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Voting closed: July 28, 2013, 09:40:58 pm

[Stirk]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Name: Alec Rowe
Age: 27
Equipment: Sledge hammer, pack of cigarets (2), Lighter (full), werewolf salve, flashlight, Ares Shrike, 200 5.56 rounds (Loaded).
HP: 15
Stats
Int: 8
Str: 15
Agi: 7
Skills: Close Combat (3), Demolition (3), Heavy weapons (2)
Advantages: Determined
Disadvantages: Chain-Smoker, Stressed
Perks: Large Frame, Good Samaritan, Quiet
Quirks: Quiet, Good Samaritan, Large Frame
Bio: Alec grew up in a big city in the US. He was large by most standards, even as a kid, and its served him well enough. He's never been the most dexterous, indeed Alec considers himself a bit accident prone, it not being too uncommon for him to bump into things due to his large frame. He's never been the brightest either, didn't do too bad in school but did noticeably lag behind some of the other students. It wasn't that he couldn't apply what he learned, it was that it simply took him longer to learn something that came more naturally to others.

But, what he prides himself in is his strength. Being large, most people let him be as who would want to mess with that one kid about a foot or two taller than about everyone else? That was always fine with him, left him time to himself. Alec always appreciated his time alone, enjoyed it indeed. For when he was alone, all the pressures of the world just slipped away from him, he could relax without having to feel like he was constantly playing catch-up with everyone around him. He never really had to work hard to make his body strong, it always just seemed to be so. Knocks he's taken would often harm others, but to him it was just something he'd shrug off. Alec never found a reason to voice his pain, it was always something that was passing, something he often forgot about five minutes later anyway, so why give it a voice? He's gotten more than one weird look for stubbing his toe and taking it in silent stride with nothing more than a grimace.

But indeed, what he prided himself on the most however, was strength of spirit. While he may not of been the most brightest, he still tried his hardest to learn, while he may not of been the most dexterous, he still tried his hardest to watch his step as he could. From what he's seen, his strength has been a boon to him, one that he should use to help instead of hurt people. He's often used to giving it his all when he needs to, so he shies not from hard work.

Joining the Archangels wasn't that big of a leap for him. While he would of preferred to make instead of break, he understands that he has a certain talent with stuff and before he joined Archangel, he was a demolistionist. Not the kind that worked with bombs mind you, more the kind that worked with the machines, wielded a jack hammer or a sledge. People would often have things brought up that they didn't wish there anymore, so he was paid to bring it down. When the troubles began, and became a threat, he didn't panic but rather went to see what he could do to help as best he could. This led him to Archangel

You stop, pulling out your sledge hammer as the squad mates go ahead a little, stopping further away. You smash the wall with a powerful hit, sending a tremor through the gate as cracks start to appear. You can see the ocean of bodies to your side, ocean being an appropriate word. Like a wave, they continued to walk toward your location, not in a hurry, a wave of rotting dead flesh coming toward you. You strike, sending dust flying. The jetcopter flies over, sending dust flying as the tide goes back out again. But like an ocean, it seems no smaller for it. You strike again, as the cracks deepen and widen, expanding over a much larger area. Once again the tide of undead comes foreword, closer and closer. A single undead, a drop of water, had nearly entered the gate, to be pushed back by a single bullet from David's gun, sending it falling back and to pieces, as its bones lie still. You continue to strike the weak point with your sledge hammer, the effects of your work easily seen as each hit starts to bring it a bit more down. The undead still walking toward you, silent but for the stomp of feet, a small group of leftovers starts to get near the tunnel as the gate comes crashing down, more dust flying everywhere.

The little light that was outside is gone now, the catacombs don't seem to have much light. You find your flashlight, fumbling a bit as you turn it on. Your head was wet from sweat and the drizzle of rain as you make sure you are all right. "Ill stay here." David said, putting on his own flashlight. "There isn't much ruble there, if they start digging I will have to keep them out. Good luck" David says, sitting down on a rock. "Comon', lets go" Helena said, putting up both of her sub machine guns at forty-five degree angles inward, while stretching a bit. You notice that it is cold in here, not naturally cold like the archangel base, but like the heat of your body has left you. "Keep watch" Helena said, looting around the catacombs, your light sending a single beam allowing you to seen the gravel-like floor. "We don't know what burial style this catacombs use. Might be attacked at any moment!" Helena continued cheerfully, guns in position as she points them left and right, looking around. You notice that she doesn't have a flashlight herself, though see seems to be able to walk around easier then you.

