Realistic or Modern ; 𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗘 𝗪𝗛𝗢 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗗 𝗢𝗡 𝗖𝗦

[pomme]

THOSE WHO
CARRIED ON

CHARACTER SHEETS DUE SEPTEMBER 15

NAME:
NICKNAME/ALIAS:
AGE: (Ideally 18-40: if you plan on your character having seen life before the Funeral, keep in mind it began around 20 years ago.)
GENDER:
SEXUALITY:
DOB:

HEIGHT:
WEIGHT:
BUILD:
NATIONALITY:
HAIR:
EYES:
BLOOD TYPE:
FACECLAIM:

VIRTUES (+3):
VICES (+5):
LIKES (+5):
DISLIKES (+5):
INVENTORY: (While characters can have weapons, they likely wouldn't have any guns or powerful weapons. Functioning modern tech like phones are almost extinct.)
PROFICIENCIES (+3): (What are they good at?)
DEFICIENCIES (+3): (What are they bad at?)
FEARS:

BACKSTORY: (Preferably 3-4 paragraphs. If you have any questions about what will work for the setting vs. what won't, shoot me a message!)
NOTABLE RELATIONSHIPS: (Keep in mind that it's extremely unlikely for any of the characters to have a consist cast of family or friends. PC relationships can be worked out after the cast is chosen.)
​

ROLES

THE APPARITION

The apparition is nothing more than a ghost to any who may have come across her. Of course, in these days, nobody is particularly present, but there’s something special about her. Maybe it’s the way her hand always seems to be hovering above a weapon, or the way she seems to never make eye contact. Either way, she’ll be gone before anyone can find out.

THE FIREFLY

Caution now is just as necessary as a strong will, but the Firefly was never one for such trivial things. He was playful from the start, finding solace in meaningless encounters with others like him. Some might say it’s a miracle he’s survived this long, but the only thing stronger than his passion are the ghosts of his past.

THE HERMIT

For the hermit, chance is poisonous. For years, she’s watched from 100 yards away, hidden behind a thick pane of glass and untouchable. But as survivors have run thinner and thinner, her ivory tower turned hellish and she was forced to leave, searching for others with nothing but a steady sense of intuition and hearty serving of grit.

THE TORN

Although the torn may not have fallen to the illness, what he’s done to avoid it is comparable. His secrets stick to him like the bloodstains on his clothes, and it seems inevitable that his footsteps are followed by bloodshed. What he lacks in sanctity he covers threefold in weaponry, but an arsenal may not be enough to save him.

THE RAVEN

She’s a dangerous mix of wine and charm, and it seems like she won’t stop for anything. Get too close to her, and she’ll bite — but not for the reason one would think. This girl is no dumb blonde, but she’s not exactly a femme fatale either. She may be the only one with clean hands, and it seems she’s not quite ready to dirty them.

THE GOLDEN

He’s in the middle of his golden years, if that can be said for anyone during the Funeral. Anyone that met him would think he’s never been touched by tragedy, but, as with anyone who seems anything more than ‘fine’, the Golden Boy is only as golden as his vices.

THE JUDGE

The Judge is no stranger to groups, and she most certainly knows her place in one. She never fails to snap to the position of authority, almost painfully so. Regardless, that doesn't mean her ideas are the best, and her idea of justice is crueler than most.

 

[pomme]

Romi

Rosa-

linde

B A S I C S

NAME: Romi Rosalinde
NICKNAME/ALIAS: Went by Rosie for a time, though she hasn't heard it since leaving Rubyland.
AGE: 27
GENDER: Cisgender Female
SEXUALITY: Heterosexual
DOB: November 12th
THEME: TRRST - IC3PEAK

A P P E A R A N C E

HEIGHT: 5'7
WEIGHT: 115 lbs
BUILD: Lanky, with long legs and arms. Years of likely malnutrition made her spindly and gaunt, her cheeks beginning to hollow and knuckles bony.
NATIONALITY: Brazilian, though she's come to accept she'll likely never leave Philadelphia.
HAIR: Deep espresso, falling just past her shoulders in heavy, messy waves. Perfect to run restless fingers through, and somewhat clean from occasional soap, it usually hangs plainly or is pinned up in a ponytail with a stretch of dirty string.
EYES: Seafoam green with dark rings, almost always lingering comfortably on the ground.
BLOOD TYPE: O+
FACECLAIM: Mariana Beltrame

P E R S O N A

Romi is a plain pebble fashioned into a gem, a mirror that doesn't reflect reality quite right. Peer hard enough and one might notice the lack of sincerity in her gaze — if they can bring their eyes off her flashing smiles and forget her honeyed words. Paranoia and apathy fuel her like a heartbeat, each aspect of her personality one built by the cruel world that keeps her. Everything human was paralyzed in her long ago, replaced with the hollow charm she injects to mask all the ways in which the world let her down.

VIRTUES: Confident, intuitive, charismatic, sly

VICES: Cowardly, killjoy, painfully independent, apathetic, sadistic

LIKES: Not having to wear her torn coat, the familiar sound of creaking floorboards, unbroken glass, a wall behind her back, corners, music boxes, being able to wash her hair when she finds a sliver of soap.

DISLIKES: The way the summer heat amplifies itself off The Hill's wreckage, foggy windows, the stretches of time when nobody would walk by her building, the occasional flash of a memory from before, conversations longer than 30 seconds, having nothing but her thoughts.

INVENTORY:
Everything Romi owns is tucked into a beaten knapsack with splitting strings, the white logo emblazoned on the back barely visible.
• A rough shiv functioned out of a can's top
• A small, cracked phone that won't turn on
• Sets of cables fashioned into a rough rope
• Three sewing needles and ratty string
• Silver, almost-used Duct Tape
• Two half-bars of soap covered in dust and grime, wrapped in dirty cloths
• A flowery pink dress, torn at the waist and covered in old bloodstains turned brown
• 3 packs of disposable silverware
• A set of dirty pages torn out from a science textbook
• Miniature umbrella, the same logo from her knapsack slightly more visible
• A sweater torn at the seams to function as a blanket
• Three rolls of bandages, all stained from multiple uses

PROFICIENCIES:
Stealth: Especially in The Hills, Romi is one to know her way around each stretch of dark alleyway and narrow nook. She functions much more comfortably in the shadows, and her quick footfalls are near always silent.
Nimble Fingers: Give Romi a tool and she'll figure out how to use it in a matter of minutes. Her fingers play machinery like harps, her muscles quick to lock down any patterns or repetitions needed.
Distraction: When faced with panic, Romi's first choice is never to engage with someone head on. Whether it be planned or an adrenaline fueled Hail Mary, Romi is quick to distract and even quicker to escape.
Scavenging: Romi has a particularly keen eye for hidden stashes and buildings that haven't been completely raided. From The Hills to the outskirts of the city, she's always had a penchant for knowing where and where not to go.

DEFICIENCIES:
Close-Range Combat: Between her years mostly alone and time in Rubyland, where manipulation stands king, Romi never had half the experience in true combat other survivors would have. It's essentially her last choice, no matter the situation, and when she does engage in combat, it's unlikely she'll emerge any form of victorious.
Hunting: As with combat, hunting is something Romi holds little experience in. Her stealth does little to help when she's hopeless in terms of killing, making her dependent on sources of packaged food like old wreckage and unraided stashes.
Connections: With the exception of her parents, Romi's life consisted of stoic solitude up until a few years ago. The bare, minimal interactions she had with others were completely meaningless, an mutual benefit just barely masked as a conversation. The idea of sincerity is one that disappeared with her parents, leaving her struggling to even imagine what a real, consistent relationship would look like.

FEARS: Romi's life is a tale of missed opportunities, things fallen between the seams of chaos and peace. Throughout the years, she's compressed life into a static block of black and white. Her only objective, only goal is avoiding death — and if anything, that's what scares Romi.
Otherwise, running into her old Rubyland contacts or being forced to return.

B I O

Dying is an art, just like everything else.

Romi Rosalinde, child born into glass castles and invisible gold. Newborn yet richer than most would ever dream to be. Oh, what a lovely dream.

When she was seven, the shrills screams of an alarm clock went off, and Romi woke up. Her glass castle, her invisible gold, everything set aside for her cast far away and replaced with dark nights and ashes clinging to her frilly summer dress. How, exactly, does one encapsulate the loss of everything in the space between moments? Perhaps she was lucky. She had parents, a corporation all in her name when the blooming chaos fell away like a morning tide. The starvation, hurting — no, that was just waiting. Yet soon, screams felt the same in her ears as the buzzing of cicadas or croaking of frogs.

But there was a haven, a small sliver of peace and solitude resting on the top floor of one of the only standing skyscrapers in The Hills. Artemisia Technology, the ghost that once was supposed to be Romi's legacy. She had learned, grown into the grit she needed. The starvation was a reality, as was the hurting, and when Romi's parents one day vanished and never returned, it resounded in her only as an empty growl of the stomach. But Artemisia was heaven. The top floor, sealed off behind keypads and locks, was a stockpile of cables and files belonging to souls long gone, but most importantly dried food. The remnants of what could've been her own stung with each breath, but the feeling of water and food in her stomach was ecstasy.

Time, in its fickle secrecy, was molasses as Romi spent her days staring down at passerby's, the luxurious sensation of fullness quickly turning stale in her gut. Weeks were defined by hushed traipses down to the streets, "Missing" flyers drawn in dried-out pens crunching under her heels wherever she went. Each interaction she had was panacea, yet gutting in its emptiness, each glimpse into a passing life only reflecting a warped version of her own.

It seemed everything in Romi's life was finite: her luck, the time she would steal away next to her parents on cold nights, and finally her food. Artemisia was once her legacy, then her salvation, and after it all, nothing but an echoing memory, an imagination of what things could've once been. As she stumbled out onto the streets, her eyes bleedingly hollow, Romi knew that her existence, in all its unguaranteed glory, was an exchange of dignity for another day.

She would have to be fine with that.

For the next years, she was a ghost, a flicker of a shadow, a hand reaching into a pocket before both it and whatever was in there vanished. The only thoughts she had time to entertain were those of pure survival, and the shining woe of Rubyland was the only thing that could provide for her. She quickly learned to discard herself, disassembling and compartmentalizing until the blood on her hands felt comforting in its warmth. She'd sentenced others to death with a single grab, taking everything and anything for her own to have another day of a monochromatic life. Even fleeing from those she once depended on within Rubyland's invisible walls gave her no solace, flickers of gaunt faces and the feeling of blood under her fingernails chasing her like a hellhound.

