Samara

General InCheck - The Hidden People

Interested

Pixie Hollow

Possible interest, but only if it really takes off.

Endtimes: Chronicles of the Survivors

GNYC, the Wax Apartments, formerly Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum

7:30 a.m., March 1st 2020

Hava woke with a start to her small wind-up alarm clock and sat straight up in her bed. Her mousy brown hair was tangled in frizzy loops that framed her thin, pale face. She scratched her long nose, blinking the sleep out of her brown eyes as she struggled to remember why she’d set her alarm so early. Glancing at the small chalkboard she’d hung on the wall next to her bed, she frowned. It read, “Don’t forget to turn off the alarm clock”. Hava sighed, reached over to the chair she used as a nightstand, and switched off the clock. She had meant to give herself a break and sleep in today. The mail business was busier than ever these days; no one wanted to go outside for anything less than necessities, and that meant that letters were being sent more and more frequently. Sundays were the only days Hava allowed to herself.

Resigned to being awake, Hava threw her mismatched bedcovers off and swung her twiggy legs out of the bed. She dressed in yesterday’s jeans, an oversized t-shirt, and a man’s brown leather jacket. It dwarfed her petite frame and aged her even younger than she normally looked, but she’d found out long ago that large, baggy clothing was much warmer. She had even modified the sleeves to hang just over her knuckles and cut holes for her thumbs to slip through. Hava dutifully remade her bed and set the alarm clock on her pillow. Dragging the chair behind her, she sat herself before a cheap plastic mirror hanging on the wall and began finger-combing her hair into submission. After tying it back in a loose ponytail, she retrieved her jug of water, toothpaste, and toothbrush and quickly cleaned her teeth, staring at her reflection and wondering what on earth she’d do with herself today. By the time she’d finished she still hadn’t decided, so she sat on her bed and listened to the rest of the inhabitants of the Wax Apartments stir awake through the thin walls of her bedroom.

Madame Tussaud’s had been hastily renovated into crude apartments when GNYC’s population began to swell. The area’s existing residence buildings had simply run out of room when news of the settlement spread, and many former points of attraction had been commandeered to house the massive influx of people seeking refuge from the Reborn. Pieces of plywood, cheap drywall, even old doors were used to cordon off hundreds of small rooms within the wax museum, and Hava had managed to secure her own shortly after arriving in GNYC. Each room was furnished with a twin bed and one chair, and each resident was given a gallon of water that they could refill each morning at one of the settlement’s wells, since the indoor plumbing was no longer working. Hava looked around at her few belongings. Her bike leaned up against a wall, her messenger bag hanging from one handlebar. A waist-high chest of drawers sat across from her bed and doubled as a work table. A small wicker basket sat upon it, holding her collection of wood that she whittled into animals or abstract shapes and sold. She hadn’t been able to sell many in the past few months, now that so few people went out and about. Normally, Hava took her basket to Times Square and peddled her carvings to the people on the street. But no one wanted to waste time looking at useless trinkets--they ventured out only for necessities and rushed back home.

Hava was restless. She knew it wasn’t safe, but she longed to go outside. She debated, chewing her lower lip. At last she hopped off her bed, slipped into her beat-up sneakers, looped her messenger bag over one shoulder, grabbed her basket of carvings, and made off for Times Square. Perhaps she’d sell at least one trinket today.

Endtimes: Chronicles of the Survivors

Hava Reis

Appearance:

Picture

Thin and bony, Hava has little in the way of womanly curves, and this, in addition to her youthful face, makes her appear much younger than she is. She is often seen staring into space. Her long nose, petite body, and tendency to move twitchily combine to give her a bird-like appearance. Her fingers are often bandaged--small accidents as a result of her whittling. She seems very weak, and in terms of brute strength she is, but she can move very quickly when she wants to.

Name: Hava Reis

Age: 20

Origins: Born and raised in Brooklyn

Personality: Hava is quiet and studious in demeanor. She enjoys whittling, and collects whatever small pieces of wood she can find. Her body language is tense, almost nervous, unless she’s got something to do with her hands. Hava tries to keep her emotions hidden most of the time, unless she is extremely upset or frightened. Her face is nearly always blank, and it is often impossible to tell what she is thinking. She can get along with most people, as long as they don’t ask much of her emotionally. She is acquaintances with everyone, but friend to none.