"Stop" She says, holding her hand to her ear, the gun still in place. She listened, waving for you to come closer. "Sounds like we got some mooks in the next room" she whispered, not bothering to use the communicator. "Not much, jusafew. How do you wanna do this?" she said, sounding more exited then afraid.

What do you want to do?
-------------------

^I apologies for the purple prose and the overly long ocean metaphor. Not sure what came over me.

-----------------------------

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Name: Patricia Garfien
Age: 37
Equipment: Backpack :Surgical bag, hatchet, (Speed loader) ,whiskey flask (3), rosary, glasses, Glock(15),  Glock magazine (3), PP-19 Bizon 2 (53 overpressure), lighter (full),   Glasses case
HP: 10
Stats:
Int: 9
Str: 11
Agi: 10
Skills: General Medic(3), Small Arms (3), Shotgun (2), Sub-machine gun (2)
Advantages: She has steady hands, and is very calm in high stress situations. This can be a lifesaver in the field.
Disadvantages: Territorial about her work, needs glasses/contacts(farsighted), and a functional alcoholic.
Perks: Excellent bedside manner.
Quirks: Racist. Yep. Against EVERYONE. Not to the point where she dislikes them, just the point where she believes just about every stereotype there is. Curiously enough, not religious, or homophobic, or sexist. I can change this if it might cause problems.
Bio: Patricia grew up in southern Texaz, raised by two rich white parents who fit every stereotype of rich white people there was, or almost. They did love their daughter, but they were also assholes to most people below their station. When she became a surgeon in college, they were delighted to see their little girl take up such a proud profession. When the chupacabras started striking, she managed to save her brother's life, barely, but had to run, and he was left behind. She rode a horse for hours, eventually letting the poor thing rest, where she was taken in by some kind colored people. Long story short, she ended up joining the Archangel foundation, to help keep the fighting men alive. That said, being a Texan, she's not bad with a pistol either...

-------------------------------

You take out your lighter and check for a draft. Moving it along the wall, you notice it flicker. You examine the wall closer, noticing that the wallpaper was jutting out slightly, now that you look, you can clearly see that there is a folding door here, one that had been accessed recently and that had not been shut well. You touch the door, causing it to fall swiftly, allowing you to look inside a bare concrete room.

Bare, that is, except for a large robed man with a machine gun, like the drugged-up cultist you had seen before. He was turned away, looking toward a circular-steel hole in the side of the room, looking like a hatch on a submarine or a large manhole. However he had heard the sound of the door come down, and quickly started to raise his large machine gun from its position next to him on the floor.

What do you do?

[Rolepgeek]

I have my pistol still in my hand. I go for a headshot,of course.

[Stirk]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Name: Patricia Garfien
Age: 37
Equipment: Backpack :Surgical bag, hatchet, (Speed loader) ,whiskey flask (3), rosary, glasses, Glock(12),  Glock magazine (3), PP-19 Bizon 2 (53 overpressure), lighter (full),   Glasses case
HP: 10
Stats:
Int: 9
Str: 11
Agi: 10
Skills: General Medic(3), Small Arms (3), Shotgun (2), Sub-machine gun (2)
Advantages: She has steady hands, and is very calm in high stress situations. This can be a lifesaver in the field.
Disadvantages: Territorial about her work, needs glasses/contacts(farsighted), and a functional alcoholic.
Perks: Excellent bedside manner.
Quirks: Racist. Yep. Against EVERYONE. Not to the point where she dislikes them, just the point where she believes just about every stereotype there is. Curiously enough, not religious, or homophobic, or sexist. I can change this if it might cause problems.
Bio: Patricia grew up in southern Texaz, raised by two rich white parents who fit every stereotype of rich white people there was, or almost. They did love their daughter, but they were also assholes to most people below their station. When she became a surgeon in college, they were delighted to see their little girl take up such a proud profession. When the chupacabras started striking, she managed to save her brother's life, barely, but had to run, and he was left behind. She rode a horse for hours, eventually letting the poor thing rest, where she was taken in by some kind colored people. Long story short, she ended up joining the Archangel foundation, to help keep the fighting men alive. That said, being a Texan, she's not bad with a pistol either...