Romi Rosalinde lives a slow death, nothing more, nothing less.

NOTABLE RELATIONSHIPS:
Elizabeth Rosalinde | Mother | Deceased
Nathaniel Rosalinde | Father | Deceased
Blaise | Alive • Blaise was the first person to get close to Romi when she first arrived on the Rubyland scene. She served as a sort of handler, offering Romi bounties on certain things and giving her better treatment in exchange for personal favors. A manipulative bastard with the eyes of a vulture.
Jericho | Alive • Romi met Jericho shortly after she met Blaise. He was always an enigma, but as more time passed and the trust between Romi and Blaise grew, she came to learn that Jericho served as a sort of assistant. Even more manipulative, just subtler and more quiet. Taller than anyone should be, in Romi's opinion.

 

[timshel]

About

NAME: Silas Adrian Vail.

NICKNAME/ALIAS: Once went by ‘Shy Guy Si' - a pet name from people long dead.

AGE: 31.

GENDER: Cisgender male.

SEXUALITY: Bisexual. Somewhere low on the asexual spectrum.

DOB: January 31st (an Aquarius).

THEME SONGS: Back Pack by Andrew Jackson Jihad, Zains, Cam4, Wah Wah and Sirens by Crywank.

Physical

HEIGHT: 6’1”.

WEIGHT: About 165 pounds.

BUILD: Slim and trim from rationing food and going days without meals, but not excessively muscular, either. Has a hard body, but you could see his ribs if he stretched.

NATIONALITY: American. Vaguely some kind of Anglo (as if it even matters these days).

HAIR: A mid toned brown, with warmer, coppery undertones. It's only somewhat straight, with just the slightest hint of a wave, and is usually somewhat unkempt. He doesn't keep totally clean-shaven, often sporting some degree of stubble.

EYES: Pale blue. Worn out and tired, often rimmed by dark circles.

BLOOD TYPE: AB.

FACECLAIM: Robert Pattinson.

Persona & inventory

At this point, there isn't much room for warmth. Even if he's aware that he's but a shell of his former lighter, less serious, happier self, and it bothers him, it isn't important enough to make an attempt to change it; his interactions with other survivors are so limited now that it hardly matters. Silas's only goal has become to make it through the day with as few disturbances as possible.

VIRTUES: Independent, creative, excellent problem-solver, observant. He's got a sharp intellect and sharper eyes.

VICES: Somewhat enigmatic, aloof, excessively paranoid, withdrawn. He doesn't want people to get close.

LIKES: Beaches and the ocean, birdwatching, calm, quiet evenings by a campfire, the occasional cigar, fresh produce, a hot, home-cooked meal.

DISLIKES: Any and all strangers, hard liquor, being drunk, last-minute plans, darkness and nighttime, his insomnia, nostalgia, thinking of the past, himself and his mind.

INVENTORY:

Basics: reusable cutlery, a collapsable tent, an extra coat, a flashlight, and several cans of food in a worn hiking backpack.​

​

An ancient passport, weathered and worn soft over time. A relic of a time long gone. The boy in the photo looks frightened.​

​

A compass. The glass is cracked, but it seems to do the job fine regardless.​

​

Several maps of the area. Each one is annotated with different colored pens signifying different things.​

​

A crossbow and quiver of arrows. Even if they are reusable, most of them desperately need to be replaced.​

​

A deck of cards held together by a rubber band. (He’s a Solitaire expert at this point.)​

​

Plain black cloth face mask. Even after all this time, it’s held up miraculously well. He takes excellent care of it.​

​

A silver revolver with four rounds left. For emergencies (or threats) only.​

​

A crowbar, kinked in some places, rusting in others.​

PROFICIENCIES:
Hunting.

Swearing off allegiance to all other people resulted in him becoming self-sufficient, and he's become quite good at hunting wild game as the years have gone on. Silas first learned how to set traps, snares, and fishing nets, but the crossbow was a lucky find that meant he could graduate to larger animals. It's also allowed him to always have something someone else wants in a trade.​

Tracking.

This skill was naturally born out of hunting, but he's found it to be widely-applicable: finding out if larger, more dangerous animals or other people are nearby (and haven't given their location away by setting a campfire), for example. It's a meticulous skill few people have and even fewer have mastered.​

Navigation.

Due to all the time he's spent hunting outdoors, Silas has come to know the area surrounding this city like the back of his hand. He's grown proficient at reading maps and can easily interpret most that he comes across well enough to find his way even in unfamiliar places.​

DEFICIENCIES:
Mental illness.

Silas has psychosis—perhaps due to a family history, perhaps a direct result of the countless traumatic events he bore witness to as a child. (More likely the latter.)​

Most of the time, his symptoms are quite low-level: auditory hallucinations are infrequent enough for him to easily distinguish them as separate from reality. However, he can become much more symptomatic during, after, or in anticipation of exceptionally stressful or triggering situations; natural anxiety or paranoia one might have begin to feed into a delusion, which then quickly turns into a vicious cycle that can sometimes develop into a full-blown psychotic episode.​

Even if it isn’t always completely debilitating, it does impact his day-to-day thoughts and actions to some extent.​

Verbal communication.

The way Silas's mind works makes perfect sense to him—and him only. A psychologist might call his thought process disordered at times. It often moves faster than he can articulate aloud, which to others, sounds like he’s rapidly switching topics and explaining his thoughts poorly. It's obviously frustrating for the people he's trying to speak to, but even more so for Silas.​

Independence.

Although being self-sufficient and self-reliant in these times is no doubt an asset, Silas would sooner starve, bleed, or be at the mercy of his own mind before seeking out help in any way, like a cornered animal. Even if he's been right in the past to be extremely distrustful of others, his view of other people still remains incredibly and unyieldingly pessimistic.​

FEARS: Never recovering from a psychotic episode, contracting the illness, the unlikely chance of crossing paths with someone he's wronged in the past.

history & relationships

Contains excessive mentions of violence, death, and mental illness.

This world is already a scary enough place.

There's very little about what things used to be like that Silas can remember now; he was only eleven years old when the Funeral arrived, in all its horrifying suddenness and sweeping finality. He can't recall any of those few, shining, innocent years he had with his family. What he can recall with total clarity, even decades later, is total annihilation of everything stable in his life.

Watching helplessly, paralyzed with fear, knowing certain death awaited if he tried to intervene, as his father beat his mother to death on the very airstrip that was supposed to be their family's salvation. Coming back to the carnage of a murder-suicide that claimed his uncle and younger sister and desperately trying to piece it together, all while avoiding contagion. Running for his life from a new father figure, the head of a kind, sympathetic family turned destructive after an encounter with a contagious stranger.

The mind is a powerful entity, isn't it?

What this all taught him is that he was the only person he could rely on. Silas became fiercely independent by the time he turned twenty—not out of some natural predisposition, but out of sheer terror. It wasn't a matter of if this new survivor would turn on him, or fall ill; it was a matter of when. Once the realization hit him, every figure on the horizon became an enemy, and his only goal became putting as much distance between himself and whoever that may be as possible.

He couldn't quite pinpoint when the hallucinations and delusions started even if he wanted to. But at some point, natural suspicion or paranoia turned into literal delusions, and never quite went back again. Silas can't go anywhere, even alone, without glancing over his shoulder every so often, because there just may be someone following him. Unfamiliar voices echoing off abandoned building walls haunt him, keeping him awake at night, too scared to rest for long, because what if they are actually real? Is finding out if they are real worth the risk?

It gets a lot scarier when your mind is an adversary.

People terrify him. When his mental state deteriorates enough, everything terrifies him, to some degree. The dead weight of a gun in his hands gives him a kind of power, and some feeling of safety and security as a result, that he's found nothing else can provide. And even if Silas knows he isn't going to pull that trigger right now, he knows he can, and he's done it before.


RELATIONSHIPS
The Vails originally hailed from the greater Silicon Valley area in Northern California. Successful businesspeople in the web technology industry, they enjoyed a relatively relaxed, upper-middle class life until the Funeral.

Jakob Vail — father, deceased​

Felix Vail — uncle, deceased​

Juliet Vail — mother, deceased​

Harper Vail — younger sister, deceased​

Silas encountered the Campbells as a young teenager shortly after he was orphaned a couple of years after the Funeral. A deeply religious family from the Salt Lake City area, they graciously took him in like a son when they heard his story.

Mark Campbell — father figure, fate unknown​

Sarah Campbell — mother figure, deceased​

Ruth Campbell — older sister figure, deceased​

Andrew Campbell — older brother figure, fate unknown​

Stephen Campbell — younger brother figure, deceased​

​

Reeling from the aftermath of his time with the Campbells, he has since traveled alone.

the
torn

coded by weldherwings.

 

[low fidelity]

EVE GUERRERO.

• BASIC INFORMATION xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
• BACKSTORY xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
• COMBAT DATA xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
• EXTRA xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

• 01
  name

  Evelín Guerrero.

  nickname

  Known as Eve.

  age

  Twenty-six years old.

  gender

  Cis female.

  sexuality

  Bisexual.

  Date of Birth

  October 30th, 2013.

  role

  The Judge.

  ❝ People like us, we play with a heavy balloon. We keep it up to keep the devil at bay, but it always falls way too soon. ❞

  — appearance.

  
  At first glance, Eve could be considered "not much to look at." Standing at 5'6", barely 130 pounds, she's got a thin, lithe build. All thin, ropy muscles and long limbs, someone who could've ran track in high school in another life. Eve has never been able to put on much weight, what with the lack of proper nutritional food almost her entire life, and that can be seen in her clothes hanger collarbone, bony elbows, and knobbly knees.
  
  Eve is Latina, as her father was Colombian and her mother was Mexican. However, she was born in America. Her hair is dark brown, with some natural toffee highlights from many days spent in the sun. She usually never lets it grow past her shoulders, and it's usually tied back into a severe ponytail. Her eyes are dark brown, even in the light, and often accompanied by thumbprint under eye bags.
  
  Eve's blood type is O negative, making her a universal donor.
  
  Her face claim is Lindsey Morgan.
• 02
  — PERSONA.

  
  Eve's virtues are outweighed by her vices, though that is a fact she could never admit. Nonetheless, Eve is a natural born leader, raised under her father's wing as his right hand man for the Guerrero Compound. Not only that, but the girl is pragmatic, choosing to analyze the reality of a situation instead of letting optimism and hopefulness obscure her view. Above all, Eve is principled; she has a strong, severe sense of justice. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. In her world, survival means dog eat dog, and she will not be eaten.
  
