WilsonTurner

Forgotten -~- A Reboot of the Vampire Roleplay

William's eyes opened. He stared up into the dark recesses of the room he lay in, perfectly posed, as if he had died, feet and legs straight, arms crossed over his chest. He looked up, and thought he could make out the outlines of stone above him. As his senses came on and he began processing information, he collected them all and began putting them together: In his peripheral vision, more stone, less darkness. Torchlight; unusual for the day and age. What day and age? Unsettling; he couldn't remember what day it was. What year it was, even. Just knew it was... modern. Torches aren't of this world anymore, except for cosplay, camps, and decoration. Maybe for less fortunate countries, he supposed. From the scent, he detected mustiness, a dry dustiness, indicating that he was, perhaps, somewhere usually unused? Combined with the stone, he figured perhaps an old castle. He picked up another smell- somewhat sweet, he guessed. Perfume? Cologne? Really nice BO? Unknown; he filed the thought away for future observation and thought. From the feel, he was in a dry place. Stone, slightly cracked, slightly worn, lay beneath him, and he could feel a layer of dirtiness on it. Cold, dry. Unused, with no central heating system- unusual for the modern age, again. At least, unusual where he was from. By sight, he could see that the room he was in was smallish, but had a high ceiling. Stone bricks, all the way, with wood beams to help support. He turned his head; indeed, the corners of the room had slightly crooked, warped beams of wood supporting the ceiling, with logs crisscrossing the roof, tied to the vertical supports. He found he liked the design, even if it seemed crude or most definitely not-modern. But feel, again. He was sore all over, and felt like a demon had awakened, and began clawing at his stomach. He lifted an arm; he felt as weak as he had ever been. He tried to think back, why he was here, why was he so weak, but found nothing in his mind, no memory, no history. Oh, he remembered history well enough- World War II, Abraham Lincoln, the Civil War, the Renaissance, but no dates, no numbers, nothing that connected anything to the 'modern' day. He noticed a book that both his hands rested on, and he, groaning, sat up, taking the book in aching fingers and staring down at the cover. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Don't Panic was sprawled ironically appropriately on its cover, evidence of someone- maybe him- using a sharpie to write it on. It was worn, used, well-read. He looked up and around, and found himself in a sort of cell-room. It might have been, if the iron door wasn't sitting wide open. Some distance away, echoing down the hallway outside, he could hear steps, multiple sets of footsteps, coming towards him. And so the welcome wagon comes. Just where in the goddamn hell am I? And what the hell is my last name?