Revan Member
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- Old Guild Username: Xenthis
- Joined: 10 yrs ago
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- Revan 10 yrs ago
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I'm interested.
I have to agree with Dredigan. This is getting a little hard to keep track of. I guess you can just kill my character; I'd probably stayed in the weeds of this role play if I hadn't left.
Fixing his eyes on the city looming overhead, Marcus stood on the lands that abut it; He remained in a hesitant manner. Fate. Fate drove me to this city, I reckon. Yet, I don't know what it has in store for me; may it be misfortune and death? He asked himself, debating either to enter or turn on his heels and leave. He drew his Glock 18 from his poorly made, makeshift holster. He then began to walk forward, towards the run-down city. No, I won't die, he reassured himself as the buildings began to tower over him. He kept telling himself that he wouldn't die, but he didn't know how he could be so certain.
His ascent was a slow and weary one. The ache of his legs hadn't settled in until now. After miles and miles of walking, he had felt nothing - or did he just not show it? He couldn't remember. All he knew now, was that he felt like he was going to collapse. Fear had never taken him on as hard as it had now, since the beginning. Even though he was from Detroit, he had it fixed in his mind that somehow this would be a worse area - and possibly more rich and profitable.
Continuing on the road into the city, he draw his pistol to a ready position, checking his surroundings. And to no avail; nothing he could see was of any threat. Sure, a walker or two was present. However, now that he would recall, he Did hear a rumbling sound not that long ago; may it be the dead just hadn't spread back out? He wasn't certain, but was at least relieved. His Glock dropped back down to his side. Might as well explore, he concluded.
His ascent was a slow and weary one. The ache of his legs hadn't settled in until now. After miles and miles of walking, he had felt nothing - or did he just not show it? He couldn't remember. All he knew now, was that he felt like he was going to collapse. Fear had never taken him on as hard as it had now, since the beginning. Even though he was from Detroit, he had it fixed in his mind that somehow this would be a worse area - and possibly more rich and profitable.
Continuing on the road into the city, he draw his pistol to a ready position, checking his surroundings. And to no avail; nothing he could see was of any threat. Sure, a walker or two was present. However, now that he would recall, he Did hear a rumbling sound not that long ago; may it be the dead just hadn't spread back out? He wasn't certain, but was at least relieved. His Glock dropped back down to his side. Might as well explore, he concluded.
A rounded, metal surface was the only company Marcus Booker woke up to; the same company he scoured for every night so he could sleep. On the road below, the living dead made their shuffle across the destroyed road; seems as if they were heading towards New Orleans, or so the beaten green sign to Booker's left would put it; New Orleans, 4 miles ahead. His body ached from the rest. It always does - living conditions aren't really that idea for hell, now. He managed to get to his feet, looking around the surrounding lands. The area was actually benign for the circumstances. He took his backpack by the strap, sliding it onto his back.
He walked down the roof of the van, dropping onto the concrete road. The group of dead had't noticed him; they were ahead, stumbling and shuffling about. He followed behind the party, in near the same manner. He walked with the shuffling of his feet, his head hanged low. Though he unsheathed his machete from his backpack, in case of the walkers catching wind of him. They made it about three minutes before a moan echo'd in his direction. It didn't seem as big of a deal now, though. The party had split and stumbled into the grass and other areas; only around four remained on the road in front of him. Booker didn't have much of a problem out maneuvering the walkers. He slid past one, causing it to stumble somewhere behind him. His machete slammed into the head of another, which cleaved a path for him to walk without trouble, even if he would be followed by the remainders.
Somewhere along the way his company disbanded, finding other prey, falling, or getting killed by getting too close to Marcus. His shuffle ground to a halt in front of a similar sign to the one he witnessed back at the van; [i]New Orleans, 1 mile ahead/i]. He waited for several moments, taking in the situation. Would he find supplies? People - and if so would they be friendly? He came to the conclusion that it didn't really make a difference. He took the gamble. He started down the road again, towards the city.
He walked down the roof of the van, dropping onto the concrete road. The group of dead had't noticed him; they were ahead, stumbling and shuffling about. He followed behind the party, in near the same manner. He walked with the shuffling of his feet, his head hanged low. Though he unsheathed his machete from his backpack, in case of the walkers catching wind of him. They made it about three minutes before a moan echo'd in his direction. It didn't seem as big of a deal now, though. The party had split and stumbled into the grass and other areas; only around four remained on the road in front of him. Booker didn't have much of a problem out maneuvering the walkers. He slid past one, causing it to stumble somewhere behind him. His machete slammed into the head of another, which cleaved a path for him to walk without trouble, even if he would be followed by the remainders.
Somewhere along the way his company disbanded, finding other prey, falling, or getting killed by getting too close to Marcus. His shuffle ground to a halt in front of a similar sign to the one he witnessed back at the van; [i]New Orleans, 1 mile ahead/i]. He waited for several moments, taking in the situation. Would he find supplies? People - and if so would they be friendly? He came to the conclusion that it didn't really make a difference. He took the gamble. He started down the road again, towards the city.
I agree with the two above me; I'd prefer to be split up at start.
Appearance: 
Name: Marcus Booker
Age: 44
Skill: A moderate marksman with a good melee skill; years of being homeless had taught him to fend for himself.
Weapon: Machete, Glock 18 with 26 bullets, and a pocket knife.
Personality: A stoic individual with a tendency to not trust others; however, loyal to his friends and company.
Brief Bio: Marcus was born a few miles into Detroit. His life hit a curve and brought his family and he into being homeless; his parents passed only a year shy of him becoming an adult.
Name: Marcus Booker
Age: 44
Skill: A moderate marksman with a good melee skill; years of being homeless had taught him to fend for himself.
Weapon: Machete, Glock 18 with 26 bullets, and a pocket knife.
Personality: A stoic individual with a tendency to not trust others; however, loyal to his friends and company.
Brief Bio: Marcus was born a few miles into Detroit. His life hit a curve and brought his family and he into being homeless; his parents passed only a year shy of him becoming an adult.
Not really all that new here, use to be a member of the 'Oldguild'. Nice to see the site is still up and running.
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