  Eve's vices go hand in hand with her virtues. From her times of being in positions of authority, the girl can be arrogant and a bit cocky. Because of her pragmatism, she is paranoid and pessimistic, always planning and analyzing and worrying about not only her own survival, but the survival of whatever group she is leading. She's rather distrustful as well; for a long, long time, it was simply Eve and her father against the world. Now, she is alone, and she feels she can only rely on herself and her instincts. Many folks have made note of Eve's rather cruel nature; she has always had strong, righteous morals, a concrete belief in the way things should be done, how punishments should be doled out. Eve can also be a bit manipulative. She knows what she wants, when she wants it, and how she wants it done. If other people can help assist and achieve her goals, even better.
  
  Eve likes cold weather, any kind of music, a warm meal, the smell after it rains, driving cars (she's only had the luck twice in her life, but it made her feel such a yearning need to escape her life, a sense of freedom she'd never had), and sweets.
  
  Eve dislikes travelling solo, hard labor, bugs, rabbit stew, and loud, brash people.
  
  

  
  

  
  

  — & MORE.

  
  Eve's inventory is as such:
  - One canvas backpack containing a canteen half-full of water, a small spiral notebook and old pen, a very basic first-aid kit only containing some gauze and bandaids, a zippo lighter, three cans of food, a large hunting knife, six 12 gauge shotgun shells and four .380 caliber bullets (but no guns), an extra shirt and jeans, and one very old, very worn photo of a large family huddled together with wide smiles and party hats. Hanging off the side of her pack is a rusted axe with a worn wooden handle.
  - Two bandannas, mainly used as a makeshift face mask. She switches between the two.
  - A switchblade, usually kept on her belt.
  - A map of the area that was once meant for tourists, but has been scribbled on and annotated over time to provide more detail.
  
  Over the years, Eve has learned her assortment of proficiencies through hard work and dedication. Eve knows her way around guns, big and small, how to disassemble them, clean them, care for them properly, and is one hell of a shot. Her military father had to make sure she knew how to protect herself, and while she knows some close range combat, guns were much better for maintaining range between any infected individuals. Eve has a silver tongue as well; leadership means knowing how to talk to people, how to really get people to agree with you, sometimes even like you. Eve is also bilingual, speaking English and Spanish fluently.
  
  Despite being the golden child in her father's eyes for so many years, Eve has plenty of deficiencies as well. For starters, Eve is a weak fighter; sure, she knows how to fight, but you could throw the girl around like a sack of potatoes, she's so light. Eve is more adept with marksmanship, or flat out running, and lacks muscle and strength. Eve's got some subpar reading and writing skills. The Funeral arrived when she was barely seven years old, and survival outweighed the needs to properly continue teaching her to read and write. Eve can read and write, that's for certain, but she has much more difficulty with it than one would think. Her most debilitating deficiency is her C-PTSD. Complex PTSD is a bit different than PTSD due to the fact that the traumatic events causing the disorder are still happening. It was not one traumatic event in her past, not too, but a prolonged traumatic experience and multiple, multiple events that she has lived throughout her entire life. Eve has seen such mindless, animalistic violence in her life, more times than she can count. She's lucky to be alive, but the wounds linger, always fresh.
  
  Eve is scared of drowning (she cannot swim), loud noises, and succumbing to the illness. Her biggest fear of all was losing her father, and now that he's dead, Eve has almost forgotten how to function.
• 03
  ❝ Evil is a relay sport when the one who's burnt turns to pass the torch. ❞

  — EARLY CHILDHOOD.

  
  Eve does not remember much from her childhood before The Funeral. There's flickers of memories here and there, revealed to her by her subconscious sporadically throughout her life. She remembers soft sheets and fluffy pillows, being squished between the sleeping bodies of her father and mother, during a thunderstorm. The dark clouds had rolled in quickly after bedtime, and from the cracked window of their bedroom, Eve could smell the rain. She remembers so many loud places, but no concrete details. Her mother's face is blurred in her memory, only preserved by a faded photograph.
  
  The Funeral arrived harshly, suddenly. During a hot summer afternoon, an afternoon where you could only open the windows and turn on the fans and hope for a breeze, Eve tottered over to the window and watched the world underneath descend into chaos. Car accidents, guttural screams like dying animals, sirens, violence. The sounds of violence rushed upwards, as if sensing Eve's presence, and soon it was outside her door. Her mother had caught it while coming back from the bodega on the corner. Her and the neighbor, a sweet older woman who brought them pastries, killed each other in the hallway. The screams were frenzied, frantic. Flesh was torn, blood pooled and spattered the linoleum, and Lazaro gathered up his children and ran.
  
  

  — TEENAGE YEARS.

  
  New York City was a god damn war zone. When The Funeral came, it was in one fell swoop, leaving most, of not all, of the hugely populated city in utter chaos and desolation. Lazaro was lucky to escape with his children, considered every day that their survival continued a small miracle. Lazaro Guerreo was a man who lived up to his name, a former soldier of the Mexican Armed Forces, trained in combat and weaponry, a one-man army. The early years were harsh. Eve was raised under his watchful eye, a paranoid man who would stop at nothing to protect his children. They moved around as much as they could, avoiding populated areas, getting the fuck out of the Bronx as safely as possible. Their days felt numbered. People came and went, small groups of folks desperate for any fleeting sense of companionship, but survival was brutal and nigh impossible. Eve and her father traveled, sometimes even in circles, just to keep themselves moving and breathing, too skittish to stop in one place for too long. Too many risky encounters were had, one even resulting in their separation from Brandon, already a young man by that point. Eve could not bring herself to cry for her big brother's disappearance. Whether he was alive or dead was out of the question: being gone was nearly the same as being dead.
  
  "You're so lucky to still have your father," Many would comment to Eve. And it was true; survivors of the Funeral had truly lost everything. Their daughters, their sons, their fathers and mothers, any friends they had in life. She felt a pang of pity at their truthful words, but their survival was no feat of luck or divine interference. Lazaro did horrible things to keep his daughter alive, fought and scrapped and killed for food in Rubyland, endangered himself and others for supplies with the fleeting hope that they could continue on. Eve was not coddled, however. As soon as she could steadily hold a gun, Lazaro taught her as much as he could in the calmer hours of the day.
  
  "Never aim your gun without purpose. If you're aiming at a person, shoot to kill, know that you are about to destroy someone. Don't hesitate." Her father said as he instructed her how to properly aim a firearm, how to position her hands and aim down its sights. The metal was cool against her clammy hands, and there was a look in her father's eyes that was so tired, so heartbroken at the fact that one day, his daughter would have to kill to survive.
  
  

  — EARLY ADULTHOOD & CURRENTLY.

  
  "¿Sabes lo que significa Guerrero? Warrior. Soldier. Fighter. We were destined to survive."
  
  By eighteen years old, Eve was tired. Surviving was not living, but she could not complain. In the decade that had passed, she watched her father age so quickly. One gray hair turned to ten, ten turned to twenty, and soon his hair was more gray than black. As she entered adulthood, it was always Eve and her father versus the world, nothing would come before him. He was her protector, her savior, he had done unspeakable things for their survival. By then, Eve was old enough to reciprocate the favor. She took care of her father as much as he took care of her. Even in his older age, Lazaro was insistent upon productivity, efficiency. Their lifetime of travelling and moving and running was not sustainable, not anymore. He knew they needed to hunker down and find somewhere safe.
  
  Safety was found in one of the most unlikely places imaginable. They trekked through what once was Trenton, New Jersey, a town wiped off the map in the aftermath of the Funeral. Some of the buildings and homes were left untouched, but what Lazaro found most interesting was the New Jersey State Prison within the city limits. The prison had seen better days, and what they had come to find out was that everybody inside was already dead. That was what chilled Eve to the bone, when she thought about the sickness. If you don't kill somebody, you'll end up killing yourself. What a horrible end. Their ragtag group of people made busy work of that prison, determined to build a home.
  
  It was a smart idea. For the most part, the multiple chain link fences were intact, only needing repairs here and there. There were guards towers to keep watch through day and night. The most laborious task of all was cleaning out the bodies. Outside of the prison's brown brick walls, one could see the mass graves where they buried anybody who hadn't decomposed too much yet. It seemed they weren't the first ones to have the idea. Cleaning was a monumental task, but eventually, there was enough room for them all. From the New Jersey State Prison came the Guerrero Compound.
  
  The Guerrero Compound was what Eve would call home for the next few years. Life was not easy, not by a long shot, but her and her father assumed their positions as leaders as soon as they started receiving more and more people. Survival was crucial, and Lazaro was not a lazy, careless man. Hardened from years in the military, and even more throughout their rough decade of survival, he ran the place with an iron first. Order was necessary, otherwise they would become animals. Rules were established quickly early on. Newcomers could only enter if someone could vouch for them, and they could only enter the Compound after a week's quarantine in a solitary confinement cell. The same applied to any scavenger parties that left the Compound's grounds if anybody had stumbled across infected at all. They were locked down tight, and their safety measures worked for a good while. Finally, after so long, Eve felt as if she could breathe.
  
  Life could be good for only so long. Running the Compound was more taxing than she would originally admit; making decisions, important decisions that could mean life or death for their people, kept her up late at night. Eve was turning into someone she didn't recognize, but she ignored those thoughts. Not everybody agreed with her father, but disagreements and discussions were normal, she thought. Punishments in the Compound were heavy; an eye for an eye. Crimes such as stealing or fighting were punishable by banishment. Killing somebody meant an execution. One wrong decision, one angry individual, could affect their survival, and Lazaro would have none of it.
  
  Their troubles came to a boiling point when Eve found herself pointing a gun at the back of a man named Edgar Grisham's head. Blood colored the gravel underneath her feet, and merely a few feet away from her was the body of a man who's face was almost entirely gone. Smashed in, unrecognizable. Edgar had killed him in broad daylight in the prison courtyard, his brother Edwin watching from the sidelines. The Grisham brothers had been a thorn in their side for far too long, whispers of their ideas having reached Eve plenty of times. They wanted what Lazaro had: power.
  
  "What did you do, Edgar?" Her voice did not shake, but Eve nudged the gun harder into his head when Edgar did not respond.
  "He stole food. From me and Sonia. She's pregnant and he knew."
  "Nobody told you to get your fuckin' wife pregnant, Edgar. Nobody told you to kill him, look what you've gone and done! You know what has to happen now!" Eve shouted at the back of his head, and in the corner of her eye, she could see her father approach the situation. He sucked in a long breath, simmering with anger. From the sidelines came Edwin's voice, barking like an angry dog.
  "Not my brother, don't do this. You can't do this, Eve. Please!"
  