You quickly put up your gun, shooting your glock at the man's head. It isn't to far difference, and you get a scraping hit on his head, causing him to jerk backwards for a second. He then continues picking up his gun casually, firing it at the hip a little dazed, sending several bullets through the wall a ways away from you, crashing against the concrete below the false drywall. You look at him, the bullet had apparently grazed off his skull, leaving a bloody wound but not outright killing him. You fire twice more, having the proper aim, as two spatters come from his skull. His head juts back again as he struggles to hold his gun, once again jutting upward. One of your bullets had stuck in the middle of his head, sticking out like a horn, while the second had made a dent in his skull.

Using your medical skills, you quickly notice that he isn't human, the wounds should have debilitated or killed him. What do you do now?

[Xanmyral]

[Hey man, I love purple prose as you can see from a few of my posts. If you feel the inspiration, go for it.]

Smash. One swing of the hammer, and the undead come forth. Smash! Another swing of the hammer and they still come forth, to be driven back by a swarm of bullets. Smash! A third swing of the hammer. Almost down, just a few more... Alec tried to drive all other thoughts from his head beyond the gate, the weak spot, and his hammer. The undead but a crowd of pedestrians watching them demolish a building, the two in his squad fellow workers. SMASH! With a final crack, there was a slight crumble, then with a rush the gate fell with a crash. Dust blinded him, Alec instinctively reaching to cover his face to avoid breathing in the rocky dust, half expecting to find a dust mask on his face, but finding nothing.

Then it was dark. With a slight fumble, Alec finally clicked on his flashlight and light flooded the room. A second light soon joined it, David's own. Alec nodded at David when he spoke, as was his task. He only hoped that his work would aid him as Helena and himself go down deeper into the catacombs. Alec shivered, himself questioning why for a moment... It doesn't feel cold, but it is. A sense of something... Not right, he couldn't help but feel that strongly here. It put him on edge, now that the rush of destruction leaving him and his mind is pulled back into the task at hand. He fingered the trigger guard of his gun nervously, although he tried not to show it to the others. Alec had to look strong. Had to be strong. Else what good was he?

Alec shook the thoughts out of his head as he headed out with Helena, noting that she doesn't herself have a flashlight. When he passes David on the rock, he gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Luck." Moving on ahead, he couldn't help but be more and more confused by Helena as they went on. She could lift both him and David while they were parachuting, she can wield two guns like it was nothing, and walks more surely than himself even though she goes by no light of her own. It was strange, but Alec tried to focus on what was ahead, he knew it would require his focus. She seemed very cheerful, which was a stark contrast to Alec, him being rather grim and calling it on edge would be a bit of an understatement.

When Helena stopped Alec, he instinctively went for his gun, thinking there to be a threat. Mooks? He recognizes the term, although how she could hear anything beyond the deafening quiet and their footsteps is beyond him. He can't hear anything. Alec strained his ears for a moment to see if he could point out what she was talking about, but regardless of that outcome he thinks on it. They could go in guns blazing... And probably wake up the whole tomb. But he'd be surprised if they don't already know they're in there, what with the gate and the massive gun fire outside. Alec shivered again, feeling the... Wrongness close in on him again for a moment, before shaking it off. How can she sound so... Calm? Okay? Happy? In such a situation as this is beyond him. He idly wonders how long she's been doing this kind of thing, and can only conclude probably too long. "Silent?" Alec whispered back, letting his Shrike rest against him comfortably as he grasps the hammer, the head of it still having bits of rock, gravel and dust on it from the gate. Silent... Yeah, he's not so sure if that's something he's good at, but its better to try that than just just wake up everything. Alec was never good at being silent, but he never really tried though...

[Stirk]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Name: Alec Rowe
Age: 27
Equipment: Sledge hammer, pack of cigarets (2), Lighter (full), werewolf salve, flashlight, Ares Shrike, 200 5.56 rounds (Loaded).
HP: 15
Stats
Int: 8
Str: 15
Agi: 7
Skills: Close Combat (3), Demolition (3), Heavy weapons (2)
Advantages: Determined
Disadvantages: Chain-Smoker, Stressed
Perks: Large Frame, Good Samaritan, Quiet
Quirks: Quiet, Good Samaritan, Large Frame
Bio: Alec grew up in a big city in the US. He was large by most standards, even as a kid, and its served him well enough. He's never been the most dexterous, indeed Alec considers himself a bit accident prone, it not being too uncommon for him to bump into things due to his large frame. He's never been the brightest either, didn't do too bad in school but did noticeably lag behind some of the other students. It wasn't that he couldn't apply what he learned, it was that it simply took him longer to learn something that came more naturally to others.

