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medigel rolled 2 8-sided dice:
3, 1
Total: 4 (2-16)
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 Posted: Sun Apr 26, 2015 5:28 pm
A voice whispers in his ear, I was wondering when you would show up.
Startled, Dawson spins around and swings at the air. His heart rate rises, but not even that adrenaline rush can make him fast enough to stop the mob from taking advantage of his distraction.
You were both taking so very, very long. I was about to pay a visit myself.
OOC ZOMBIE MOB HP: 6 AD: 3 (5 if missed) DAWSON HP: 23 CHARGE: 2/3
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medigel rolled 2 8-sided dice:
3, 1
Total: 4 (2-16)
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Posted: Sun Apr 26, 2015 5:32 pm
The mob sends him deeper into the bayou, seedy, slow current water lapping at his knees. The constant groaning, the smell of decayed flesh, the lack of light and air, the heavy feeling of isolation, Syn's murmured warning about their shield--his eyes are wide and his palms so sweaty he nearly loses his shield in the next swing.
There is laughter through the unwelcome trees.
OOC ZOMBIE MOB HP: 6 AD: 3 (5 if missed) DAWSON HP: 18 CHARGE: 2/3
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medigel rolled 2 8-sided dice:
5, 8
Total: 13 (2-16)
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Posted: Sun Apr 26, 2015 5:38 pm
Perhaps your friend would make better sport. Something like a sharp wind brushes past him, and he catches the sight of wings before the forest obscures them.
With a spike of fear and concern, Dawson carves his way through the remaining zombies and stumbles after, panting and wheezing.
"Velma! Mel! Jesus God Mary n' Joseph <******** class="quote">OOC ZOMBIE MOB HP: -1 AD: 3 (5 if missed) DAWSON HP: 15 CHARGE: 3/3
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medigel rolled 2 12-sided dice:
10, 8
Total: 18 (2-24)
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Posted: Sun Apr 26, 2015 5:45 pm
He could have sworn it was just to the left, but there were only baldcypress. To the right, magnolias. Forward, blue beech. Behind, more baldcypress. It seemed a little illogical to see so many different trees so close together, but then again it was also unnatural how much the land tugged at his boots. Mud, maybe, but it didn't feel right. Neither did the trees. They leaned slightly in like there was a wind forcing them, but he could feel his layer of sweat like a second skin, creeping down his neck, his arms, his torso, the back of his legs. There is no chill, yet he had goosebumps. Something is there. Something has always been there. Maybe it's the voice again, but he's supposed to be chasing it and it has been quiet save for the drone of cicadas and the occasional whines of mosquitoes.
(do bugs bite through shields? can they if they've been infected with Fear? is that what's affecting him so much? but why him and not the others? is he that weak? he feels so very, very weak. nature joins in a rustling laughter around him, blue beech, baldcypress, magnolias, Spanish moss, silver bell, dogwood, sycamore, white oak, spruce pine, all manner of raucous noise filling his head with a mindless buzz that blurred everything else, and the earth sinks beneath him more and more until he feels like a reversing corpse plant himself, live body goes in dead things grows out, and it should scare him that he's so calm about the idea but he's too far gone to be merely scared anymore--)
He blinks and the earth is now bogwater lapping at his chin. Something nips at his legs, and nothing save for a predator in the savannah might have been able to outrun him. The trees might have been bent over cursing him for all he cares: the path is clear, the plantation looms, and he hears the sounds of battle.
Syn's instincts meld with his. The sound of his very breath seems distant, the knot in his side inconsequential as he moves forward. There isn't a second thought when he spies Velma encircled by a creature that looks too much like an angel for his tastes: the runes of his weapon fade, funneled into a fiery breath that washed over the trainee and blunted the thing's attack.
It flies back as Velma tries to stick him again, rubbing at its hand as if burned but smirking. "About time, fresh meat," it oozes, and he recognizes it as the voice from earlier. "Better hurry. She's waiting."
Dawson is too out of breath to respond, and by the time he manages words at all, the creature has flown through one of the broken windows on the second (third?) floor. Velma watches it go with a dirty look.
OOC VELMA HP: 32 hp (previous attacks) + Dawson's Barrier 10hp - 12 = 30 DAWSON HP: 15 CHARGE: 0/3
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medigel rolled 1 12-sided dice:
12
Total: 12 (1-12)
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Posted: Sun Apr 26, 2015 10:55 pm
"You alright?" she asks with a frown as she checks him. "You look like you took a bath in that shithole." Only while under her attention does Dawson realize he did look like s**t: baggy-eyed, ragged breathed, reeking of the bayou and coated with God only knew what from his dip into it. When she applies a bandage somewhere on his arm, he belatedly notices there's a few open cuts as well, though whether from invasive branches or zombies, he can't remember.