Likes: reading, practicing her penmanship, whittling, collecting small trinkets, solitude, running

Dislikes: talking about herself, being the center of attention among a crowd, the sight of blood and gore, wide open spaces, overbearing personalities

Backstory:

Hava grew up the only child of a non-practicing Jewish couple. Her parents had been raised in the faith, but left it after they married and decided to move to New York. Hava was raised essentially agnostic; the only Jewish tradition her family observed was eating kosher.

When Hava was nine, her mother failed to come home from work. A year passed, just Hava and her father, struggling to live with the worry and grief. When her mother returned as a Reborn, things only got worse. Hava’s father endured unimaginable strain, trying to care for both his rotting, comatose wife and his slowly withdrawing daughter. Hava arrived home one day, months later, to find that her father was dead and her mother was missing.

She was placed in a temporary children’s home for kids in similar situations, but as the Reborn attacks increased, the children’s home became more and more disorganized. Staff dwindled from twenty to two. Food rations grew smaller and smaller. Clothes stopped being repaired and replaced. Toys were unheard of. Hava was squeezed into a large room filled with orphans fighting for sleeping bags, clothes, and even food. She learned quickly to eat whatever was put in front of her...or whatever she could steal.

The home lasted for three hard years before it was finally targeted by a mass of Reborn. Hava, being small, fast, and agile, managed to flee the grisly chaos, having armed herself with a single pocket knife that she carries to this day. For three more years, Hava managed to survive on the streets with a group of five survivors who took her under their wing. They moved every few nights, scavenging buildings for food, water, and shelter. They sometimes ran into other surviving groups, but knew that traveling in greater numbers meant drawing attention; they traded and shared items, but never lingered together for long.

The six eventually heard rumors about a colony in Manhattan. A real, structured, safe settlement. The survivors decided to make the trip to sanctuary, relying on word-of-mouth directions to guide them. The group arrived at the gate tired, but relieved. Except for Hava, the group has kept in touch, though time and duties have separated them. Hava had decided to live on her own immediately upon reaching the colony, wanting nothing and no one around her to remind her of the horrors and hardships she had endured. Occasionally, the other five attempt to reconnect with her, but Hava, though not ungrateful, remains distant. She has not left the colony since.

Profession: messenger--she carries letters and memos from person to person, criss-crossing the entire span of the colony.

Equipment/weaponry: several small pocket knives for whittling; a large messenger bag with pockets for her personal items, the main bulk of the bag being reserved for letters; a modified bicycle with a basket in the front and back, along with a small bell on its handlebars; and her father’s old yarmulke, which she keeps with her at all times.

Other:
Skills:
Fast runner
Agile, good at dodging
Can sew functionally well
Neat penmanship
Moves extremely quietly and stealthily

Endtimes: Chronicles of the Survivors

Well, after much researching and agonizing, here's my character.

Hava Reis

Appearance:

Picture

Thin and bony, Hava has little in the way of womanly curves, and this, in addition to her youthful face, makes her appear much younger than she is. She is often seen staring into space. Her long nose, petite body, and tendency to move twitchily combine to give her a bird-like appearance. Her fingers are often bandaged--small accidents as a result of her whittling. She seems very weak, and in terms of brute strength she is, but she can move very quickly when she wants to.

Name: Hava Reis

Age: 20

Origins: Born and raised in Brooklyn

Personality: Hava is quiet and studious in demeanor. She enjoys whittling, and collects whatever small pieces of wood she can find. Her body language is tense, almost nervous, unless she’s got something to do with her hands. Hava tries to keep her emotions hidden most of the time, unless she is extremely upset or frightened. Her face is nearly always blank, and it is often impossible to tell what she is thinking. She can get along with most people, as long as they don’t ask much of her emotionally. She is acquaintances with everyone, but friend to none.

