shivershiver

Outcasts - A Star Wars Roleplay

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night! Looking forward to the start of this RP, lots of great characters.

Outcasts - A Star Wars Roleplay

Mrak

Mrak

Introduction

Full Name: Sre'vkk'lak, "Mrak"

Age: 37

Species: Human

Gender: Male

Force Sensitive: No

Appearance

Description
Mrak stands at a solid 6’1, with lean muscle from strenuous labor and combat on Tatooine. While not overly bulky, his physique shows through his almost total lack of body fat. His right eye is a scarred and ruined mess, permanently shut after a krayt dragon ripped it open with its deadly claws. Mrak keeps this concealed with a simple tan cloth wrapped at an angle around his head. Two more scars from the same incident dig into his left cheek. Mrak’s hands are coarse and callused, his right missing its pinkie finger from the first knuckle up. Most of the Tusken’s body is coated in an ugly layer of scars, burns, and blaster marks.

Mrak wears a combination of durasteel and Stormtrooper armor over his traditional Tusken robes. The metallic durasteel has been salvaged from various suits of armor, rarely matching, and the plastoid composite Stormtrooper plates are painted to blend in with the sand of Tatooine. What the armor doesn’t conceal is wrapped in tan rags, and Mrak’s entire frame is usually obscured by a flowing earth-colored robe.

Characteristics

Personality
Mrak is a reserved man, saving his words for when he is spoken to. His grammar is fine, but the Tusken’s Basic vocabulary is lacking, and he occasionally substitutes Basic words with Tusken. This relative silence is typical of Sand People, a culture where words are generally reserved for important occasions, like stories and rituals, and body language is often substituted for real speech. Since Tusken’s faces are almost always concealed by their masks, Mrak is both very poor at concealing his emotions and reading others, though he does pick up on body language. Mrak is wary of strangers, another characteristic from living among Tusken Raiders. His trust is hard to gain, having lived in a tight knit community for almost his entire life, but once his loyalty is acquired Mrak will die for his allies. Despite his origins as a raider, Mrak is a very honor-bound man. He keeps any promises he makes and stands by his friends. The Tusken is burdened by pride, however, and is unlikely to accept any assistance from others. Any insults directed to him are likely to be met with physical violence, as he is not one for words. Though he lived among other humans for ten years, Mrak is still largely uneasy around his own species. He is uncomfortable being seen or seeing others without being totally covered in clothing, physical contact with someone who isn’t his mate is almost repulsive, and small talk is something he has yet to grasp. Though Mrak knows now that, like many other humans living among the raiders, he is no true Tusken, he still considers himself part of this culture.

After learning of his mate’s likely demise, Mrak’s character took a dark turn. He is driven not by survival, but hate, and though he exhibited restraint when first organizing the Tusken tribes, he is unlikely to be so level-headed now. Mrak’s only wish is to strike against the Empire for killing Jrr'ssk'iis, and he cares little about collateral damage. While previously deeply religious, believing in the traditional customs and gods of Tusken lore, these practices have lost their importance to Mrak in recent years.

Fears & Flaws
Cyclops: Mrak’s right eye has been blinded, so his right side serves as a major weak spot in combat. The missing eye throws off his depth perception, greatly reducing his marksmanship. He is usually restricted to close-range blaster fights where he would use his club anyway.

Aquaphobia: Mrak is totally unable to swim, rarely having seen a pool of water deeper than that in his canteen, and avoids deep water whenever possible.

Luddite: Tuskens are extremely averse to technology, and Mrak is no exception. He is unfamiliar with almost all forms of technology, save for weapons and some old machinery like speeder bikes. Mrak is also unfamiliar with space travel, and will undoubtedly be extremely fearful of it.

Recluse: Cut off from the rest of the universe, Mrak knows almost nothing about other cultures, planets, and politics. He both fears and hates outsiders, and is very resistant to any kind of cultural change. Mrak has only met Tuskens, humans, and to a limited extent Jawas and Hutts, and is wary of any other species. He is almost completely illiterate, as Tuskens don't believe in a written language, preferring to document events with stories told by their shaman.

Talents
Resilient: Living on a planet where everything wants to kill you sometimes has its advantages, namely it makes you hard as nails. Mrak is accustomed to extreme heat and cold thanks to the desert environment and two suns of Tatooine. The Tusken can go for extended periods of time without food or water as well. His pain tolerance is higher than most, and he is more than willing to absorb a few blows in combat to finish an opponent.

Brawler: Mrak has trained with a gaffi stick since he was capable of wielding one, and his expertise with this weapon, among others, gives him a distinct advantage in hand-to-hand combat.

Raider: Despite his heavy-handed approach in combat, Mrak is quite light on his feet, capable of moving without making a sound; he developed this skill when sneaking up on moisture farmers, and later, stormtroopers.
________________________________________

History

Backstory
Mrak was born on Tatooine to a pair of young moisture farmers, but then, his name was Ilkea Jhoren. When he was barely a year old, the farm was attacked by Tusken Raiders, and his entire family was killed by the Tuskens. Luckily, Ilkea was adopted by a female Tusken on the raid, Ora'jss'ask, who had just lost a young child of her own. Ora substituted her deceased babe with Ilkea, ensuring that none of their tribe knew the true identity of the human amongst their ranks, though many of the Tuskens were unknowingly humans themselves. She named the adopted child Sre’skk’lak and raised him as her own.

