Given Name
Though he himself does not understand why, the one other person he's met thus far has referred to him as 'Pick'. When he asked about it he was met only with a laugh before the two of them were ripped to shreds.
Appearance
Pick is a man who appears to be in his late twenties, his features having an almost forced ruggedness to him. Should he shave and clean himself up he'd appear to be quite handsome with a soft looking face and light complexion, though instead he keeps his moderately sized beard unkempt and his thick black hair stays only just short enough to keep out of his deep brown eyes. He's not fairly clean either, nor is anything he owns as most of it is covered in dirt or dust.
Pick is an around average man, though a little on the large side standing an inch or two over six feet with a fairly solid build giving him a 'sturdy' appearance. His physique is an odd mix between lean and big boned, making him appear a little less fit than he actually is.
This is sort of hidden by his clothing, which is designed to cover and meant for labour work as the materials seem fairly tough. Heavy work boots, faded black work pants, a light beige tunic covered in dirt, and on top of that a heavy looking, brown leather jacket with several pockets meant for functionality over style. Atop his head Pick wears a miners helmet, with a still functional but extinguished head lamp on the front. Finally, dug through his jacket and lodged in his upper back just beneath his right shoulder blade is a rusted iron pickaxe, the tool stuck where it is with Pick himself unaware of it's existence.
Equipment
- A heavy looking shovel. The edges are a little dented but otherwise it's in fairly good condition with a reinforced neck to keep the spade from breaking off the handle.
- Headlamp. While the plain grey helmet itself has clearly seen better days the lamp attached to the front looks fairly new aside from the small crack in the lens on the front.
- Matches. Just a tin of matches, and while it's obviously been opened before there are still plenty of matches inside (Around thirty)
- Oil. A few tin flasks of lantern oil occupies two of the pockets inside Pick's jacket; each tin holding enough to refill the head lamp twice from empty.
- Canteen. While the outside is caked in dirt and covered in dents the inside remains clean and unpunctured. Currently about half full and held over the shoulder underneath Pick's jack.
- Map. Less a map than it is a tattered and dirty crumple of paper. Barely readable anymore though you can still make out a few parts of the legend and some of the things written on it.
Memories
Work..."I'm sorry, but there isn't really anything else to say. I expect your things gone by the end of the day. It's been nice working with you."~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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~~~~~~~~"It's not going to work anymore. You've changed, and I can't look at you the same. Goodbye."~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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~~~"Let me make you an offer..." JourneyThis memory is clearer. Not blurred like the others. We were traveling. Who they were, I can't remember- their faces are always turned away from me.
"I promise you, mate. We're all going to be rich after the end of this."
"And we'll split the finds even? A share to each man?"
"O'course we will. Many hands make light work but too many and they get tangled. The ten of us will do just fine out there- how you holdin' up?"
"This pack is heavy. I don't see why I need to carry all this."
"Cuz you're the biggest guy here. You got good legs-"
"How much farther?"
"Duno. Lemme check the map..."CampIt's cold. I can't remember. We were digging. Why were we digging? We're running out of food. They're dead. Not them, the others. He's always alive though- he's alright. Why haven't we found it yet? Seven head left; two crushed and one just gone. We need to build supports for the tunnels...
Nobody sings like they used to. We're out of drink- only water now. We just eat in silence, looking at the fire. Still nothing, nothing but dirt and rock. It's cold...
Discovery"HERE it is!" We're digging. Always digging. We found it- digging, always digging. Digging faster. Digging farther. We found- digging...
Did we find it? We found it- digging. Why are we digging? One of them had me help them haul it out. Was it why? I- I can't see. Are we going home? Where is home...
GamesWe're digging, me and him. He's still alright; it's dark. We found it, why are we still digging? More? We don't need more, we have enou-
It's cold. This is colder though- a spike of ice- no, him; a thorn in my side now something worse. It hurts, I can't breathe- crimson- choking- cold ground, cold hands. Why would they do this? What did I do? Hurts- the cold hurts. No light...
Awakening
Through the blackness, a gasp is heard- strangled and raw as whomever it came from scrambles to their feet in a panic. The sound of metal clanging against stone echo's out into the emptiness, and a shocked cry escapes the lone figure's cold lips. He gasps again, his breathing irregular and shallow as the sound of a match being struck blends with the distant scrape of claws.
The wick lights, the flame piercing the shadows as a filthy hand moves to put the glass cover in place. A beam of light shines forward, the metal helmet back on the head of it's owner.
"Well fuck," a voice mutters, not belonging to the man with the light. In a panic the beam flashes all around, coming to rest on another man dressed similarly to the first but looking far dirtier. "Now we're both done for mate," he grumbles, his eyes glazed over as he stared towards the high cavern ceiling.
"What do you mea- ARGHHH!" the man with the headlamp screams, overtaken by a sudden pain in his chest. Slowly he drops to his knees, lamp falling off his head and onto the ground as he leaned forward.
"That looks nasty," the other man commented, now covered in shadow as the light had fallen upon the first man. "Pick in the back- how'd that happen?"
The first man's only response is another pained groan, prompting a sigh from the other before he spoke louder. "Oy, Pick! How'd that happen?" he shouted, his voice forcing the cavern into momentary silence.
"What pick, what? Where am I?" the first man asked, trying to push himself upright as the pain began to subside.
"Wish I could tell you, Pick," the second man replied regretfully, a hint of sadness in his tone as a distant screech sent shivers through the inky blackness. "Grab that hat of yours. You might need it when you wake up again."
Again the screech sounded, closer and accompanied by a rapid clicking which echoed through the cavern. Panic overtaking him, the first man grabbed his helmet and groped through the darkness, his hand coming to rest on what he recognized quickly as a shovel. "Won't do you any good, Pick," was the last thing he heard, right before a scythe like claw rended him in two.