  "Edgar knew the consequences, you knew the consequences, let this be a lesson!" Lazaro bellowed to the crowd that had gathered, the veins of his neck ready to burst. "Do it, Eve."
  
  Eve didn't hesitate to pull the trigger. Edgar Grisham had dug his own grave when he couldn't control his own anger. That night, though, the girl could not sleep. Her mind was filled with images of gore, of blood and splatter, of what happens to a man's head when shot. Images that she was not unfamiliar with, but that still haunted her life at every moment. She vomited up bile. Her sleepless night was a stroke of luck, luck that Eve seemed to have gotten plenty of throughout her life.
  
  A gunshot rang from down the hall. The Grisham brothers had been planning a coup, and Edwin's anguish from his brother's death was taken out on her father. Lazaro was dead in his bed, brains painting his pillows, and they were coming for Eve next. The girl gathered up whatever she could in the dead of night and ran before they could find out she wasn't asleep in bed. What she once called home was no longer safe, and all she knew how to do now was run, hoping she would not be found, hoping that she would not meet her end in the wastelands outside the Compound's walls either.
• 04
  ─ FAMILY & RELATIONSHIPS.

  
  

  FATHER.

  Lazaro José Guerrero. [Deceased.] Eve was truly a daddy's girl. She owed her life, everything that she is, to her father. He was her protector, and often referred to Eve as his little miracle. Many people throughout her life commented on just how lucky Eve was to grow up with her father, to have family that was alive and well. His death has made her come undone, viciously angry and bitter. He was not a good person, Eve knows that in her bone marrow, but she still feels indebted to him.

  MOTHER.

  Marisol Evelín Guerrero. [Deceased.] All that Eve knows about her mother is what her father has told him. She was named after her, she was as kind as they come, headstrong and oh so bright. Lazaro seldom talked about his wife's death, but it nearly broke him. Eve has a photograph of her family, including her parents and older brother, as well as aunts and uncles and cousins she knew nothing about. But, the photo shows her mother, bright eyed and smiling, and Eve feels blessed to have that photo.

  BROTHER.

  Brandon Guerrero. [Status Unknown.] Eve has a few more memories of her brother, but not much. When the Funeral came, leaving nothing but desolation and pain in its wake, Lazaro told Eve that her older brother had gotten lost in the mayhem and likely ran to safety. All she knows is that he is ten years older than her, and from the photo she has, he looks almost exactly like her father. Eve hopes he is alive.

  &OTHERS.

  At the moment, Eve truly has nobody else in her life. Her father is dead, her mother is dead, and her brother is likely dead. Any of the previous fleeting friendships and relationships she had never lasted long enough to truly matter to her. For the first time in her life, Eve is on her own.

  
  

  — MINI PLAYLIST.

  
  Relay - Fiona Apple
  High Road - Cults
  Deadlines (Hostile) - Car Seat Headrest
  Heavy Balloon - Fiona Apple
  Arsonist's Lullaby - Hozier
  

01
02
03
04

code by @Nano

 

[Kirkodirk]

glazed
eyes

INFO CENTER

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empty
hearts

GUIDELINES

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MISCELLANEOUS

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© pasta

Place holder

 

[minutiae]

cain j. taylor

o ruthless rebel, where is thy cause !
the torn

 

[horses]

code by nano

Bevis
Hooper

the firefly

basics

Name

Bevis Hooper

Age

18

Gender

Cisgender Male

Sexuality

Homosexual

DOB

December 14th

Theme

Wonderboy - The Kinks

Appearance

Height

5'6

Weight

121 lbs.

Build

Short and thin, as if he never quite hit puberty. However, living his entire life doing nothing but trying to survive has ensure that what little meat he does have on his bones is toned and somewhat muscular.

Nationality

Born and "raised" in America, but unsure of his heritage.

Hair

A mess of dark brown waves atop his head. Usually kept short, unevenly cut with whatever sharp objects are on hand.

Eyes

Golden brown, hidden behind a pair of round glasses.

Blood Type

O+

Face Claim

Louis Hynes

Persona

If there was a single word to describe Bevis, it would be 'brave' -- or perhaps he just has a death wish. Bevis is a rather hedonistic young man, sensually self-indulgent and engaged in the pursuit of pleasure. If nothing else, this makes him an interesting person to have a conversation with. Any interaction with Bevis more than a quick chat in passing, though, is sure to gray the hairs on anyone's head.

Virtues

Energetic, Imaginative, Adaptable, & Charismatic

Vices

Undisciplined, Lewd, Deceitful, Conceited, & Rebellious

Likes

Pigeons, his beat-up combat boots, gymnastics, knives, chocolate, the idea of Halloween, and bodies of water that he can completely submerge himself in.

Dislikes

Spiders, unnatural light, when his clothes are ripped and must be repaired or replaced, sleeping outside, talking about his family, and wearing hats.

Inventory

Bevis keeps everything he owns in a mustard yellow crossbody satchel.
- A broken wooden pool stick.
- An oral thermometer that probably isn't accurate.
- A carton of spoiled milk.
- Three pieces of butterscotch hard candy.
- An old flip phone with a cracked screen that does not work.
- A single chocolate chip cookie.
- A stopwatch that also does not work.
- A photo of his mother and uncles.
- A small bottle of hand lotion.
- A bar of soap.
- A handful of faded colorful rainbow rubberbands.
- A large pocket knife.

Proficiencies

Stealth: Bevis is surprisingly stealthy when he wants to be. Which, to be fair, isn't all that often.
Trickery: Bevis would have been a fantastic actor. He's trained himself in the art of deception and often uses it to get his way.
Memory: Bevis hardly forgets anything. Whether it be a name, a face, a place, etc. -- once he learns it, it is forever embedded in his mind.
Gymnastics: Over the course of his life, Bevis has trained his body to do amazing things. You'd be surprised how useful backflips can be in a world like this.

Deficiencies

Marksmanship: Bevis has used a ranged weapon maybe twice in his eighteen years of life. Neither times went very well, and he decided he much preferred knives.
Hand-To-Hand Combat: While Bevis will (and has) stab someone if needed, his hands aren't much use when it comes to combat. His lack of strength just doesn't provide enough force behind his hits.
Organization: Do not put this young man in charge of anything. It will be a clusterf*ck of jumbled ideas and plans. And good luck finding anything in that overstuffed satchel of his.

Fears

If you ask Bevis what he's afraid of, he'll tell you that he's not afraid of anything. That is a lie. Bevis does not like wide open spaces, where an attack or ambush can come from any angle.
He's also terrified of spiders.

Bio

In case anyone was wondering if people were still bumping uglies after The Funeral, the answer is yes.

Bevis Hooper's mother was assaulted when she was sixteen. She gave birth nine months later, approximately two years after the world had seemingly ended. She died in childbirth.

She had been traveling with her older brother, Grier, who was twenty-three at the time. Grier had admittedly thought about leaving the newborn to die, but couldn't bring himself to do it. After losing his older brother to suicide when The Funeral started, and now his baby sister -- that infant was the only family he had left. Luckily, expired baby formula was one of the few things that hadn't been completely wiped from the shelves of old supermarkets. Grier did his best to keep the infant alive, naming him Bevis after his sister's favorite cartoon. As Bevis grew older and learned how to talk, he was taught to refer to his uncle only as 'Butthead.' He had no idea why his uncle wanted to be called such a dumb name, but he rolled with it anyway.

Grier used Bevis to his advantage. Luring in other survivors was a pretty easy task when you had a crying kid as bait. Once they were close enough, Grier would seemingly appear out of nowhere and rob the people at gunpoint. Was it evil? Possibly, but it was survival. Grier and Bevis got almost all of their supplies by using this method.

As Bevis got older and learned how to defend himself, they were able to go after even larger groups of people. Bevis got his glasses at age ten after holding a knife to a man's throat. He didn't realize how terrible his sight was until he put them on.

Of course, though, their schemes didn't always work. When Bevis was twelve, a man they jumped fought back particularly hard. Bevis managed to get away.

Grier wasn't so lucky.

For the past six years, Bevis has been on his own. He continues to rob people after tricking them, though he only goes after individuals and has had to adapt his story a bit. A crying teenager isn't nearly as luring as a crying child, but a innocent-looking young man selling his body certainly is. He'd never let it go that far, though.

And he's far from innocent.

Notable Relationships

Mother: Jude Hooper | Deceased
Father: Unknown
Uncle: Leith Hooper | Deceased
Uncle: Grier "Butthead" Hooper | Deceased

-->

 

[bad wolf]

Visage

HEIGHT: Roy stands at a looming six feet, two inches tall when standing straight. However, he carries himself at a slouch. Hunkered in and staring out as if on the prowl, always aware of the other man's gain if he were to topple over.

WEIGHT: He weights in at 180 lbs.

BUILD: His long arms and tall physique might suggest he's a little too lanky for his own good, but he's deceivingly strong. Toned muscle and a practiced grace, he'd fit the part of an athlete.

NATIONALITY: Though he has roots in France, Roy's never known anything outside of the states.

HAIR: Chestnut brown and wavy, he sweeps it all back with a hand, combing through the tangles and grime as if they were simply adornments to a very weathered and hardy look. He mostly keeps his face clean shaven, loathing the feeling of a stubble whenever he can't come by a razor.

EYES: He's soft, hazel-hued eyes that glisten brightly.

BLOOD TYPE: O+

FACECLAIM: Looks like Adrien Sahores.

full name

Roy Boucher

NICKNAME

King of the Hill

AGE

28

Gender

Cis Male

Sexuality

Bisexual

Birthday

Dec. 30

THE GOLDEN

scroll ▼

•

Extra

Theme:
Oblivion by Young the Giant
Can't Sleep by K. Flay

Personality

VIRTUES:
Suave. Roy is exceedingly confident in himself, polite when he needs to be, and charismatic in group settings. He's a sort of charm that stays with people, and he dons a welcoming smile when there's something he needs from them. Though it's a bit deceptive, he is approachable, and he's keen to help others if there's something they can offer.

Curious. It's going to be the end of him, he swears. He's got an innate curiosity about the world, and it keeps him going when times get tough. He's constantly asking questions, learning the way of the road so that it might be a bit smoother down aways.

Upbeat. He's every bit of the optimist. He keeps things light when they need to be and is very dismissive of the sad facts of life. They're not his main focus. He's genuinely just out to have a good time, not a long time.

VICES:
Spontaneous. Dangerously so. He flies high and takes risks he doesn't need to. His actions never have a clear plan. He puts himself and others in danger and he does it without a care in the world.