As a child, or uli-ah, Mrak proved himself as an exceptional combatant with a gaderfii, even besting a few adults. His skills with a blaster were sub-par, though marksmanship was not a vital part of their culture anyway, save for taking potshots at passing speeders. At 7, Mrak was paired with a bantha cub of the same age and formed the mystical bond that existed between the Raiders and banthas. Life as a Tusken, however, was never easy. He was constantly exposed to pain, violence, and death, not exactly the ideal environment for a child, but it was typical for Tusken Raiders. By the age of 13, Mrak had participated in three raids, killing a colonist on each. They did what they must to survive, although maybe reveling in the violence too much, but Mrak never found it to disturb him much. After eight birthing seasons, or sixteen years, Mrak, like all Tuskens, was required to prove himself in order to become a full member of the tribe. He set out on his bantha into the Jundland Wastes, in search of the krayt dragon. It was here that Mrak earned his place within the tribe by slaying one of these beasts with his gaderfii club, though the dragon badly damaged his right eye. Mrak retrieved the precious dragon pearl from the animal’s gullet and returned to his tribe, hailed as a hero. Mrak was given adult robes, a proper gaderfii staff, his own tent, and a mate. Mrak and the female Tusken, Jrr'ssk'iis, married, slicing their hands open and allowing their blood to mingle, along with the blood of their bantha mounts. The newly married couple then returned to Mrak’s tent, and for the first time since their birth, shed their clothes in the view of another. In Tusken culture, it is strictly forbidden to remove their protective clothing in front of others, except during childbirth and in the privacy of a tent with a mate. Breaking this rule would result in banishment, so no Tusken truly knew what the opposite sex looked like until their marriage night. Although Mrak was a human, and Jrr a true Tusken, neither knew what to expect, so they simply assumed that male and female Tuskens looked radically different. Regardless, the couple still did what most do on the night of their marriage.

The years passed, with Mrak becoming an even more important figure in the Tusken tribe. He was a fierce warrior and smart salvager, ranking him high in his tribe. Jrr never bore any children, since the two were biologically incompatible, though neither were overly heartbroken, for they had each other. When Mrak was in his mid-twenties, the Rebel Alliance was completely decimated by Imperial forces at the battle of Yavin, and soon, even the isolated and xenophobic Tuskens felt the pressure of the expanding empire. Mrak heard stories of entire Tusken tribes being wiped out by white devils, who then stole the surviving children and burned the huts. These tales were even more horrific than those the tribe shaman told of the vengeful desert spirit who struck down a village with his glowing gaderffii for failing to offer him sacrifices. However, because of the animosity between tribes, the Tuskens failed to learn more about these rumors.

Mrak’s nomadic village was struck next. The imperials came at night on their speeders while the tribe slept, moving from hut to hut, slaying the occupants. A sentry raised the alarm, and the Tuskens fought back. The tribe’s leader was slain in battle, but Mrak managed to rally the raiders and push back the Stormtroopers, though not without suffering heavy losses. As the soldiers fled in their speeders, Mrak noticed Jrr'ssk'iis, who fought beside him the entire night, was absent from his side. She wasn’t among the dead either, and Mrak realized she had been captured by the strange soldiers. If the remaining Tuskens had not been looking to him for leadership, Mrak would have ridden after the soldiers on a desperate mission to recover his wife. Unfortunately, Mrak knew that it was a hopeless endeavor, and the people here needed him. With a heavy heart, Mrak told the tribe to pack up on their banthas, and they set off into the desert. As they travelled deeper into the Jundland Wastes, the motley group found more and more Tusken villages wiped out by this new threat. Even moisture farmers were not spared. Mrak, sensing that the farmers were worth more alive than dead, offered the farmers a place in their caravan, much to the disappointment of his fellow Tuskens. Finally, the group found a tribe that was untouched by the Empire, and in light of this new threat, the village elder allowed Mrak and his followers to stay.

More survivors trickled into the village, and even entire tribes who had yet to be attacked. Once again, they looked to Mrak for guidance, and he reluctantly gave it. Almost immediately, Mrak ordered the group to go on the offence against the Imperials, striking in a very similar manner they would colonists and moisture farmers. Hit-and-run tactics worked well against the structured army, though Mrak never how much damage the resistance movement caused. Over the next ten years, the Tusken tribes slowly united against the Empire, working together alongside colonists, though resentment still ran deep. Mrak was constantly searching for his mate, but never found any trace of her. After the Hutts were put in their place by the Empire, they finally turned their attention to the Tusken uprising in the Jundland Wastes. All the years of fighting apparently didn’t even affect the Empire, as they wiped out the Tuskens in one fell swoop, only this time, Mrak was among those captured.
Mrak came to learn that the Empire was carrying out systematic genocide against the Tuskens, killing the adults and true Tusken babies, and raising the human children to be soldiers of their own, meaning his mate was dead. He swore to avenge her, but it was difficult to carry out revenge on your way to an Imperial prison.

