that's not all she does. She bandages wounds and heals sicknesses with her herbs and medicines sure, but she also cooks, sews, and does her own sort of maintenance around camp. She likes to be in the know of what's going on, and is one of those people who doesn't believe things have been done or are taken care of unless she sees for herself. When not in her little clinic, she's often seen wandering around, checking on things, writing down what she observes in a notebook. She keeps a lot of records; an age old habit of hers. She has a sort of OCD problem. She micromanages a lot of things. Not people though. That would just annoy them. But she's always looking to see how the supplies are stockpiled or if everyone's homes are in good order. She's like a mother hen in a town full of chicks. She isn't particularly annoying or rude, just a bit nosy. She doesn't bother anyone. Drucilla is a bit odd as one can tell. Next to her OCD, she's very optimistic, and usually looks for the silver lining in everything. Mind you, she doesn't run around with a dopey grin on her face, singing about unicorns, but she won't ever get really depressed or feel pity for herself about the whole apocalypse situation. She adapts rather quickly and the zombies were no exception. She knows there's nothing she can do about it and there's no use whining over it, so she plunges on ahead. She keeps herself busy in her clinic or making her rounds. She does her job and does it well, and with a smile on her face. It's not phony, it's real. She's happy that she's alive and that the town is there to help keep her safe. She's happy. And right now, that's all she can ask for. Drucilla is an African American. Originally from Britain, she still has the British accent. She tested out of her basic courses and got into college early. She was in Marquette University for three years, studying to be a nurse when the apocalypse hit. Now nearing her twentieth birthday, she has put what knowledge she gained from those three years to great use. She still reads medical texts if ever she finds them, and when people go on scavenger trips to nearby towns, she always asks them to look for books. A particularly friendly guard, who she had a crush on for a while before he died, brought her the entire Harry Potter series that he found in a library. She often reads them at night by candlelight before she goes to bed. They were always her favorite. She still has her Gryffindor scarf that she bought in Disney World when she was fifteen, and wears it when it gets cold. She is rather pretty, and quite a fine young lady with jet black hair, chocolate eyes, and skin the color of mocha. She's lean and strong, keeping herself on a good diet and moderate exercise. What's the point of being a doctor if you aren't healthy yourself? She likes to wear funky clothes, bright colors and stuff with polka dots or stripes. Just because this is the apocalypse doesn't mean she can't dress the way she wants to. At least she isn't ridiculous about it. Drucilla feels right at home in this world, in this town. She intends to stay as long as she can, and enjoy it while she's at it.
Law Town Doctor
As the doctor of Law Town, it's Drucilla's job to make sure everyone is healthy and fit for duty. But that's not all she does. She bandages wounds and heals sicknesses with her herbs and medicines sure, but she also cooks, sews, and does her own sort of maintenance around camp. She likes to be in the know of what's going on, and is one of those people who doesn't believe things have been done or are taken care of unless she sees for herself. When not in her little clinic, she's often seen wandering around, checking on things, writing down what she observes in a notebook. She keeps a lot of records; an age old habit of hers. She has a sort of OCD problem. She micromanages a lot of things. Not people though. That would just annoy them. But she's always looking to see how the supplies are stockpiled or if everyone's homes are in good order. She's like a mother hen in a town full of chicks. She isn't particularly annoying or rude, just a bit nosy. She doesn't bother anyone. Drucilla is a bit odd as one can tell. Next to her OCD, she's very optimistic, and usually looks for the silver lining in everything. Mind you, she doesn't run around with a dopey grin on her face, singing about unicorns, but she won't ever get really depressed or feel pity for herself about the whole apocalypse situation. She adapts rather quickly and the zombies were no exception. She knows there's nothing she can do about it and there's no use whining over it, so she plunges on ahead. She keeps herself busy in her clinic or making her rounds. She does her job and does it well, and with a smile on her face. It's not phony, it's real. She's happy that she's alive and that the town is there to help keep her safe. She's happy. And right now, that's all she can ask for. Drucilla is an African American. Originally from Britain, she still has the British accent. She tested out of her basic courses and got into college early. She was in Marquette University for three years, studying to be a nurse when the apocalypse hit. Now nearing her twentieth birthday, she has put what knowledge she gained from those three years to great use. She still reads medical texts if ever she finds them, and when people go on scavenger trips to nearby towns, she always asks them to look for books. A particularly friendly guard, who she had a crush on for a while before he died, brought her the entire Harry Potter series that he found in a library. She often reads them at night by candlelight before she goes to bed. They were always her favorite. She still has her Gryffindor scarf that she bought in Disney World when she was fifteen, and wears it when it gets cold. She is rather pretty, and quite a fine young lady with jet black hair, chocolate eyes, and skin the color of mocha. She's lean and strong, keeping herself on a good diet and moderate exercise. What's the point of being a doctor if you aren't healthy yourself? She likes to wear funky clothes, bright colors and stuff with polka dots or stripes. Just because this is the apocalypse doesn't mean she can't dress the way she wants to. At least she isn't ridiculous about it. Drucilla feels right at home in this world, in this town. She intends to stay as long as she can, and enjoy it while she's at it.