Apathetic. Roy has a hard time connecting to people, feeling some sort of way that's acceptable. He's grown up during a time of trial and its changed him in ways that one might not appreciate.

Dependence. Despite this detachment, he does rely on others for some sort of human interaction. He loves company when he can get it, he just also grows bored of it very easily. That doesn't keep him around all the time, but he does bounce back when he finds someone worth his while. He's not good on his own and that's very apparent through his recklessness when he is.

Cruel. Roy's not a power hungry maniac. He's not intentionally mean to others just for the fun of it. However, when faced with a situation that is none too kind to the parties involved, he doesn't hesitate to make the hard decisions. If you do him wrong, his anger consumes him, and he'll pay you back for whatever it was ten fold. He can be brutal with his punishments, uncaring about his choices, and hellishly spiteful when put in a tough spot. It's safe to say that you wouldn't want to be on his shit list.

Vain. As the self-proclaimed King of the Hill, he's a lot of ego in his abilities. He thinks highly of himself and isn't afraid to brag when the timing's right. It's all in good fun and more so a joke than anything, but there's no mistaking that he regards himself better over others. In a life where he's had to fight tooth and nail for every scrap of good he's got, one can't blame him.

LIKES: A good fire to sit by, something interesting to discuss, stew & a nice broth, an untouched package of cigarettes and/or gum, a safe place to sleep at night where the weather won't reach him, fresh fruit, calm nights.

DISLIKES: Rain, staying one place for too long, a doom and gloom mentality, drinking exuberant amounts of alcohol, others recklessness.

INVENTORY: He keeps an assortment of basic survival gear in a worn backpack, a large hunting knife on his belt, and a blunt weapon in his hands when traveling. The content of his bag is as follows:

• Pad of notebook paper to tinder fires with
• A couple lighters
• Twine
• Thread and needle
• Assorted first aid items (very limited and mostly expired)
• Metal cup to boil water in
• A couple well used water bottles
• Multi-tool
• Small tarp to stay dry
• Can opener
• Assorted wash rags and torn cloth

PROFICIENCIES:
Resourceful. He can find a practical use for just about anything and is exceptionally good at scavenging for things that might prove to be useful.

Endurance. He's long practiced how to run far in short amounts of time. He can also keep at difficult tasks without breaking to catch his breath.

Hand-to-Hand. Roy is no stranger to hard beatings and can deliver one just as harsh. He fights dirty and doesn't let up till he's got the upper hand or can no longer stand.

DEFICIENCIES:
Attention to detail. It's constantly shifting when he gets bored. He puts himself in to dangerous situations simply by not paying close enough attention.

Being cautious. I've said it before and I'll say it again: this boy is reckless. He's heedless to telling signs of danger, even when he knows of it.

Fleeting loyalties. Strangers come and go in his life. He seldom makes close enough connections to feel any which way about them leaving. If they become too much of a risk for even him or bore him too much, he's no qualms about ditching them.

FEARS: Roy fears the past. He's terrified of remembering who he was before all of this, who his parents were or where he lived. He's gotten into so much of a habit of forgetting those kinds of details that it's a bit of a miracle he even remembers his name sometimes.

Biography

Roy wasn't long for the world as it was. He's flawed in such a way that's suitable to what's left of society. Able to shed his skin and be his best self, he lives a dream where everything is ideal. Never mind the loss of life in most brutal fashion or the still looming sickness, everything is as it has always been... Cruel. Unforgiving. The only difference you might find is its honesty. Much like himself, the new world doesn't have to pretend anymore.

He's lived this truth for so long now that it's hard to imagine that there was anything different, that there was a beginning to this long road of discovery. The only lie Roy dares entertain is that this is all it's ever been. He forgets his life, his parents, whatever semblance of order he'd once found familiar. It's fuzzy bits of memory he's all too happy to lose, because whatever shape he's made himself into to survive this world now, it'd never fit into that fantasy that came before.

He's made his stay in The Hills, that ruthless mess of crumbling stone a treasure trove and constant source of entertainment. As much as people fear being around each other, as much as they dread what the sickness brings, The Hills have become mad with the sheer imitation of it. People killing people for toothpicks and broken bottles, sometimes only the possibility that there might be something there to further yourself with.

When Roy steps back and sees himself, he sees an olympian, some half-god creature that's only ever known bloodshed and violence. Driven mad, put in a corner, and taught that the only way out was through.

He sits atop the mounds of garbage like a king, waiting for the next big dog to knock him down so that he might scramble for the top again. Grit his bloodied teeth and hack his way through till nothing stands but himself, that shinning and golden boy. It'd all sound rather symptomatic if it wasn't for his fierce smile and endless charm, that telling gleam in his eyes that says this is all done by choice.

No. Whatever the world was before, he wants no part of it.

© pasta

 

[noxious]

THE APPARITION

Name

Emery Hallows Mok

Nickname

Phantom, often called this due to her consistent disappearing; there one second, gone the next.

Age

32 years old

D.O.B.

November 9th, 2008

Gender

Female, Cisgender

Sexuality

Pansexual

Nationality

American

Ethnicity

Korean

identification.

Height

5'8" (172 cm), usually stands with a straight back and at full height.

Weight

162lbs (75kg), just enough to literally throw her weight if needed.

Build

Ecto-Mesomorph, slight muscular definition and quite slender. Some bones stick out more than they

Build

should, food isn't a constant anymore.

Eyes

Dark Brown, in the right lighting will look a bit amber, but piercing in the dark.

Hair

Short and fluffy, obsidian black. She never lets it grow any further than her ears, cutting it herself with

Hair

scissors. Usually lets it air dry and brushes through it with her fingers. Slicks it back with any sticky

Hair

substance when it gets on the long side.

Skin

Pale Ivory, easily sunburnt, somewhat translucent with visible veins.

Physical Markings

Prominent diagonal scar on her back, from under the right shoulder blade to the lower left.

Face Claim

Lee Joo-Young

physical.

Person

Oakley, Adopted Child (Assumed to be Deceased)

Person

Mister Lenny, Father Figure (Deceased)

Person

TBA

Inventory

Most things were either scavenged, made, or stolen. Items are stored in a Backpack and Body

Inventory

Holsters. Tries to keep it light so she isn't slowed down.

〉 First Aid Supplies: 2 Gauze Rolls, old box of Plasters, Healing Salve ​

〉 Provisions: 2 Metal Canteens (25oz), 3 Cans of Food ​

〉 Clothing: 2 Shirts, A blue Sweater, dirty grey Bomber Jacket, Extra Pants, grimy Bandanna​

〉 Misc: Rusted Scissors, Zippo Lighter, Thin Rope, Dried Herbs, Tattered Notebook, a few Pens, purple Dragon Plush, pocket sized Plant Book, Sleeping Bag​

〉 Weapons: 2 Daggers, a Butterfly Knife, and 4 Small Throwing Knives​

relationships & inventory.

Dominant Hand

Left

Blood Type

A Negative. Can donate to A+, A-, AB+ and AB-; can receive from A- and O-.

Languages

English, some Korean

Virtues

Emery is analytical in nature, assessing people, surroundings, and situations as soon as they come. Quietly gathering information with observant stares. If someone were to weave their way into her circle of trust, they’d find she’s loyal in every sense of the word. She stands by those she trusts, never leaks anything without permission, and does favors without anything in return. Known to be energetic; hardly tired from activities, always down to do something, and usually fiddling with something. She likes to think that ‘anything is an adventure if you let it be’ and enjoys trying new things, one could say she’s adventurous.​

Vices

As the years droned on, she found keeping others at arm's length was safest. This stems into her being standoffish. Definitely not the friendliest person to meet and acts in an uncaring, reserved, manner. Emery is not one to hold back how she feels about certain things, often being blunt with her words. With that being said, she’s also a very secretive person. If she finds out information, or knows something others don’t, her lips will most likely stay sealed; possibly even in dire situations. While she doesn’t talk much, she’s fairly sarcastic with gestures or noises, which some find annoying and she finds humorous. Being cautious is a good thing, but Emery is overly alert, always aware and watching, always ready to strike. She's a little tense.​

Likes

Storms, Starry Nights, Fruit, the sounds of Insects at Night, Warm Food

Dislikes

Impudence, Wet Shoes, Consuming Thoughts, Cold Weather, the Noise of Styrofoam

Proficiencies

〉 Reconnaissance: Due to her analytical and alert nature, surveying areas is a specialty of Emery’s. Figuring out general layouts of buildings, how safe things are or aren’t, and if there’s any potential threats are all things she can do.​

〉 Blades: Emery knows her way around blades, how to wield and utilize them. She’s scarily accurate and more balanced with blades than any other weapon.​

〉 Agility: She’s able to move quickly and quietly, she’s light on her feet. Knows how to dodge attacks or lying objects, of course not always, but enough to reduce injuries.​

〉 Plant Identification: She’s knowledged enough in plants to know what’s edible, poisonous, dangerous, and helpful. Comes in handy when supplies run out.​

Deficiencies

〉 Navigation: If a map and compass were to be handed to her, the group would be lost. She’s the type to get to one place and then realize she was holding the map wrongly. She prefers to use the sun or nature indications like moss.​

〉 Handling Intense Situations: If a violent or loud interaction happened between people, she’d try to back away and leave the view of anyone involved. She can’t deal with the unpredictability of people disagreeing so she tries her best not to get involved.​

〉 Verbal Communication: Words and her never got along, especially expressing emotions or explaining things.​

〉 Long Ranged Fighting: She knows how to strike with a throwing knife, but the closer the target, the better. She has more control with close range weapons and fighting. A bow and arrow type weapon would increase the possibility of her end.​

Fears

Symptoms of being Infected, Heights above 30ft

medical & psychology.

TW: CHILD LOSS, DEATH, BLOOD MENTION​

Chaos will always ensue.

Emery found out at the young age of 12, as The Funeral claimed her parent’s last breaths, as communities were set aflame, as the world crumbled.

Such a time felt like centuries ago, and although she may not remember much from her childhood, she will never forget The Funeral. The streets of Chicago were crowded as usual, horns were honking, there was distant yelling, nothing out of the ordinary, but something felt off. The air had an odd bite to it, the screams were gaining in volume, and there was a horde of frantic people barreling towards them. Her father grasped her hand and tugged her, his pace gaining speed. She didn’t understand what was happening, even as she saw the hysteria. Blood was flowing across the sidewalks, the agony could be heard from all over the city.

