Madison's eyes tore from the corpse of the preacher and swept over to Nicholas. The marine was yelling. Goading the man in the room into fighting. John looked big from what she had seen, what was he thinking? What could he possibly hope to gain from engaging in a physical conflict with this man, except more injuries? Maddy adjusted her mask and tried to slow her breathing and she looked to the barricade for a moment. Good and blocked up, but for how long? They had to move and move quick, to remove the problem. To teach the bad dog a lesson. Her mind scrambled as the marine continued to goad John, whilst looking at her. She was confused, until she saw him motion toward the wall, with an chopping motion.
Of course, how could she be so dense. The axe in her hands wasn't just for cleaving skulls apart. It had an originally intended purpose. And that was exactly what she was going to put it to use for. Motioning the marine to step back, the drew it up at arms length, taking care not to put herself out of cover. Then she hacked at the wall, intending on cutting out a hole that was big enough to look through and possibly stick a firearm through.
With a quick motion, she pointed at the glass of her mask and then at the eyes of the marine. She mumbled under her breath, "Watch my back," Then she pointed to the body of the preacher, "Watch him," Then she pointed at the barricade with a shaky arm, before returning to chopping. "Watch that. Watch it all." Chop. "Watch it all, watch it close. Line your brain with eyes and see every angle." Chop. "If you don't, then you are blind. Blindness is vulnerability. Vulnerability is-" Chop. "Death."
She spared a look at the marine and shook her head. She stood with the axe drawn above her shoulder, ready to slam it into the wall and break through.
"Drizzak is pretty dragon. Look at Drizzak scales! LOOK!"
Name: Drizzak
"Me Drizzak, who you?"
Age: 16.
"Drizzak live long time! Young now but he live forever soon."
Race: Goblin.
"Drizzak is Dragon! But really he Goblin. No tell no-one."
Class: Alchemist.
"Drizzak make the dragon-juice, he make the boom, he make the burn and sometimes he make the feelgood gunk."
Biography: Drizzak does not speak much about his past. Its obvious from the way that he avoids questioning about it that his departure from his family and clan was not an easy thing for him. If one was knowledgable enough, they would be able to find the skin-mark on his neck in the shape of an angry goblin skull and crossbones, meaning 'exile'. All that is known about him is that somewhere out there, in the world, there is a Goblin who believes himself to be a dragon, wandering around in that tattered red dragon costume.
"Drizzak have no past, only future!"
Demeanor/Attitude: Drizzak is, for the most part, extremely friendly and positive, bordering on naive. If one were to attribute an overall alignment to him, it could easy be Chaotic Good. He can be extreme at times, but his heart is in the right place for the most part. His extremism comes from his tendency to be easily excited. He tends to see all other races as different sizes of Goblin for him to preside over, in all his draconic might.
"Drizzak think he good goblin. Is you good goblin?"
Equipment: Drizzak has little to his name other than his chemicals, his weapons and his dragon costume. He wears the costume as much as he can, when he isn't in battle. Whilst in combat he ditches the costume for a simple pair of cloth pants, enchanted to not burn in the fire he sometimes douses himself with. They do absolutely nothing to make him immune to outside sources of fire.
He seems to wear a wickedly-spiked iron collar, set with a lovely fire agate.
"Drizzak like to wear dragon skin a lot, but occasionally he like his pants. They special. No burn so easy."
Skills/Abilities: Drizzak mainly focuses on dominating his opponents through the use of alchemical mutagens, increasing his strength and resilience. The mutagen gives him a red coloration to be more like his idolized 'ancestors'. He also has a surprisingly wide knowledge of makeshift explosives and harmful chemicals. He is not above lighting himself on fire if it comes to it. His knowledge of healing solutions consists of literally throwing potions at people. Thankfully, he knows how to aim them so the broken glass isn't TOO hard to pick out.
"Drizzak drink his dragon-juice and he make the boom and the burn. No get hurt, okay? Drizzak aim not so good today."
Weapons: Drizzak possesses a rather sad little crossbow, able to throw both flask and vials, and bolts. His previous jagged dagger has since been replaced with a lovely silver one.
"He can make shooty and stabby-stab too. No laugh."
