Nib

Betwixt the Eternal Light

@KuroTenshi, I believe so. Sun hasn't said anything about closing applications. Not to my knowledge at least.

Betwixt the Eternal Light

@Komamisa Yes, that's my basic theory on how our characters would respawn near one another when we eventually meet up.

Betwixt the Eternal Light

You mean we can't 1 life speed run this by running through all the fog doors? Just kidding. I suppose there should be some kind of check-point? Not sure how to implement that realistically, though.

@Komamisa

Perhaps something along the lines of the memory of our characters in the other characters draws us back to them somehow and allows us to respawn amongst allies or at least within a close proximity as long as we have our memories of them?

Betwixt the Eternal Light

When our characters die, do they just reawaken in the spot they died in, awaken where they did when they first got to this world, or awaken in a completely new and random location?

Betwixt the Eternal Light

Yayy, glad to be here~

Questions!

I know you can gain memories by killing someone else, but how exactly does that work?

Hmmm, do the people our characters kill respawn as well? Like can we accidentally turn someone into a Husk?

Also!

Is there food to be scavenged? Or are they stuck with what they have or take off others?

@AliceInRedHeels

Jumping off of Alice's question of respawning: When our characters die, do they just reawaken in the spot they died in, awaken where they did when they first got to this world, or awaken in a completely new and random location?

Betwixt the Eternal Light

Thanks for the praise, Sun. Also, DJ, I enjoy Jester. Really like the picture you used for him too. I've been pretty big into Darkest Dungeon lately.

Betwixt the Eternal Light

Rook

Given Name: Rook

Appearance: Rook is by no means a large man only standing at an average height for his age with a medium frame with toned muscles gained from years of hunting game. He’s gained many scars calluses over his arms and hands from the same practice. His hair is a light brown color with tinges of red and hangs down to his shoulders when he chooses not to tie it back out of his face. His broad chin and cheekbones are covered in a short, brown-red beard. Beneath thick eyebrows the same color as his hair, Rook has a set of mismatched eyes; one is a light golden brown while the other is a mossy green color. His wide-nostrilled nose is slightly off center and looks as though it was broken at some point in his life. He looks to be in his early twenties. Rook awoke in this unknown land wearing a plain, longsleeved linen shirt dyed a faded grey, a set of dark trousers with a few patches sewn on here and there, a pair of durable boots made of a cracked leather, a pair of thick leather gloves, an animal call made of a light-colored wood hanging by a leather thong, and a cloak dyed a slate grey color on the outside and a deep crimson on the insider.

Equipment: Rook awoke with a crossbow made of a dark wood with a lever attachment, a dirk with a handle made of stag horn and a blade measuring about half a foot in length, an axe measuring about two feet in total, a pouch containing roughly thirty crossbow bolts, an animal call, and knapsack filled with: snares for trapping, a bedroll, spare string for his crossbow, a needle and thread, a whetstone, a few pieces of dried meat, and a half full waterskin.

Memories:
A Broken Flight: He was running through a forest, a shrill laugh coming from him. Branches snapped back from the force of his body as he ran, the wind blowing through his hair and over his face. His footfalls were not heavy, and his strides did not take him far; he must be young, very young. He ran his hands along a large tree he skidded to a halt in front of. His hand was small, round, and slightly plump. The bark was old, like the loose skin of old men. Keeping his hand firmly on the trunk of the grandfather tree, he ran around it with more shrill laughs escaping his tiny mouth. He soon grew dizzy and decided to collapse where he started, landing in a soft bed of dirt and twigs. The world spun overhead, the leave soon becoming a green wheel. He continued watching the world spin until it came to a slow halt. Then, very suddenly something came crashing through the branches overhead and landed in a pile of bramble to his left. Getting up slowly to regain his balance, he stumbled toward the brambles to see what had fallen. At the bramble bush, he stepped through it gingerly, doing his best not to get stuck, but his clothes inevitably got caught on the brambles. Pulling them loose from the clutches, he continued on to find the thing that had came tumbling down to the earth. When he found it, he bent and scooped it up as carefully as he could. He set it on the bed of dirt and twigs he had fallen in himself; it was a bird. It sat shaking and terrified where he laid it; its right wing was broken and bloody. It wasn’t very old at all, like him. He stroked the bird’s head softly in an attempt to comfort it. Once it had settled down, he gathered two twigs and tore off a strip of cloth from his shirt and then bound the bird’s wing in the makeshift splint. He picked the bird back up easily and made his way back to the cottage. There, he showed it to the man there, his image blurred and distorted. He spoke, but he could not hear it; though, somehow he felt the man approved of the injured hawk.