I never expressed interest in the IC, but I hope you'll still take me! This bio is a little rough and subject to change, so just let me know if there's anything I can do it improve it.

Mythical Town (Open)

Sorry everyone about my absence, 12 hour shifts have got me dead tired. I'll have a post in the next two days!

Mythical Town (Open)

No flying cars, no robots or androids, and he hadn’t seen any laser guns yet either. On the plus side, gangs weren’t running the city and the world wasn’t decimated by a nuclear apocalypse, nor had the Soviet Union invaded, so it could be worse. Marty McFly got a flying skateboard and automatic tying shoes in 2015, and what do I get? A shit ton of monsters. Just my luck. He spotted the Pantera on the street, looking just as bizarre as him with its bright red paint and aggressively styled body in this new world of grey and black. Well, at least I got a better car than Marty. He hesitantly walked towards the car, his footing still unsure in his new body. It seemed just as new as the day he peeled out of the parking garage in it, a far cry from the twisted mess it became after tumbling down the cliff. His left hand carefully hooked itself into the door handle and it opened with a click. ”Well, it can’t kill me again…” Werner muttered before entering the car. His filthy suit soiled the black leather seats, and he felt the slick material against his exposed back. Taking a deep breath, Werner depressed the clutch and cranked the ignition, the keys already inside, and listened with pleasure as the basso profundo American V8 ripped from the deceptively Italian car. Werner felt in control of this new life behind the wheel. He felt whole, and knew what his next move needed to be, no matter how painful it might be.

Werner drove through Diehlstadt’s downtown area, a sense of deja vu washing over him. Everything felt so familiar, but just a little off. Aside from the creatures walking about, the town looked duller and sleeker, like the color had been turned off. Certainly, the age of excess was well over, replaced by a more conservative and polite society. Using his broken hand to awkwardly shift, he gradually made it to the residential area of Diehlstadt, which seemed more or less unchanged. If he had a heartbeat, it would have quickened as he approached a two story red brick house with a dormer roof. His childhood home. Cardboard box towers littered the well-kept lawn, and what he determined to be a moving van sat on the curb outside. Someone’s moving out. Or in. The thought came with despair. Werner hastily parked his car, stalling it in the process, and ran into his home. ”Mom? Dad?" he called out as he dashed through the unlocked door. Easy, they’re not as young as they used to be. Don’t give them a heart attack. If not for his frantic state of mind, Werner would have noticed the walls, once filled with family photos, were now white and barren. A man wielding an aluminum baseball bat emerged from the corner and took a wide swing at Werner. He might have been dead, but the zombie wasn’t slow; he leaned back just in time to dodge the blow, which crashed into the wall. ”Jesus! Why are you in my house!?” Werner exclaimed, taking a moment to look over the man. He was middle aged, lean build, and wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He very much reminded Werner of his father, though his dad never swung a bat at him.

”Your house? I’ve been fixing this place up for years you goon! Get out of my home, damn it!” The man replied, winding up for another swing. Werner caught a glimpse of a woman and child in the next room.

”Wait! What about the old owners?” Werner cried, holding his hands up. Maybe his parents moved. There was always hope.

”What? Hell, they died years ago! Now get the hell out!” The man yelled, thrusting the bat into Werner’s stomach, though it yielded no reaction. Dead. Like me. The tears never came, but god he wanted them. All that could have been if Werner hadn’t been so stupid flashed through his mind. Graduating with his smiling parents, building a big house for them to live in, giving them grandchildren. And what had their life been after he died? Losing their only child, and missing his resurrection only by a few years. Raising up their son only to plant him in the ground. Another landing of the bat prompted Werner to leave, acting on autopilot. He got into the car and slumped into the seat. Adrien.

Another familiar house, another hostile family. Perhaps knocking would have earned him a kinder reception, but it didn’t matter. His parents were dead and Adrien was gone. Werner thought of contacting his old friends, but by now they probably left Diehlstadt or forgot about him. No sense in bringing back bad memories. Instead, Werner drove to the storage units at the edge of town where his parents put some of his old things from high school. It wasn’t the most logical move, but Werner wasn’t thinking with a clear head. He drove down the gravel path to the units and saw a large crowd congregating around what he remembered as his unit.

”205itllbe215 205itllbe215!Goingoncegoingtwice sold! To the elf in the Cowboys jersey!” Werner heard a rapid-fire voice shout out. He made his way through the throng of people and confirmed it was his unit, being auctioned off by a skeleton in a suit no less. Without thinking, Werner dashed pass the auctioneer and into the unit, grabbing the nearest plastic tub he could get his hands on. ”Heyjustwha-” the skeleton made out before Werner dropped his shoulder and ran through the auctioneer, sending his bones flying. ”Come backhereyousunnavagun you can’t do that!” But Werner had already tossed the crate into the passenger side of his car and sped off. He took a look at the contents of the box while driving. Clothes, trophies, a couple pictures. It was all he had left of his old life now.