Likes: reading, practicing her penmanship, whittling, collecting small trinkets, solitude, running

Dislikes: talking about herself, being the center of attention among a crowd, the sight of blood and gore, wide open spaces, overbearing personalities

Backstory:

Hava grew up the only child of a non-practicing Jewish couple. Her parents had been raised in the faith, but left it after they married and decided to move to New York. Hava was raised essentially agnostic; the only Jewish tradition her family observed was eating kosher.

When Hava was nine, her mother failed to come home from work. A year passed, just Hava and her father, struggling to live with the worry and grief. When her mother returned as a Reborn, things only got worse. Hava’s father endured unimaginable strain, trying to care for both his rotting, comatose wife and his slowly withdrawing daughter. Hava arrived home one day, months later, to find that her father was dead and her mother was missing.

She was placed in a temporary children’s home for kids in similar situations, but as the Reborn attacks increased, the children’s home became more and more disorganized. Staff dwindled from twenty to two. Food rations grew smaller and smaller. Clothes stopped being repaired and replaced. Toys were unheard of. Hava was squeezed into a large room filled with orphans fighting for sleeping bags, clothes, and even food. She learned quickly to eat whatever was put in front of her...or whatever she could steal.

The home lasted for three hard years before it was finally targeted by a mass of Reborn. Hava, being small, fast, and agile, managed to flee the grisly chaos, having armed herself with a single pocket knife that she carries to this day. For three more years, Hava managed to survive on the streets with a group of five survivors who took her under their wing. They moved every few nights, scavenging buildings for food, water, and shelter. They sometimes ran into other surviving groups, but knew that traveling in greater numbers meant drawing attention; they traded and shared items, but never lingered together for long.

The six eventually heard rumors about a colony in Manhattan. A real, structured, safe settlement. The survivors decided to make the trip to sanctuary, relying on word-of-mouth directions to guide them. The group arrived at the gate tired, but relieved. Except for Hava, the group has kept in touch, though time and duties have separated them. Hava had decided to live on her own immediately upon reaching the colony, wanting nothing and no one around her to remind her of the horrors and hardships she had endured. Occasionally, the other five attempt to reconnect with her, but Hava, though not ungrateful, remains distant. She has not left the colony since.

Profession: messenger--she carries letters and memos from person to person, criss-crossing the entire span of the colony.

Equipment/weaponry: several small pocket knives for whittling; a large messenger bag with pockets for her personal items, the main bulk of the bag being reserved for letters; a modified bicycle with a basket in the front and back, along with a small bell on its handlebars; and her father’s old yarmulke, which she keeps with her at all times.

Other:
Skills:
Fast runner
Agile, good at dodging
Can sew functionally well
Neat penmanship
Moves extremely quietly and stealthily

Unorthodox Zombies? Check. Apocalyptic? Check.

You already know this, but I'm posting my interest anyway. Just in case. ^-^

Furor Titanicus

Silently, Maris cursed herself for her inattention and turned slowly, still crouched, to face the stranger. Her wariness was swept away by the sight of him. Inexperienced as she was, she could take him, for he was war-weary and injured. She stood, gripping her trident tightly just in case, and inspected him with an analyzing gaze as he spoke. She took no offense to his calling her “young lady” in that scolding tone of voice. In fact, she could feel nothing but pity for him. Clearly something horrible had happened in this vale, and this man had been in the thick of it. She took in his wounds, his exhaustion, and his willingness to escort her out of the forest even in his weakened state, and decided to help him.

“I thank you for your offer, but I am not leaving quite yet. I want to know what has happened here, and nothing will stop me from finding out.” She bent down and hefted her pack onto her back before speaking again. “I am Maris, Champion of Locke. I wish to see to your injuries, sir, before I will hear your story. I have some knowledge of healing, and your wounds appear serious, so please indulge me. May we walk to your camp?” She waited expectantly for him to lead the way, trying not to show her increasing disgust at the deathly smell wafting on the wind.
@Mag Lev

Furor Titanicus

Maris crouched low behind a large bush as she stared at the glowing fire. She knew she should do something, either approach or sneak past, but her first encounter with the horrors of this forest had put quite the damper on her sense of adventure. She could almost feel Locke’s disapproval of her indecision. The Titan would want her to get moving. But her nauseous stomach and numbing fear had paralyzed her. She’d never seen so many dead bodies, let alone those in such terrible condition. What could possibly have inflicted those kinds of wounds? Maris nearly retched again at the thought of all that torn flesh, the blood...that smell. Her gaze refocused on the fire, the girl trying desperately to get a hold on her composure.

