[hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=4682b4]Ash Holloway[/color][/b][/i][/h1][img]https://68.media.tumblr.com/c6f0f86d13839f8542e4b754c251da73/tumblr_ojog8uNf9k1qdhps7o1_r1_500.gif[/img][/center][hr][center][color=steelblue][b]Location:[/b][/color] Headland: E. Main Street, M7, Car (Passenger side back seat)
[color=4682b4][b]Skills:[/b][/color] N/A [/center][hr][hr]

	Ash listened to the ramble of words that came from Jack. While he could not fully understand every word of what he was saying, like imagery in decent poetry, he caught the gist of the intent behind it. This was the culmination of everything Jack had hoped for over the past good, solid [i]year[/i]. He had missed the birth of his child and the first few months of its life. While they were not things he could ever get back, the relief and gratitude had to be massive that he was with his family now. 

	The thought stopped him. Family. For the first time in a long time, he had made the distinction between family that was made through marriage and blood, and that which was forged over the past few years of struggling and horror and trust. There had to be some kind of separation now, however minuscule. Ash was a godfather now, but he would never know the connection that Jack had to this tiny human. Even if something horrible were to befall Tatiana and Jack both, Ash knew that he would care for this baby and raise him as best he could. Possibly even bond with him in a manner similar to the one Jack had come by naturally. Certainly fight and die for him if it was needed. He might never know what his friend felt right in this moment, though.

	[color=4682b4]"Don't even worry about that, Jack."[/color] Ash kept pressing against his wound. It hurt like hell, but it didn't seem to be getting any worse right then. If Tatiana was correct, he'd be okay after a while. [color=4682b4]"You deserve some down time with your boy. I owe you an apology, actually."[/color] He had been hanging onto something for a while that needed to be said now, he figured. [color=4682b4]"Year ago, I told you that we would all meet up after one night. I got hopes up - not just yours. But you had the most to hope for, and I broke my promise every day that we didn't get to her. I'm sorry as hell, man. So sorry. It took long enough, Jack, and I'm glad it finally worked out. I just wish... ...it could have been sooner. I'll do whatever I can to help you and your family. I hope you know that."[/color] 



[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=dc143c]Thalia Carmichael[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://t00.deviantart.net/dHHPOqAGNXgcsraMxhBAPNTzXh0=/500x250/filters:fixed_height(100,100):origin()/pre00/4e41/th/pre/i/2016/083/4/6/trubel_by_kmceci-d9wb3do.png[/img][hr][b][color=crimson]Location:[/color][/b] Quincy (in house, C9 - C8)
[b][color=dc143c]Skills:[/color][/b] Scavenging/Foraging, Survival [hr][hr][/center]

	[color=dc143c]"Nah, table's great there, Mugsy. Nice and... something."[/color] Thalia felt great. Not the kind of great that was birthed of a job well done, followed by a tall glass of mescal and those fried meat pies that they sold in roadside stands and/or the barbecued pork tamales that the Abuelitas used to make for her when she was a kid, back in Monterrey. Dama Muerte or Blood of Týr (either one would do), but she could go for some of those tamales right then. Instead what she had was an unopened can of SpaghettiOs and an open bottle of water. She glared at both of them, as if seeing them for the first time. A smile formed on her face. Well, it slid sleepily, through a drug-induced haze, anyway. But hey, she was feeling great! 

	And hot. Really hot. Like, roasting pan hot. Someone had put a blanket over her at some point and she really didn't remember owning the shirt she was wearing. In her mind, the best option that she had was to divest herself of both of them, and on the quick. Thalia was careful to push herself up to a seated position using her left hand. Part of this was because she didn't want to push the limits of the painkiller she was on. Part of this was because she only had the one hand. Funny how these things worked out. 

	Her plan took a detour when she realized that she felt like she hadn't had anything to drink for a couple of days. The bottle was very inviting. She couldn't just say no. It would be insulting to the bottle. And Alexander for putting it there. A dry tongue attempted to moisten equally dry lips as she brought the water close. That first sip was nigh orgasmic. Who knew [i]water[/i] was so awesome, right? Not too much though. She was impaired, not stupid. A few good sips and back on the table with that bottle. She had more important things to attend to. Like that can of O's that Beatrice left sitting there. If she didn't want to share, fine. More canned pasta goodness for her. Oh my yes, Thalia would have all of the O's to herself. Every last o... 