But, what he prides himself in is his strength. Being large, most people let him be as who would want to mess with that one kid about a foot or two taller than about everyone else? That was always fine with him, left him time to himself. Alec always appreciated his time alone, enjoyed it indeed. For when he was alone, all the pressures of the world just slipped away from him, he could relax without having to feel like he was constantly playing catch-up with everyone around him. He never really had to work hard to make his body strong, it always just seemed to be so. Knocks he's taken would often harm others, but to him it was just something he'd shrug off. Alec never found a reason to voice his pain, it was always something that was passing, something he often forgot about five minutes later anyway, so why give it a voice? He's gotten more than one weird look for stubbing his toe and taking it in silent stride with nothing more than a grimace.

But indeed, what he prided himself on the most however, was strength of spirit. While he may not of been the most brightest, he still tried his hardest to learn, while he may not of been the most dexterous, he still tried his hardest to watch his step as he could. From what he's seen, his strength has been a boon to him, one that he should use to help instead of hurt people. He's often used to giving it his all when he needs to, so he shies not from hard work.

Joining the Archangels wasn't that big of a leap for him. While he would of preferred to make instead of break, he understands that he has a certain talent with stuff and before he joined Archangel, he was a demolistionist. Not the kind that worked with bombs mind you, more the kind that worked with the machines, wielded a jack hammer or a sledge. People would often have things brought up that they didn't wish there anymore, so he was paid to bring it down. When the troubles began, and became a threat, he didn't panic but rather went to see what he could do to help as best he could. This led him to Archangel

Helena nods while putting her finger to her mouth in the "shhh" sign, gun still in her hand, as she prepared to go further in. You ready your hammer as you both enter the next room, going through a small brick hallway. The room widens up, opening into another catacomb room. There were several skeletons, maybe a dozen, all standing around in several poses, wearing clergy robes, some pointing, some holding a bible, though none seemed to be moving. Are these the mooks she talked about? You attempt to be sneaky while moving, each step the cold getting slightly worse, none of the skeletons seemed to move. Maybe they where stuck? After all, they look like they have been there a while, some kind of strange tourist attraction? Helena moved ahead of you, on her tip toes, guns ready to fire, still looking left and right. You are about to go through the doorway, when you see a candle-holding chandelier made out of human bones. Suddenly, the chandelier falls, blocking the door like a gate, as the priests corpses suddenly strike into movement.

In no hurry, the priests moved into motion, assaulting you and Helena soundlessly. Helena quickly crouches, aiming her guns at he left of her room as she runs, firing both guns at the priests, smiling a toothy smile. On your side, you are practically surrounded, with four priests coming at you, two in front of you and two behind you. What do you do?

[Rolepgeek]

Patricia curses. He should definitely be dead. Either non-human, or maybe a metal skull or mutant or something? Regardless..."GUYS NEED SOME HELP!" She screams as she drops the lighter, takes careful aim, and tries to shoot the weirdo's hands and wrists. If he got a bead on her, she was swiss cheese...

[Stirk]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Name: Patricia Garfien
Age: 37
Equipment: Backpack :Surgical bag, hatchet, (Speed loader) ,whiskey flask (3), rosary, glasses, Glock(7),  Glock magazine (3), PP-19 Bizon 2 (53 overpressure), lighter (full),   Glasses case
HP: 10
Stats:
Int: 9
Str: 11
Agi: 10
Skills: General Medic(3), Small Arms (3), Shotgun (2), Sub-machine gun (2)
Advantages: She has steady hands, and is very calm in high stress situations. This can be a lifesaver in the field.
Disadvantages: Territorial about her work, needs glasses/contacts(farsighted), and a functional alcoholic.
Perks: Excellent bedside manner.
Quirks: Racist. Yep. Against EVERYONE. Not to the point where she dislikes them, just the point where she believes just about every stereotype there is. Curiously enough, not religious, or homophobic, or sexist. I can change this if it might cause problems.
Bio: Patricia grew up in southern Texaz, raised by two rich white parents who fit every stereotype of rich white people there was, or almost. They did love their daughter, but they were also assholes to most people below their station. When she became a surgeon in college, they were delighted to see their little girl take up such a proud profession. When the chupacabras started striking, she managed to save her brother's life, barely, but had to run, and he was left behind. She rode a horse for hours, eventually letting the poor thing rest, where she was taken in by some kind colored people. Long story short, she ended up joining the Archangel foundation, to help keep the fighting men alive. That said, being a Texan, she's not bad with a pistol either...