Alator is a reptilian woman standing at 6'. She is tall and lithe, some would say she was too skinny at first glance, but ignore them. Instead of a coat of rough, dark scales, her skin is smooth and glossy like that of a dolphin. It seems to always look wet, even when dry, it just has that wet sheen to it. Her skin, in the light, is coloured a deep navy that fades into an electric blue, before fading back again. Iridescent in an almost hypnotising fashion.
Her eyes bear no pupil or iris, and are simply globes of white. Eerie at times, as you never know when she's looking right at you. Her face ends in a short, rounded snout. Starting at her brow and trailing down the back of her neck to her shoulderblades is a fully unfurlable frill, similar to the hood of a cobra. When angered or stressed, this frill unfolds along with a crest atop her head, giving her quite fearsome appearance. The crest continues all the way down her back to her tail.
"Judge me as you wish. In the end, I will still remain."
Name: Alator Strongscale.
"I am Alator. History has not heard my name, but you have. You are only the first."
Age: 94.
"I'd swear I'm not a day over 30."
Race: Lizardfolk. With a touch of something sinister.
"I walk as my mother made me. Of the scale, but parted from it."
Class: Wizard.
"Hold a moment, and watch me light the air on fire."
Biography:
Alator was born in a clutch of eggs, just like the rest of her clan was at one point or another. Her nestmates were the standard fair of reptilian clan-bound warrior breed hatchlings. Green and brown and black were their scales, suited to camouflage and combat in the grasslands, marsh wastes and dark caverns of the world. The perfect brood, bred to defend the clan at any cost. The ideal warriors.
All except for one. One bad egg can spoil the dozen, they say. The same is true for the communal nests of the Strongscale clan. Even when she was within the egg, the nest watchers had trouble quantifying just what had gone wrong during her laying. Alator's parent was, surprisingly nonpresent within the clan itself. One too many times was her egg deemed to be far too small to be of lizardfolk origin. But something kept the clan from dashing her upon the rocks.
When the brood hatched, it was known that Alator was a lizardfolk. It was also know that she was 'different'. No black or brown or green scales to be seen on her, or any pronounced scales to be seen at all. Only the dull, iridescent blue skin to cover her, much like a sea creature's, instead of a reptile's. Born sickly and small, she was the size of a kobold when the others were already beginning their combat training.
Regardless, she was taught to fight. She favoured the staff and spear-like weaponry over all else, and instead of becoming an overall adept with a range of weaponry like her fellows, she chose to stick with a quarterstaff, becoming an artisan with it.
Raids were simple enough to her, being in the rearguard. Stay near the back and keep an eye out. Simple. She had keener eyes than most, and an even keener sense of intuition when it came to danger, or misfortune. It wasn't until she found her first scroll of literature within a raid's spoils that she found her true calling.
She began to go out on her own. To nearby settlements where no one knew of the slipskinned raider that she was to her clan. She went out to do something she felt had greater purpose than just raiding. She went out to learn. Language. Art. Culture. Myth. Legend.
When she unearthed her latent magical ability, she immediately sought tutorship from anyone she could find. Hedge wizards, sorcerers looking for assistants, street magicians. Anyone. She began to lust for knowledge. To crave it. She had to, nay, she WOULD know everything. Her attentions turned from the wider world and focused when she found her future grimoire. Empty and discarded in the smouldering remains of a village. A village she found to have been sacked by the Strongscales.
Her work had all culminated in this, her new purpose. She decided that after leaving unannounced and failing to return out of sheer hunger for more knowledge, she would return and display her magical findings. Findings that she was beginning to record in her grimoire with feverish dedication, as she devouredall the knowledge she could come across on her travels.
Her return was welcomed by less than she had expected. And she had been away for far longer than she anticipated. Her clan was all but dying off. Only a handful of her nestmates remained. The clan was weakened by its lack of good breeding stock. The Warriors were all but gone. Strongscale was no longer near as strong as in their glory days.
She showed herself as she was now. How awesome and terrible her power, that she had spent so long acquiring and developing. She showed her grimoire. She showed herself in all that she was, but they did not welcome her. They feared her. They called her a slipskinned abomination. They shunned her. Attacked her.
They made a grave error.
