- Joined
- Sep 4, 2009
- Messages
- 7,343
- Reaction score
- 97
Dread
A Post Apocalyptic / Survival / Horror / Diverse Roleplay
_________________________________________________________________
The crisp morning is without a doubt a constant within your life now. Early to rise with the birds that sing their songs, if wearily by now. The branches seem thinner now when you look up to them and the sky all the more gray. In front of you, the fog stands. Waiting.
You waste little time in gathering your things.
Setting up camp for this long was a mistake, but the sleepless nights are really starting to catch up to you.
The feeling of the bags beneath your eyes are weighing heavily as you yawn openly, wiping away the tiredness before picking up your backpack, tightening down your bandoliers and checking to make sure you have enough water and that your weapons are loaded properly.
Dawning your mask made in the image of stag built from wood, cloth, leather and bone, you take surveilance of your surroundings before setting off again into the fog. Some years ago this used to be the coast of... Something. Now it belonged to something else entirely. Everything you knew it as once was changed the day the fog rolled over everything.
A branch snaps in the distance and you pause dead in your tracks.
Kneeling down quietly, you unhook the wooden bow from your pack and pick out one of the three arrows from your quiver, knowing that your rifle would attract things unwanted. Following the direction of the noise, skulking about in the shadows still remaining, you spot a stag.
Quickly, out of some old world habit, you count the horns. Four points total. Then comes the size. It's eaten well enough which is surprising given how poorly the vegetation has dealt since the fog has come.
With no time to waste, you ready your arrow and take aim, but the stag notices your mask clearly. The horns created to imitate its very own image and has secured its gaze. The stag lurches closer, closing the distance more and more with each passing second.
You feel it in the pit of your stomach. The hunger that's been pulling at you for days and now a moment has been presented. You feel the strain in your arm and your eyes squint, concentrating at the heart to get a clean shot and finish things quickly. Now it's just feet away, pushing out gusts of air through its nostrils. Cocking its head left and right to get a better look. Your eyes focus on the heart..
Suddenly a loud white noise begins to emit from your radio.
The stag jerks back, freightened and your hand slips from the bow string, letting it fly straight torward the stag's neck.
Piercing its throat, a splotch of blood spurts forth over your mask before it turns to try and run. The stag screams and gurgles on its own blood, swaying back and forth in pain. The birds take notice and flee, their own squeals echoing out into the fog along with the stag's.
Your hands tremble as you search desperately for your knife, grabbing hold of it for but a moment before dropping it to the dirt. As you panick, you can still hear the stag screaming through its pain, your eyes darting around the area before grabbing up the knife firmly in your grip.
You rush the crying stag and jump at its neck, wrapping one arm around as it thrashes about. Plunging your knife in deep once and twisting it about, the blood runs freely over you. Yanking it out again quickly, you plunge it back down, closing your eyes and gritting your teeth. Praying that this moment isn't real.
Trying to shut out the screams.
Plunge after plunge, the stag's thrashing about slows down before coming to a slow wobble and collapsing into the dirt and ontop of you.
With the wind crushed right out of your lungs, the once promising providence of its size kept you pinned to the earth as your eyes instinctively looked to the tree line thickened with fog.
Their sickly eyes looking at you, their forms twisted and mangled with frames disproportionate.
Their maws salviating at the mere sight of a meal helpless to defend as the white noise of your radio screams into the air.
All the while you clamer to seize yourself from the dead stag's weight, heaving and pulling yourself as you listen to the hurried foot steps of those horrors practically trampeding their way to you.
On the other side of the corpse you can feel their claws attempting to grab hold of your legs as you rear back and kick something square off in the jaw, a quick scream of pain bellowing out with hisses trailing off.
You grab the knife from the stag's neck, having yourself at the ready as tears streak down your cheeks, unable to see to the other side and flailing your legs the best you can before the sudden shift of weight of the corpse moves just enough.
With a quick slide you, you pull yourself up and look at into the faces of something eeriely human ripping into the flesh of the carcas, attempting to take it back into the deeper recesses of the fog as you make a break for it. Darting in and out of the trees, you duck and weave around stonework before stop for but a brief moment to get a grip of your surroundings only to get a glimpse of another vaguely human silhouette rush at you with some kind of object in hand.
Then nothing but the pitch black darkness.
