|
|
Post by ghostlight on Jun 2, 2009 8:54:11 GMT -5
Moving from shadow to shadow Giddien shifted through the rubble and wreckage like a ghost. He cocked his head, hearing the scraping dragging sounds of several bodies. Crouched low he rummaged blindly through the waist pouch to his back, a small mirror; he used it to see around the corner. He had been right four draggers where there and seemed to be scavenging. “Are they actually…hunting in a pattern?” he shook his head, “No way, they are learning…”
He slipped the mirror back into the pouch. His mind was racing at this new change in his enemy, he swung around and sure enough a lookout zombie began to moan loudly, “Yup..” he took its head clean off leaving a fine red mist as the body crumpled. The remaining three began to react, standing he aimed and shot, “damn it” he had missed and cought it in the chest, the damn thing had been wearing a flak jacket, another shell ejected as he cocked and took that one’s head clean off as well.
The remaining two shuffled forward, hands outstretched, torn and bloodied fingers clawing at the air where his face and neck would be if they made it to him. Two more shots rang out as he dispatched the last draggers. He dropped the shotgun into the large holster across the back of his armor.
|
|
|
|
Post by Leon Silverblood on Jun 2, 2009 9:06:14 GMT -5
Leon looked to one of the barricaded windows as the sound of shots rang out distantly in the night.
"Ah, the nightly serenade. Well, as long as he's shooting, he isn't dead, right?"
He wondered what Giddien had found to use for target practice and an old jingle played itself over a few times in his mind.
"Ten million strong. And grooowing."
|
|
albub
Full Member
Posts: 193
|
Post by albub on Jun 2, 2009 10:53:06 GMT -5
Dan looks at Leon.
"If I can't roofie the patrons how am I supposed to amuse myself? Try to seduce them while they're awake?"
He turns back to Noah.
"I guess you can't have any gatorade... sorry man."
|
|
|
|
Post by Sarpek on Jun 2, 2009 12:44:43 GMT -5
Sarpek shakes the ringing out of his head, and picks up the mask. "I think it's time I re-visited an old friend..." He opens a closet, revealing a suit of weathered steel battle armor, half melted and blackened on one side from the nuclear blast a few months before. "I think this might be salvagable..."
|
|
|
|
Post by Noah on Jun 2, 2009 13:45:50 GMT -5
Noah finds his pack sitting in the corner. He slings it over his bare shoulder and heads upstairs. He walks back down fully clothed. He nonchalantly walks over to Dan and slugs him across the face.
"Stupid fucker."
|
|
|
|
Post by Leon Silverblood on Jun 2, 2009 13:47:47 GMT -5
((Now! The freakin' rules and the rules of freakin': - The Dipsh*t rule:
Don't be a dipshit. You can't have sharks with frickin' laser beams attached to their heads. No sharks, no lasers. Cuba won't ship here. Refer to the game and Max Brooks for what flies and what doesn't. This brings us to
- The Reality Switch:
Pull any crazy s**t, like an atom bomb, claim to blow the bar up, interfere in anything and if anyone cares, the players are perfectly within their rights to absolutely ignore your post in part or in full. We don't even have to refer to the switch to activate it, but we might just for the record. You may or may not be warned that you're actin' the fool.
- Co-existence
This is a fun place for anyone who wants it to be. The advanced roleplayers, the noobs, the boobs, the ub[er]s can all max and relax here as long as one doesn't pain another in the ass. So for those of you who can't be expected to follow any rules whatsoever, don't. Except this one: Don't be a menace. We'll throw you out. Permanently.