After consuming what knowledge they had to offer, which was not much, she moved on. Strongscale was put out of its misery and she continued to roam, in search of knowledge that was more enticing and more rewarding than before. She needed to know more.
She needs to know it all.
"Let history be. Grasp the now. Learn as you can."
Demeanor/Attitude: Cold. Calculating. Morose. Alator rarely shows emotion other than quiet consideration or anger, preferring to mediate and moderate herself in mind as she does in body. Her attitude towards others is as his attitude towards everything is. She speaks on the level, and as an intellectual, preferring not to squabble or fuss over explanation about his actions or goings-on. She is the type to analyse her situation, her comrades and even herself.
Though she can be cold, she is not without her humor. She can sometimes spare a jape at someone's expense, or share a happy moment with another. She is not without emotion, just able to be separate from it when logic dictates her. Occasionally, when engaging her passion, be it reading, writing, conversing or actively practising about or involving magic, she can allow herself a moment to let her childlike wonder shine through. That or her ravenous hunger.
If you were to ask her a question, she would be more than open to helping you to understand whatever it is that is confusing you, should she have knowledge on the subject. Eager to teach, one could say. Alator is easily placed in the Lawful Neutral alignment bracket. She will serve herself first, but tends toward common courtesy and acts with restraint. When she can.
"Come, child. When we make camp, I will tell you of the stars above our heads. There are messages for those that look."
Equipment: Alator carries little with her aside from what she wears and what she keeps in her pack. She grabs herself in dark robes, lined with fur and covering most of her body aside from her hands. The robes are hooded, and sit beneath a thick cloak of bearskin. Upon her back is a pack filled with relevant reagents she may need for her magic and emergency supplies. Other than those, the only other item she carries are her quarterstaff and her grimoire that acts as her spellbook. Her rather morbid looking grimoire is decorated with rusty iron and tattered cloth. It seems to be covered in occult symbols and scratchings.
"I carry my world with me. Never let what is yours away from you."
Skills/Abilities: Alator possesses a vast knowledge base on phenomenon of magical origin. Her knowledge on other matters, and her general knowledge, are wide but mostly forgotten due to her voracious focus on magical studies. Other than that, her eyesight is sharper than the average lizardfolk and due to her strange blood, she is slightly more acrobatic than the average bulky, dumb lizard.
"Not your average garden skink, dear."
Weapons: She carries with her a quarterstaff made of twisted wood and iron, set with a gem in its cage-like top end. Alongside this she has her grimoire. It's rather heavy.
"Careful, dear. I may not cleave you in twain, but I can give you a few lovely bruises."
With a scream of rage and pain, Madison pulled herself from the floor and threw herself at the wall outside the room that John had stumbled out from. Her thickly gloved fingers went to her cheek and she felt the rough texture of the rubber on her tongue. Its taste was metallic, and she could feel the cold air on her teeth. She shuddered, and whimpered as she pulled her hand away covered in bright red. She recalled the gunshot that floored her, she remembered seeing her cheek explode in a small cloud of red. Then the pain came. The burning, stinging pain that consumed the left side of her face like a flash-fire.
She let loose a short scream, but cut it short as she felt her cheek tearing more. A small noise of panic emerged from her lips, her axe dropping to her side as she removed her gloves and rifled through the bag over her shoulder for the first-aid kit. Tape gauze, absorbent pads and disinfectant came out in shaky hands. The green chemical burned as she applied it to her skin via the folded bundle of cloth. Her skin and flesh screamed as she held it there, tears welling up in her eyes, before she taped it up. It would have to do. She had not prepared for something like this. She should have been prepared for something like this. With a whimper, she donned her mask.
The hallway was still slightly noisy, the dead shambling at the barricade and the gunshots serving to further excite them. There were too many problems to be dealt with. Too many variables to take into account. How was she going to survive, Madison thought as she picked her axe up again and listened into the room. John was in there. She could hear his breathing, labored and heavy. The man had always hated her, for doing the work that she did. She had always hated him in return, and his mother, for being so abrasive and volatile. Like a boil on the back of the country. How could he imply that she was beneath him? She was twice the man he'd ever be.