Marius Rose
The Survivors
Marius has been on his own pretty much his entire life, and the zombie apocalypse didn't change much of that. He was cut out to be a loner, but he knows it is far better to adapt then remain adamant and die. Hence why he sought out the survivors and joined up with them. Safety in numbers. He knows that now. He feels that one of these days he'll leave. He doesn't feel cut out for the group that much, especially since it's growing, but he doesn't plan on setting out alone. It's not that he's any sort of traitor or that he's disloyal. He would willingly die for any of the survivors. Any single one of them. Even if it means a slow, painful death at the hands of the Walkers. But once he isn't needed, he will leave. It's just a feeling inside that he doesn't think will change. He will go where he's needed, and no further than that. He's a bit of a hard person, not easily swayed or attached to anything. He only seeks to fulfill a purpose and ensure that there are people who can survive in this dangerous new world. It helps him get over the loneliness and the feeling that he doesn't belong anywhere. Perhaps someday he will find peace and a way to settle down, ending the mad race around the world searching for closure. Marius' mother was a vagabond; always on the move and struggling for survival. She raised him herself, taking him with her everywhere. For sixteen years he travelled with her, looking out for her and protecting her. When she passed away, he just kept going as she did, and he feels like he will never stop. Settling in with the survivors (after gaining their trust somewhat), is his desperate attempt at finally breaking the endless cycle. So far it's going well enough, but, as stated before, he feels he'll have to continue on again. Marius is a well built, nineteen year old, young man. He has bright green eyes, tan skin, and spiky, dark brown hair. He's lean and lithe, a machine built for fighting and surviving. He's been well trained to handle wild predators, and zombies are no exception. He's very resourceful and inventive, able to turn pretty much anything into a weapon. He's agile and possesses incredible stamina. In fact, the more tired out and pained he gets, the stronger and more ferocious he becomes. He can eventually run himself into the ground, which isn't the greatest thing to do, but its possible. He has a high level of pain tolerance. Once, he cut off a chunk of his side and threw it at Walkers to distract them while he escaped (not a very big piece of flesh, mind you, but still). He can be very compassionate and considerate, a good listener and not much of a talker. He's practical and very dependable, though he himself is independent. Wether he belongs with the survivors, he doubts it, but he intends to make the best of it while he's there at least.
Marius has been on his own pretty much his entire life, and the zombie apocalypse didn't change much of that. He was cut out to be a loner, but he knows it is far better to adapt then remain adamant and die. Hence why he sought out the survivors and joined up with them. Safety in numbers. He knows that now. He feels that one of these days he'll leave. He doesn't feel cut out for the group that much, especially since it's growing, but he doesn't plan on setting out alone. It's not that he's any sort of traitor or that he's disloyal. He would willingly die for any of the survivors. Any single one of them. Even if it means a slow, painful death at the hands of the Walkers. But once he isn't needed, he will leave. It's just a feeling inside that he doesn't think will change. He will go where he's needed, and no further than that. He's a bit of a hard person, not easily swayed or attached to anything. He only seeks to fulfill a purpose and ensure that there are people who can survive in this dangerous new world. It helps him get over the loneliness and the feeling that he doesn't belong anywhere. Perhaps someday he will find peace and a way to settle down, ending the mad race around the world searching for closure. Marius' mother was a vagabond; always on the move and struggling for survival. She raised him herself, taking him with her everywhere. For sixteen years he travelled with her, looking out for her and protecting her. When she passed away, he just kept going as she did, and he feels like he will never stop. Settling in with the survivors (after gaining their trust somewhat), is his desperate attempt at finally breaking the endless cycle. So far it's going well enough, but, as stated before, he feels he'll have to continue on again. Marius is a well built, nineteen year old, young man. He has bright green eyes, tan skin, and spiky, dark brown hair. He's lean and lithe, a machine built for fighting and surviving. He's been well trained to handle wild predators, and zombies are no exception. He's very resourceful and inventive, able to turn pretty much anything into a weapon. He's agile and possesses incredible stamina. In fact, the more tired out and pained he gets, the stronger and more ferocious he becomes. He can eventually run himself into the ground, which isn't the greatest thing to do, but its possible. He has a high level of pain tolerance. Once, he cut off a chunk of his side and threw it at Walkers to distract them while he escaped (not a very big piece of flesh, mind you, but still). He can be very compassionate and considerate, a good listener and not much of a talker. He's practical and very dependable, though he himself is independent. Wether he belongs with the survivors, he doubts it, but he intends to make the best of it while he's there at least.
Arkadi Arashi
Rogue
There are things that come crawling out of the woodwork. There are things that tap at the windows in the thunderstorms. There are things that go bump in the night. And one of them is Arkadi Arashi. But you need not fear him. You need to forget him. Forget you ever laid eyes on him. Forget you ever thought of him. Just ignore the dark young man in the blood red trench coat standing over your bed. When he says go back to sleep, you better start counting sheep like your life depended on it. Because when Arkadi's around, you know that shit's about to get real. You know that shit's about to go down. Bad stuff doesn't find him. Zombies don't smell him. Zombies don't go looking for him. But he? He finds them.
And when he tells them to go to sleep...
... they don't wake up again.
Ever.
There are things that come crawling out of the woodwork. There are things that tap at the windows in the thunderstorms. There are things that go bump in the night. And one of them is Arkadi Arashi. But you need not fear him. You need to forget him. Forget you ever laid eyes on him. Forget you ever thought of him. Just ignore the dark young man in the blood red trench coat standing over your bed. When he says go back to sleep, you better start counting sheep like your life depended on it. Because when Arkadi's around, you know that shit's about to get real. You know that shit's about to go down. Bad stuff doesn't find him. Zombies don't smell him. Zombies don't go looking for him. But he? He finds them.
And when he tells them to go to sleep...
... they don't wake up again.
Ever.