Twomanybagels
Aim. For. The. Head.
Thought I'd share a rp tryout I did for a prior rp server! Looking back at it, I had to fix some of the grammar but I'd say it's pretty accurate to how I write now? Definitely way less paragraphs tho lmao. You can easily guess the environment they're in but... they're in a zombie apocalypse hehe
Hazel slowly made her way down the stairs, her new fluffy socks softening each tentative step. Clothes of such quality were a luxury given the current status her town was in, but she was ecstatic her dad Lazarus was able to find them. She stopped for a minute to ponder that sentiment a bit. Lazarus wasn’t exactly her dad but what would be the next best descriptor? ‘Step-dad? Family friend? No… Guardian. Yeah...’ she mused to herself.
Satisfied, she continued her descent downstairs, as she groggily realized the kitchen light was on. Hazel straightened up, tensing as she hesitantly crept towards it, ready to run back upstairs to wake up Lazarus. But she didn’t have to. He was apparently the source of this flickering warm glow as he stood over the oven, busy making… something.
Hazel sighed in relief, glad that she wouldn’t have to put any dukes up. She wouldn’t want to fight something so early in the morning. She stepped out from behind the door frame as she stood there, waiting for him to notice her, tapping her right foot patiently.
From where she stood, Hazel could tell he was definitely Lazarus, or as she liked to refer to him: Laz. Unfortunately, he was wearing a particularly stained apron, the cheesy one that Hazel begged him not to get. She rolled her eyes remembering the dumb slogan Laz wrote in attempts to be funny: ‘Bite the Cook’. Not funny. Her eyes wandered down to the messy shoes he wore, dirtied and muddied from the many adventures the pair had gotten themselves into. If one paid closer attention, they could even see the splotches of blood under his worn soles as the man tapped his left foot, deep in what Hazel assumed a day dream.
She looked back up at him as he took off a rubber glove to scratch his hair, once an afro now turned into a bundle of free-form locs. Hazel had only ever seen his true afro in older pictures, where Laz was younger and his skin hadn’t turned the gross shade of vomit green it was now. Even then, she could still tell he had the same carefree, fun-seeking personality he had now. Not from his face —which was usually plastered in a scowl behind the grainy filter of the film— but from what he was doing in those photos: fishing, rock climbing, and that one where he had on a ridiculously bright outfit.
Hazel couldn’t help but smile as she remembered Laz explaining that photo, obviously flustered at the time by his taste in fashion. But as quickly as the smile came, it dropped at a sudden thought that had rudely intruded the happy memory. She subconsciously tapped her foot faster, now matching the pace of her father figure before her. Her face dropped a little as the thought echoed in her brain: ‘She’d never get to do those things herself’.
She’d never get to fish, do extreme sports, or have fun shopping sprees with friends. They couldn’t in the current environment, where zombies lurk at every corner. For every happy memory Hazel could recall in recent times, they were always interrupted by one or two zombies, creeping their way into the scene. It happened so frequently that when one did want to settle down and breathe for a minute, there was always a sneaking suspicion that there was a crawling abomination nearby, waiting for you to drop your guard for the last time.
Laz mumbled something to himself, yawning a little as he put his glove back on and flexed his fingers. Hazel looked back up as he did this, her depressing trance broken by such a mundane action. She sighed, shaking her head as if trying to rid the nasty doubts from herself; as if they were on her physically, like bugs clinging on for dear life.
It was here that Laz somehow clocked her presence, quickly turning around with his fists balled, ready to swing. In one hand, he held a greasy spatula, ready to use the cooking utensil as an improvised weapon. Upon seeing his ‘daughter’ he relaxed, lowering his shoulders. Hazel could read it all on his face: the creases on his forehead softening in embarrassment, the lines around his eyes becoming less dark, even if they were perpetually tired. His mouth was most telling of all, as it curved back up in his signature smile, unmasking his dimples that hung around his cheeks.
