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[ceNter][h1][color=yellow]Black Mage[/color][/h1][/ceNter]
[center]Word Count: 1,309, +3 EXP gained![/center]
[ceNter]Level 1: EXP, 3/10[/ceNter]
[hr]

	Trying to muster more strength, the Black Mage would rub his forehead, ridding the wet burden from his cap. Casting one more thunder spell, luck was on his side. He was able to hit some of the undead creatures that are closing on him and his group of fellow survivors. The death of the man he had known as Bill was tragic to many, but Black Mage had never seen a survivor of his caliber, especially given his age. He took a quick moment to examine the situation and went over to the man who looked at him; Leon. Black Mage was carrying something beneath the cloth of his blue robe. It was a red gas canister that was hidden in the old warehouse not too far from the central plaza. He would hand the fluid contained box to the leader, hoping he could put it to some good use so that the young mage can escape and continue his search for his fallen compatriots. He was beginning to lose faith in the group he was trapped with, this horde of undead creatures was overpowering them. 

	Black Mage had not been infected by any of the “zombies” that had been chasing him and his new and his new group of peers. [i] [color=yellow] What an odd name to refer an undead specimen by… Z is not a commonly used letter in the English language, and for something that doesn’t seem to contain ANY spirit, why name it after a [url=http://www.umich.edu/~uncanny/zombies.html]nzambi…[/url][/color][/i] the little mage thought to himself. He would decline any offering of the mysterious drug “Zombrex”, trying to explain that no matter how “dark” his skin tone was, he was most certainly not ill nor has any infection they had previously mentioned. Any time the man Leon had offered any, he had kindly and quietly shook his head, putting his hands up and shaking them as well. 

	After very slowly regaining his strength, he takes his required patrol around the police station, as was routine for those involved in the survival. He uses his staff like a cane or a walking stick, propping his tired body straight so that he can walk with more ease. He walks up to a higher level of the police station, and look at the horde that was bundled outside of the station. Ever since he had arrived here, things seemed to be different than the world he used to live in. Back a few moments, he was a hero… A celebrity among those in his home kingdom. Then he was rescued, met with glances of confusion and mystery. No one remembered him anymore. He was irrelevant and felt as though he could connect with anyone. It’s not as though he was upset, he just felt lost, even more than usual. He felt he had a purpose, but now, not so much. Along with that, he had lost power, magical power that had grown as he did.

	He quickly shook the dark thought from out of his head, getting back to the mission at hand. Patrolling. Yes, looking for signs of life, help, and exterminating any stray undead foes who may become problematic later. He would clutch his staff in his right hand and be prepared for any unforeseen predicament. He was limited to a measly thunder spell, regardless of how powerful it remained. His body did not have enough energy to mass-produce these spells anymore too, so he found himself often getting exhausted. He would take care of one stray figure in the mass of undead, but besides that, no signs of life. He shot a very weak bolt of lightning at the enemy, frying his brain swiftly and removing the threat. He would leave the body of the zombie (for obvious reasons), then cover his nose with his sleeve to prevent the already doubling putrid smell from completely nauseating himself. He reflected on his power loss, thinking that [i] [color=yellow] It’s not that they’re difficult to terminate… It’s just that I can’t do as much as I used to… [/color][/i] He felt weak, unable, inassimilable. He couldn’t help but look at the horde that gathered outside of the window and think about how many innocent peoples had been decimated by these foul demons.

 He walks the long and lengthy way back down to the lobby, enjoying the once beautiful architect of the long stride of the hall he passed through. Placing his hand against the aged wallpaper, he collected many dust bunnies and cobwebs, obviously from the lack of care in the station. Eventually, he arrives at the top of a flight of spiral stairs and he somewhat skips down them, excited to report the good news to their temporary leader. He arrives at the face of Max Howard and gives a cheerful quiet wave. His voice was intelligent and dark for someone of his physical caliber. [color=yellow] “Found one stray undead human Howard. Nothing much else to report.” [/color] He fixes his hat, then tips the brim, quickly scampering away. He takes his staff out of under his robe and began to walk away from the current vicinity.

Black Mage hadn’t made great acquaintances with most any of the individuals involved in the police station, used to being forced into situations that involved groups. None of them even knew his formal name, Vivi Orienter. He simply walked over to his usual post and watched the door for any dangerous visitors who may be approaching any time shortly. He rests comfortably on the floor and examines his pockets, which were once filled to the brim with magic and health restoration potions and find that they are now empty. [i][color=yellow]Guess I shoulda’ used them more sparingly… -sigh- [/color][/i] He listens to the door for any singular warning sign that might suggest the horde creeping up on this rag-tag group of survivors. Survivors… Yeah, that’s what he was now, a survivor.

He would do some preliminary research on summoning and could for once, confirm that these were not the creations of some hell-spawned necromancer set out on obliterating the world. This was more… natural and carefully administered by nature, or even God himself, if there was one out there. He would have reported the news to the current leader, but he figured to most of the individuals in the area that manners of magic had little to no implications for their daily life. They all used guns and swords, weapons that he himself had been familiar with, having adventurous experiences with the irresponsible Cloud Strife and the tactics he and his compatriots used to save his kingdom a few years back, but for a very few amount of the new faces he knew, magic seemed present in some way or another. He wonders… [i][color=yellow] How would a group of “magical” survivors do? Those who, much like me, rely solely on magic and dark magic?...[/color][/i]

While thinking upon matters irrelevant to the surviving situation, Black Mage would take out a small bag of oats he had saved on his adventures. He eats the oats straight on their own as if they were sweet granola that the heavens blessed upon him, but alas, they were merely regular oats. It’s been a while since he had a full meal, given a good amount of hearty food, due to his long adventure followed by being saved by these random people. He wants to be free of this trap, sooner rather than later. Luckily, a small group of rescuers he was completely unaware of would soon be coming to rid of the undead and free the mage from this dark and lonesome prison, where no one knew how to properly interact with one another. Trying to relax to the best of his ability, he would solemnly and quietly rest his tired and extremely weary eyes. Goodnight little blue warrior.