"Y'don hafta do that, hun," he tries to tell her, but he's cut off when she tightly winds the bandages around a troublesome area; the rest of his sentence is a groan.
She looks him over and nods in satisfaction, though her expression hardens soon after. "Mel's in there--that's what I understand anyway. What runics do you have again?"
"Uh." He checked his belt and produces a grimy looking barrier dagger with an apologetic look. He knows the twist of her mouth means she's disappointed he didn't get cleared for bandages as well.
"Okay. We go in, we get her, we get out. Got it?"
Dawson's face falls. "But, the mission says--"
"If she's in trouble, then we all are at this point," Velma cuts him off. "Whatever that thing is--a demon, I suspect--it's stronger than I anticipated. And it has to have at least one necro friend to be getting those zombies. So." She eyes him. "Go in, get her, get out. Understood?"
He makes a soft noise, uncertain.
"Listen." She doesn't become softer really, but there's a quality to her words that makes him more receptive. (Probably the undercurrent of authority speaking to the inexperienced.) "We're Moons. Our primary job will always be making sure everyone else comes out recognizable, whatever the directives are."
He is torn. Part of him is relieved their only aim is to get Mel and return home, but part of him is stubborn against the idea of failing the mission, of letting these things go without showing at least some resistance. Something more than knocking around dead guys' heads--but is that his wounded pride talking? Syn is of no help this time with three voices speaking for various points on the spectrum. Is it heroic or idiotic? Is duty or pragmatism more important?
< You have always been prone to one side, > is all the chimera can say, a tone of long-suffering affection.OOC VELMA HP: 30 DAWSON HP: 27 CHARGE: 0/3 (1/2 spent)
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medigel rolled 1 100-sided dice:
32
Total: 32 (1-100)
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Posted: Mon Apr 27, 2015 8:47 pm
ix.
A shiver passed up his spine as they entered the plantation home. In its heyday, it must have been quite a sight, but all that is left is its hollowed out skeleton: chipped white paint, discolored green and yellow accents that made him sick to look at, broken furniture and dusty photographs and artwork, a floor that seemed half eaten by the earth (Velma gives him strange looks as he prods the ground with his toe before stepping, afraid of finding himself in the bayou again). The bottom of the second floor looked like it was sinking in above them, and he hastily ducks into the double parlor.
A dizzy spell coves him like a veil. He swears he fees fingers literally drop something over his eyes, distorting his vision before it is restored again with perfect clarity. "V-Velma?" he stutters, apprehensive to even turn around.
"Yeah?"
"Don' feel so hot."
He wishes the polearm didn't look so close to cutting him. "Keep it together, Dawson," she says with a look as she moves past him. "Check the rooms on the left. We'll have to sweep the whole place, or at least what rooms are still around."
"Ma'am, we saw tha' thing head upstairs," Dawson points out, suddenly and cutely aware that she could stab him. Irrational, maybe, but the possibility seems real enough the way Velma looks at him, like he just tried to insult her mother.
"And we might find something down here first." (Why does she sound like she's talking through a curtain?) "Secure the first floor, then move, trainee." And that seems like that.
(Is she trembling? Is he imagining what he sees in her eyes, the telltale signs of distrust coupled with a demotion? First "Dawson", now "trainee." Maybe having space is better after all.)
He wanders into the first room available, shoulders stiff and shield-grip sweaty. The interior of the plantation home is musty as all hell, with rotting wood and fungi growing in the cracks. Nature is slowly taking hold. (The bayou feels closer than two days ago.) This must have been the dining room, he thinks as he creeps forward. There is still a table but is on its side, the chairs missing but the plates still in fragments, the silverware like rusted nails jutting out from the woodwork. He has no idea what could have ever happened here to make a mess, but five steps in Dawson learns he's not alone.
Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
It's soft at first. The environment seems to flicker like an old television. One blink, nothing. Two blinks, a faint silhouette.
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.
One, two, three, four, five. There are more, but they seem to mesh together into a conglomerate of undefined shadows. He feels a bead of sweat slide down his face.
’Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear,
And Grace my fears relieved;
Another slips down to his neck. He realizes it isn't sweat, but tears.