The barricade was under siege and she replied in kind, violently burying her axe in one Stage One's neck before wrenching it out and hopping back as it grabbed for her. The bone parted with some effort as she split another's skull in two, dropping it straight to the floor. Her arms were getting tired. They were beginning to burn. She hopped back once more, lashing out with a boot as one caught hold of her suit. Inside she screamed. Screamed and cried. On the exterior, she hacked away at the first Stage One, severing its spinal cord and leaving it to flop to the ground, head rolling on a flap of skin and strips of sinew. She gave the last one a boot to the chest, sending it back onto the barricade where it stayed, impaled on a broken chair leg. As her battle-fever subsided, her sense of mortality returned, and she gibbered to the marine, Mr. Grayeson, from the wall outside the room John had holed up in once again.
"He shot at me. He shot at me and he hit me. How could he... how could he shoot another person?" Madison mumbled and rambled, speech picking up speed as she took her axe to the side and picked out her stun-gun. "A bad person. A bad person that needs to be set straight. Like a bad dog. Set him straight and he'll come right soon after. Just like Daddy taught." The girl hyperventilated as she spared a look at the barricade. It was holding for now. The immediate problem had to be dealt with. Madison looked over the hallway, eyes trying to pass over the dead preacher. She talked carefully, feeling the searing pain still in her torn cheek as she spoke out loud, partially to herself, partially to those listening.
"We need- we have to get... do you need help? I can help. I can help, I can help."
August 18th, 2039, 9:02 AM An abandoned laundromat, New York City
A bullet whistled through the air and hit the washing machine Donnie was hiding behind. It whistled again as it rebounded and flew away from Donnie's head, stopping in the drywall with a crumbling noise. His hands flews as they tied a scrap of cloth around his leg, tightening over a cut in his leg. Pale golden fluid was beginning to pool at his thigh as another bullet punched through and shattered the glass in the door of the washing machine next to him.
"Aw jeez."
Donnie's voice whined as chanced a peek around his cover, receiving a near-miss in return. There were only two gunners now, but the noise would attract more. And maybe not even raiders! Maybe some wild animal would come and deal with him before the raiders did. They were terrible shots. A bear could probably waltz right into the laundromat, open him from brains to balls and still have time to get his cap and uniform washed before he had to go prevent more forest fires. Baby Christ on a cracker, how was he supposed to know that he was in raider territory? He didn't see any effigies or signs, not even a corpse on display! He didn't even get time to beg for his life either! They just yelled at him and started firing, but luckily only that one bullet grazed his leg. He tightened the scrap of cloth once more, only for it to tear and loosen in his grip.
"Awwh jeez."
With a few flicks of his knife, he had taken another strip of cloth from the t-shirt he found discarded on the floor. An extra-long strip that he layered twice and tied around his leg tight before bowing it nicely. The bleeding would pass, and he didn't feel TOO light-headed. Hell, he'd have one great scar to tell stories with. If he survived. That thought ended as a voice came over the machines in a harsh growl. "Do y'think he's dead? I betcha I got him in the head. I betcha." Donnie's heart raced as he tried to keep his body as still as possible. As still as you can be when you're reaching for your sidearm thats tucked into your cowboy boot.
"If he is, I get his boots. And his shirt. And his gun." There was an noise of annoyance. A frustrated grumble as Donatello heard the cracking of glass beneath someone's step. "And his goggles too. Hurry up 'n' check if he's dead!" The steps got closer just as Donnie finished grabbing for his handgun and settled his pale, green-tinged arm in his lap. He had smeared some of his blood on his face already, so what difference did a little bit more make? He closed his eyes and he could feel the warm amber flowing down from his forehead. And then he stopped breathing. Well, through his mouth and nose, anyway.
A finger brushed his lip and beneath his nose. Checking if he was still breathing was pretty smart for a couple of dumb raiders. He almost sneezed as he smelled the foul stench of the raider's finger, but he managed to remain still. Disgusting. "Yerp, he's deader'n a hare inna foxhole." The raider said again.
"Y'wanna strip him here or-"
Donatello didn't let him finish his sentence. A few minutes of struggle later, and he was left with two dead raiders and four bullets wasted. He rifled through their belongings and found 6 7.62x51mm bullets, a grenade and a power bar, but no 9x19mm ammunition. A quick check revealed that he had all of 10 bullets left for his handgun and some 40 odd bullets for his rifle, including the 10 left in the magazine. All just sitting there, gleaming from the bottom of his little child-sized backpack. He grumbled to himself, beginning to limp away and around the corner into the alley alongside the laundromat. Had he taken a left, or a right just before? Or did he go straight and then fall? The chase had turned him around big time, and the power bar he looted was already gone so the first order of business was to find food. His stomach growled at him and his leg gave out for a moment, sending him careening headfirst into a dumpster.
And there he lay, on his back. Seeing stars as if the night-sky was out at day.
"Awwwwwhhhh jeez..."
Atlas
August 18th, 2039, 9:02 AM New York City
That was definitely droppings that he just ate. Definitely. Atlas' tongue lolled out of his mouth and he coughed onto the road, the previously interesting brown pellets coming straight back out from his gullet to hit the floor in a small heap. Why did his siblings think they were so appealing? They weren't berries, they tasted terrible and they smelled worse. The muscular dog sneezed, kicking some dirt over the leavings before moving on from the bushes and into the open. The scent was stuck in his nose, so searching for food with scent would have to wait for a while. He whined and rubbed his face in the dirt before sneezing once again. Mud, grass and feces were all he could glean from it, but his ears revealed something in the distance. Something heavier than a hare.
He was already moving by the time he heard the next sound in the distance. More firesticks. The loud reports weren't close, but they were enough to scare Atlas into running beneath the first obstacle he could get beneath. A big shiny the humans used for carrying things. A 'truck'. He put his body to the 'wheel' and peered out, shoulders hunched and ears forward. The loud noises continued from further away. Moving in the opposite direction? A good sign, the hunters had found other prey before they had found him. He came out from beneath the truck tentatively, before vaulting onto another human shiny called a 'car'. His eyes couldn't pick anything out aside from a sea of 'cars' and 'trucks' and other shinys that he didn't understand. So many shinys but no people.
That is until the heavy noise returned, very loud and very close. Right behind him. Atlas turned slowly to find a human, and a monstrously sized one at that. Tall, big, dirty and with firesticks on him. 'Guns' dangling off of him shone in the light of the morning, just as the other parts of him did. Atlas lowered his head, flipped his ears back and hunched slightly, ready to bound away should he try something. He could smell that the human was male, and that he wasn't exactly clean. Then again, neither was Atlas. His fur was matted and clumped with mud and blood, just as this 'man' was. Unsure of how to proceed, Atlas did what he was taught.
August 18th, 2039, 8:50 AM A lonely deli's storefront, New York City
Loud noises. Gunfire. Not good noises. Bad and loud and scary. No time for food. Need to run.
Atlas wasn't very familiar with the weapons of man, but he had experienced enough in his time to know that when you hear the firesticks in the distance, it was time to pick up your kill and leave immediately. The shadows could hide him, but not here and not now. It was too early. Too bright for hiding, except in the very dark places. Atlas did not like the very dark places. With a snap of his jaw, he picked the small hare up in his mouth and skittered around the corner into the alley behind the deli. He took the alley between the buildings and passed a torn poster depicting a man holding a smaller man. It stopped him for a moment, before the twitching of the hare reminded him to keep moving.
When he finally came to a stop, he had arrived back at the deli once more, his circular search complete. No one was nearby, and the gunfire had stopped. Long enough for him to enjoy his kill that is. With a wrench of his neck, Atlas snapped the hare's spine and thrashed it into the ground before throwing it to the ground. The taste was of metal and warmth, a good feeling after so many hours of no food at all.The crunching of bone and the chewing of muscle could be heard from outside the store as the dog dug in, eager to have something in his belly.
A sound in the distance made Atlas lift his ears and turn his head, muzzle dripping with blood as he licked it away greedily. More sounds. Not firesticks. Not gunfire. Walking. Heavy steps. Heavy person. Or more than one person! What would he do? The doors would be the place they came from! The humans always came through doors. Where were humans coming from, Atlas thought as he tried to sniff at the air, finishing gobbling at the small animal's carcass.
A shattering of glass rang out as Atlas leapt out the already broken front window of the empty deli. They would never catch him. That is if it was a 'they' that was following him. He did not know, he didn't look back. He simply ran away, toward the open outskirts. Where it was quieter.