Did someone link you to this post? Did they tell you to go find something? Here it is. *Smacks you upside the head* Now start at the top and actually read it. -Leon. Oldest standing member of The Elbow Room.)) -------------------------------------------------- Modified without permission from the original post. "The Elbow Room" a sign above the battered door reads in calligraphic arcing text as you arrive. Made from poured concrete and over a foot thick, you imagine this can't be the original door. It isn't, but human and zombie violence have destroyed the old steel door, which proved too easily destroyed by idiots with high explosives, though it withstood many zombie assaults. It takes a mammoth effort to move, and you can't budge it. Soon enough, though, a heavy-set man slides it aside with ease and, looking you over with a surly glare, waves you inside. A smiley face name tag on his apron identifies him as Val Kilmer. He'll fill your orders, but don't ask for small talk, you couldn't afford it. You hear a soft click behind you and turn to see the door already closed. While the heavy-set cook does look strong in his own right, it's now clear that some mechanism is responsible. Inside the bar now, you survey it. Wrought iron gates are pulled back against the walls of a short hallway; a last ditch defense against the shambling horde of undead that used to occasionally break down the old steel door, but it was replaced after being blown off it's hinges too many times. Posters, ripped and torn and pasted over, cover the walls of the pub. The lighting is sparse, most of it focused behind the bar, where a struggling generator wheezes and emits the occasional belch of smoke. You see Val there now, sipping a white cafe mug of coffee and looking over the tavern with a scowl. The mirror that once hung behind the bar is long gone, though shards remain in the upper corners. Bottles are displayed on the shelves, protected by a steel grille from randomly thrown objects. To the right of the bar the room stretches in an L shape, making space for a pool table and darts. The main tables are badly in need of repair, with tilting tops and gouges, burns and bullet holes. To either side of the entrance are the restrooms, doors decorated with rude, anatomically exaggerated representations of which sex they are intended for. The left of the bar is taken up with a proto-sixties go-go cage, now standing empty except for a metal collar and a sign on the closed door; "FORMER RESIDENCE OF LEON SILVERBLOOD FROM JUNE '07 TO APRIL '09. RESERVED FOR TOVARISCH KRUSCHEV". Since it's inception a little over two years ago, The Elbow Room has seen numerous break-ins and pitched battles, some zombie, some human. A handful of undead crocodiles and alligators wander the cellar, thanks to DJ Spinbad. Bulletholes small and large practically perforate every wall, the floors, the ceiling, thanks to don Vito and other humans getting too drunk with too many overpowered toys. The place halfway looks like an observatory, sunlight seeping in and human odors out, often drawing zeds who have learned to follow the scent of the living. A patchwork of planks and boards sprawls across the roof and floor, each a commemoration (some signed) of a particularly idiotic use of explosives indoors. The Elbow Room never was much to look at, but now not only is it downright ugly, it has personality. Because of the sort of carnage that some of the less sane survivors have wrought upon the place, and because that damage is usually done by weapons, tools, and technology that have no right to exist in this little piece of armageddon, a "reality switch" has been installed behind the bar. Unseen, this little red button is able to completely nullify, erase, and in all other ways obliterate such weapons, tools, and technology and all of their effects. As time goes on, it's used less and less, but it stays there, ready to be depressed by Val, the ever vigilant enforcer of The Dipsh*t Rule. Behind the bar, hung just a bit askew- is a large portrait  and a banner.  "Melody Arachne, founder of The Elbow Room. Missing since Dec. 16, 2008, presumed alive and well somewhere else." A glass case on a shelf below these displays a pack of Marlboros, a fully loaded Colt .45 (M1911A1),a pair of shopping bags, and a santa hat. The manifesto inside the box also lists "one first aid kit, one syringe," but these are missing. You'll never read it (Val would break your fingers first, if Leon didn't), but there's a small note inside as well. Folded up with care into a neat little square, it has Leon's trademark chickenscratch on it, a frighteningly childlike bit of print: "Melody". When asked, Val points to another sign hung prominently behind the bar. It reads, "NO CREDIT FOR RANGERS!!" |