The Painted Forest: He was in a bright forest, surrounded by trees with leaves of vermillion, but everything was blurred like a painting dipped in water before it had a chance to dry and set into the canvas. He hefted the same crossbow he awoke with up to his shoulder; it was so heavy his arms shook slightly as he held it up. Turning his head to the left, he saw someone standing there, but their face and image were blurred like the rest of the painted forest. The man, he wasn’t sure how he knew it was man, said something to him. Something about looking down the crossbow. Obeying the words he felt more than heard, he turned back to look down the crossbow at what he had raised it to. Off in the distance was stag so much more in focus than the forest that he could count all six antlers atop its head and see the rich brown fur covering its body. He took aim at this stag and then squeezed the trigger of the crossbow, sending a bolt flying from the crossbow and through the air to embed itself in the heart of the animal.

The Blurred Man’s Gift: He was in a field behind a small cottage, and everything was blurred just like the forest. Everything except for a stack of hay painted with a large target in the center. He hefted the crossbow up to his shoulder like he did in the forest and took aim at the hay target. He squeezed the trigger and sent a bolt sailing into the hay a ring from the center circle. He shot three more bolts into the hay, all landing in a small grouping around the first. A noise behind him caused him to lower the crossbow and turn to see the blurred man from the forest walking toward him. He felt the smile beneath the blurred image that was his face and saw the thin box he carried in better focus than his surroundings. The man held the box out to him as he neared. He took the box and opened it to see it held a knife with a newly forged blade and a handle made from the antler of the stag he killed in the forest. He lifted the knife from the box tentatively and examined it, feeling a smile spread over his face. Then, he dropped the knife back in the box and jumped into the blurred man’s arms, wrapping his own around him in a hug. The man smelled of the forest.

The Pyre: He was standing before an inferno, the smell of smoke and burning flesh reaching his nostrils and causing them to flare up. Everything but the inferno was blurred and distorted. He stared at the flames intently, watching the body in the midst of the pyre slowly disappearing as tongues of fire flicked up and consumed it more and more. His eyes were wet, and his nose was running. An overwhelming feeling of sadness swept over him and refused to let go. So he stood and watched the pyre for hours until it completely consumed the body and the entire pyre crumbled to ash.

The Final Hunt: He sat crouched in the midst of a close grouping of trees and bushes, his crossbow held toward the ground but ready to aim if he spotted his quarry. With a whistle he summoned Artimus to him; she came swooping down from the trees and landed on his outstretched arm. He stroked her head softly, causing her to closer her eyes and rub his finger a little. With a command he could not hear leave his lips, the red tailed hawk took back to the skies. He stood from his crouching position and followed under the bird back to the camp he had made. There was another man there chopping wood for a fire, his features just as blurred and distorted as The Blurred Man’s. The Woodcutter said something to him, but his voice did not escape the man’s mouth, but he somehow understood what he asked and replied with a shake of his head. He continued on to his own tent in the small camp, leaning his crossbow against the side of the tent and went inside to collapse on his bedroll. Some time later there was a noise from outside. He leapt up and ran out of his tent to see the camp ablaze. The flames and smoke limited his vision. He saw a dark shape moved toward him.

Awakening:
He awoke to a soft pecking on his cheek. He opened his eyes slowly to see Artimus perched on his shoulder and pecking him to wake him up. He sat up with a groan and looked around; he was what looked like a forest made of stone and ruins with moss and vines creeping up the stones. His head pounded as he tried to remember coming to this place, but it was no use. Artimus flew up to one of the stones and looked around. He couldn’t recall anything about himself really, but he remembered the bird as clear as day. With a whistle he used on instinct alone, the bird fluttered down to perch on his arm. He stroked her head and peered around the stone forest himself. He and his familiar were the only ones present at the moment. He directed his gaze back to the bird and watched her for some time, trying to remember anything, but it was useless. He could not even remember his own name, but the bird caused a word to surface in his mind; “Rook”.

”Rook? It’s as good a name as any,” he thought to himself.

Rook lifted his arm up slightly, and Artimus took flight once more, this time circling overhead several times. He looked down at his own body, examining it; he was wearing the knife with the handle made of antler, the dark wooden crossbow, and an axe. He pulled the knife up to look at it, hoping it would bring back more memories, but alas his hopes were in vain. He sheathed the knife and turned his head skyward toward his feathery companion. With another whistle, Rook began walking with Artimus following him overhead and keeping watch for anything he could not see. He pulled his crossbow up but kept it pointed down instead of fully in front of him. He ran his gloved finger along the wood, barely feeling the old notches there.

He walked through the stone forest until his body began to protest going any further without nourishment. Rook chose to obey his body’s protests and found a smaller stone to sit on while he pulled his knapsack off and rummaged through it to see what all he had. Within the leather bag, Rook found a few pieces of dried meat and a waterskin half full. Taking these out, he ate one of the pieces of dried meat and threw half of another one to Artimus. He washed the salt from his mouth with a small mouthful of water. Somehow he knew to ration what he had and what to do to find more food, at least he would know what to do if he were in a normal forest in a location he knew of, but he didn’t know much of anything anymore other than the memories he awoke with and the name of the red tailed hawk with him in this strange land.

Betwixt the Eternal Light

Rook

Given Name: Rook

Appearance: Rook is by no means a large man only standing at an average height for his age with a medium frame with toned muscles gained from years of hunting game. He’s gained many scars calluses over his arms and hands from the same practice. His hair is a light brown color with tinges of red and hangs down to his shoulders when he chooses not to tie it back out of his face. His broad chin and cheekbones are covered in a short, brown-red beard. Beneath thick eyebrows the same color as his hair, Rook has a set of mismatched eyes; one is a light golden brown while the other is a mossy green color. His wide-nostrilled nose is slightly off center and looks as though it was broken at some point in his life. He looks to be in his early twenties. Rook awoke in this unknown land wearing a plain, longsleeved linen shirt dyed a faded grey, a set of dark trousers with a few patches sewn on here and there, a pair of durable boots made of a cracked leather, a pair of thick leather gloves, an animal call made of a light-colored wood hanging by a leather thong, and a cloak dyed a slate grey color on the outside and a deep crimson on the insider.

Equipment: Rook awoke with a crossbow made of a dark wood with a lever attachment, a dirk with a handle made of stag horn and a blade measuring about half a foot in length, an axe measuring about two feet in total, a pouch containing roughly thirty crossbow bolts, an animal call, and knapsack filled with: snares for trapping, a bedroll, spare string for his crossbow, a needle and thread, a whetstone, a few pieces of dried meat, and a half full waterskin.

Memories:
A Broken Flight: He was running through a forest, a shrill laugh coming from him. Branches snapped back from the force of his body as he ran, the wind blowing through his hair and over his face. His footfalls were not heavy, and his strides did not take him far; he must be young, very young. He ran his hands along a large tree he skidded to a halt in front of. His hand was small, round, and slightly plump. The bark was old, like the loose skin of old men. Keeping his hand firmly on the trunk of the grandfather tree, he ran around it with more shrill laughs escaping his tiny mouth. He soon grew dizzy and decided to collapse where he started, landing in a soft bed of dirt and twigs. The world spun overhead, the leave soon becoming a green wheel. He continued watching the world spin until it came to a slow halt. Then, very suddenly something came crashing through the branches overhead and landed in a pile of bramble to his left. Getting up slowly to regain his balance, he stumbled toward the brambles to see what had fallen. At the bramble bush, he stepped through it gingerly, doing his best not to get stuck, but his clothes inevitably got caught on the brambles. Pulling them loose from the clutches, he continued on to find the thing that had came tumbling down to the earth. When he found it, he bent and scooped it up as carefully as he could. He set it on the bed of dirt and twigs he had fallen in himself; it was a bird. It sat shaking and terrified where he laid it; its right wing was broken and bloody. It wasn’t very old at all, like him. He stroked the bird’s head softly in an attempt to comfort it. Once it had settled down, he gathered two twigs and tore off a strip of cloth from his shirt and then bound the bird’s wing in the makeshift splint. He picked the bird back up easily and made his way back to the cottage. There, he showed it to the man there, his image blurred and distorted. He spoke, but he could not hear it; though, somehow he felt the man approved of the injured hawk.

The Painted Forest: He was in a bright forest, surrounded by trees with leaves of vermillion, but everything was blurred like a painting dipped in water before it had a chance to dry and set into the canvas. He hefted the same crossbow he awoke with up to his shoulder; it was so heavy his arms shook slightly as he held it up. Turning his head to the left, he saw someone standing there, but their face and image were blurred like the rest of the painted forest. The man, he wasn’t sure how he knew it was man, said something to him. Something about looking down the crossbow. Obeying the words he felt more than heard, he turned back to look down the crossbow at what he had raised it to. Off in the distance was stag so much more in focus than the forest that he could count all six antlers atop its head and see the rich brown fur covering its body. He took aim at this stag and then squeezed the trigger of the crossbow, sending a bolt flying from the crossbow and through the air to embed itself in the heart of the animal.

The Blurred Man’s Gift: He was in a field behind a small cottage, and everything was blurred just like the forest. Everything except for a stack of hay painted with a large target in the center. He hefted the crossbow up to his shoulder like he did in the forest and took aim at the hay target. He squeezed the trigger and sent a bolt sailing into the hay a ring from the center circle. He shot three more bolts into the hay, all landing in a small grouping around the first. A noise behind him caused him to lower the crossbow and turn to see the blurred man from the forest walking toward him. He felt the smile beneath the blurred image that was his face and saw the thin box he carried in better focus than his surroundings. The man held the box out to him as he neared. He took the box and opened it to see it held a knife with a newly forged blade and a handle made from the antler of the stag he killed in the forest. He lifted the knife from the box tentatively and examined it, feeling a smile spread over his face. Then, he dropped the knife back in the box and jumped into the blurred man’s arms, wrapping his own around him in a hug. The man smelled of the forest.

The Pyre: He was standing before an inferno, the smell of smoke and burning flesh reaching his nostrils and causing them to flare up. Everything but the inferno was blurred and distorted. He stared at the flames intently, watching the body in the midst of the pyre slowly disappearing as tongues of fire flicked up and consumed it more and more. His eyes were wet, and his nose was running. An overwhelming feeling of sadness swept over him and refused to let go. So he stood and watched the pyre for hours until it completely consumed the body and the entire pyre crumbled to ash.

The Final Hunt: He sat crouched in the midst of a close grouping of trees and bushes, his crossbow held toward the ground but ready to aim if he spotted his quarry. With a whistle he summoned Artimus to him; she came swooping down from the trees and landed on his outstretched arm. He stroked her head softly, causing her to closer her eyes and rub his finger a little. With a command he could not hear leave his lips, the red tailed hawk took back to the skies. He stood from his crouching position and followed under the bird back to the camp he had made. There was another man there chopping wood for a fire, his features just as blurred and distorted as The Blurred Man’s. The Woodcutter said something to him, but his voice did not escape the man’s mouth, but he somehow understood what he asked and replied with a shake of his head. He continued on to his own tent in the small camp, leaning his crossbow against the side of the tent and went inside to collapse on his bedroll. Some time later there was a noise from outside. He leapt up and ran out of his tent to see the camp ablaze. The flames and smoke limited his vision. He saw a dark shape moved toward him.

Awakening:
He awoke to a soft pecking on his cheek. He opened his eyes slowly to see Artimus perched on his shoulder and pecking him to wake him up. He sat up with a groan and looked around; he was what looked like a forest made of stone and ruins with moss and vines creeping up the stones. His head pounded as he tried to remember coming to this place, but it was no use. Artimus flew up to one of the stones and looked around. He couldn’t recall anything about himself really, but he remembered the bird as clear as day. With a whistle he used on instinct alone, the bird fluttered down to perch on his arm. He stroked her head and peered around the stone forest himself. He and his familiar were the only ones present at the moment. He directed his gaze back to the bird and watched her for some time, trying to remember anything, but it was useless. He could not even remember his own name, but the bird caused a word to surface in his mind; “Rook”.

”Rook? It’s as good a name as any,” he thought to himself.

Rook lifted his arm up slightly, and Artimus took flight once more, this time circling overhead several times. He looked down at his own body, examining it; he was wearing the knife with the handle made of antler, the dark wooden crossbow, and an axe. He pulled the knife up to look at it, hoping it would bring back more memories, but alas his hopes were in vain. He sheathed the knife and turned his head skyward toward his feathery companion. With another whistle, Rook began walking with Artimus following him overhead and keeping watch for anything he could not see. He pulled his crossbow up but kept it pointed down instead of fully in front of him. He ran his gloved finger along the wood, barely feeling the old notches there.

He walked through the stone forest until his body began to protest going any further without nourishment. Rook chose to obey his body’s protests and found a smaller stone to sit on while he pulled his knapsack off and rummaged through it to see what all he had. Within the leather bag, Rook found a few pieces of dried meat and a waterskin half full. Taking these out, he ate one of the pieces of dried meat and threw half of another one to Artimus. He washed the salt from his mouth with a small mouthful of water. Somehow he knew to ration what he had and what to do to find more food, at least he would know what to do if he were in a normal forest in a location he knew of, but he didn’t know much of anything anymore other than the memories he awoke with and the name of the red tailed hawk with him in this strange land.

Betwixt the Eternal Light

I would like to join this fine-looking RP if you'll have me?

Hailstorm

Arthur slumped back in the front seat as the van continued on down the road; it had run fine so far, which was lucky for the caravan. Their luck had definitely turned around since being held up by the DERB soldiers that had owned the van before them. Arthur turned to look around at the others shoved into the van next to one another like sardines, thanking whatever deity watched over the wastes that he was in his own seat.

Meanwhile on the other seat, Jones sat uncomfortable with a heavy weight sitting on him. Catherine had decided to take the ride on his lap instead of maybe sitting in the back. ’Not enough room.’ Even with their group of twelve, the van was very large and had shelves and you could even fit stuff under the floor. Still, ‘not enough room.’ Though he couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy it, he had a sense of professionalism to keep. As much as Jones complained, however, there genuinely was almost no room in the back due to the large amount of stuff they brought, and Catherine didn’t actually want to sit on his lap. She was mostly just screwing around with that.

The van flew down the empty streets, passing the wastes by and taking the caravan much further than they would have normally traveled on foot. Arthur could feel the familiar tug of fatigue on his eyelids as he kept the van straight and on the road. He looked over at the “happy couple” sitting next to him and cleared his throat to get Jones’s attention.

Jones looked up from the small project he had pulled out. A torn shirt he was busy sewing up while trying to use the most of his limited space that had been taken up by Catherine. “Yeah?” he asked, cursing as the van bumped slightly into the air, pricking himself in the finger.

“I’m starting to feel tired. I think we should pull over for the night,” he yawned.”Soon you’ll want to start playing bingo and going to the bathroom twelve times a day, old man,” Jones said with a small grin as he set aside the embroidery and pulled out a map. “Go ahead and stop at the next intersection.”

“Finally!” Catherine said with an exhausted groan. “You have an uncomfortable lap!” Jones grunted, responding with “You have an uncomfortable ass, what about it?” Catherine mocked being offended. “My ass is very comfortable!” Jones continued, “And you’d think in the apocalypse, you might weigh a little less. My legs feel numb.” In response to this, Catherine adjusted herself in such a way as to dig into Jones a bit more uncomfortably. He groaned.

In the midst of the bickering going on next to him, Arthur pulled the van over and put it into park. Opening the door, he got out and stretched his back and leg to relieve the tightness driving so long had caused. Jones basically pushed Catherine off as he got out, placing the map onto the hood of the car and taking a look. “We’re on the intersection of Tyler and Rudolph street…” he thought aloud as he traced the map with his finger. “Shit,” he said placing a finger only a centimeter above a bright red splotch. “We’re right here. We’re too damn close to the Hail Zone. We’re not in it, per say, but.. I’d like to be careful, you know?”

“As do I, Mr. Jones, but the van should get us through the Hail Zone protected and quickly.”

“While Bob has enough room for us to sit well enough, I somehow doubt we’ll all fit in there trying to sleep.” He pondered for a moment as he looked around the intersection before smiling. “And it looks like we found a good place,” Jones said as he pointed across the street. A rustic old pub named the Ace of Clubs stood, a veritable castle in his eyes.

“Hey! Maybe they’ll have booze in there!” Catherine said, a spark in her eyes. “That’s what I was hoping for,” Jones said with a grin. “That, and the fact that bars usually have pretty tight security. Don’t want all your fancy wines to get stolen, yeah?”

“Good eye, Mr. Jones. Where should we keep the van though? We probably shouldn’t just drive up in a vehicle. That could get our throats slit and the van stolen.” Jones let out a grunt of agreement before pulling his eyes up and making binoculars as he looked around. “Ah-hah! There, you see that?” he said, pointing at a garage. Arthur was looking around the area himself when Jones pointed out the garage, and looked up to see where it was. The building itself was an old mechanic shop abandoned like so many other places after the Hail. With a nod of affirmation, Arthur started the van back up and swung it around the back of the shop, stopping short due to the closed door.

“Catherine, be a dear and go open the door, and be careful. It’s hard to tell if there’s Lost lurking in there or just desperate people.” Catherine sighed. “Right, right, I’ll go get the door because you men are too scared to.”

Jones snorted, “Just open it, Cath. It’ll be good for your figure as well,”he said as he began to tug his double barrel out of his pack. “I’ll cover you.”

Catherine grumbled something about menial labor before grabbing the handle of the door. It was rather heavy, but using her feminine wiles and grace she managed to coax it up and open. Much to their surprise, nothing decided to jump out and spook them. It was just a normal garage, covered in dust. Tool racks and workstations sat looted and unused, all their valuable tools gone. Jones stooped to the floor and said, “Ooh, a penny.” The headlights of the van flooded the garage in a pale luminescence as Arthur pulled forward, past Jones and Catherine to park the mobile Safe Zone in the center of the old workstation.

Arthur hobbled out of SZ Bob and up to Jones, looking around as he went; there was thick layer of dust over the old, rust-spotted tools and the windows that weren’t shattered and busted. Jones nodded to the man and strolled to the back of the van, knocking thrice on the door before it opened. Nova almost immediately jumped out and stretched. “Fucking finally! It was more cramped in there than between my legs on a busy night!”

Jones snorted yet again. “Apologies for the stuffy environment, madam. But hey, its better than walking, ain’t it?” Jeremy let out a gasp as he finally got out, breathing in fresh air. “I think the ventilation system could use a bit of work, sir. There wasn’t much air getting in.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll see about fixing it in the morning, Jeremy. In the mean time, take a break, stretch your legs, we’ll see about scouting our house for the night.” From the back, another voice popped out, Ron. “You say that about everything, Jones. ‘I’ll fix this, I’ll fix that’. I’ll believe it when I see it.” Arthur turned toward the man complaining about Jones’s handyman skills or lack thereof, and then limped over to one of the windows facing the street where the bar was, slipping the van keys into his pocket as he went. He could just make out the sign to the bar through the dirt and grime on the pane of glass; the bar seemed to be the only thing at the intersection, or at least the only place opened at the current hour.

Jones waved off Ron with a wave of his hand as he tugged on Catherine, following after Arthur to go investigate their safe haven. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Catherine grumbled as she was pulled towards the front door. The tubes that formed the playing card sign hanging above the door of the small pub had since burnt out and become nothing more than tombs of the phosphorescent gasses that once lit the sign in an attempt to draw in drunks and travelers alike like moths to a flame in the dead of night. Even without the aid of the gasses trapped in the tubes though, the pub drew in drunk and travelers. Beneath the ancient sign, the grey brick building held cracks from years of drunken brawls between patrons and even the occasional car. Set in the aged brick was a thick wooden door with a small, shattered window once used to minimise the amount of light allowed into the drunken haven to prevent the patrons from knowing what time of day it was without risking the angry glare of the sun.

The double barreled shotgun was held up as Jones tried the door. To his surprise it was unlocked, unlike seemingly every other house in the city that required a crowbar. He let out a ‘huh’ as he opened it, revealing the inner sanctum. Its condition was… so-so.

While it wasn’t a mockery, it certainly wasn’t what most would call clean. The tables were covered in dust like most places, but other than beer stains and the like, they were serviceable. As well as tables, the booths were large enough and plenty enough that they could serve as beds for their crew. The shelves at the bar were empty of course, with the remnants of smashed glasses and bottles.

All in all, it looked like a bar.

“Huh. Its a nice place, I was expecting worse,” Jones said as he walked towards the bar, taking a seat on one of the cushioned stools with a sigh. “You ever been to bars, Arthur? I can imagine they’d be nice. Then again, living life without having to scrounge for food is nice as well.”

“I’ve been to a few, Mr. J-”

Suddenly, a loud crashing noise was heard in the room behind the bar, followed shortly thereafter by Catherine shouting “I FELL THROUGH THE FLOOR AGAIN!” Jones stood up abruptly. “AGAIN?”

“Yeah, this happens quite often!” Catherine shouted back. “There’s a lot of stuff down here, though!” Arthur followed the sound of Catherine’s voice, arriving at the edge of a hole in the floor of the bar, where he looked down into the dark of the cellar below.

“Are you alright,” he asked, his mind already working on treating her, meanwhile Jones hopped down without giving Catherine a second thought as he took a look around. “Jesus was this guy stocked.”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Catherine replied, glaring at Jones. “I’ve fallen through floors before.”

“As a practitioner of medicine, I am both morally and legally obligated to warn you to not make a habit of falling through floors, as it is bad for your health.”

Jones grabbed a bottle from the shelf, reading the label. “A thirty- well, forty-five year old Sauvignon Blanc,” he said, botching the pronunciation completely. “I have no idea what it is, but, bottoms up,” he said as he gripped the cork in his teeth, pulling it out and taking a deep swig.

“...Savvy-non Blank?” Catherine repeated, going to climb back up to the first floor. “Sounds gross.” Jones scrunched his face up slightly. “Its a little aged, but not half bad. And jeez, look at all of ‘em! There’s gotta be like fifty bottles!”

“Mr. Jones, as per our agreement, I have first choice of medical supplies, and strong alcohol can be used to dull pain in the case of surgery,” Arthur called down the hole.

“So can a hammer-blow to the head, but I don’t see you complaining about any tools we find,” Catherine replied, patting Arthur on the back. “Don’t worry, doc. You’ll get your pick, there’s a ton. And while you’re at it, do you mind prescribing some of this?” Jones said, waving the bottle as he took another swig.

“Perhaps I can once I see the ‘drug facts’ on the labels.”