As the moonless night rolled in, Werner found himself in front of Masilalt’s door yet again, his good hand raised to knock, weighing his options. I really hope he wasn’t joking. Werner let his hand fall on the door and waited for the hulking beast to appear.

October 3rd, 2015
-------
In the past month, Werner spoke to only two people on a regular basis; Masilalt and the local butcher. The former because he lived with him and the latter to stop him from losing his mind. He spent most of his time locked up in Masilalt’s attic trying to piece together what happened in the past 30 years to his loved ones, but he was no detective, and newspaper clippings could only get you so far. Even though he found he didn’t need sleep, and couldn’t even if he even wanted to, Werner made little progress, only finding simple obituaries for his two parents. Oddly enough, nothing on Abioya. He paid Masilalt rent using what little funds were left in his savings account, which would run dry very soon, and helped around the house, along with the occasional voodoo experiment. Werner also learned a lot about his new form as well with the help of Masilalt. He could heal, albeit at a very slowed pace. His broken fingers, roughly taped up, were just now beginning to take a normal shape. On the upside, he didn’t feel pain, or any sensation for that matter. Always thinking about the positive side.

[color=steelblue]”Hey Masilalt, I’m going out!”[/color Werner shouted as he walked out the door. It could hardly be called going out, though, making his usual two-block walk to the grocery shop, and the only reason he made it was to avoid eating the next human he saw. The October breeze struck Werner right as he walked outside, but he didn’t notice. Temperature and wind gusts didn’t mean much to someone unable to feel hot or cold. He still wore weather-appropriate clothing however, to blend in more, and hide his grey and scarred skin as much as possible. He wore a heavy blue cardigan and slim fitting jeans tucked into beat-up nike sneakers, one of the few outfits he scavenged from his storage unit. He’d also taken to wearing dark wayfarer sunglasses to conceal his glowing eyes, which were rather off putting to humans.

Not everything was bad, though. He found a job as a substitute teacher with the local high school, and would start as soon as the math teacher went on maternity leave. Werner wasn’t particularly worried about the job; he attended MIT and graduated with a degree in mechanical engineering, so anything the school had to throw at him would be a piece of cake. Math didn’t change much with time, unlike other subjects. Still, he knew nothing about this new world, spending most of his time locked away. Each day he was falling behind, and he knew it. Fuck it, I have the rest of eternity to figure out what changed in 30 years. Masilalt told him that he couldn’t die unless his curse was broken, which was pretty unlikely, so he had some time.

Werner walked down the main street and noticed banners and decorations being hung up. Fall Fling? Damn, they’re still holding it! He’d never missed a single festival in Diehlstadt since his birth, and Werner would be damned if he’d miss them now he was alive. Guess it’s as good a time as any to return to the world of the living…

Mythical Town (Open)

For those newcomers and anyone who didn't see this, we're using a chatroom to talk OOC and in general shoot the shit, reserving more RP-related posts for here so we don't swamp it with useless information. Here's the link for the chatroom!
http://www.chatzy.com/84770423160283

Mythical Town (Open)

Characters: Werner and Masilalt

Werner and Masilalt

It was offensive to be called a costume; for a moment Masilalt showed it, before regaining his composure. He must have been buried for awhile, he doesn't know any better. "I don't have the slightest clue of what you're talking about." Was it a pop culture reference? He was always awful at paying attention to that. In the past, a lover had convinced him to sit still long enough to make it through a movie or two, but that interest died with them.

The zombie grabbed a hold of his fur, and he was reminiscent of a curious child, except instead of a bright eyed kid eager to learned the world he was faced with a scared corpse looking for answers. And while the man looked to have around 20 years of experience living, Masilaltabhrata would see no difference between the two.

Welcome to the world, you poor bastard.

The hairy humanoid didn’t take Werner’s words too well, though he had a difficult time getting a read on the creature. A face covered in fur acted as an excellent mask, but the body language was still there; a slight recoil, with a stiffer stance. Great job Werner, you just pissed off the biggest thing in town. The creature quickly loosened up though, and for that Werner was grateful. It seemed to look at him with a sort of pity through its red eyes, like looking at a child who couldn’t find his parents. God, those eyes really wig me out. Werner slowly calmed down, realizing the tall hooved beast before him didn’t hold any malicious intent for him. Well, for the moment anyway.

"Either you're very new, or very old. I'm guessing the latter." The demon grinned in amusement, canines flashing, "I'm an Alp." He had never ran into many people who knew just what an alp was, but with all the questions they looked to have small details were the least of his problems. "My name is Masilatabhrata; Masilalt is fine. Would you like to sit down and talk? My house is right there." He had a feeling that if this was all a shock to the boy, he would definitely want to be sitting down for what came next. Maybe he knew already, and was just denying it. Or maybe he truly thought he was a living soul in some kind of fever dream.