“Oh Haz… you know better than to sneak up on me like that.” He sighed, smiling a bit brighter. “Come closer! I think this breakfast pizza is almost ready...”
Hazel slowly made her way down the stairs, her new fluffy socks softening each tentative step. Clothes of such quality were a luxury given the current status her town was in, but she was ecstatic her dad Lazarus was able to find them. She stopped for a minute to ponder that sentiment a bit. Lazarus wasn’t exactly her dad but what would be the next best descriptor? ‘Step-dad? Family friend? No… Guardian. Yeah...’ she mused to herself.
Satisfied, she continued her descent downstairs, as she groggily realized the kitchen light was on. Hazel straightened up, tensing as she hesitantly crept towards it, ready to run back upstairs to wake up Lazarus. But she didn’t have to. He was apparently the source of this flickering warm glow as he stood over the oven, busy making… something.
Hazel sighed in relief, glad that she wouldn’t have to put any dukes up. She wouldn’t want to fight something so early in the morning. She stepped out from behind the door frame as she stood there, waiting for him to notice her, tapping her right foot patiently.
From where she stood, Hazel could tell he was definitely Lazarus, or as she liked to refer to him: Laz. Unfortunately, he was wearing a particularly stained apron, the cheesy one that Hazel begged him not to get. She rolled her eyes remembering the dumb slogan Laz wrote in attempts to be funny: ‘Bite the Cook’. Not funny. Her eyes wandered down to the messy shoes he wore, dirtied and muddied from the many adventures the pair had gotten themselves into. If one paid closer attention, they could even see the splotches of blood under his worn soles as the man tapped his left foot, deep in what Hazel assumed a day dream.
She looked back up at him as he took off a rubber glove to scratch his hair, once an afro now turned into a bundle of free-form locs. Hazel had only ever seen his true afro in older pictures, where Laz was younger and his skin hadn’t turned the gross shade of vomit green it was now. Even then, she could still tell he had the same carefree, fun-seeking personality he had now. Not from his face —which was usually plastered in a scowl behind the grainy filter of the film— but from what he was doing in those photos: fishing, rock climbing, and that one where he had on a ridiculously bright outfit.
Hazel couldn’t help but smile as she remembered Laz explaining that photo, obviously flustered at the time by his taste in fashion. But as quickly as the smile came, it dropped at a sudden thought that had rudely intruded the happy memory. She subconsciously tapped her foot faster, now matching the pace of her father figure before her. Her face dropped a little as the thought echoed in her brain: ‘She’d never get to do those things herself’.
She’d never get to fish, do extreme sports, or have fun shopping sprees with friends. They couldn’t in the current environment, where zombies lurk at every corner. For every happy memory Hazel could recall in recent times, they were always interrupted by one or two zombies, creeping their way into the scene. It happened so frequently that when one did want to settle down and breathe for a minute, there was always a sneaking suspicion that there was a crawling abomination nearby, waiting for you to drop your guard for the last time.
Laz mumbled something to himself, yawning a little as he put his glove back on and flexed his fingers. Hazel looked back up as he did this, her depressing trance broken by such a mundane action. She sighed, shaking her head as if trying to rid the nasty doubts from herself; as if they were on her physically, like bugs clinging on for dear life.
It was here that Laz somehow clocked her presence, quickly turning around with his fists balled, ready to swing. In one hand, he held a greasy spatula, ready to use the cooking utensil as an improvised weapon. Upon seeing his ‘daughter’ he relaxed, lowering his shoulders. Hazel could read it all on his face: the creases on his forehead softening in embarrassment, the lines around his eyes becoming less dark, even if they were perpetually tired. His mouth was most telling of all, as it curved back up in his signature smile, unmasking his dimples that hung around his cheeks.
“Oh Haz… you know better than to sneak up on me like that.” He sighed, smiling a bit brighter. “Come closer! I think this breakfast pizza is almost ready...”
