I can say as a writer, I've never quite heard this term before. I also wouldn't call the rp 'angsty' in any way. The rp is going to have dark and bleak elements, but it isn't going to be SAD ALL THE TIME either.
With no idea as to do otherwise, he has decided upon the name 'John Cleaver' to both keep it simple and because of the bloody weapon he carries.
Appearance
While his face might be appealing, Cleaver isn't the strapping young lad most would hope for. He's rather short, only topping around 5'7" on a good day, and only weighs about a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. There's nary a bit of muscle to be seen on him either. 'Lanky' would be a good term to describe him as. The only good thing about his physique is his ability to run. And he's done a lot of it since arriving in the hell that he inhabits.
Still, his face is pretty good looking. The dirty blonde hair covering his face could use a trim, as could the specks of facial hair starting to sprout up on him. His eyes are a pleasant chestnut brown, and whatever gods had decided to toss him into purgatory gave him an appealing set of clothing, a black overcoat with a white undershirt, both made of simple cloth along with pants. The time spent has frayed it, but its quality is still good.
Equipment
The first thing John realized as he woke was that he was holding a ridiculous meat cleaver. The weapon was huge compared to its counterpart, roughly the size of a short sword if you held the two up together. The other thing he realized was that the weapon was soaked in blood. It still proudly displays a good portion of rust, even after the rough scrubbing he tried to give it.
Other than the mockery of a sword, he doesn't own much in this world. One of his most important and useful items is the small lantern he found laying around him. The only beacon of light in the dark world he has. To go with it, a small iron and flint striker to light anything he requires. A completely useless compass that doesn't seem to go along with the laws of physics in this world. A few weeks worth of rations he has mostly gone through. What's left is smoked meats and dried fruits that he usually saves and goes for whatever scraps he can find in the world. Don't forget an assortment of other stuff for basic living.
His last item is a large leather bound journal that has been his only sense of comfort in this strange land. The quill that goes with it seemingly does not run out of ink, no matter how many times he has used it. Within' the old parchment are recollections of his previous days. Each log usually is spread out by a few days, and usually is accompanied by drawings and descriptions of important places. Not like it matters too much, the world is similar to that of a maze, any attempts to map the world have failed.
Memories
John Cleaver doesn't remember much. But he holds the memories tight and tries to keep hold of them. The first and most easily remembered one is of a crisp autumn day. A young John watches in curiosity as an older man goes through the process of butchering a pig. Guts and visceral cover the wooden workstation set up under the birch tree. The stench of blood is fresh and overbearing as the old man yells at John and then goes after John, his belt coming off.
His second memory is during the same autumn. John lingers over a hastily constructed easel with a sheet of parchment hanging over it. On the easel is a finely done painting of a grassy plain with a blue river running through it. There are apple trees and in the distance stands a beautiful woman.
His third memory is that of the portrait, shredded and lying on the ground while the sharpening of a knife is heard. John cries.
The fourth memory is during a cold winter. Hunger is the most recognizable feeling as an older version of John sits, a huge cavalcade of bruises cover him as he cowers in the small cramped attic that is his room.
The last memory is of John holding a cleaver in his hands, blood splattered over him and shock in his eyes.
Awakening
A rendition of the area according to John's journal.
That day was probably the worst day of many to come in this horrible place. Only now after a few days can I finally sit down and write about it. The ground was sopping and as I sat there for a few moments, perplexed as to where in Gods Earth I was, my coat was getting soaked in mud. Nothing came to mind as the gears in my brain racked themselves to try and think of something. Anything. Of course, I couldn't think of anything at all.
It was horrible as I sat there, staring at the roof inside the remnants of... a mine? Even after exploring that place I still have no idea of its purpose. As I peered around the great pillars, something red caught my eye and I looked towards my left hand. In its place was a brutal weapon. A huge cleaver that could have cleaved a cow's head right off of its neck. And the blood covering my hand and the weapon seemed to confirm something like that happened. I threw the weapon away and it clattered against a pillar as I pushed myself up, my hands sloshing through the mud as I sat up.
The sick feeling seemed to triple in size as I stood up, the backside of my clothing now splattered with brown goop. Its hard to remember what happened next. I think I may have panicked, or something similar to that. Only through some bit of wisdom did I remember to grab the large leather bag... and the cleaver. Something about the place just screamed dangerous to me.
I ran, and ran, and ran and ran until my lungs screamed and my legs finally gave up. I collapsed to my knees in what seemed to be the remains of a dead castle overlooking the 'mine'. As I gasped for air, I noticed the bones. Down inside the mine, covered in mud, were the remains of hundreds of people. Bones ranging from those of men to women, to even small children.
It was then I realized, I was in hell.
He bit his bottom lip as he finished reading back through the first page of his journal. Even now after so long, he still barely knew anything. John Cleaver sighed as he sat back in the decaying remains of a wooden chair, alongside similarly fashioned furniture inside of a small cabin in the middle of a decrepit forest.
It was home, or at least, the closest thing to home he could hope for. Outside the window, the trees loomed over him. Great giants in their own right, though they seemed to be either long dead or in a deep slumber. No leaves grew from their blackened branches and the ground was simply dried soil. The house was in a similar state as well, its timber slightly rotting, the shingles over the roof falling off. Hell, the damn door fell off when John first entered.
It was home for the few nights he would stay there. He had already raided the cabinets and the pantry and the cellar. Now he sat at an old table, his cleaver resting against it and his bag set nearby. It had been weeks since he had first woken up, and still nothing came to him other than the sparse memories he had. Any knowledge he had of this place was limited. There were no people, other than the dead at least. No animals, other than the dead at least. There were no remnants of society, other than the dead at least.
The only living thing here was himself, and the monsters, of course.
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