|
|
|
Post by Leon Silverblood on Jun 2, 2009 13:49:03 GMT -5
*Slightly modified (7th post in this thread. wowza)* Leon sits on a stool at the bar, a bottle of rum in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He looks around at the place and is, for all the right reasons, reminded of the movie "From Dusk till Dawn". He stands in front of the cage, remembering the zombie dancer they used to keep there, though she could more accurately have been described as a caged crackhead, by the way she eyed him. He had something she wanted. He knew what it was, too: brains. Leon smiles at this thought. How rarely any girl was ever really after that. Not that he had any, but still. "Women," he muttered quietly to himself. Leon placed several first aid kits on the bar, brand new and raided from hospitals and drugstores. "Val! Quit starin at the newcomers, you'll burn a hole in 'em. Gimme a tab for what this is worth. I imagine you have quite the selection here, since every liquor store in the city is bone dry. Yeah I see that grin. Give me some really expensive rum, since it didn't cost you a thing. triple shot in a coke, please". He smiled broadly at the bartender. The drink, presently appearing, wasn't a triple at all, probably not even a double, the bartender's response to Leon's attempted bluster. And it was cheap rum, too. Bastard. Leon grinned at the man, who grinned back and nodded. "Yes, I did," the burly ass seemed to say. Turning and walking past the cage again, he headed for a table and was soon lost in thought, idly fingering the knotted nylon hair of a barbie doll that hung from the bandolier across his chest. There were five of them, dangling and dirty, some missing limbs, some bearing the partial burns or melting disfigurements incidental to a nomadic life, or nomadic undeath, in Malton. He may have grunt-mumbled a hello as he passed the lifers at a table, as those who aren't really talking to anyone will do when they must, but who can be sure he wasn't speaking to his synthetic girlfriends? Clearly, he had been one of the lucky(?) few to escape the Malton Lunatarium in the "early days of the outbreak," and now he divided his time almost evenly between trying to stay alive and trying to sow the seeds of his insanity, which of course implies many things. They're all true. Leon almost falls out of his seat at the table across from Dan where he had come to rest. He doubles over with laughter, unable to speak or breathe for minutes on end after watching the exchange. |
|
|
|
Post by Sarpek on Jun 2, 2009 14:00:38 GMT -5
Sarpek hugs Ivan, in a clumsy sort of way, and pats him on the back. "Ahl halg." Shambling over to the bar, he cycles the reality generator. There is a loud thump, and the air is alive with a crackling electric tingle. Metal buzzes, and people's hair stands on end. Vito's army disappears with another loud thump, as does Vito's chainsaw hand, leaving him with a bleeding stump. Adjusting a few knobs, he picks up a few large cables, and plugs them into the back of the machine. Handing to Ivan, he gestures to the cage. "Garra gabah gagh" Sarpek looks up from filing the armor. "And I see you worked on my Reality Generator some, Leon. Nice. What'd you do, increase the power to the damping coils?" ((And yes, I DID make the reality generator.)) |
|
|
|
Post by Leon Silverblood on Jun 2, 2009 14:08:06 GMT -5
((You did? I KNEW I'd got it from somewhere before I talked with Angel about it))
"Nah, I just hooked it up to the button. And since I'm no electrician, that's a hell of a feat."
Leon holds up both hands and shows his palms and fingertips, scorched black.
"You know with a blood-alcohol level like mine, I'm a goddamn superconductor. Found that out the hard way. You should see my toes."
|
|
|
|
Post by Sarpek on Jun 2, 2009 14:55:53 GMT -5
"Yeesh." Sarpek winces. "Next time, just ask me. What was wrong with the perfectly good lever, though?" He continues to fix the armor.
|
|
|
|
Post by Leon Silverblood on Jun 2, 2009 16:11:33 GMT -5
Leon bursts into hysterical laughter yet again. After a minute or two of trying to hold his stomach in, he finally gains control of himself.