How precious did that Grace appear
The hour I first believed.
They're reaching for him, and the door locks before he thinks to turn.OOC 1-50 failure :: Dawson resumes haunted status effect (-7 in battle) DOOR HP: 10 DAWSON HP: 27 GHOST MOB AD: 1
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medigel rolled 2 8-sided dice:
8, 2
Total: 10 (2-16)
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Posted: Tue Apr 28, 2015 9:57 pm
He doesn't stop to think about who was responsible for that. (Velma? The angel? The reaper? The devil? This godforsaken house?) He turns and flees from the familiar phantoms, knocking against the door with his bulk.
Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis Grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And Grace will lead me home.
Those are not their voices. They're older, richer, weighted, the sounds of the slaves that had once worked here and found some measure of solace in their music. Their spiritual is turned into a mockery now, parroted through the mouths of his victims that seek his destruction.
OOC DOOR HP: 7 DAWSON HP: 26 (-7 for attacking)
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medigel rolled 2 8-sided dice:
8, 5
Total: 13 (2-16)
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Posted: Wed Apr 29, 2015 12:10 am
The Lord has promised good to me,
His Word my hope secures;
He can feel them groping around the outline of his shield, tugging at his clothes, his hat, his hair. Anna Marie is reaching for the bottom of his shirt, Momma is aiming for his chin, Poppa is beelining for his eyes, JD is clutching at the cross around his neck, and the stranger watches forlornly as a priest in this sacrament of sin.
He will my Shield and Portion be,
As long as life endures.
OOC DOOR HP: 1 DAWSON HP: 25 (-7 for attacking)
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medigel rolled 2 8-sided dice:
2, 6
Total: 8 (2-16)
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Posted: Wed Apr 29, 2015 12:33 am
His heart is pumping so quickly he can barely feel an actual pulse--it's a constant thrum, noise squeezed through his anxious veins like blood, acidic and tasting of stale eucharist bread and sour onions. His vision is blurred but the door is an easy target. They clutch at him, but they can't hope to stop a man like Dawson who, more than anything else, more than even a knight, is a coward at heart.
His shield breaks through, and soon enough so does he.
OOC DOOR HP: 0 DAWSON HP: 24 (-7 for attacking)
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Posted: Sat May 02, 2015 1:28 pm
x.
The floor cracks beneath him, and the sound is like ruined hollow bones. He waits. One, two, three, four. (Seconds? Minutes? Hours?) When nothing comes for him, he lets himself have his breakdown and heaves in the wet, moldering air.
Who locked the door? Does it matter? (No. What matters is that you got through were left behind.)
He shouldn't be here, he shouldn't be here, he shouldn't be here.
He shouldn't be alive. Why is he still alive if every other thing he does is wrong?
Because you are stronger.
(The slight shift in Chance's expression when he joked at the oyster bar, the mix up with Horace and Maebe on Twitter, Thomas on the ground because his defense wasn't strong enough to stop the mob, Gretchen wide-eyed in the hostile forest they couldn't fight, shadowlings relentlessly covering him in a course most found easy.)
It's not shouldn't, it's that he doesn't deserve to be alive.
You were chosen.
I didn' choose this I didn' wanna be here I was gonna be normal I was gonna--do what exactly?
Go back to an empty home? Somehow explain to the police that he wasn't conscious of his actions while murdering those people? Pretend he could move on from that stain on his soul?
(He sobs at the memories and clutches at his hat, threatening to tear something.)
The antebellum air chokes his noises and clogs his lungs.
He needs to leave. He needs to find Mrs. Quinn. What if there are zombies in Dimanche now?
But what if his teammates need him more?
Syntyche's voice rings clear. You must finish the mission. Destroy what is hurting them, and all else will fall into place.
The directive is better than sitting and sniffling in dust. Whimpering nevertheless, Dawson picks himself up and wipes at his face with a grimy arm, coughing as the state of the plantation finally begins to get to him. And then he turns his attention to the stairs with a gulp.
Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.
The ghosts aren't singing anymore, but he knows the hymn well enough. "M-Much rather get that joy n' peace while alive, thanks," Dawson mutters as he tacked on a grimacing smile for his own failing confidence and pulled down his cap. "Lordy, Lordy, somebody pray fer this idjit..."
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medigel rolled 10 0-sided dice:
, , , , , , , , ,
Total: 0 (10-0)
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Posted: Sun May 03, 2015 2:41 am
xi.
