Tanjuu
Zombie Hunter
Posts: 134
|
Post by Tanjuu on May 16, 2009 20:11:17 GMT -5
Heh, not all of us can dine well these days.
|
|
|
Post by Rosie on May 16, 2009 20:16:37 GMT -5
Speak for yourself, Handsome.
|
|
Tanjuu
Zombie Hunter
Posts: 134
|
Post by Tanjuu on May 16, 2009 20:23:20 GMT -5
Tanjuu: Did... did I just get hit on by a zombie?
|
|
|
Post by Shiro on May 16, 2009 21:16:52 GMT -5
Ok, far too much conversation is going on in this thread... please move it to General Discussion or PMs.
|
|
Ren
Survivor
Posts: 67
|
Post by Ren on May 17, 2009 2:32:12 GMT -5
U S E R I N F O Name: Ren Age: 21 Role Playing Experience: More years than I can remember? Hahah x.x And BTW: I lurvzz me some zambies, yo. C H A R C T E R I N F O Name: Conyer Sharp Age: 16 Gender: Male Bio: That's right, you get a reference picture! History: Conyer was born an average child, to two average parents, on an average day at Culver Union Hospital in Crawfordsville, Indiana. His childhood was also just as average, excelling in multiple classes at Mollie B. Hoover Elementary School and finally skipping his fifth grade year, going straight into middle school at Joseph B. Tuttle Middle as he turned 10 years old. He kept his head down through middle school, and finally, as the infection started to spread, was pulled out of school and home schooled by his mother, Teresa. At the height of the infection, his father, Harold, gave up on keeping his family safe, locking both Conyer and his mother in their basement with a supply of food and water to last them a few months, before disappearing to find help. Through everything that happened, Conyer never gave up on his studies, continuing to excel in his work and finally reaching his senior year three months early. That year is when things took a turn for the worst. As Conyer and Teresa were reading through the final lesson of the day, that fateful day of August 7, a familiar face wandered lifelessly through the upstairs rooms. Perhaps it was instinct that lead the living corpse of Harold Sharp back to his own house after those months of mindlessness, or even force of habit. Whatever it was, Harold, the corpse of Harold, now hungered and smelled what was soon to be his grandest meal. As the lumbering figure made his way through the house, slowly inching toward the single entrance to the basement, Teresa closed the final textbook, laying it on a small table with the rest of them, and reaching to turn out the light. The next moments of Conyer's life remain a blur to him, unwilling to remember the carnage he witnessed in the dim light coming from the top of the stairs. Instead, the scene after is what stays heavy in his mind, flashing bright crimson behind his eyelids every time he blinks. The scene of his father, limp on the floor, teeth still embedded in his mother's now lifeless neck, her trachea detached and her head falling at a broken angle. Conyer stood over the two figures, the bottoms of his previously spotless khaki pants now absorbing the crimson liquid sprayed at his feet. In his hands, he held his father's shovel. The next few days were a series of options. Conyer wanted to stay at the house, safe, warm, and comforting, but the presence of the two lifeless bodies as well as the fear that a third would care to join made him uncomfortable and restless. He sat for most of the three days against a wall, staring at what had been his parents and awaiting the movement he knew would come eventually. Finally, after three days of waiting, he stood, eating the last of the food in the room, and taking the shovel with him as well as any money he found in the house. With hesitant steps, he not only made his way out the door, but to the train station, where he bought a train ticket, not knowing where he'd end up, and boarded the Amtrak Train 51 at 7:28 am, heading west. Appearance: As you can see above, he's blond with light brown eyes, standing at about 5'7" tall and quite thin. He never goes anywhere without a tie and jacket, and, of course, his glasses (he'd be blind without them), always ready for that incoming interview, just in case. He carries his large black messenger bag with him everywhere, protectively holding his most prized possession, his laptop computer (a Falcon FragBook DRX with 8 gigs of DDR and 3 hard drives adding up to 768 gigs of memory, with a few of his own modifications). Personality: Your typical high school nerd, he's never so much as seen a fight, much less been in one. He keeps to himself most of the time, ready to help with a good re-wiring of some sort of electronic device. He's always had a huge interest in electronics and is always happy to find out how something works, sometimes getting engrossed in his wires and circuits for hours. He claims that his passion and knowledge of electronics was a gift, his mother would have said that it was otherwise. He never once neglected his studies, though he also purposely made his studies centered around his beloved electronics, excelling in school from an early age and flying through his classes as quickly as his fingers flew across a keyboard. He'd never say that his knowledge was in any way abnormal, it still takes him a few times to hot wire a car, or make certain devices work, but he learns quickly and can make any thing work, if given the time. Role Play Post Example: It was times like this that Conyer was grateful for having a small figure. He crawled carefully across the dirty concrete, not wanting to ruin his last clean shirt. This hole in the wall, literally, had been a godsend, just big enough for him to fit through, carefully wrapping his shoulder strap from his messenger bag around his ankle. He fumbled slightly as he reached to pull himself forward, finding nothing