She said nothing, she couldn’t find a word to utter as they rushed home. The apartment building was no better than the streets, the sound and evidence of violence was overwhelming. There was nothing they could do for her mother, when they arrived she was on the floor, no longer breathing. Seemingly out of nowhere as the two of them stared at the scene, a blur rushed at her father and whacked the back of his head with a bat. The person, if you could call it that, didn’t stop there and continued to smash in her father’s head. Emery was frozen and air had escaped her lungs, she couldn’t move. After that all she remembers is their neighbor ━ Mister Lenny ━ snatching her up and running.

Everything had changed in under a day.

Time, now more than ever, is irrelevant.

With a tally, another year started. Emery’s notebook tracked every day, month, and year since The Funeral. The years had come and gone, many experiences along with them. It was just Mister Lenny and her, ever since the city. By now Mister Lenny had become like a father to her and they looked after each other. They were cautious, adapted to being ghosts in a hellscape. No one saw them, and if they did, it was only for a second. They learned early on they could only trust each other, Emery was always quick to hover above a weapon when coming in contact with others.

One day, on the way back from a supply run, Emery found a wandering child on the highway, a purple dragon clutched in his hands. Dried tears covered his chubby little cheeks and a glance into his wide-eyes was the moment Emery knew she couldn’t leave the kid. Despite the thought of why anyone would bring a child into this world, she hefted him into her arms and started trailing through the path she took. On the walk back she found out his mom was nowhere to be found and that he was 4 years old.

At 19 she became a guardian, at 24 she was a childless mother.

A giant wound covered her back, acquired from a run-in with a hostile group. It was hard to keep clean and protected with the size of it, she passed out with a fever a few days after. When she awoke, she was in an empty shed, posed like resting in a coffin. No one was in sight as she became aware of her surroundings. It was painful to move, her back scabbed over and bandaged. The amount of time she was unconscious was unknown, but her stuff was ransacked and scattered around the shed like someone was in a hurry to leave. She felt unsettled, but slowly gathering her left behind items and she made her way outside, looking for tracks. She knew she needed to find Oakley and Lenny.

She caught faint tracks, more than a few days old, and followed them as best she could before stumbling upon Oakley’s most prized possession. She sank to her knees, the purple dragon sitting in front of her. She hoped so dearly that Oakley was still alive, but as she stared at the matted blood on the plush, that hope started to dwindle. He took that dragon everywhere with him, even at 9 years old. She tentatively reached for the plush, thoughts wrapped around her mind. For many days her chest was heavy while she grieved, only able to assume her son was no longer. There were times that she wanted to give up, just let sleep consume her and all the time she had left, but every time she caught sight of that purple dragon, the embers in her were stoked. She had to keep going, Oakley would want that.

So once again, she was merely an apparition passing along wind currents.

Currents that led her to Philadelphia, currently at age 32.

background.

tracking: phantom

location:
unknown

codebytriples

 

[Astarte]

home
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other

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  Morocco (feat. 6LACK)
  Alina Baraz
  [It Was Divine • 2020]
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  There was a gentle breeze followed by the chime of bells and dancing chains, and hidden behind the song of calamity was a woman with forlorn eyes and a flirtatious smile.
  
  Name • Serani Som
  « Nickname • Known as Ronnie amongst close friends; Raven to strangers and those who struggle with saying her name. (The origin of Serani stems from the combination of Sera and Ronnie – a combination of her maternal grandmother's names.)
  
  Date of Birth • October 18th; zodiac is libra; born somewhere in Thailand.
  « Age • She has lived a generous 31 years.
  
  Gender • Cisfemale; she identifies with she and her.
  « Sexual and Romantic Orientation • Pansexual and Biromantic
  
  Blood-type • O+ bloodtype.
  « Face Claim • Zoë Kravitz
  « Role • The Raven
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  Virtues
  

  • Openminded « some may consider this a vice because it's the primary reason why she has spontaneous tendencies which could put herself or others at risk. It's what identifies her as an adventurous person.
  • Introspective « she's so emotionally invested in herself, but not in a way where she's perceived as selfish. Sera is highly aware of the type of person that she is and can easily admit where she has done wrong; she can take criticism fairly well.
  • Reliable « if you need a task done then she can do exactly that, but she's not going to bend over backwards for someone just because they told her to do something.​

  Vices
  

  • Straightforward
  • Adventurous « she hardly ever backs down from an exciting challenge; she's a thrill seeker.
  • Trustworthy « she's a person you can trust to get the job done, but not the type you should indulge your secrets to. If the right person comes along she'll sell you out in a heart beat, and thus is the reason she keeps her relationships strictly professional.
  • Selfish « everything is almost always a give-or-take relationship with her – professionally that is.
  • Petty « piss her off well enough and she will get back at you tenfold. She can't hold a grudge long enough to care to harm anyone, but once she's at this point of pettiness, she's not so charming.​

  Likes
  

  • Dogs, fruit, birds, cooking, wood carving, thunderstorms​

  Dislikes
  

  • Deer (to eat), romance, vengeance, seafood, smoking​

  
  
• 
  

  One word has always been used to describe Serani as she stooped at a painful height of 5 feet 2 inches, and at an estimated flunctuating weight of 115 to 120 pounds.

  
  
  

  Built like a log, Serani Som has a moderate amount of muscle centered around her quads and calves. Her toned physique adequate enough for a woman who has spent far too many years running from herself, and quite literally others.
  
  Although, she hasn't always been built this way. Her arms used to be thin and lanky due to her poor nutrition and posture. Those were days where she was struggling to survive, but now she spends days advocating a healthier lifestyle with fitness and nutrients.
  

  
  
  

  'Som' is a girl's name that originated from Thailand and translates to orange. This name was given to her from her father due to her round shape and jaundice color post-partum.
  
  Suffice to say, Serani is a multicultural woman who identifies as two or more races in the system, when she used to apply for jobs. Her father is a Thai American whereas her mother is an African American woman with Navajo roots thanks to her native grandparents.

  
  
  

  With her nationality came an average tomboy with an appearance like no other girl in her hood. Rather than robust and curvaceous, like most of the woman in the Earnest family, she was born with small chest and even smaller hips than her siblings.
  
  Although, in spite of that irregularity, Serani's face was lucky enough to be complimented with a pair of high angular cheekbones to which she inherited from her mother, long lashes and deep pools of dirty chestnut inherited from her father.
  
  Her hair has always been raven and soft to touch, but with strange curl patterns. So difficult to understand, Serani decided to often dread, braid, or wear it loose in long tumbling waves that stopped just above her cleavage in messy buns. Though her hair was pretty, her eyebrows were never very flattering, for they weren't super thin, but they weren't thick either, and often had to be colored with pencil in order for Serani to feel confident among others. This aesthetic downside was no thanks to her father and his lack of brows, of course.
  
  Her top row of teeth have always been straight, and her underbite has always been something she was thankful for, for she had been bullied for a great number of things, but the one thing that she is the most sensitive about are her two slightly crooked teeth on the bottom row.
  
• 
  

  • • • ​

  
  Prior to the alligator snapping the gazelle's neck, and swallowing it whole, the mother was skipping above golden blades of grass with her fawn in tow. Oh! But then suddenly…" As stories were told in the whisper of the night there were these deep, heavy, dark eyes that flitted over to a little girl with wild curly hair and an intense gaze. In this moment, the owner had wanted to give his child everything in the world. For, he could see that his daughter had the potential to be a force to be reckoned with. So, in the depths of a dimly lit room styled with a ridiculous array of teddy bears, the lamb shared with him a reflection of his tender love through the resistance of sleep. They continued this pattern for years, promptly replacing story time with trivia nights and board game endeavors throughout her adolescence.
  
  Those were the irreplaceable days. The days where nothing else mattered aside from preserving the innocence of one's daughter as she eventually became that one statistic with big dreams to become what was unknowingly impossible.
  
  As Serani aged with knowledge and wisdom, she had learned and read about The Black Death that absolutely destroyed France, staining white linen clothes with the smell of death and blood.
  
  However, much like everyone else, never has she ever expected the travesty that is life to take away all that her heart had desired: family.
  
  Imagine being eleven, home alone, only having just returned from your grandma's house, just to realize that the only reason why your family hadn't come back from their trip, in the nation's capital no-less, was because they were sick with a possibly incurable disease that made them unrecognizable.
  
  It was torture.
  
  To be eleven years old and miss out on having a parent to guide you.
  
  It's surviving, and hardly even, as you pass each day with steady anxiety and fear.
  

  pre-Funeral​

  
  Before the dark curtain descended upon her stage … there was a moment in Serani's life where everything was sweet and juicy. There was literature club, the bountiful bus rides home with her sisters and brothers, there was joy.
  
  She was only a middle school student with nothing to fear and loose, and the only thing she ever had to worry about was when she was going to start her first period.
  
  Prior to the apocalyptic pandemic, Serani had decided that she would much rather go to her grandmother's house and play with Nana's new dog rather than spend hours in a cramped car driving to Washington DC. She was always getting picked on, having been the youngest out of five siblings, and she knew that her staying with Nana was better than being another pain in the ass child.
  
  Plus, it was a great excuse to play with a beautiful Rottweiler, named Raven, and have enjoyable slumber parties without her siblings being there to take away her happiness.
  
  Of course, the last thing she ever said to her family was that she loved them, and to come home with souvenirs, but now that she looks back at what all had happened, she wondered if she had made a good call. She avoided having to be killed by the people she loved or worse, but is her cowardice something she should be proud of? It was because she was so worried about things that don't matter to her now, that mattered a significant amount then, that she occasionally ponders if she would go back and change her choice.
  
  

  Post-Funeral​

  
  The funeral is what they call it, but she could hardly remember how many bodies were buried so much as they were incinerated. Eaten alive by the hungry ruby claws of a virus that attacked just about anyone with its premeditated greed to snuff out life in an instant.
  
  A virus was living vicariously through the lives of innocent human beings, and the only thing Sera was concerned about was surviving. Her friends disappeared, her Nana wasn't answering her calls, and she was abandoned with a dog named Raven that appeared at her doorstep a day after she was left at home alone. Moonlit eyes terrorized her dreams the older she got, and the search for food was harder for a homeless child with nobody to turn to.
  
  By the time her adolescence had reached adulthood, Serani had managed to better take care of herself hygiene wise, her black beauty was getting old, and she found love. A woman, Sgt. Maria, had nurtured her during hard times, and her daughter, Vanessa, was her best friend and … lover, so everything in her velvety mind felt right until eventually the virus took them away from her too.
  