Your eyes open with the pain aching inside your skull. You blink several times, the shape of something sitting down at a desk. A dim light. A painting from before the fog. Nails protruding. Horns.
You waste little time in gathering your things.
Setting up camp for this long was a mistake, but the sleepless nights are really starting to catch up to you.
The feeling of the bags beneath your eyes are weighing heavily as you yawn openly, wiping away the tiredness before picking up your backpack, tightening down your bandoliers and checking to make sure you have enough water and that your weapons are loaded properly.
Dawning your mask made in the image of stag built from wood, cloth, leather and bone, you take surveilance of your surroundings before setting off again into the fog. Some years ago this used to be the coast of... Something. Now it belonged to something else entirely. Everything you knew it as once was changed the day the fog rolled over everything.
A branch snaps in the distance and you pause dead in your tracks.
Kneeling down quietly, you unhook the wooden bow from your pack and pick out one of the three arrows from your quiver, knowing that your rifle would attract things unwanted. Following the direction of the noise, skulking about in the shadows still remaining, you spot a stag.
Quickly, out of some old world habit, you count the horns. Four points total. Then comes the size. It's eaten well enough which is surprising given how poorly the vegetation has dealt since the fog has come.
With no time to waste, you ready your arrow and take aim, but the stag notices your mask clearly. The horns created to imitate its very own image and has secured its gaze. The stag lurches closer, closing the distance more and more with each passing second.
You feel it in the pit of your stomach. The hunger that's been pulling at you for days and now a moment has been presented. You feel the strain in your arm and your eyes squint, concentrating at the heart to get a clean shot and finish things quickly. Now it's just feet away, pushing out gusts of air through its nostrils. Cocking its head left and right to get a better look. Your eyes focus on the heart..
Suddenly a loud white noise begins to emit from your radio.
The stag jerks back, freightened and your hand slips from the bow string, letting it fly straight torward the stag's neck.
Piercing its throat, a splotch of blood spurts forth over your mask before it turns to try and run. The stag screams and gurgles on its own blood, swaying back and forth in pain. The birds take notice and flee, their own squeals echoing out into the fog along with the stag's.
Your hands tremble as you search desperately for your knife, grabbing hold of it for but a moment before dropping it to the dirt. As you panick, you can still hear the stag screaming through its pain, your eyes darting around the area before grabbing up the knife firmly in your grip.
You rush the crying stag and jump at its neck, wrapping one arm around as it thrashes about. Plunging your knife in deep once and twisting it about, the blood runs freely over you. Yanking it out again quickly, you plunge it back down, closing your eyes and gritting your teeth. Praying that this moment isn't real.
Trying to shut out the screams.
Plunge after plunge, the stag's thrashing about slows down before coming to a slow wobble and collapsing into the dirt and ontop of you.
With the wind crushed right out of your lungs, the once promising providence of its size kept you pinned to the earth as your eyes instinctively looked to the tree line thickened with fog.
Their sickly eyes looking at you, their forms twisted and mangled with frames disproportionate.
Their maws salviating at the mere sight of a meal helpless to defend as the white noise of your radio screams into the air.
All the while you clamer to seize yourself from the dead stag's weight, heaving and pulling yourself as you listen to the hurried foot steps of those horrors practically trampeding their way to you.
On the other side of the corpse you can feel their claws attempting to grab hold of your legs as you rear back and kick something square off in the jaw, a quick scream of pain bellowing out with hisses trailing off.
You grab the knife from the stag's neck, having yourself at the ready as tears streak down your cheeks, unable to see to the other side and flailing your legs the best you can before the sudden shift of weight of the corpse moves just enough.
With a quick slide you, you pull yourself up and look at into the faces of something eeriely human ripping into the flesh of the carcas, attempting to take it back into the deeper recesses of the fog as you make a break for it. Darting in and out of the trees, you duck and weave around stonework before stop for but a brief moment to get a grip of your surroundings only to get a glimpse of another vaguely human silhouette rush at you with some kind of object in hand.
Then nothing but the pitch black darkness.
Your eyes open with the pain aching inside your skull. You blink several times, the shape of something sitting down at a desk. A dim light. A painting from before the fog. Nails protruding. Horns.
The chair remains faced to the wall as it creaks to the stranger's adjustment in posture; holding to the light what looks to be 'your' knife still caked with blood before turning to face you with another rickety creak of the chair.
"Welcome home."
Last edited: