Having a time or what?
- Last Seen: 8 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Sarpedon
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 1097 (0.24 / day)
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- Sarpedon 12 yrs ago
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10 yrs ago
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I'M BACK! Hit me up!
10 yrs ago
Leaving 20 September until 30 October. Going to be a shitty time in the field. Probably going to be a week after that before I even think about writing again.
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10 yrs ago
Going on exercise as of 19 September. Not sure if I am going for 3 or 6 weeks...
10 yrs ago
Vacation time! Will try to keep posting, but can't guarantee anything, please be patient.
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10 yrs ago
RIP in peace, Bauble. We barely knew ye...
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Bio
ATTENTION:
Course is over! Whoop! Whoop!
I have no fucking clue what the fuck is going on.
Posting speed and availability is subject to change without notice, and I won't have internet when my vacation ends, which is tomorrow...
Thank you, have a nice day!
Course is over! Whoop! Whoop!
I have no fucking clue what the fuck is going on.
Posting speed and availability is subject to change without notice, and I won't have internet when my vacation ends, which is tomorrow...
Thank you, have a nice day!
Most Recent Posts
I think we're all villainous types of fellows in our own way...
Ricky - Old Jefferson, give or take - Anyone
Ricky had never claimed to be an expert on this place. He'd spent more him around here than in Canada, sure, but he hadn't spent a whole lot of time near Baton Rouge, which was where the signs were telling him he was, give or take. And after almost a year of zombies ruining things, the world was starting to look a whole lot different. Of course, that didn't stop him from making his way toward the nearest Walmart. Or that was at least where he thought he was going. The world was too messed up to really be sure. But he didn't have much choice. These houses had been cleaned out, and his only hope was scavenging something useful out of the twenty-four-hour Supercenter he was sure had been around here somewhere. So he moved quietly and hoped. Hope usually wasn't the best resource to rely on, but he'd found himself leaning on it more and more lately. With things already sent to hell in the proverbial handbasket, there wasn't much else left to work with.
So he kept that in mind as he headed for what was likely salvation and damnation in equal measure. Sure, there might be things in the Walmart, but he was sure to have to fight for them. If it was him there, with enough people he trusted, he would most certainly start running a gang. There had to be enough furniture and non-perishable food there to last years. Even tempered with reason, though, hope was still a sketchy thing to use as a means for anything. The chef pushed aside his existential crisis once more as he decided to pick up the pace. There was a surprisingly undamaged bicycle just sitting in another yard. It was a child's bike, sure, but it was better than nothing. With no shame now that the world was pretty well destroyed, he thought nothing of adjusting the bright-pink contraption, lifting the seat and handlebars as high as they would go before hopping on. He could still manage a running pace on the ridiculously undersized bicycle. The glittery rainbow streamers trailing from the handlebars lent a comedy to the otherwise cripplingly depressing situation, and Ricky caught himself smile, but too late.
Even as he was making good time on his new ride, he spotted a dog. But this wasn't a normal dog, not any more. It was still alive, for better or for worse, but the shock of having to adapt to a hostile environment had left it mentally unwell. Something brightly-coloured and moving quickly had to be food at this point. It barked once, and another half-dozen animals appeared, more dogs. The golden retriever in the lead was the largest of them, looking ragged and soaked in blood. The rest appeared to be mutts of varying colouration. However they all shared the same, tattered, bloody look of the pack leader. Then, as the chef dared to hope he might be in the clear, the alpha barked once more, and all seven dogs took off after him, running faster than he could pedal the hot pink Supercycle.
There was only going to be one answer to this problem. Or rather, there were six of them tucked against the small of his back, however the .38 slugs weren't ideal for putting down compliant animals, let along probably-rabid dogs. "Fuck my life." he muttered, pedalling as hard as he could for the end of the street. Someone had left a dumpster there, on a little hill probably four feet from an eight-foot chainlink fence. The dumpster was overflowing, however, and there was a pile of garbage beside it, with a six-foot piece of plywood draped over it at an angle. It was like the perfect ramp. All he had to do was get over the fence and he'd be okay. The pack of dogs was getting closer, though, and he was sure this wasn't going to be an easy task.
And then, because Murphy was probably the worst person to ever grace the earth with his scumbaggery. Things went south faster than the CF-105 project, and Ricky was soon left in a panic. He hit the makeshift ramp and watched the plywood disintegrate. He was tossed over the handlebars of his too-small bicycle, and went head-over-heels through the back end of the garbage pile. None of the bags had been compromised, miraculously, so he had that going for him, but the tumble down the hill was the opposite of enjoyable. And now that he had really slowed down, the predators chasing him were catching up faster than he liked. And of course, he soon discovered the flaw in his original plan, on top of all that. At the bottom of the hill, where the fence was set up, he found a hole, big enough that the largest of dogs could squeeze through it. That meant he would fit too, but it also meant that, even as he scrambled for safety, he was going to have a lot more scrambling ahead of him.
The survivor managed to get through the chainlink fence without too much trouble, but now his pursuers were about to get through the fence too. Luckily for him, they had to take turns running through the hole, so he spun around long enough to draw his piece and pop off two rounds. Of course, the first one missed, and while the second one struck home, that left one dog down, and another six still chasing him. And now zombies would be moving toward him, hoping for an easy meal. He cursed up and down and took off sprinting again while the dogs struggled with moving the fastest of them out of the way. He wasn't even paying attention to his surroundings any more, he was too busy seeking anywhere he might escape the vicious appetites of the dogs behind him. His vision had tunnelled in so far, he could barely see what was in front of him. Too far in the black to care, he couldn't remember there was a revolver in his hand, though he did manage to pull the trigger while it was pointed at a zombie that seemed to appear out of nowhere. A doorway appeared, and he dashed through it, trying to close a door that no longer existed. He couldn't hear himself calling for help. Indeed, he was on the verge of passing out at this point. Something caught his foot, and Ricky fell, his hard landing setting off his revolver once more, leaving him with only two rounds, though he wasn't coherent enough to use them effectively anyway. That didn't stop him from rolling over and continuing his attempt at escape while flailing in front of him like a giant canine was about to jump on him at any moment...
Ricky had never claimed to be an expert on this place. He'd spent more him around here than in Canada, sure, but he hadn't spent a whole lot of time near Baton Rouge, which was where the signs were telling him he was, give or take. And after almost a year of zombies ruining things, the world was starting to look a whole lot different. Of course, that didn't stop him from making his way toward the nearest Walmart. Or that was at least where he thought he was going. The world was too messed up to really be sure. But he didn't have much choice. These houses had been cleaned out, and his only hope was scavenging something useful out of the twenty-four-hour Supercenter he was sure had been around here somewhere. So he moved quietly and hoped. Hope usually wasn't the best resource to rely on, but he'd found himself leaning on it more and more lately. With things already sent to hell in the proverbial handbasket, there wasn't much else left to work with.
So he kept that in mind as he headed for what was likely salvation and damnation in equal measure. Sure, there might be things in the Walmart, but he was sure to have to fight for them. If it was him there, with enough people he trusted, he would most certainly start running a gang. There had to be enough furniture and non-perishable food there to last years. Even tempered with reason, though, hope was still a sketchy thing to use as a means for anything. The chef pushed aside his existential crisis once more as he decided to pick up the pace. There was a surprisingly undamaged bicycle just sitting in another yard. It was a child's bike, sure, but it was better than nothing. With no shame now that the world was pretty well destroyed, he thought nothing of adjusting the bright-pink contraption, lifting the seat and handlebars as high as they would go before hopping on. He could still manage a running pace on the ridiculously undersized bicycle. The glittery rainbow streamers trailing from the handlebars lent a comedy to the otherwise cripplingly depressing situation, and Ricky caught himself smile, but too late.
Even as he was making good time on his new ride, he spotted a dog. But this wasn't a normal dog, not any more. It was still alive, for better or for worse, but the shock of having to adapt to a hostile environment had left it mentally unwell. Something brightly-coloured and moving quickly had to be food at this point. It barked once, and another half-dozen animals appeared, more dogs. The golden retriever in the lead was the largest of them, looking ragged and soaked in blood. The rest appeared to be mutts of varying colouration. However they all shared the same, tattered, bloody look of the pack leader. Then, as the chef dared to hope he might be in the clear, the alpha barked once more, and all seven dogs took off after him, running faster than he could pedal the hot pink Supercycle.
There was only going to be one answer to this problem. Or rather, there were six of them tucked against the small of his back, however the .38 slugs weren't ideal for putting down compliant animals, let along probably-rabid dogs. "Fuck my life." he muttered, pedalling as hard as he could for the end of the street. Someone had left a dumpster there, on a little hill probably four feet from an eight-foot chainlink fence. The dumpster was overflowing, however, and there was a pile of garbage beside it, with a six-foot piece of plywood draped over it at an angle. It was like the perfect ramp. All he had to do was get over the fence and he'd be okay. The pack of dogs was getting closer, though, and he was sure this wasn't going to be an easy task.
And then, because Murphy was probably the worst person to ever grace the earth with his scumbaggery. Things went south faster than the CF-105 project, and Ricky was soon left in a panic. He hit the makeshift ramp and watched the plywood disintegrate. He was tossed over the handlebars of his too-small bicycle, and went head-over-heels through the back end of the garbage pile. None of the bags had been compromised, miraculously, so he had that going for him, but the tumble down the hill was the opposite of enjoyable. And now that he had really slowed down, the predators chasing him were catching up faster than he liked. And of course, he soon discovered the flaw in his original plan, on top of all that. At the bottom of the hill, where the fence was set up, he found a hole, big enough that the largest of dogs could squeeze through it. That meant he would fit too, but it also meant that, even as he scrambled for safety, he was going to have a lot more scrambling ahead of him.
The survivor managed to get through the chainlink fence without too much trouble, but now his pursuers were about to get through the fence too. Luckily for him, they had to take turns running through the hole, so he spun around long enough to draw his piece and pop off two rounds. Of course, the first one missed, and while the second one struck home, that left one dog down, and another six still chasing him. And now zombies would be moving toward him, hoping for an easy meal. He cursed up and down and took off sprinting again while the dogs struggled with moving the fastest of them out of the way. He wasn't even paying attention to his surroundings any more, he was too busy seeking anywhere he might escape the vicious appetites of the dogs behind him. His vision had tunnelled in so far, he could barely see what was in front of him. Too far in the black to care, he couldn't remember there was a revolver in his hand, though he did manage to pull the trigger while it was pointed at a zombie that seemed to appear out of nowhere. A doorway appeared, and he dashed through it, trying to close a door that no longer existed. He couldn't hear himself calling for help. Indeed, he was on the verge of passing out at this point. Something caught his foot, and Ricky fell, his hard landing setting off his revolver once more, leaving him with only two rounds, though he wasn't coherent enough to use them effectively anyway. That didn't stop him from rolling over and continuing his attempt at escape while flailing in front of him like a giant canine was about to jump on him at any moment...
gotta get some voodoo up in this bitch
find a swamp witch running a gang of zombies in a swamp? go for a rip in a airboat and catch some gators with your bare hands?
find a swamp witch running a gang of zombies in a swamp? go for a rip in a airboat and catch some gators with your bare hands?
Where's Little Haiti at?
Ricky - Suburb, Old Jefferson - Anyone
It was a short walk off the highway, and through a ditch, into an unfenced suburb. Here, he found himself in a backyard, once well-tended and obviously loved, it was overgrown and ugly. Just like the rest of the world. The chef looked around and realized he had to be in a cul-de-sac, since there were yards to either side, that seemed to curve away, and he could see another similar situation on his left. Clearly this had once been a place full of life. Now it was full of the stench of death, and probably the undead too. Not liking that idea, the man moved slowly and quietly, creeping up on the closest house. The door was open, having been kicked in. He didn't anticipate finding anything, and decided not to look too hard if there were any zombies inside. His creeping was well-served, however, as the only ghoul in the house was too occupied with munching on a corpse to notice him. Someone had apparently killed themselves, and now what had probably been their significant other was feasting on their entrails.
He'd never understood that part. Why were the zombies eating the digestive tract? It looked good in movies, obviously, since intestines are long and stringy and easy to make disgusting, but even in reality the monsters seemed content to dine on what was really little more than a vessel for excrement. He pushed the thought away, deciding he didn't need to throw up while the thing was still alive. Instead, he hacked off the zombie's head with a hard swing of his larger knife, and then stabbed it through the eye once the thing came to rest on the floor. From there, he checked on the corpse, but was disappointed. The man's revolver was a .44 special, not a .38, and it was rusted to shit regardless. On top of that, there had only been one round in the thing. Empty boxes he found in another room confirmed his suspicions, and Ricky thought no more of securing anything useful as far as weapons. Some people seemed inclined to grab whatever they could, but it was useless dead weight if it didn't get used.
With that in mind, he managed to find a sealed bag of beef jerky that had been forgotten in a cupboard. He wondered at that, as he grabbed it, and hoped he had not just walked into a trap. He trusted to logic, though, and based on the way the house had been trashed, it was likely that looters had fled a zombie attack, which meant that the jerky was fair game. A pleasant thought, if ever there was one in this destroyed world. He tucked his loot into his bag, and decided to leave, poking his head out the front door. Then he realized he needed to make a decision. "Left or right?" he asked, and then nodded as he heard a zombie moan in the distance. "Right it is." he declared in a whisper, chuckling before he stepped onto the front porch and heading for the next house on the right. This one was very similar to the last, at least externally, and he expected its innards to be just as recognizable. Indeed, thanks to the suburbia mentality, looting this neighbourhood was going to be easy. Every corner, every hallway and door, they were all in the same places. Nothing changed. It was like running the same trapline over and over again in quick succession. Of course, he wasn't nearly as successful as he might have been had this been an actual trapline.
"Fuck. I should just go live in the swamp." he realized, knowing that he could probably live just fine out there. "I need another person, though..." he added, talking to himself like he was two people, just to alleviate the boredom. "Someone needs to work the boat... What about Greg? He can't be dead..." he knew Greg couldn't be dead because that man had lived through anything. He'd probably fought in every major conflict since the American Revolution. That man was as old as dirt and even harder to get rid of. He was also an impossible man to find, Ricky remembered with a frown. He was probably still running his traplines, just a little slower without help. And a little less since he only had to feed himself.
"I should never have left the swamp." he concluded with a groan. A groan that was echoed behind him as he continued to sweep through the fourth house on the block. He spun effortlessly and shoved his knife through another undead eye socket. He shuddered. realizing how close he had just been to dying, and then continued with his search. This time he managed to find a bottle of water. It looked like it had been part of a much greater stash that had been removed for greener pastures, though this one hadn't managed to go along. That only made things easier, though, since it meant he now had a decent lunch. He wasn't really sure what time it was any more, but lunch sounded good, so he settled in the basement for a meal, figuring that he'd have the upper hand if someone else decided they wanted a piece of him.
With that in mind, the chef sat down under the stairs, and placed his revolver at his right side. It always went right next to his knee, a hand's breadth from the joint. His reflexes were so good at this point, that he couldn't miss it, and he'd have it pointed in the right direction faster than most people could realize what was going on in the room they had just kicked in the door of. Comfortable, he chowed down on his beef jerky and water, and then tossed the packaging. He might have a need for a plastic bottle, but wasn't going to carry it around for a "might". And beef jerky wrappers weren't much use to him. He holstered his piece once more as he stood, and took a deep breath. Now he needed to continue with his search.
Stop. Just stop. You don't have to do this. a little voice said in his head. He knew it wasn't the crazy one, as he'd taken his meds not long ago. I do, though. If I stop, I'll die. he thought back, exasperated. It was tempting, to just stop, but he couldn't do that. Not without dying. There was no other way to put it. If he gave in, he'd wind up prey to some other person who hadn't given up yet. But even with that voice discouraging him, he planned to keep going until his death at the hands of someone or something more unfortunate, or deadly than he. The voice seemed to quiet, though he knew it was still there. That feeling, that longing to stop, it was right there, waiting for him. All he had to do was sit back down. That wasn't an option now, though, he was already creeping from the basement, to the front door. He needed to get out of this place, and find somewhere with more supplies. He wondered if he might find a Wal-Mart or a Target with bikes, or even a gator still intact. Such a thing would make his trip much easier. He supposed he might as well keep moving for the moment, however...
It was a short walk off the highway, and through a ditch, into an unfenced suburb. Here, he found himself in a backyard, once well-tended and obviously loved, it was overgrown and ugly. Just like the rest of the world. The chef looked around and realized he had to be in a cul-de-sac, since there were yards to either side, that seemed to curve away, and he could see another similar situation on his left. Clearly this had once been a place full of life. Now it was full of the stench of death, and probably the undead too. Not liking that idea, the man moved slowly and quietly, creeping up on the closest house. The door was open, having been kicked in. He didn't anticipate finding anything, and decided not to look too hard if there were any zombies inside. His creeping was well-served, however, as the only ghoul in the house was too occupied with munching on a corpse to notice him. Someone had apparently killed themselves, and now what had probably been their significant other was feasting on their entrails.
He'd never understood that part. Why were the zombies eating the digestive tract? It looked good in movies, obviously, since intestines are long and stringy and easy to make disgusting, but even in reality the monsters seemed content to dine on what was really little more than a vessel for excrement. He pushed the thought away, deciding he didn't need to throw up while the thing was still alive. Instead, he hacked off the zombie's head with a hard swing of his larger knife, and then stabbed it through the eye once the thing came to rest on the floor. From there, he checked on the corpse, but was disappointed. The man's revolver was a .44 special, not a .38, and it was rusted to shit regardless. On top of that, there had only been one round in the thing. Empty boxes he found in another room confirmed his suspicions, and Ricky thought no more of securing anything useful as far as weapons. Some people seemed inclined to grab whatever they could, but it was useless dead weight if it didn't get used.
With that in mind, he managed to find a sealed bag of beef jerky that had been forgotten in a cupboard. He wondered at that, as he grabbed it, and hoped he had not just walked into a trap. He trusted to logic, though, and based on the way the house had been trashed, it was likely that looters had fled a zombie attack, which meant that the jerky was fair game. A pleasant thought, if ever there was one in this destroyed world. He tucked his loot into his bag, and decided to leave, poking his head out the front door. Then he realized he needed to make a decision. "Left or right?" he asked, and then nodded as he heard a zombie moan in the distance. "Right it is." he declared in a whisper, chuckling before he stepped onto the front porch and heading for the next house on the right. This one was very similar to the last, at least externally, and he expected its innards to be just as recognizable. Indeed, thanks to the suburbia mentality, looting this neighbourhood was going to be easy. Every corner, every hallway and door, they were all in the same places. Nothing changed. It was like running the same trapline over and over again in quick succession. Of course, he wasn't nearly as successful as he might have been had this been an actual trapline.
"Fuck. I should just go live in the swamp." he realized, knowing that he could probably live just fine out there. "I need another person, though..." he added, talking to himself like he was two people, just to alleviate the boredom. "Someone needs to work the boat... What about Greg? He can't be dead..." he knew Greg couldn't be dead because that man had lived through anything. He'd probably fought in every major conflict since the American Revolution. That man was as old as dirt and even harder to get rid of. He was also an impossible man to find, Ricky remembered with a frown. He was probably still running his traplines, just a little slower without help. And a little less since he only had to feed himself.
"I should never have left the swamp." he concluded with a groan. A groan that was echoed behind him as he continued to sweep through the fourth house on the block. He spun effortlessly and shoved his knife through another undead eye socket. He shuddered. realizing how close he had just been to dying, and then continued with his search. This time he managed to find a bottle of water. It looked like it had been part of a much greater stash that had been removed for greener pastures, though this one hadn't managed to go along. That only made things easier, though, since it meant he now had a decent lunch. He wasn't really sure what time it was any more, but lunch sounded good, so he settled in the basement for a meal, figuring that he'd have the upper hand if someone else decided they wanted a piece of him.
With that in mind, the chef sat down under the stairs, and placed his revolver at his right side. It always went right next to his knee, a hand's breadth from the joint. His reflexes were so good at this point, that he couldn't miss it, and he'd have it pointed in the right direction faster than most people could realize what was going on in the room they had just kicked in the door of. Comfortable, he chowed down on his beef jerky and water, and then tossed the packaging. He might have a need for a plastic bottle, but wasn't going to carry it around for a "might". And beef jerky wrappers weren't much use to him. He holstered his piece once more as he stood, and took a deep breath. Now he needed to continue with his search.
Stop. Just stop. You don't have to do this. a little voice said in his head. He knew it wasn't the crazy one, as he'd taken his meds not long ago. I do, though. If I stop, I'll die. he thought back, exasperated. It was tempting, to just stop, but he couldn't do that. Not without dying. There was no other way to put it. If he gave in, he'd wind up prey to some other person who hadn't given up yet. But even with that voice discouraging him, he planned to keep going until his death at the hands of someone or something more unfortunate, or deadly than he. The voice seemed to quiet, though he knew it was still there. That feeling, that longing to stop, it was right there, waiting for him. All he had to do was sit back down. That wasn't an option now, though, he was already creeping from the basement, to the front door. He needed to get out of this place, and find somewhere with more supplies. He wondered if he might find a Wal-Mart or a Target with bikes, or even a gator still intact. Such a thing would make his trip much easier. He supposed he might as well keep moving for the moment, however...
I saw that. I wasn't sure what to think about that, but maybe it'll solve itself if I post again. That post made me want cheezits though, that's not fair. I'm not allowed to eat cheezits...
I was thinking that might be good. I was gunna have him just do his own thing as like comic relief or something if you guys couldn't fit him in. XD
So, how's things?
Cuttlam turned when Ceres asked if they could get closer, and after an instant where he stood frozen in confusion and amusement, he shook his head. "It's not just a name, you know." he offered in response. "That ship is a literal powder keg. If we get any closer without first putting several large holes in the hull below the waterline, its captain is liable to blow it up just to spite us." he figured he would explain, since his first mate obviously wasn't familiar with the people they were looking for. "And we're not here to loot the ship anyway. We're here to convince their gunnery captain that I'm still alive." he added with a shrug. "Hard to do that if he's blown up." The warlord then considered a comment that the woman had made. He chuckled at the idea and shrugged again.
"I have to be honest, I don't think I've ever tried getting him to eat the cannon balls and spit them back out..." he admitted. "I wonder if it could spit them out fast enough to kill someone..." he was tempted to give it a try the next time they attacked a ship. He didn't think it was possible, but at the same time, he did have magical powers that allowed a daemonic canine creature's head and infinitely long neck, to explode from any given limb or orifice. He didn't see why the thing wouldn't be able to manage to spit out a cannonball at the same velocity it was fired from a gun at. The experiment would have to wait, however, as he was not about to let such things distract him from his goal. Their ship was moving nicely once more, and the cannons appeared to be loaded. He was very pleased to watch the gunnery captain running his own battery for once, and the pirate left the gunners alone to do their thing, hoping they'd manage to put a hole right in the bow of the Powder Keg. That would be a glorious moment, watching the ship drown its own magazine with its lust for destruction. Then they could easily board the sinking vessel, take the one thing they needed, and depart for greater things...
"I have to be honest, I don't think I've ever tried getting him to eat the cannon balls and spit them back out..." he admitted. "I wonder if it could spit them out fast enough to kill someone..." he was tempted to give it a try the next time they attacked a ship. He didn't think it was possible, but at the same time, he did have magical powers that allowed a daemonic canine creature's head and infinitely long neck, to explode from any given limb or orifice. He didn't see why the thing wouldn't be able to manage to spit out a cannonball at the same velocity it was fired from a gun at. The experiment would have to wait, however, as he was not about to let such things distract him from his goal. Their ship was moving nicely once more, and the cannons appeared to be loaded. He was very pleased to watch the gunnery captain running his own battery for once, and the pirate left the gunners alone to do their thing, hoping they'd manage to put a hole right in the bow of the Powder Keg. That would be a glorious moment, watching the ship drown its own magazine with its lust for destruction. Then they could easily board the sinking vessel, take the one thing they needed, and depart for greater things...
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