there and having to retract his arms slightly to find the edge of the wall. He slowly pulled himself forward, looking down over the small room. Great, a basement, the last place he wanted to be for the night. The thoughts moved to the back of his mind and he pulled himself to the ledge and dropped down to the floor, quickly finding a place to sit, opening his laptop and hoping that the batteries would last long enough for him to complete his daily log. His fingers typed quickly, his eye staying intently on the small battery icon in the corner of his screen as it dropped dangerously low. It was only when his fingers paused that he heard it, a small rustling sound from behind the door beside him. His left hand quietly close the laptop, his eyes shutting at the clicking noise of the screen snapping into the locks, his right hand moving over his own mouth to silence his breath. He'd left his shovel outside of the building in his hurry to be safe for the night, a horrible choice on his part and a mistake he vowed never to make again. His eyes were fixed on the bottom of the door, expecting some sort of dark shadow to overtake him any moment. His hand shook over his mouth and nose and he bit his lip to make sure his teeth wouldn't do the same. After a few minutes of sitting and waiting, the sound faded away, leaving him alone once more in the darkness. Conyer took in a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves as he looked down at his laptop, still perched in his lap. Dead, it figured. He hadn't been in a good place to charge it for a few days now, and even using it as sparingly as he did, the batteries were bound to die. It was in that moment that only one stress ridden thought crossed his mind. 'If only the infection affected technology...'
|
|
|
Post by Shiro on May 17, 2009 11:43:43 GMT -5
Yay!! Hi Reeeeeen! <3
I maketh your sub-board now! *roommate glomp*
|
|
|
Post by seravee on May 19, 2009 21:34:55 GMT -5
C H A R C T E R I N F O Name: Courtney H. Koch Age: 17 Gender: Female Bio: Courtney grew up in a moderately privileged life. Moderate compared to her friends that was. She grew up in a hell hole of a suburb surrounding Detroit. The only way to get by was by 'joining' a gang. Doing so was both the worst, and best move of her life. She got a family, she got friends, protection, better clothes, and eventually a nice little Jeep Grand Cherokee. Then again, she was used. Smuggling drugs from Canada, car jacking, almost anything they could use small hands or a pretty face for. It was almost worth it too. Until Jacque, the gang leader, decided that they needed a better income. Thats when the prostitution came in. That was the tipping point. Courtney had only been 15 at the time, she hadn't been a virgin, but that didn't matter. She said no. And regretted it. Her car was stolen, her house robbed, her sister kidnapped, beaten and raped... She finally caved, just as the zombies showed up. By then, it didn't matter. It was every man woman and child for him or herself.
Role Play Post Example:
Short shorts, tube-top, pipe wrench and a Glock. Yeah, she looked like a badass. Now if only she had felt the way she looked. Courtney looked down at her torn tattered and dirty black fishnet stocking, at her mussed shots and nearly none existent tube-top. She needed some new clothes. Sure, it looked 'badass', but 'badass' wasn't very functional.
She hopped down from the car she had been standing on. Holstering her gun, She took off at a jog down the car strewn street. A crow cawed in the background. Apparently birds were immune to the infection. To bad we people aren't.
A sick munching reached Courtney's ears as she rounded the block. She froze, every muscle tensed and ready. Two, no, three driveways ahead of her a hulking form was crouched over something, feeding its face.
Ohshit. Oh shit. Oh.... shit.
She took a hesitant step backward.
crack
"Oh. Fuck."
The cannibal whipped around, a small arm still hanging from its mouth. "Hungry." The word was twisted and mauled, but it was still understandable.
"No, no your not." Courtney whispered under her breath, slowly she unholstered her Glock. Raising the light weapon, she took careful aim, lining up the sites, slowly pulling back the trigger the braced for the recoil.
blam
The Cannibal reeled back, flesh spraying from its head. It righted its neck and growled.
Courtney ran.
|
|
|
Post by Shiro on May 19, 2009 22:13:30 GMT -5
That's fine.
You guys don't need to post apps for every character.
|
|
|
Post by seravee on May 19, 2009 22:30:00 GMT -5
Eh... never hurts to follow the rules.
Plus, it makes sure we have a real character rather than a blank sheet to make a perfect (god-modder) out of.
|
|
|
Post by Shiro on May 19, 2009 22:58:37 GMT -5
However, I noticed that she is very similar to Marie, please make sure that there is an obvious difference in personality when you play them.
|
|
|
Post by seravee on May 20, 2009 19:28:08 GMT -5
Oh trust me, there will be. * cackles evilly *
|
|
Tanjuu
Zombie Hunter
Posts: 134
|
Post by Tanjuu on May 21, 2009 4:46:08 GMT -5
Quick question Gray. Considering Brurnt is barely around here these days, would it be at all possible if I were to create a mercenary character? Ya know, not a true military figure, but somewhat inspired by those types of people.
|
|
|
Post by Shiro on May 21, 2009 15:05:42 GMT -5
Think about real life, Tanjuu- there are people that have the same profession or similar personalities to those around them. You can make a mercinary, ex-cop, military official. You can play what ever you want to play the trick is to make them atypical and interesting.
|
|
Tanjuu
Zombie Hunter
Posts: 134
|
Post by Tanjuu on May 22, 2009 8:04:39 GMT -5
Aight, so how's this then?