"Phew! Oh, wow. Yeah. Lever. Heh. So that's what that was after all."
|
|
|
|
Post by Vito The Don on Jun 2, 2009 16:39:57 GMT -5
Vito wanders back in, a bloodied mask in his hand. "I smelled reality generator. Who threw the switch this time? I've been around almost as long as you leon, I want some answers." Vito stares around the room frantically, searching for something. After a several moments he spots the BEHEMOTH covered by a blanket in the corner, were he had left it. "Ahh, some things never change." He gladly states as he picks up the gun.
|
|
|
|
Post by Leon Silverblood on Jun 2, 2009 17:16:55 GMT -5
Leon chuckles and pats Leon on the shoulder.
"I know, old friend. Just try not to put any more holes in the tavern walls, hey?"
Leon gestures around at the constellations on the ceiling made by assault weapons ranging from small to extremely large caliber.
|
|
|
|
Post by Definitely Not Axe Hack on Jun 2, 2009 17:19:00 GMT -5
The DJ runs outside with a bunch of wires in hand.
"If you excuse me, I have wires to reset up..."
About 15 minutes pass. The DJ runs back in the bar and starts reinforcing the barricades.
"Gangway! Angry chainsaw wielding zombie outside!! I wasn't quite sure what he was saying but I think it was zed speak for 'I want my mask!'"
The sound of a chainsaw is heard on the other side of the barricades.
"You know...this zed could really remind you of Jayson Exccks..."
The DJ looks at Vito.
"Hey, Vito. You wouldn't have anything to do with that, do you?"
|
|
|
|
Post by ghostlight on Jun 3, 2009 3:53:48 GMT -5
Giddien moved silently through the shadows, dodging around charred and ruined cars. He had seen what looked to be a flashlight in a third floor window several streets down. Making his way there he had drawn the two machetes from his back, “Never jams, and never needs reloading” he laughed to himself.
The quiet was broken by the occasional cry from the nearby dead. The door of the building was hanging by the hinges as he looked over the frame carfully he saw it, a bouquet of grenades wired to the door.; if there was a live body in there they hadn’t come through this way. He swept stealthily around the corner to check for another entry point what wouldn’t make so much noise as battering down a broken door. Not to mention blowing himself to a lovely red froth and repainting the surrounding area.
He was crouched low making his way through the ally, almost tripping over the zombie, it hadn’t been moving, no sound no sign, but it groped at him, hearing the fleshless fingers scrap at his mask. Without thinking his body reacted and the blade of the machete sank through the open mouth. It made a sickly squelch as it passed through the back of the skull, maggots and loose flesh fell from the gapping maul of the thing as the gangrenous tongue lolled under the matted black steel.
The force he had used passed through the rotten meat, the tendon, muscle and bone and biting deep into the makeshift barricade of wood and refuse somebody had clearly tried to pile up. Giddien stood slowly, his boot on the jaw of the zombie; he stomped down as he pulled the things head exploded like a Halloween jack-o- lantern. The machete blade came free as it scrapped the things teeth.
He shethed the two weapons and drew his knife and sidearm, his stance was low, passing through a broken wooden fence he scanned the small back yard. A battered swing set off to the side. A broken and discarded child’s bike had been thrown on the barricade pile. His mind raced his scenes where on fire as he moved. Something shifted under him as he crawled over the pile. He traced his hands along the frame of the intact sliding glass door, it was how you got in, and he saw that now, no trip wires, and no traps.
He forced the blade into the crack of the door, popping the small lock. The door slid open soundlessly, “thank god” he thought as he closed it behind him. Staying close to the wall he moved through the garbage, scanning constantly, his breathing calm, his hands steady. The first and second floor cleared he made his way to the third.
The sound of heavy feet on the stairs tipped him off first, at least six men, and from the sound they made, well armed. He took off; banging through a pair a closed door, diving for the first cover he found that would stand up to a firefight. His back was pressed against a heavy wooden desk. The sharp click of the slide was lost to the pounding of the blood in his ears. They knew what they were doing that was for sure, a disturbing smile crept across his lips.
|
|