Very new? Werner? The young man had spent the first 18 years of his life in Diehlstadt, and returned every summer since. Surely the town couldn’t have turned into a monster bash in the short amount of time he spent in the grave. But then again, the town did feel… Different. He saw a couple cars pass down the street, and his red eyes tracked them until they fell over the horizon, his mouth open wide. He recognized only the circular blue and white BMW badge on the back of the car, and that was it. Gone were the boxy bodies and sharp lines of the 80’s he’d come to know and love, in all their flashy glory. Now the road was dominated by bigger, sleeker metal beasts, their edges buffed out and engines silent. The Pantera sitting on the side of the road looked like a dinosaur among them, and Werner could relate. But still, he didn’t feel old, and he hoped to god he didn’t look it. Maybe the filthy clothes and dirt-caked skin made him look older? If that was the case, teenagers would be rolling in the mud and running to the bars. Frankly, he didn’t know what the hell this thing was talking about. ”Old? I’m only 23 man,” Werner replied, his voice falling short on the last word. How did he know this thing was a guy? It seemed masculine, but that didn’t mean anything. Werner didn’t want to get ripped in half by a female Chewbacca because he used the wrong pronoun, even if it was just a discourse particle. Thankfully, Chewbacca didn’t shed him to ribbons, just introduced himself. Alp? Like the Alps in Europe? Although the Alp specified his species, the name didn’t mean much to Werner, who simply nodded dumbly. ”Mahhsi-selahlt,” Werner fumbled on the name. It felt foreign and strange on his tongue, like a mixture of Arabic and German, the latter of which he spoke some. ”I’ll, uh, have to work on that…” he added shyly. The Alp invited him to his home, just down the street, an odd offer, but one Werner felt he could not turn down. Masilalt seemed like an altruistic creature who just wanted to help someone down on their luck, which Werner was sure he looked like. Besides, it would be a good opportunity to rest for a moment and take everything in, though he didn’t feel tired. He did just wake up from a long dirt nap, but then he dug his way out of six feet of hard-packed soil, no easy task even for the most physically fit. Werner cleared the thoughts from his mind. ”Yeah, sure, if its no trouble, thanks,” Werner said, mustering a weak smile.

"Hah, don't worry. You're not the only one that has trouble with my name." Humans always had trouble matching otherworldly languages, and his name was no different. Many times, children especially would shorten his name to Masi, and he was wondering if that would be easier for them. Maybe later he would tell them, if they couldn't get his name right. As Masilalt glanced back to his house, he just now noticed his bag was on the ground. "Damn." He muttered, and the sound of his steel horseshoes against the pavement was in stark contrast to the rarely ceasing foot traffic, and this was one of the few times he noticed it. His next steps were absolutely soundless but somehow still casual as ever, the alp trying to not scare off the zombie. He picked up the bag and opened the door, looking at them and nodding his head towards the inside.

"What are you called?"

What are you called? The question was normal enough, but the phrasing struck him as a little archaic perhaps, like an old Shakespearean play. Then again, he’d been in Massachusetts for the past 5 years, and was used to,”Hay, whahtsya name?” so perhaps he was just unaccustomed to someone not butchering the English language. ”I’m Werner Kleist, nice to meetcha,” Werner said, walking at the Alp’s side. He noticed the red Pantera slowly rolling behind them, trailing along. He hoped Masilalt didn’t ask about it, because Werner didn’t have any answers. If he was lucky, maybe Masilalt knew more than him. The Alp’s footsteps were heavy at first, accompanied by the clanging of metal, but he quickly corrected them. He looked down at his feet. Jesus, he’s got hooves. Don’t wig out. Don’t say anything. Just be cool. Be cool like the Fonz. Normally, Werner was a sociable and smooth guy, but recent events had him more than a little frazzled. ”Those shoes can’t be too comfortable, eh?” Werner tried making a joke as the two walked into Masilalt’s home. Oh, that was bad.

Masilalt noticed there was a short, red car moving slowly behind the duo, and looked to Werner before back to the car, and to Werner once more. There wasn't a driver in that car. Masilalt hated cars at a fundamental level - they were practically breaking the earth. That hatred had led him to ignore them, but he knew the absolute basics, such as someone needed to be in it for it to work. "How interesting." The zombie still had absolutely no idea what was going on, and he guessed they wouldn't have much to say for that. But Werner did seem in a god awful condition, and that car was just following him...That wasn't a good conversation starter, however, so he left it be at that. "They're fine, for me. Not everyone's a human, ya?" He smiled at the man even with their failed attempt at humor.

Werner saw the Alp’s red eyes track the tailing car, and felt his stomach drop. Oh great, now he probably thinks I’m some kind of freak. The irony of this thought was not lost on Werner, but he couldn’t find any humor in it. He was reminded of the old movie Planet of the Apes, where a group of astronauts return to Earth after many years to find that they were no longer the dominant species. Surely this wasn’t the case here; Diehlstadt looked about the same as it once was, even the street names remained. Still, Werner wasn’t sure just how long he’d been planted in the ground. A few hours? Days? Weeks? He couldn’t have survived that long without severe brain damage at the very least. Oh god, it all makes sense. The way Masilalt looked at him with pity. The unfamiliarity of the town. The nightmarish people walking around. He wasn’t right in the head. Werner quickly did some calculus problems in his head, derriving, and found he had no problem with them. Well, at least, he thought they were right. ”Heh, yeah… Human…” Werner vacantly repeated, barely processing the words.