  

  Sera grieved in her own way.​

  
  She traveled with Raven, hunted libraries down like her life depended on it, and learned as much as she could about hunting. She only knew how to fight, with what little Maria had taught her, but she didn't know how to hunt. Thus, it was determined that she needed to start by scratch: turn wooden chair legs into pikes, to making arrows, and steal equipment from looted sports good stores. Eventually, she lived in a small bookstore until winter had past, and during the harsh times she found love again and again. She felt pain too, pain in a way where she wished she had been consumed by the virus that took everything away from her – including her little bird.
  
  Raven had protected her from every staggering victim that lurked in the shadows, and kept her warm when no one else could. He died on January 17th, 2033. She was there for him the same way he was there for her, before she put him down. During that time, Sera learnt things about birds that later proved useful along the way:
  
  Ravens are scavengers.
  
  No matter the lives that were lost.
  No matter the circumstance.
  
  So, Serani evolved.
  
  She scavenged.
  
  She became the scavenger, the woman who waited for the wolf to eat up all of her food just so she could go in and take the leftovers.
  
  Her sly tendencies, her increasing emotional exhaustion towards building relationships, pursued a woman who vaguely remembers her innocence into becoming what would have been a criminal. From having snatched watches, jewellery, food, clothes, and shoes on occasion, well … It became her goal to become a woman wealthy enough to trade belongings in favor of luxury. Unfortunately, her scarlet road of disaster guided her to Rubyland where its murky waters consumed her very soul.
  
  This was what she had wanted.
  
  To be lonely and not feel lonely at all.
  
  To be satisfied and not be satisfied at all.
  
  To be hungry and not be hungry at all.
  
  It was as though this emptiness of hers was hardly empty at all as her cup filled to the brim with invaluable partnerships and the excitement that came with spontaneity.
  
  She lived smarter, and she used every skill, sometimes voluptuous, to get where she was today.
  
  She wasn't the Queen of Rubyland, but she was the woman who had almost everything you might need. She never cared to know anyone, but if you needed her for food, clothes, miscellaneous, or possibly company in a senseless kind then she was there. Depending on the person, of course.
  
  
• 
  

  speed

  
  

  agility

  
  

  strength

  
  

  coordination

  
  

  observation

  
  

  social aptitude

  
  
  
  

  The scale is determined 1-10.
  
  Inventory
  
  

  « A battle axe that works well with her skill set.
  « A journal she records everything in be it her thoughts, cooking recipes, notes, what plants she wants to farm one day, and so-on.
  « Clothes and charcoal she uses to color her eyebrows.
  « Raven's collar and tags.
  « Potatoes, strawberries, and apples.
  « Arrows and a light bow.
  « Bar of soap.
  « Jewellery; from necklaces to bracelets to earrings.​

  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

serani som

coded by weldherwings.

 

[diwa]

h e l e n a •

THE APPARITION

I won't let you be disappointed, I will show you my fighting spirit

name: Helena Ivashkov
nickname/alias: lena, koshenia (kitty )
age: 24
gender: female
sexuality: pansexual
dob: october 26
zodiac: scorpio

height: 5'10
weight: 144 lbs
build: long and slender, her built can be considered as slim but with all the running, hauling, fighting and climbing, she developed a slightly toned body.
nationality: ukrainian - irish
hair: long and brunette that's always in a messy bun or in a long braid
eye: dazzling green eyes with a hint of hazel
blood type: O-
face claim: Antonina Vasylchenko

virtues:
◂ Headstrong – with all the crap that happened, Helena grew up to be strong willed and dedicated. She does things with a clear head and patience knowing it will only take a single step to screw things up.
◂ Audacious – she’s bold enough to do things as long as she’s certain of it no matter how dangerous it is. She likes to weigh on the consequences before making a move. It's her plan of staying alive.
◂ Childish – despite of being dubious and negative about others, Helena still enjoys the little things such as potable water, a place to rest, rainy days. She can be laid back and lighthearted opposing her being ruthless.

vices:
◂ user Helena won’t talk or stay if it doesn’t benefit her. She’s manipulative, cunning and guarded. She never let anyone close. It’s a selfish thing do but the life she had wasn’t easy and she knew there are people who would do the same thing. It’s just survival, use someone and get out, or be used by someone and die.
◂ hypocrite Helena doesn’t see the error of her ways. She was broken that way because of what happened, but she’s willing to do the same to others just to get what she wanted. Avenging her family and killing the monsters that wronged them was the one thing that could set her free.
◂ vicious she knows what she wants and she’s too driven and obsessed to care about other things. She left people who doesn’t have any value to her. If violence and cruelty is the solution, she's willing to do things without losing any sleep.

likes:
◂ her small cactus pot
◂ rainy days and open air
◂ good haul or atleast some useful haul during supply run

dislikes:
◂ being always on the run
◂ things she can't control
◂ rats
inventory: some of her items were acquired via trading, hunting and stealing.
◂ knapsack
◂ 16 inches flat screw driver (weapon and tool)
◂ broken carabiners (3pcs)
◂ cord (5 ft)
◂ dusty bottled water (3 pcs)
◂ folding knife (item she traded for an ancient car battery)
◂ gauze (1 pc)
◂ grimy black parka jacket
◂ hand sickle (weapon)
◂ jeans (1 pair)
◂ a sewn rabbit fur that she uses as scarf
◂ small whetstone
◂ small pot with cactus
◂ small broken compact mirror
◂ socks (2 pairs - not matching)
◂ tin can (1 pc)
◂ trash bag (1 pc)
◂ tshirt (2 pcs)
◂ tube of antibiotic ointment (expired)
◂ undergarments (2 pairs)

proficiency:
◂ gardening - not really advisable to her lifestlye as a nomad but Helena has a greenthumb.
◂ hunting and tracking - she's quick and light on her feet that if small animals are abundant, a meal is a sure thing.
◂ hand to hand combat - being able to defend herself is a must, it was a trial and error situation. At first, she always ending up bloodied and bruised but in time, Helena learned to stay on her ground and fight but running is her first option in all things.

deficiency:
◂ fixing things or anything that is closely related to machines
◂ she doesn't know how to swim
◂ helena is dyslexic, she relies on markings and landmarks.

fears: to end up helpless and dying just like what happened to her mom.

backstory: Helena is a lovechild of an unrequited love. Her mother, Tatiana Ivashkov, was raised by a prudent family in Rivne, Ukraine while her father, Matthias Reed, was an Irish tourist. Tatiana was on her way to become the prima ballerina when she got smitten with the Irishman. He promised her the world and Tatiana left hers to be with him. In the end, it was a false promise. He left her, and she was left with a baby on the way along with a golden locket that he gave her when he initially professed his fake love. Instead of going back in shame, with her broken English, Tatiana went to US and started a new life.

◂ When the first wave started, Helena was just 3 years old. They were living in a small town when the chaos broke out, she couldn’t remember much, aside from the hysteria of the people around her. The cries and screams of the people running away from something. Her mother comforting her as she tried to shield her only daughter from the harsh reality that was happening. They followed the crowd at first in the hopes of finding security, the military was ushering them to safety but when some of them started exhibiting the same behaviors as the infected, the military started firing at the civilians. Infected and normal alike were both shot on the spot. It was probably to contain the situation or the military got infected as well. They were about to be part of the casualty when someone pulled them to safety and told them to run. They went straight to the woods and their plan was to hide in less populated area to wait it out. With what happened with the military, they believed that there’s no chance rescue will come for them at that moment. Along with her mother and the guy who saved them, who introduced himself as Adam, an old couple (Martha and Mike) and three young men whom they happen to stumble upon, the group ran and ran deep into the woods. Their eyes were filled with horror and shock as they rested, catching their breaths while pondering what happened and what will happen next.

◂ In the first couple of days, they moved from place to place before settling in an abandoned farmhouse. It was big enough for them and base on ransacked cabinets, and photos missing from the wall, it seemed like the people residing in the area left in a hurry. After a couple of weeks, the group had a routine and they settled in. They did what they can in order to protect their home. It was going well, considering how fucked up the world is. Apart from few strayed infected beings, for years they were left undisturbed. There she was taught on how to hunt small animals, to track things and even gardening. They knew the supplies wouldn’t last so they tapped Mother Earth and decided they had to do what they can. Everyone had an assignment and tasks were delegated to make their little family work.

◂ Helena was 9 when her mother was killed. She was out with one of their own, checking for mushrooms in the nearby creek by the farmhouse when they were attacked. On normal occasion, they can handle a stray but they were caught of guard. Next thing she knew, her companion was screaming at her to run. Panic almost consumed her but Helena ran, screaming for Adam to help her when she was grabbed from behind, her mouth was covered by large calloused hand. It was Adam. He signaled her to keep quiet and pointed at the black smoke in the sky in the direction of their farmhouse. Then a group of men came, guffawing and laughing loudly. Adam pulled Helena towards the bushes to hide, his hand was on her wrist, holding her tight and preventing her to run and do something stupid. It wasn’t an issue. When Helena saw the men passed them by, she noticed that one of the men holding a baseball bat has got blood in them. Fresh blood by the looks of it. She initially thought that they killed and hunted down an infected but the one who was carrying the bat mentioned something about a Slavic woman crying while twirling a golden locket in his hand, Helena’s whole body turned into stone. She wanted to cry but she knew even the slightest whimper could get them killed. He was a malicious looking man and the long pink scar on his neck made him scarier in the eyes of a 9 year old.

◂ They waited until the moon was above them when the two sauntered back to the house. They didn’t need the light, some parts of the farmhouse were still burning, its embers flying through the air. Adam then explained that he was on a supply run, checking to see if there’s something left in the town and when he came back those men were already tossing some gasoline around the house. One of the guys lit up a torch and set it on fire. They weren’t infected. They weren’t attacking each other. They don’t have the disease that made them horrible, they are just pure evil. Adam was too worried about the men circling back that he insisted on moving out. Helena thrashed and scream but Adam just picked her up like a sack of rice and carried her in the dark. No matter how much she cried, he was adamant to put a distance between the house. He was too worried about the nefarious group they encountered.

◂ Winter next year, Adam passed. They made a wrong call going back to the city but they had no choice. Their supplies were dwindling and they needed meds for Adam’s leg. He was wounded during a supply run; it was small cut but then it got infected. They encountered a stray and Adam managed to kill it but then he caught the violent virus in return. It was Helena who planted a meat cleaver on his face and end his suffering. She didn’t know how she managed to do it, probably with luck and sheer will. She could see the madness ebbing from his expression as he landed on the ground with thud, the metal blade still buried in his face. Up to the present day, she was still plague by the image of his dying and bloody figure.