C H A R C T E R I N FO (Code)Name: Valmont Foxtrot Age: 25 Gender: Male Bio: History: At birth, Valmont was raised with a sole purpose in mind; to protect his county of origin. His parents forced him into Australian military service the instant he hit the legal age. Deeply resenting this sort of decision, he would make it his mission in life to somehow attain an edge over his parents and ‘get back’ at them. Proficiency at the firing range and receiving a few medals for marksmanship with a variety of firearms, the last action given during his stint in the army directed solely to his cruel and irate sergeant, was a profound and inspiring one finger salute. Sufficiently making his exit, Valmont was recruited into a freelance mercenary force, performing covert ops and espionage missions with military inspired tactics, minus the military methods of discipline and nature. Discarding his previous surname, he chose the code sign Foxtrot (F in the NATO phonetic alphabet) and began to earn a living. Then hell broke loose…
Physical: As an effect from the years of military training and whatnot, Valmont’s body is both in the lean and muscular category (That is to say, 245lbs and 6’3”). Dark chestnut army issue hair and green eyes make up his natural features. This physique is covered with a pair of khaki camouflage pants, desert camouflage singlet, black combat boots, black biker gloves and an open khaki kutte vest. Emblazoned on the back of the vest is his self-designed logo, an anthromorphic fox in soldier’s battle dress grinning wickedly and brandishing a Ka-bar. Valmont’s own Ka-bar is placed in a holster inside the kutte vest, the little spoken of Armalite MH-12 on the opposite side of the vest, grenades hang off a black leather belt around the waist, an M16 slung over the back of the shoulders and a Heckler & Koch Mark 23 in his right hip holster. (There is also a rarely used M9 tranquillizer pistol on the right hip holster.) Ammunition for these weapons is attached to the inside of the vest in both magazine and belt form. Finally, a pair of silver dog tags hangs on a chain around his neck scribed with his name and personal information.
Personality: After being in the Australian military for such a period of time, he retains the suspicious and judgmental attitude towards strangers. Never quite trusting you until the time when you prove yourself to be an ally. After which he opens up to you, and you discover that he’s actually not all that bad of a person. Quite chummy and confident as all Australians invariably are, he also shows comradeship and tends to follow instructions to the letter, but only those he sees as well processed plans.
Role Play Post Example: It had all happened in a matter of minutes, but the effects of such an occurrence were devastating. Somehow, an infected creature had stowed away on the helicopter and brought the Mi-17 spiraling down into the city.
Hell, it was a miracle that Valmont had survived the impact. It was a fortunate decision and a budget stretch that lead the men of the mercenary unit into separate helicopters, but it was damn well worth it in the end.
Now however; it was a case of ‘Get-the-Fucking-Hell-Out-Of-Here’, which entitled Valmont to acting out in any matter as long as it led to survival. At this present moment in time, he was infiltrating a small apartment building. Why you may ask? According to some definitive signs, a group of soldier-esqe men had entered and never left for reasons unknown. This spelt a possible trap, but the rewards for evading the trap was ammunition, something you cannot have enough of during an apocalyptic infestation.
Slowly sneaking through the halls, Valmont soon began to hear the sounds of feeding. Understanding that this must mean the presence of either an infected or a blood-thirsty crazed survivor, he pressed up against the corner and peered out. At the opposite end of the hall sat an appalling sight, a strange leech creature that seemed to be arguing with itself over the bodies of the dead men he’d killed.
It was almost kind of humorous; a schizophrenic blood sucker who, judging by the outfit he was wearing, was possibly a gamer or a programmer. And well it proved one thing, not all the infected were hypo spastics on life-giving serum. So instead of blowing the leech’s brains clean out the back of its skull, Valmont settled for a quick tranquillizer dart to the forehead to drug the creature into submission. Steadily making ground, he rifled the pockets of all three of the fallen soldiers and made for the exit like a jackrabbit off of Satan’s front lawn.
Now safely outside the building and back onto the rooftops, he peered down at the dog tags he had retrieved. Recognizing the logo of the Cleaners organization, Valmont smirked quietly. Justice had apparently been served, and the rest of these Cleaners would soon get theirs…
|
|
|
Post by Shiro on May 23, 2009 0:44:44 GMT -5
Accepted, although I have to point out two things:
Jack has dissociative personality disorder, not schizophrenia.
Capitalize the names of Special Infected.
|
|