Author Topic: Winds of memories (Cata RP Character background stories)  (Read 2233 times)

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Chaosvolt

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Timeline: 2 days after the cataclysm, roughly a week before Hector arrived at an evac shelter.

Characters involved: Hector (AKA Sir Loin of Beef).



Hector pulled an old, worn-down car to the side of the road, giving a frustrated sigh as he realized what was before him. It was a dead-end, branching off of a country road that he felt was too exposed. Every so often he had to force the sedan off-road to go around a wreck, or sometimes a minefield. He felt rusty, like he hadn't driven a civilian car in ages. That wasn't true. It'd been a couple years since he was discharged, the problem was he never needed to push the old vehicle this hard before. The coolant was now leaking slowly, it was badly in need of an oil change, and the treads were all under 2/32. As diligent as he was about taking care of actual mechanical problems, ever since he got home he'd been lax about the more mundane upkeep. As he shut the engine off, he thought back on recent events.



Things happened so fast, in less than a day the city went from a quiet sense of unease, growing unrest in the poorest parts of town, to a complete clusterfuck. Once the strange things started to show up in force, and a few casualties from a recent riot got back up, the wave of death and reanimation spread through the city over a matter of hours. He was vaguely aware of some trouble brewing, and he remembered the offer some suspicious-looking officers made back when he was in training. An offer he declined, and his highschool friend accepted. He remembered the rumors that led to him declining, and how shortly afterward he was discharged for "medical" reasons.

He'd gotten back into his old work at the local mechanic's shop, a place run by an aging uncle of his. Going from maintaining an armored vehicle to cars felt so alien to him now, even if it didn't really hinder him much. He didn't even show up at work today. He had some supplies, a car that was working, and lived close to the edge of town. He just hoped he'd have no problems with a unit he dreaded having a second encounter with. He knew from the rumors that he likely wouldn't have any trouble with them, but it still worried him. He had no signs of the sickness, that the final news report implied was the cause of the undead threat. What he didn't yet know was that he likely owed his life to the boil water notice issued a week ago, a habit soon to become a part of everyday life.

The smoking pile of wreckage he drove past made it clear what happened. It used to be an M701A1, the sort of modern tank he was familiar with driving. Hit from behind he suspected, having a considerable rear hatch had some disadvantages, at least for a light tank. The remains of a tank drone behind it revealed the cause, the rest of the unit likely retreating deeper into the city. The sight left him confused and worried, but relieved that he had a clear route out of town, in time leading him to where he was now.



The empty appearance of the old manor house unnerved him a little, and he wished he found somewhere less unsettling. The gate was battered down, and when he walked up to the door he saw it was left slightly ajar. Either hastily-abandoned, or overrun. Either way, he hoped the original owner wouldn't be there to object if he checked for supplies.

As impressive as the entryway was, a large open space leading to numerous doors and a grand staircase, what he fixated on almost immediately were the armor stands along the walls, carefully creeping towards one such set. The mail was a proper hauberk, riveted instead of butted, accompanied by a great helm, along with a scabbard holding a well-made arming sword. Hanging on the wall next to it was a kite shield, with a white field and a simple red cross as its charge. This time, he had a trip down memory lane that was more pleasant.

Old days of re-enactment, from HEMA to occasional festivals with friends he hadn't heard from in years. The former was what he focused on as he traded his normal clothes for gambeson and mail, scavenging armored boots and gauntlets from another, less-intact set from a different era. Not exactly historical he thought. The gauntlets and boots stood out, while the great helm made the lack of a surcoat stand out. It was then he heard the sounds. A horrible clattering and crashing of doors being pounded down from several directions, and faint moans of the dead.

He simply drew his sword, having tossed away the camping hatchet he took with him. A great number of shambling things battered their way through the doors. A family perhaps, servants, patrons and colleagues of whoever once lived here. Or maybe wandering undead that forced their way through the gates and doors. He would find himself lost in battle, and despite the horror of it all, he felt more alive than he had in years.

This would be his life now, he thought. Either run and scavenge until there's nowhere left to run to, or fight back every step of the way. He might get the car to run for another while longer without proper tools, enough to try the next road he passed by along the way. He knew it led to the next town over, eventually. Most of the way there, close enough to walk to the evac shelter on the edge of town. He held no nope that it'd actually have useful supplies. Only that there might be at least one survivor in need. Maybe a way to get in contact with old friends, see if Nathaniel in particular was still alive. Though he doubted it, and the thought pained him a bit. It was his idea to talk the rather frail young man into volunteering along with him, and now he's likely sharing the same fate as the tank crew whose ruined vehicle he drove past.

That day, and during the hard-fought days ahead of him, Hector the mechanic died. Hector the ex-soldier died. What was left was Hector, the knight. No, a man-at-arms at the most. Car broken down, supplies stretched thin, tools either left behind, broken, or lost. Only the scavenged armament and a few items from the old world remained. A moment of dark humor led to him wondering if he'd even act the part and call himself something else, and despite his image of himself as not a true knight, the thought of a punny title came to him.

Sir Loin of Beef, really? As if anyone would actually dare to question it...
« Last Edit: March 21, 2018, 02:35:15 pm by Chaosvolt »

 

NOCTIFER IS A FAGGOT