[hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=4682b4]Ash Holloway[/color][/b][/i][/h1][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/8fad17a9-9f82-4bbd-8428-62a1824e07c9.gif[/img][/center][hr][center][color=steelblue][b]Location:[/b][/color] Headland: House (E2)
[color=4682b4][b]Skills:[/b][/color] Perception [/center][hr][hr]

	His strength was flagging. There was no denying it anymore. No amount of wishful thinking was going to put the blood back into his body nor knit the hole it came from. It might have even been folly to grab so much stuff from the car before running out into the epicenter of a tornado breeding ground. Lord knew that his shirt was toast, as could anyone could plainly see that had even the barest power of sight. Ash wasn't particularly happy. His people were alive and relatively safe though, and a family was back together. He'd still call this day a win, overall. 

	Mustering what physical reserves he had buried, not to mention a heavy spoonful of partially false optimism, Ash put one foot in front of the other, trying like hell to focus only on that concept. A boot slapped onto untested ground before him, followed by another, and another, and another. Eventually, it would total enough steps to allow him to collapse without fear of being caught in the open for the elements or the Dead to make short work of him. He barely noticed Tatiana yelling from in front of him; her voice seemed to be getting farther away. Ash did note the pile of freshly killed bodies that he assumed belonged to the previous occupants of the house that he was stumbling toward. Once upon a time, that would have been a thing that would have bothered him. Time and circumstance did seem to change one's tolerances. Instead of bother, the once Captain took it as a sign that the place was secure, and while he wouldn't have left corpses out in the open like that, he was in no position to quibble over the matter. 

	After what seemed like an hour (but was probably only a couple of minutes), Ash managed to set his boots into the house proper. His head was ringing, but he did manage to hear someone offer to take some of his burden. Lifting his head, Ash saw that it was Riley. [color=4682b4]"Appreciate that, Superstar."[/color] he remarked distantly, dropping his bags to the floor with a heavy [i]thunk[/i]. Reflexively, Ash moved his weapon to holster it in the place that he would usually keep a pistol, fully forgetting that his old .45 and the military rig that held it was lost - long gone over the course of a hard year out in the world. The memory of it made him sigh heavily. He had just gotten that weapon before the Outbreak; it was the newest and best pistol circulated into active service, and was a fine piece of tough, calibrated hardware that had done him well for years. Instead, he tucked his present gun into his belt.

	With a weak but stoic voice, Ash uttered, [color=4682b4]"I need someplace to lay down for a while."[/color] He glanced at his injury, [color=4682b4]"Maybe some vice grips and a bottle of whiskey, too. Little help, please?"[/color] 


[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=dc143c]Thalia Carmichael[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/d3b5fd39-04ec-401f-a25c-35f55d7ad76e.gif[/img][hr][b][color=crimson]Location:[/color][/b] Quincy (in house, G6)
[b][color=dc143c]Skills:[/color][/b] Perception [hr][hr][/center]

	Pain was setting in, raw and gnawing. But so was fatigue. Thalia would have lay even money on which would take the majority of her attention before the night was over, but the desire to close her eyes was making its move, speeding closer like a thoroughbred racing horse on the last stretch of a race. The young woman smiled just a little at the mental analogy. She had never really taken an interest in horses, [i]actual[/i] horses, before the Zeds eat away most of humanity. Girlish visions of "My Little Pony" probably didn't count, though she was admittedly beginning to think, as the pastel equines attested, that Friendship was indeed Magic. Okay, maybe not magic in the strictest sense, but it was one of the contributing factors that kept you alive. Thana, Beatrice, Manny, Mugs; that collection of nutcases and assholes were the reason she was still living, most likely. Thinking back on it, a different set of nutcases and assholes was the reason she didn't die shortly after the Outbreak, too. Also the reason that she took an interest in horses that didn't come with cutie marks and have a marketable line of toys modeled after them. Vikings in Georgia were responsible. God, how she missed them.