◂ After his death, Helena thought that she’s going to die next. She knew it will only be a matter of time before she turns crazy and vicious but it didn’t come. Instead she woke up in some dark cupboard, the bloody meat cleaver was still on her tiny hands. She was weak and starving but her mind is clear as day. Helena wanted to survive. She doesn’t want to die and just give up. She owed it to her mother. To Adam.

Helena managed to apply the things she learned during hunting. She was quiet as a ghost as she runs around, sneaking in and out of the houses. Being small, she prided herself about being quick. Thanks to her mother’s ballerina days, she knew how to become light on her feet when landing. Helena then found an apartment where she holed up in. It has only one door and a small window but it was enough for her to get through if something happens. It was months before she met others and knowing that she’ll be left alone in the future, she didn’t make any ties. She used people for supplies and news and it was every man for themselves. For a young girl, it was a cruel thought, but then it is a cruel world after all.

◂ Helena learned that what happened to her family was not unusual. Homes and hideouts were being torched while people are being hunted down for sport by some lunatics who believed that they were sent out by a god to purge the earth of its wickedness. She knew it was just a lame excuse to justify their craziness. The group has its followers, not a legion but enough for the people to be scared straight that apart from the infected, they were the other things that go bump in the night.

Helena had the chance to meet them again, not face to face of course, but during one of her supply run the group targeted a building near the place where she was scouting. From the balcony of an apartment, she watched how the group cheered as the building go up in flames. The family hiding in it was taken on the streets, the group was surrounding them. She saw their head was bashed in one by one. And it was the same scarred man who did the job. The same man who wielded the bat and killed her family. Her mom. Her body froze but her mind is all over the place. She then knew what she wanted apart from surviving. She wanted revenge. She wanted to make him suffer, to make him feel what she felt. All she needed was plan.

◂It became a personal vendetta. Helena practiced blending in the shadows, making sure that she’s not seen by anyone. She made sure that her aim was always right and true. That she’s quick on her feet and all the remorse gone from her heart if she wanted his head. Helena learned the new system of bartering. Small trinkets for some but sometimes it can be worth a meal and medicine. Helena became a supply runner. She's got multiple clients in Rubyland, they were the people who wants something but doesn't want to risk going out. She made sure that she’s updated with the news of what’s happening but still flying under the radar. She was just waiting for the opportune moment, and after executing her promise, she can go mad for all she cares.

notable relationships:
mom - deceased
adam - deceased
5 other companions - deceased

 

[illegallyblonde]

home
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  still feel.
  half•alive
  [now, not yet]
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  name:
  nina irene castro
  
  nickname/alias:
  none
  
  age:
  23
  
  gender:
  cis female
  
  sexuality:
  pansexual
  
  dob:
  05.19

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  height:
  5'4''
  
  weight:
  110 lbs
  
  build:
  all lean muscle and a prominent bone structure. she's running a bit skinnier these days, but she makes do with what she has. years of nomadic survival has rendered her body strong and hardened.
  
  nationality:
  spanish → american
  
  hair:
  deep brown with warmer highlights, and curls for days. her hair is her most noticeable feature, wildly sticking out at all angles in a neat kinky texture.
  
  eyes:
  rich copper-colored and almond-shaped. penetratingly intense and expressive.
  
  blood type:
  a+
  
  faceclaim:
  mina el hammani
• 
  

  a sultry snake, a deceitful fox. she knows exactly what she wants. a brave face and harsh words cover up her true nature. deep down, she's scared, and angry too. she enjoys putting on a persona of someone who will go to any and all lengths. in reality, all she wants to do is to live in the present and make the most of her situation. these days, she just wants to pretend to enjoy each day like its her last- because who knows? it just might be.
  
  virtues:
  vigilant, charming, vivacious
  
  vices:
  confrontational, sarcastic, secretive, combative, willful

  
  

  likes:
  getting drunk on cheap wine, proving others wrong, pretending
  
  dislikes:
  catching feelings, confiding personal traumas, taking orders
  
  inventory:
  → 2 reusable water canisters (one for water, one for spirits)
  → detailed map of philadelphia, a collage of printed/hand-drawn
  → switchblade
  → drop point knife
  → a few measly matches and a sewing needle stored in an altoids tin
  → heavy, woven woolen blanket
  → dried fruits
  → several cans of bland beans
  → patchwork tarp
  → unused revolver, accompanied by a full cartridge
  → her mother's sapphire earrings
  → coats + sweaters for layering
  → fingerless gloves
  → a neat pair of sunglasses
  → two thin metal rods, about two inches (for lockpicking)
  
  (all items are neatly stowed in a large rucksack when traveling)

  
  
  

  proficiencies:
  → problem-solving - nina may not be the sharpest, but she is inquisitive. she enjoys a challenge, and looks at all of her options before making a decision. this can be both helpful and harmful. her clean hands can be attributed to this. she prefers to avoid the nitty-gritty at almost all costs, even if that means taking the longer, more dangerous route.
  
  → crafting - she makes good use of her hands. from map-making, to sewing, to patchwork. she first taught herself to handsew not only to pass the time, but she has an affinity for fashion. if she's going out, she's going out in style. when she has suffered from various small flesh wounds, her stitching has come on handy.
  
  → lockpicking - emilia taught herself, and in turn nina, when they first left new york. she can bust into just about anything so long as she has her lockpicks. breaking into cars and empty shops has proved to be helpful when looking for supplies.
  
  deficiencies:
  → cowardly - nina likes to pretend she doesn't care. she paints a picture of boldness and bravery, but she hasn't come close to what others have had to done. she will try to avoid physical violence at all costs, and prefers harsh words instead.
  
  → weaponry - she's proficient with a knife at best. the revolver in her backpack is cold, never-been-used. it's a shame, really, having it sit at the bottom of her bag with no purpose. if you ask her, she'll tell you she's used it plenty of times. in all actuality, she can't shoot straight.
  
  → memorization - nina is one of the worst people when it comes to holding grudges. she remembers almost everything and will use that to her advantage to get ahead or hold something against someone. however, she has a hard time recalling safety zones and places she has already been to. she can hardly remember how to drive back when emilia and her had the thunderbird.
  
  fears:
  never seeing her family again, dying alone, taking a life, giving her secrets away, confronting her past
  
• backstory:
  
  it was too easy.
  
  it was easy to ignore the illness. when the sickness was at its lowest, and the statistics were exactly what they were- just number. it seemed like such a far-off thing. it didn't seem so personal. in a mere matter of months, it became quite clear how close the sickness could get.
  
  it snuck up on you.
  
  at work. at school. it crept up on you and followed you home. when the time was right, it introduced itself to you, your family, your friends.
  
  the castro's thought they could escape the illness, like so many others.
  
  her father was visiting family in spain, when he had met the pleasant woman that would become his wife. they settled and had two children after moving back to america, in new york, where her father had been born and raised. the first being emilia, an apple-eyed girl with a sweet demeanor. following her five years later came nina, a trouble maker and a handful from birth.
  
  nina's father was rarely home. he worked shifts late into the night at the family convenience store, attempting to keep up business. city dwellers came in demanding supplies, and he was worried that if he didn't manage the shop, someone would have broken in. times were desperate. besides, they needed the money. they weren't going to survive through the pandemic if they didn't have their work. her father insisted that the rest of the family stayed home to avoid the disease. it was inevitable, really, that her father would come in contact with the disease at some point.
  
  what choice did they have?
  
  he was a selfless man, so unlike who nina would come to be. he had only wanted to help people. one particularly long night, her mother's cell rang. a call from her father. the voice that came through was not her father's. though she was only five at the time, remembered the heartbreak in her mother's voice as she responded to the call.
  
  "i see," she whispered and hung up the call. the screams that poured out of her mother's throat were mournful as sunk to the floor. what nina remembered most, even more than the screams, was her mother's forehead against the cold tiles, her palms open in both prayer and dispair.
  
  a customer had come in and had found that their father had been beaten to death by one of the infected.
  
  nina thought it was a funny thing that the sickness was being called "the funeral." she hadn't had one for her father. the virus had snuck up on them, and claimed one of there own. the disease was something that the castro's, or what was left of them, had finally experienced it for themselves.
  
  in a densely populated city like new york, the death count was on the rise. it became difficult to ignore the digits as they rose to the thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions.
  
  billions.
  
  her mother contracted the disease within the coming years. the girls had been ordered to stay put at home while she went out to forage for her family. she came home in the early morning, murder on her mind. emilia, even at fifteen, understood what she had to do as she white-knuckled the pistol her mother had left on the coffee table for this certain situation.
  
  emilia, her memory stained with her own mother's blood, fled with nina from their family's home, and headed northward across the interstate highway, out of new york in their father's prized possession- a 1958 teal thunderbird. an annoyingly cheery car contrasting their dire situation.
  
  in the early years of being on the run with her sister, there were some good memories. emilia was more reserved, but she occasionally let loose. clubbing with a society of underground survivors, smoking a suspicious baggy of kush in an abandoned 'toys r us', skinny dipping in a public fountain.
  
  yes, the times were bad, but they made the most of it. until emilia went out to find a map while they were just outside new haven, connecticut. with moving around so much, it was imperative that they kept a record of where they had been. they had been camping out in the neighboring woods when she had gone into the city to look for a map. emilia hadn't returned for several hours. the hours turned into days, then weeks. nina had turned over every brick in the city and had only come up with dust and decay- no sign of her sister.
  
  four months had passed, and nina made the difficult decision to leave the city. it was becoming more difficult to find resources in the new haven, and emilia had vanished (and with her, the keys to the t-bird, which was just peachy). nina was seventeen when she left new haven and went southwest, hoping that emilia had gone out past the city. she was clutching onto naive hope, and she hated herself for it. most of all, she hated herself for giving up.
  
  she spent the next years roaming massachussetts and new jersey, and has now set up camp in philadelphia in hopes to find some company and a more reliable supply of food. and alcohol.
  
• 
  

  charming

  
  

  sarcastic

  
  

  vigilant

  
  

  confrontational

  
  

  willful

  
  

  vivacious

  
  
  
  

  notable relationships:
  
  the castros, originating in zaragoza, spain, moved to manhattan, new york three years priors to the funeral, just after nina's birth. the family hails from moroccan descent, and is fluent in both spanish and english. the castros owned a small convenience store while residing in new york, and maintained an average household. emilia is the elder of the two daughters by five years.
  
  → luis castro (father, deceased)
  → maribel castro (mother, deceased)
  → emilia castro (elder sister, whereabouts unknown)
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

nina castro

coded by weldherwings.