The kitchen was the first room in the small home, with the staircase off to the side. "Please, sit down." Masilalt ran his fingers across the small table as he passed it to set his bag on the counter, proceeding to move some mason jars aside and taking out the herbs, laying them in a nice order. "Do you want anything to eat or drink, Kleist?" Considering their state, he assumed the answer was no, but he wasn't about to be a bad host. After all, his manners were part of the reason he had good business. He took off some of the vanilla beans and cinnamon hanging from strings on the ceiling and put them down with the others, quickly tying them together and hanging them back up. He would do the same to more plants, later, when he wasn't explaining an entirely new world to a confused corpse.

Werner barely noticed he’d stumbled into the Alp’s house, taking one last look at the Pantera before the door shut. He felt like he’d just left a part of himself behind, like saying goodbye to a loved one. Odd, considering how little love he felt for the car. He took a look around the house as he followed his host to the kitchen table. It was refreshingly rustic, even by 1980’s standards. No TV, microwave oven, or anything of the like. Werner took a seat at the table, noting the various plants hanging by the ceiling to dry. It was a familiar sight, but as to why, he didn’t know. The memory escaped him, as they often seemed to do recently. ”Nice place you have here, Masilalt,” Werner said as his glowing red eyes panned the room. He felt slightly guilty for his inconsiderate behavior lately; he’d always been the polite type, but his recent confusion hasn’t contributed to this admirable trait. As if to exemplify his own impeccable manners, Masilalt graciously asked if his guest needed anything. ”A glass of water’d be nice, thanks.” He didn’t feel thirsty, but Werner figured he needed to hydrate after being locked up for, well, however long it was. As for eating, the graveyard cat took care of that. Werner shuddered at the recent memory before blocking it out. He shifted his focus to the glass of water his host set before him, and reached out for it with his right hand, but noticed how the three longest bloodied fingers bent and twisted in unnatural directions. This wasn’t particularly upsetting, as he had broken several bones in the past during hockey games and wrenching on cars. No, what sickened Werner was the lack of pain. He was sure adrenaline was no longer pumping through his system, numbing any agony like it would have in the coffin. Werner slowly lowered the hand into his lap, and grasped the glass with his bruised but unbroken dominant left hand.

The demon made his way back to the table, moving a few books that looked too archaic to belong in this century onto the floor and taking the seat across from the zombie. He crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, stretching. Silence took over the room for a moment as Masilalt simply looked over Werner. Where to start? He didn't know them very well, and didn't know how direct he wanted to be. Of course, not a lot of people would react to a practical stranger telling them how dead they are right off the bat. He could start with asking about voodoo, but what if he said he didn't know anyone? That topic seemed more trouble than it was worth.

He leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. "Do you remember anything before today, Kleist? I want to know the last memory you have." His mother had resurrected someone to show him, once. They were overall pretty lethargic and couldn't remember anything, and turned out to be pretty useless. Masilalt was hoping Werner was a different story.

”Well, I pretty much remember everything, if I try hard enough. Feels a little… Hazy though,” Werner began. ”I remember my first hockey game. Graduating from MIT. Working with my dad.” These memories were the most vivid, the important ones he’d carry with him. Werner could practically feel the ice beneath his skates as he clumsily slapped the puck, hearing his parents cheers. A brief smile flickered across his face. ”The last thing I remember… Oh man, my girlfriend, uh, Adrien, she’s sick. I stole that car outside to get to the hospital, and I crashed. That’s all I can remember.” His voice choked up at the mention of Adrien, and he grabbed the water with a trembling hand and brought it to his dried lips. Hardly half a mouthful made it in him before his throat began convulsing and he coughed the water out onto the table. ”Sorry, sorry…” he muttered with apologetic eyes as he wiped the water up with his tattered sleeve, which probably only dirtied the table further. Werner recalled seeing a similar reaction to water when he was in Angola over a summer in undergrad, volunteering to help a town construct a new irrigation system. A neighboring town was suffering from a rabies outbreak, and those in the late stages of the disease had extreme hydrophobia. No matter how thirsty the victims were, they twisted and turned their head away from any water; if it managed its way down their throat, it was immediately spat out. The sound of his own coughing brought a new memory to mind.

”I remember… My mom and dad’s voices. Mom, she was crying, and Dad was trying to calm her down.” Werner realized what he remembered. His own funeral. ”Then, Adrien, I remember her voice,” he continued with a relieved breath. She was okay, at least whenever his funeral took place. ”Sorry, does any of this mean anything to you?” He looked to the stranger across the table with hopeful eyes, though he didn’t know why this… Alp would know anything, but it was worth a shot.

"It's fine, don't worry about it." Masilalt brushed off his guest's accident, shrugging off the mess. The table had seen worse from other clients, and his books weren't damaged. What else did he expect to happen? He knew zombies couldn't drink water, and at least Werner probably learned something.

He gave a slow nod, red eyes never breaking contact with the zombie. "Oh, it means everything to me. You must be aware by now that you're dead, yes?" He went back to leaning in his chair, "I hate to be so blunt about it, but let's call a spade a spade here."