She thought again about what kind of person would make camp in the middle of such a grisly battlefield. No. This hadn’t been a battle. It was a massacre. Whatever had done this to these soldiers was a force to be reckoned with. The poor souls clearly hadn’t stood a chance. Shuddering again, she forced herself to think instead of the unknown camper. She’d been sitting here for a couple hours, and he still hadn’t shown himself. The fire was well-tended and strong, so he had to be nearby. She didn’t feel any waves in the air that would indicate he was moving in her direction, but she figured she was far enough away from the camp that her new sense wouldn’t pick up on him even if he were.

Her newfound powers were certainly interesting. The walk through the forest had given her time to test them a bit. Her teleporting puddle didn’t reach very far--she could only travel about ten feet in any direction. She’d discovered that range when she came upon the first mangled body. She had nearly tripped over it, and was so shocked at the extent of the mutilation that her first thought was to get as far away from it as possible, as fast as possible. The puddle flooded beneath her immediately and she had reappeared ten feet back on her path before she had time to squeak in fear. She covered her face for a moment, recovering from the awful sight, then slowly made her way back to the dead man. He was barely recognizable as a man, his face so torn and bloody that she could only just make out masculine features. He was missing an arm, and his right leg was twisted so that his foot faced backwards, almost comically balanced on the tip of his blood-soaked boot. Maris couldn’t imagine what had done this kind of damage, and from then on she didn’t tarry long on her walk.

Until, that is, she sensed a dying woman. She felt the tiniest of ripples in the air, indicating a very small, very slight movement, and although she was afraid, her curiosity got the better of her, and she followed the movement, being careful not to make any noise. She reasoned that such a small movement couldn’t possibly be anything terribly dangerous, though she gripped her trident a little tighter as she drew nearer to the source. Maris smelled her before she saw her, the metallic stench of blood overwhelming her nostrils, making her gag until she wrapped her scarf around her nose and mouth, breathing shallowly. She was dressed in a uniform identical to the dead man’s, marking her as a soldier as well. Her dark hair was torn out in chunks, and bits of her scalp had been ripped from her head. A long, deep gash sliced its way from one temple to the corner of her mouth, giving her a grotesque lopsided grin. But the true horror was her chest. Three long slashes opened her torso from shoulders to hips. Her armor had been destroyed, and her body was bare from the waist up. One breast was missing, the other was sliced in half. She was staring up at Maris with eyes glazed over in pain. How she was still alive, Maris had no idea. The woman’s chest fluttered with her last breaths, making the halves of her remaining breast shake. This was the movement Maris had sensed. The girl turned and emptied her stomach in a nearby shrub, the sight at last too much for her. She stayed bent over for a moment, trembling in shock, sudden tears stinging her eyes. Her trident shook in her hand. She thought to end the woman’s suffering, and slowly turned back around, not eager for the task, but when she looked back down, the soldier was already dead.

Maris trembled again as she remembered the look on the dead woman’s face. She’d looked relieved, like she hadn’t wanted to die alone and had miraculously got her wish. Maris was lost in this bitter thought, and so did not sense the movement of the strange camper just behind her.

MONUMENT.

@Raid Oh, I didn't do anything, Masque just happened to show up back in chat! I was just glad to hear from him!

MONUMENT.

@Wobbles, I and a few others have spoken to Masque recently, and he said he will not be able to come back for Monument. We have a definite answer. I don't speak for everyone, but I'm going to start getting word out that we need a new Leader.

I'm also worried that we may have lost Jhett as well. I'm in another RP that he was GMing and we've since got a new GM and moved on. We haven't heard from him in ages. Do you think we should replace him too? I'd really like to hear your thoughts! :)