[hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=4682b4]Ash Holloway[/color][/b][/i][/h1][img]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/c3/2a/d5/c32ad53279d627f66861cb579e4b3fb8.gif[/img][/center][hr][center][color=steelblue][b]Location:[/b][/color] Headland: E. Main Street, E8 (outside of the Hordebuster) [color=4682b4][b]Skills:[/b][/color] N/A [/center][hr][hr] The deluge of rain seemed to make everything more difficult. Sometimes it was a good thing. It made the firefight as difficult for their adversaries as it did for his own people. Between the atmospheric discharge and his own sense of style exiting his grand (if now deceased) Hordebuster, that bullet that was likely meant for his heart found his shoulder instead. It wasn't ideal, as if anything in this world really was anymore. But he wasn't dead yet, and probably wouldn't be dead for a while yet with this as his only injury. He was down to a knee, in a field of bullets and carnage. The half-sarcasm he had spouted earlier was picked up by the Nun. Ash shot her a look that contained elements of anger and distrust. She shows up in a highly conspicuous manner, gives a response that sets off a warning bell in the back of his brain, and now a car containing captured people he cared about roars by. Ash did not like coincidences. Nor was he of a mood to tend to his own discomfort while others lives were at stake. Growling, trying not to writhe from the foreign object lodged in his shoulder, Ash half rolled, half pulled himself toward the side of the Hordebuster. It was a big truck, there was room. Glancing in the direction of Tatiana and Jack, Ash grunted through clenched teeth, [color=4682b4]"[i]They[/i] need help now, not me!"[/color] He wasn't losing Tatiana and her baby now. Not to treat a shoulder injury, no matter how agonizing. [hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=dc143c]Thalia Carmichael[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/99b643e3-9dfc-433b-b45e-358442bd37c7.png[/img][hr][b][color=crimson]Location:[/color][/b] Quincy (in house, C9) [b][color=dc143c]Skills:[/color][/b] N/A [hr][hr][/center] Darkness. Nothing more. Not even a feeling of self. Just clean, serene peace associated with warm, neutral absence. Whether it was weeks or merely minutes, Thalia could not guess. But the fact that she had the barest presence of awareness to question anything at all was progress. She was still cut off from the majority of her perception, but through the haze of subconscious memory Thalia somehow knew that consciousness was her enemy. Whatever was waiting for her out in the world was a thing she did not want to deal with. Not right then. Probably not for a while. Eventually, want or not, this would have to be faced. Just not now. Just an hour more. Half hour. Whatever time meant in this place of vast nothingness. Thoughts began to congeal, bringing flashes of color to the abyss. Random, irrational at first. But slowly, images started to form. Frightening things to begin; wisps of nightmare escaping from their locked cages, the expression of Thalia's constant fears held in check by discipline. Searching through the horror and doubt, she latched onto a single point of light. It was her father. Biological father, anyway. He was a priest, and often had the want to sing his little Angelita to sleep. Yes, sleep - a thing she needed to maintain for a while more. Quietly, she sat down in the minefield of her inner thoughts and remembered her father, singing one of his favorite songs to her in English with gentle voice: [hider] [youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Npw5b7vupv0[/youtube] [/hider] The rest of the world saw Thalia's lips barely moving, occasionally catching part of a phrase. [color=dc143c]"...descending angel... ...alone we face the night... descending... stand by my side... descending angel..."[/color] Deep within the sanctuary of her mind, Thalia knew that she was no longer whole. On the outside, the realization was reflected with a single, barely noticeable teardrop. [hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=deb887]Hank Wright[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://www.screamhorrormag.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/Stan-Against-Evil-e1529577006422-600x240.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=burlywood]Location:[/color][/b] Okefenokee: D12 -> D11 [b][color=deb887]Skills:[/color][/b] N/A [hr][hr][/center] Advancing upon the back of a high, crazy person was not the best way, overall, for Hank to hang onto the top half of his favorite head. Not with Wayne flinging about his machete carelessly in an attempt to keep his own, internal beat whilst attempting a foxtrot with an animated corpse. Not only was it fairly impolite, it was also fairly impossible for [i]one[/i] of those two dance partners to perform a quick two-step changeover. At that moment, Hank wasn't 100% as to which one it was. Thankfully, the former Detective either saw the error of his ways or just got bored, and put the poor, dead Asshole out of its misery. Hank closed some distance between himself and Wayne. It was aggravating sometimes, the way that Wayne would just go running off like that. Of course, Hank would follow. They were supposed to be a team. But he did ok while flying solo, or he had been so far. Perhaps one day he wouldn't bother trying to catch up. Then he shook his head. Nah, it was a stupid thought. They were a team. If his little proclivities meant that Hank had a jog a bit and talk him down, it was worth it to have someone who truly did not give a shit stand watch for cadavers while he took a quick dump in the woods. Bonus points if he held the wipes.