Dead? So this is some dream. Werner almost felt relieved upon hearing the words. Being dead was much easier than living in some strange world filled with monsters. Perhaps if he closed his eyes, it would all be over. He always pictured death being a little less vivid than this, and less frightful, but then again, he supposed his death wasn’t too pleasant. If he died of old age in a small cottage surrounded by friends and family with a spring breeze rolling in, then his conscious probably would have him picking flowers in rolling fields. But he met his fate in a burning wreckage of twisted metal as he hurled down the side of a cliff, he racing to his sick lover. What did he expect? His last thoughts weren’t exactly the cheeriest. Still, he figured the grim reaper would look differently than the furry creature sitting across from him. He listened to his personal Charon for further instructions.

"You must've been resurrected by a houngan or bokor. They're the voudon equivalent of priests, basically. And I would guess by the fact you're not with him, he failed, but the fact that you're here..." The demon trailed off, looking to the car out the window.

”You’ve got to be shitting me.” It all made sense now. Abioya, that old bastard. He knew Abioya was had dabbled in voodoo when he lived in Haiti, as had many of his ancestors. Werner figured it was all nonsense though, just an old man’s way of attempting to frighten his granddaughter’s boyfriend. Guess he wasn’t joking. Whether Abioya’s intentions were malicious or not, he didn’t know. The man never liked him in life, why would he bring him back from the grave? Werner was torn between kissing and killing Abioya when he saw him.

"Maybe he died, so you're just aimless. I'm not completely sure...But I think your car has something to do with it. It's 2015, what year did you die?" He died in the car, so it could be that the car was the one possessed, with the zombie just acting as a puppet. But that didn't make a lot of sense. He drummed his fingers against the table, snapping his attention back to Werner.

If Werner was still capable of vomiting, Masilalt’s already dirtied table would be covered in half-chewed cat. His head was spinning, like he’d just gotten the worst suckerpunch in the rink. ”Nineteen… Uh. Eighty-five,” he stammered. 30 years. His parents are 87 years old. Abiyola is well over 100 years old. And that puts Adrien at 53. If any of them are even alive. Werner ran a hand through his filthy hair before using it to cover his eyes. He wondered if Abiyola did this intentionally, forcing him to come back to life and watch everyone he ever loved forget about him. He could handle being some sort of monster, but facing the future alone sickened him. No, even Abiyola wasn’t that cruel. Something must have gone wrong. Werner wanted to curl into a ball and cry, but he wasn’t going to give up so easily. He had to figure out why he was back, and what had become of Diehlstadt.

"Were you connected to voodoo somehow?" Maybe he was just unlucky, and someone picked him as a fresh target for a zombie bottle. He'd done it himself. There was a possibility that he had connections, and even if they decided it was best not to dig it up, Masilalt could use that to meet them himself.

”Yeah, guy named Abiyola. He’s pushing on 100 now, so he’s probably dead,” Werner replied bitterly. The one man who could make sense of this was surely long gone. Then again, this Alp, Masilalt, seemed to have a pretty good grasp on what he was going through, and hadn’t led him astray so far. “So what happened in 2015 that made skeletons go to work and women’s heads fall off? Diehlstadt wasn’t like this in ‘85.”

"Damn. Well, that explains why you're here, instead of with him," Masilalt shrugged, "I mean, normally with the resurrection of a soul by a bokor, you would be serving him. But if he's dead you can't do that too well." It was all the better if Werner was a free man. That meant the demon could use him, and while he looked very shaken up, he seemed like a pretty determined human. The demon grinned at the thought. Suddenly, this town was pretty exciting. Those details could be discussed later, when the zombie realized the more immediate aspects of his new life. Right now, he had questions, and Masilalt was happy to provide answers. "We didn't all just come into existence within the past 30 years, if that's what you're thinking. The llama...Alpaca? It doesn't really matter. Anyway, the hybrid that runs the cafe bought the place a few years back. Everyone else just heard about monsters living here and followed suit. That's what I've heard, at least; I've only been here a few months myself." It was an interesting town, to say the least. Every time he thought he had something figured out, things like this happened.

Well, it could be worse. Abioya could be alive and I’d be stuck with him. Werner immediately chastised himself after making the internal remark. Surely the old man, a descendant of Haitian slaves, wouldn’t attempt to dominate another. The man always talked about the evils of slavery. Still, at this point, it didn’t really matter what he planned to do with Werner once he crawled out of his grave. What did concern him, though, was the way in which Masilalt looked at him, no longer with pity, but excitement. It didn’t take a particularly keen eye to notice the Alp’s interest in voodoo; from the herbs hanging down over the table to the various ancient occult books lying around, the signs were everywhere. Did Masilalt see him as his next Frankenstein-esque experiment? No, if the Alp wanted to exploit Werner, he already would have. The world wasn’t like the movies, where criminal masterminds told the hero their plan just before carrying it out. The Alp was probably just excited to have an interesting subject to study. Werner shook the thought from his head and focused in on his new furry friend. The next part Werner didn’t find too shocking, though any other day he’d be dumbfounded. His brain was overloaded with all these changes; they hardly seemed real, even with one staring right at him, and the other authenticating itself when he broke free from his grave. Oddly enough, this addition of mythical creatures was the least life-changing for the young man, though disturbing.