	Annoyed amusement lanced through her brain. [color=dc143c]"Oh, well played, you bitch. Well played."[/color] muttered Thalia. At least she didn't call her sweetie. (Though now that she knew it bothered her, Thalia would likely stay away from it. Mostly.) She snatched up the can for a closer inspection that she really didn't have to give. Beatrice had left her a perfectly good can of [i]unopened[/i] SpaghettiOs, but without the means to get at the orange-and-tan goodies inside. She had lost her multi-tool some time ago. Bea was proving to be a masterful opponent in the ongoing "O Wars", this time giving her the can outright and thusly elevating her desire to get at [i]Dem O's[/i], yet keeping them just out of reach. She was good. Oh yes. But Thalia would find a way. Can opener! There was a kitchen [i]right over there[/i] where one might be located. She had to check. 

	But first, this shirt was chafing her tender bits and making her a lot hotter than she should be. Or maybe it wasn't, but she had no desire to take that chance. Sliding down from the table, Thalia plunked the can back down and made a harrowing, one-handed attempt to remove her shirt, completely forgetting that she no longer had her sports bra courtesy of the cutting necessary for that circular saw amputation. Before she realized her mistake, the t-shirt was already off and hanging over her right shoulder. [color=dc143c]"That's better... Ok bitches, it's can openah time."[/color] She stepped boldly toward the kitchen. 

	This was apparently the cue for one of her legs to explode into pins and needles that she could not compensate for due to her present level of chemical assistance. One foot slid forward while the other leg crumpled beneath her, depositing her upon her ass halfway to the kitchen island. [color=dc143c]"And [i]still[/i] feeling okay!"[/color] she mused to her self. An absent glaze in her eyes, Thalia looked at the spot where her hand and half of her forearm used to be. She had mentally invoked the name of Tyr earlier. A Viking god that she now had a specific similarity to, and he was still written of as an utter badass. Now all she needed were Dwarves to craft her an arm suitable for adventuring. And help off the floor. 

	Yes, off the floor first. Dwarves later. Definitely. And why didn't she have a shirt on again? Today was confusing. 





[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: C8 -> C7
[b][color=deb887]Skills:[/color][/b] Survival, Club/Blunt Weapons [hr][hr][/center]

	Hank wanted this to be over as soon as possible. If Wayne absolutely had to jump into every group of dead people he possibly could for motivations that only he could fully understand, great. As long as everyone came through it okay, he minded less than if the alternative reared its ugly head. So far, no one was bitten or ripped to shreds. And his traveling companion's guns had jammed. This was an opportunity to wrap the fight up, or very nearly so, without putting the crazy man in any more direct danger. 

	The pack he had grabbed out of the back of the truck was full of various things he would need for an extended walk through Asshole infested country. In a pitched melee it just slowed him down. Hank was careful not to drop his shovel as he unslung the backpack and let it fall to the cracked blacktop below. He liked his shovel. Multi-functional, rustic, useful. And there was really something about working with his hands that he could appreciate on a base, masculine level. With his load considerably lighter, Hank let Wayne know his intentions, so he wouldn't get offered a machete to his face on the way past. [color=deb887]"Hold fire there, Sarge. Coming through, inside flank."[/color] 

	Holding his shovel like a soldier would a rifle with fixed bayonet, he jogged past his friend. There were two of them left in the immediate vicinity; one in front of the Roman guy, and one coming within landscapers' tool reach. As he neared the corpse staggering at them, the grizzled and surly man altered his hold on his digging implement, the blade of the tool now thrust fully out in front of him like a broad bladed lance. [color=deb887]"Keep smiling, hagbitch."[/color] he taunted the dead person, its skin pulled back to show the rictus grin of death upon it. [color=deb887]"Shovel Knight to the rescue."[/color] He instantly regretted saying those words out loud. A twang of emotional pain showed across his face which he immediately buried beneath enough rage to murder a baby seal outright. Hank planted the shovel in the dead thing's neck and shoved forward, letting the combined force of the blow and his forward momentum remove the head altogether. The body dropped, but the head still snarled impotently at him from its new home on the road. Another bash solved that little dilemma. 

	He stopped. [color=deb887]"So, we done here yet? I'd like to find someplace before it gets dark."[/color]