	Her mind drifted back to the group in Fairburn's Castle Town that took her in when she was near to dying from exposure and ignorance. Lessons learned from them gave her purpose and a new skill set that she took to with serious fervor. She had quickly turned from an independent, dark, and professional urban girl, and become what she could only have described using terms from an old set of D&D books she happened across back in college: Ranger, Pathfinder, Stalker. When the native teachings of La Familia Gonzalez mixed with the necessary survival skills of the Shieldmaidens of Fairburn, something new was created within Thalia. She stepped out from the shadow of her family's exploits and become her own woman, and while she would always be proud of her lineage, she did not want to go back to existing as just another of La Familia; known mostly for being the niece of a legend. Now, she rode horses. She ran through thick woodland silently. She built fires that were not visible from more than a few steps away with diffused smoke that did not give away their position. She fought with blade and spear and shield, gun, stick, and fists. Thalia stormed goddamned cult fortresses and scoured the stain of their presence from the face of the earth. She did things her uncle never did. 

	A piercing moment of introspection told her why she was suddenly thinking of all this, all at once. Thalia was scared. Genuinely afraid of what might happen to her and her unique blend of skills now that she had half the number of hands one usually needed to use a skill or ply a trade. What was more, she was formerly right-handed. She could use a knife fine in her left hand, and a shield? Its use was designed with the off hand in mind. She had figured out the trick of using a firestarter with her left as well, which was good, but this was going to be a massive adjustment and there was no way around it. 

	Thalia was very near to sleep, and her subconscious was forcing her to deal with her insecurities, forcing her to cope with a frightening set of possibilities. But she was a survivor. Every doubt that surfaced was met by a defiant argument. Yes, this would be an issue. Damn big one. Thalia would adapt. She would deal with it. Lots of help would be needed, but she would get accustomed to this new reality in which she had one fully functional hand and one arm that ended below the elbow. Hell, the right gear and a bit of time, this might even become an asset. The descent into unconsciousness brought with it visions of limb replacement and potential additions for scouting or combat, tactics for fighting like that, weapons that could be utilized from a fixed position or simple grasp. Her footwork would have to alter as well. She was always a switch-hitter boxer anyway. No, she would adapt. She would be okay, eventually. But there was one thing that bothered her:

	Just before she closed her eyes and allowed sleep to claim her, Thalia raised the bandaged stump of her right arm and stared at it for long seconds. With a sleepy sigh, she breathed, [color=dc143c]"Well there goes my fucking sex life..."[/color] lamenting the loss of her dominant hand. A halfhearted shrug later, she was past the concerns of the waking world.  




[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=deb887]Hank Wright[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://media2.giphy.com/media/X9tNBsudcJ1rg2dkG2/giphy.gif?cid=3640f6095c1722a773664f76676c21e5[/img][hr][b][color=burlywood]Location:[/color][/b] Building Interior (D4)
[b][color=deb887]Skills:[/color][/b] N/A [hr][hr][/center]

	[color=deb887]"Jesus Christ, Wayne. How I'm still alive is a mystery. Figuring out how [i]you're[/i] still alive is a god damn Herculean Labor. Seriously, I'm... I'm... I'm [i]baffled[/i] how we got this far."[/color] he stammered, looking to his friend on the ground. [color=deb887]"[i]Baffled[/i], Wayne."[/color] They'd been at this for a long time now, and both parties knew that were Wayne actually injured or in trouble then Hank's response would have been considerably more serious and less admonishing. He had the crazy guy's back no matter what. But falling on one's ass during a quixotic dash to be the first man into potential danger was demanding of a little mirth and a moderate amount of sarcasm, so long as no one was hurt. 

	The lack of working stairs didn't seem to bother Erica in the slightest, though she did require Hank's assistance again. No harm, no foul. He had no problem giving this another try. Now that there was a bare spot that used to be ceiling, the plan had to change somewhat. Hank offered over the use of his Maglite, with the guideline of, [color=deb887]"You be thorough, but you be mindful of the batteries, too. Working D-Cells are an endangered species, huh?"[/color] Again he assumed the Human Step Project stance, this time with his feet a bit more apart to facilitate a more lasting, stable support for the woman and her trip up to what he assumed was an attic overhead. It might be a hell of a place to store goods, too. Commercial, non-perishables from a while back, or even some basic items that might their lives a hair easier on the temporary. [color=deb887]"Come on, let's get this over with. I have some quality 'sitting the hell down' I'm anxious to start on tonight. Up you go."[/color]