Masilalt stood up and stretched, walking back over to his counter. "I know I just gave you a lot of information, and if you need to take time to process it all that's fine. Take a walk, get some fresh air, whatever." He spoke nonchalantly, grounding a stick of cinnamon. "Or not, and just stay here for awhile. Doesn't matter to me." The cinnamon was put in a mason jar, and joined with water and what looked to be some orange peels. "If you do decide to leave, remember you can come back anytime you need." Closing the jar, he spun around, "So, Kleist, what's next?"

What is next? The Alp was kind enough to offer him a place to stay, an offer Werner hoped he wouldn’t have to take. In a perfect world, he would return to his childhood home and be welcomed with open arms and teary eyes by his parents, who, though 30 years older, loved him just the same. If this situation didn’t play out too well, he might have to return to Masilalt’s home; Werner wasn’t sure what the policy was on bank accounts after death, but he doubted there was much money left in his anyways, certainly not enough to survive on his own. ”Thanks, I’ll probably take you up on that offer,” Werner replied. ”You’re right, I just need to take a walk. Work shit out, you know? This… Uh, its a hard pill to swallow.” The zombie stood up on unsure legs, which were still growing used to the strange life flowing through them, and made his way to the door. ”Oh, and thanks.. Masilalt,” he added, getting the name more or less correct. ”I’d still be screaming out on the streets if it weren’t for you.”

Werner stepped out of the house and onto the alien streets, looking at Diehlstadt through a different lens with his new knowledge. So this is the future. What a shithole.

Mythical Town (Open)

Still here. I'll be riding this strange torpedo all the way to the end.

Mythical Town (Open)

<Snipped quote by shivershiver>

I think that would be a lot more efficient o: I'll type something up and send it to you soon-ish.

@sheeplon

Sounds good, looking forward to it!

Mythical Town (Open)

<Snipped quote by shivershiver>

been there to buddy. I know how ya feel hope you did well on your exams and moving out wasnt to hard!

@onenote

Thanks! Now the challenge is to break my shitty sleeping cycle of staying up until 6 :P

Also, @sheeplon do you think we should do a collab post or nah? It seems to be all the rage!

Mythical Town (Open)

After he recovered from the initial shock of a human head lying next to a pile of garbage, Werner stopped his cry of horror. Well, until the head shouted back, sending him into a further state of panic. He saw what must have been the rest of the body in the alley, stumbling around with purpose. Strangely enough, in such a gruesome moment, Werner was reminded of a childhood field trip to a local farm. All the kindergartners were rounded up and given a turn to pet the horses, cows, and so on, but Werner managed to escape from the teacher’s watchful eye to to see what he really wanted, the chickens and roosters. He arrived just in time to see the farmer’s son slaughtering chickens. He brought the animal’s head to a tree stump and with one swift chop of the butcher’s knife, separated the head from the body; this was not the end of the chicken’s life, however, as the headless fowl floundered in every direction, spouting blood from its neck for several long minutes before finally giving up its futile efforts. Needless to say, the past situation didn't sit well with the young Werner, nor did the current one.

A woman with a head attached to her shoulders approached from behind, and it took Werner a moment to break his focus from the headless body. She approached the entire situation coolly, as if severed heads were an everyday occurrence, making Werner slightly embarrassed at his squeamishness. She was around his age, just a little thing, and are those fucking wings? The young man was beginning to realize something was amiss, as if the situation before him wasn’t enough of a hint.

“Do you need help?” Werner thought the winged woman was asking him and almost replied before she knelt down to the head. Which replied. No. Had he lost his mind? Was this all a hallucination, created by his oxygen-deprived brain as he suffocated in his coffin? Werner remembered reading about how the body would try and comfort itself as it died, but this wasn’t a very soothing image. No, it was all too real. The body scooped up its head and the two women carried on like she simply scraped her knee or some minor injury, and went off just as Werner heard another voice, this time much deeper, and slowly turned to face them, fearing something even stranger would arrive. He was right.

“Don't you have more important things to do than to be standing here screaming?” The source was a seven foot tall beast covered in thick brown hair, massive horns protruding from its head, and blood red eyes staring down at him. Halloween. Its gotta be Halloween, right? He scoured his memory, hoping to find the date. October 8th give or take, 1985. No way I was out cold two weeks. Hell, it was worth a shot, but knew he was grasping at straws.

“Hah, yeah… Nice costume man, uhm, Chewbacca, right? Where's Han?” Werner replied hopefully. He reached out and grabbed a handful of the creature’s arm hair with broken fingers and gave it a light tug. The town was coming to life now, and Werner caught sight of this. A massive snake with the upper body of a woman slithering between shops. Fairies darting to and fro, their tiny wings beating hard. A minotaur dressed in a suit and tie heading to work. Regular, everyday people were woven into these throngs of mythical creatures, never batting an eye at the skeleton standing in line to use the phone booth or the ghost floating next to them. “That’s… Not a costume, is it?” Werner said weakly as he let go of the creature’s arm.

@Shilly (Mentioned)
@onenote(Mentioned)
@sheeplon