Later, when he's safe in an infirmary cot, he'll only be able to tell the hunter on rotation bits and pieces—half of a half, because there is only so much he can remember and only so much he wants to when he's awake. But he can say this much:
That it had been easy to track the group down because of the noises. Metal clanging on metal, inhumane screeching, thunks and creaky thuds that make him wince (the home is old, it complains even under his weight as he walks, every squeak and protest another jumpstart to his poor heart), and eventually the voices of his teammates. That it was the sound of one high pitched, childish voice that made him double time it in spite of his fears. (Someone else in need is always more important.)
That he found them in what looked like one of the old bedrooms, the stale air sucked into a whirlpool of action. That it's hard describe just how he managed to break it down into bite size pieces to process: Mel, alive but bleeding, harried by a blast of a spell that nearly knocked her into the wall, runic torch in one hand and an axe in the other, yelling at—Velma, wearing a dazed and vacantly horrified look that made him immediately think of what he probably had looked like to her, her weapon going slack in her hands as she was visited by a vision he couldn't begin to fathom, an open cut by her eye and a runic dagger by her foot, the barrier of which was still faintly visible around her and Mel to protect them from—the reaper, skull-borne and pale as a corpse, chewing at their protection with spells that physically manifested like little zombies breaking apart while a familiar that looked like canid roadkill gone wrong worried at another spot on the field with a hoarse growl, details that might have been adorable to someone else, shouting something about pendants and not letting them escape and why did you bring them here we were just fine with—"the ghoul" it said, an impossibly small girl, sunken faced and fragile as an old toy (had not eaten or drank for some time now, he simply knew), beyond both horror and hope as she barely registered what was going on, caught in the clutches of—the would-be angel, smiling like an imp with black black black eyes.
(It gets hard to talk around here. He apologizes and frowns and tries to remember without trying to remember too much at once.)
That he shouted at Velma to get a grip and tried to shake her free, and that it took several violent jerks to bring her to reality. (It isn't enough, he stills sees her fear and knows it's mirrored in his own, but what is the job if not all about fear?) That they're given his version of a plan, to which they counted as the reaper set its mutt upon him. But as long as they know to get out, he will as well, chewed up or not, and so will the girl. Like the original plan, Velma, remember? Moons.
(And you went to play hero? the hunter asks. Somethin' like that, he chuckles weakly.)
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medigel rolled 10 8-sided dice:
5, 5, 2, 5, 5, 2, 8, 2, 4, 2
Total: 40 (10-80)
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Posted: Sun May 03, 2015 2:43 am
xii.
Between them, only Mel can strike with great prejudice. Dawson and Velma are still in the grip of whatever that demon (not-angel, fallen angel, harbinger of ill omens) is exuding—and he sees their ghosts rise up to cloak it. The demon grins with too many teeth and beckons the child closer with one of its wings, and she complies with a dead look in her eyes that strikes him.
In spite of everything—the constant guilt and doubt redoubling on his shoulders, the exhaustion and sleep deprivation dragging at his heels, the all too familiar ache of the dead thrown back in his face, the cold whispers in his ears, and the cowardice waiting to spring again in his chest—he moves forward.
He's painfully reminded of the sun run. He has never been a good fighter and it shows; even Velma, in the midst of her own phantoms, manages to hit better. More times than not he's knocked back, and his fear barrier quickly takes a beating.
(What happened? the hunter asks, and he tries his best to answer. Lots of swinging, lots of dead things, lots of teamwork, lots of luck.)
They manage to execute the plan somewhat. Velma shakes off what steals her and pierces one of the demon's wings with her polearm; blood too dark to even glint red drips from the wound, and he thinks maybe, maybe— Mel torches the undead and frightens the necromancer and its familiar back, an inner ferocity overcoming her sustained wounds. Now if can just—
(Dawson is not a fighter, but he must be a protector.)
The demon hisses as Velma keeps it busy. If—yes! He has the child and immediately pulls her out of the creature's embrace. She's frighteningly lightweight; he nearly throws her around just securing her.
"Now!" Velma yells.
They strike the floor together. The old wood cracks and splinters, growing into a vein-riddled circle around the room. His partners quickly escape through the door, Velma running and dragging Mel, who lunges for the opening. He, however, doesn't move fast enough—not even with the feather light girl in his arms.
(I thought you said there was a lot of luck. M'alive, yeah? he laughs and then coughs and grimaces. Didn' say it was enough fer tha', though. S'watcha get fer bein' a fatass.)
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