The First Sign: Zombies! Playground 1, This is where the RP takes place Options

[Tellie]

Zaeed. In a tavern at the Imperial City.

Zaeed was contemplating his future, really with all the killings that had been going on lately someone working in the 'private' security sector like himself could stand to make a fortune. Nursing his jug of ale that the bartender had refused to accept payment for after learning his name he sighed.

In his years of killing and or arresting every kind of beast and lowborn scum that walked, glided or flew across Tamriel he was a bit stumped. Never had he heard of such acts of mindless violence that was ripping through the Province, worst part was that even after running them through they didn't stay dead. Oh he had heard the rumours of course, once they killed you you didn't stay that way, yet...the idea of a bite bringing the dead back to life seemed absurd. Sure a vimpire's bite could eventually turn you into one, but even though a vimpire's heart did not beat, there was still intelligence there...these...things seemed to have no intelligence at all simply an never ending appetite for the flesh of the living, according to the rumours at least.

Taking another gulp of the concotion that was supposed to be ale he glanced around the small inn. Not many people were there and the few who were sat huddled up to themselves, never meeting the eyes of anyone else 'cowardly sheep' he thought as the door opened and two robed men...shambled inn, most likely deep in their cups already.

A gust of wind blew a small piece of parment in and to Zaeed's irritation it blew straight into his face. "What the?" was all he could mutter before taking a good look at the piece of parchment. No one really knows how it happened.

Almost all of Cyrodiil and the surrounding borderlines were affected by an unknown disease. I knew that this epidemic was nothing we've ever seen. Three months back, the Royal Healers and the Guild of Mages was working on a cure. It was a promise that they never kept. An associate of mine brought me terrible news. Instead of killing this virus, they unknowingly amplified it!

It started in the Imperial City itself.


The next part was blotched out in ink but his trained eye could notice the words 'Died' and 'Tore at each other', fortunately the rest of the letter was readable.

... so I warn that whoever read this, make haste to Anvil! Ships from (blotched with ink) has arrived and is ferrying those fortunate to a safe place!

May the Nine give us strength in these times of bereavement,

Courier Ra'Jhibus.


'Bloody hell' was the first thing that wen't through Zaeed's mind, the next thing was 'why does it smell like corpses here?', Eyes widening Zaeed dropped the letter and swung out his sword, decapitating one of the newcomers, and he noted with a grim mood that the owner of that head had been dead and decomposing for several weeks at least.

Draining the rest of his goblet he noticed that several more were starting to shamble towards the open door, switching his sword to his left hand he tok out one of his crossbows in his right hand and turned towards the bartender. "If you have a weapon I'd get it if I were you, this compassion's gona get ugly"

This post has been edited by Tellie: Mar 25 2011, 03:08 AM

[Ahrenil]

Dalarius

"...They're almost here!..."
"...Burn the notes! No evidence..."

A crash, the sound of splintering wood, booted feet on stone steps.

"Damn, finish it now!"
"What about him?!"
"I said no evidence..."

A sword is unsheathed, a shout, a cry of terror...then pain...

Dalarius sat up, cold and sweating on the makeshift bed he had made out of old sacking in the inn's basement. The dreams were coming more often now, they were more vivid, more detailed. And they scared him.

But what sacred him more, was how after each one he would wake up, and his skin would prickle with the now all too familiar feel of Magicka. It was getting hard not to use it now, the fits were getting worse, and each time the magick would be stronger...

The small Bosmer boy drew his knees to his chest and listened to the sounds of merryment in the inn above. He wasn't jealous of the people there, living their happy lives, with coin and wealth to spare in the warm and the happy places of the city...He had long since learnt that jealousy got him nothing but sadness and pain.

Still, he ached to go up there, spend just an hour amongst people, maybe find someone who would pity him, take him to the orhpanage, or take him home...care for him.

No! No one would, he was his only friend, the only friend he needed. His wits had kept him alive so far, that was all he needed. Suddenly there were the sounds of a scuffle upstairs, cries of fear and shouts of rage, the ringing of scabbards, the overturning of stools.

Time to get to work.

Dalarius crept upstairs and slipped through the door as silently as he could, only subconciously aware that his skin was prickling again, and that he was making no sound at all. Pockets were easier to pick during a fight, people accepted that they dropped a purse easier, that they were lucky not to lose their life. It was only after he had picked the second shocked man's pocket that he noticed the smell.

And then he saw the man, sword and crossbow drawn, facing down a ragtag group of shuffling men, that Dalarius knew, through some super human sense and from that aching in his gut, the one that had awoken the night he left Kvatch, that there would be no life in those eyes, and no pressure in those veins...

It was time to leave again.