Though Gryphon couldn't rightly consider himself the sentimental type, he kept the gun - the terrible 9mm that belonged one of the bodyguards from the start of the outbreak. It had kept everyone alive and remained quite the staple as the only weapon anyone knew how to use (except for Laura, bless her heart, the girl nearly broke her fingers firing it) without improvising, so it went without saying that he'd take it the night he left them. The thing would have gone to waste otherwise, if all that talk of "going out with dignity" was anything to go off of. Unfortunately, ammo was sparse these days, and now he was left with a measly [i]seven[/i].

He managed to survive the undead menace of Oregon by tagging along with groups of varying skill and potential of survival, and there were a few where he considered staying, really, but something always happened and Gryphon always left. But it wasn't like he could make it through the rest of the year keeping that up, unless he could find a functioning community for once. He'd seen the desecrated husks of more than five at this point. There were signs of forced entry in a few, signs of carelessness in a couple, and signs of nothing in one. That last one had to be infighting. Maybe a community wasn't a great idea.

A few hours earlier he tripped over a mall in Portland and with that vulture mentality in play, found his way in. Not the best place to be solo, but he was running out of food and wasn't confident he could live for another week on the stalest chips in the world. Gryphon prowled on towards the food court, eyes darting to every noise with that gun in one hand and a switchblade in the other. Only one of those things were going to be effecting, but hey. A little peace of mind was in demand.