You drop the lighter and take the gun with both hands, putting the lighter down, as you carefully aim for his hands, as they continued to eat up the belt sending bullets flying harmlessly into the wall. You fire five bullets, knocking into his wrist and chest area, continuing to push the gun around and causing the man to studded. His gun, still firing full auto, jerked with each hit, sending bullets further and further to the side. The bullets left a bloody dent were they hit, much like the head shots. The fifth bullet, after a quick succession, was enough to send him falling back, slamming into the floor with a metallic *CLANKwiririwir*, like a plate falling. His gun clicks, out of ammo, and the man lays still.

"We are heading for the gunshots now Patricia, just hang in there!" Apollo stated over the communicator, as you look at the brutish cultist again. You think you saw him twitch, as he brings up a gigantic hand. He grabs something from within his robe with his broken bloodied hand, obviously having difficulty. It looks like...a detonator, a small rod with a button on it, like the ones in movies.

What do you do now?

[Xanmyral]

Alec follows suit with Helena, sledge in hand. He tries to be as stealthy as he can manage as they creep on the room, each step increasing the cold, the wrongness he felt around him. Ah, there they were. They don't seem to have noticed us yet... Alec's grip on his sledge tightens, as the feeling of wariness passes into triumph, they have the drop on them! He's not sure why, but that's what it seems like, and he'll not pass up such an opportunity. Just a bit more and then they'd be in the roo--CLANG!

Shit. Alec's feelings of triumph quickly spun into feelings of surprise, shock, fear, and anger at thinking that they could have the drop on them. Of course they didn't, with all the racket that happened how could they not know already that they were there? Helena moved into action as the skeletons moved to attack, four on him and the rest on Helena, who seems happy as usual. He couldn't help but think that she's been doing this for far too long to greet battle with the dead with a smile. With a growl, Alec hefted his sledge and swung at the skeletons, trying to knock them all away with a single blow. Damn restless dead, why won't they lie in peace? Because of the wright. That's why they're there, to put them back at peace. He reminded himself of he put his strength into the blow.

[Stirk]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Name: Alec Rowe
Age: 27
Equipment: Sledge hammer, pack of cigarets (2), Lighter (full), werewolf salve, flashlight, Ares Shrike, 200 5.56 rounds (Loaded).
HP: 15
Stats
Int: 8
Str: 15
Agi: 7
Skills: Close Combat (3), Demolition (3), Heavy weapons (2)
Advantages: Determined
Disadvantages: Chain-Smoker, Stressed
Perks: Large Frame, Good Samaritan, Quiet
Quirks: Quiet, Good Samaritan, Large Frame
Bio: Alec grew up in a big city in the US. He was large by most standards, even as a kid, and its served him well enough. He's never been the most dexterous, indeed Alec considers himself a bit accident prone, it not being too uncommon for him to bump into things due to his large frame. He's never been the brightest either, didn't do too bad in school but did noticeably lag behind some of the other students. It wasn't that he couldn't apply what he learned, it was that it simply took him longer to learn something that came more naturally to others.

But, what he prides himself in is his strength. Being large, most people let him be as who would want to mess with that one kid about a foot or two taller than about everyone else? That was always fine with him, left him time to himself. Alec always appreciated his time alone, enjoyed it indeed. For when he was alone, all the pressures of the world just slipped away from him, he could relax without having to feel like he was constantly playing catch-up with everyone around him. He never really had to work hard to make his body strong, it always just seemed to be so. Knocks he's taken would often harm others, but to him it was just something he'd shrug off. Alec never found a reason to voice his pain, it was always something that was passing, something he often forgot about five minutes later anyway, so why give it a voice? He's gotten more than one weird look for stubbing his toe and taking it in silent stride with nothing more than a grimace.

But indeed, what he prided himself on the most however, was strength of spirit. While he may not of been the most brightest, he still tried his hardest to learn, while he may not of been the most dexterous, he still tried his hardest to watch his step as he could. From what he's seen, his strength has been a boon to him, one that he should use to help instead of hurt people. He's often used to giving it his all when he needs to, so he shies not from hard work.

Joining the Archangels wasn't that big of a leap for him. While he would of preferred to make instead of break, he understands that he has a certain talent with stuff and before he joined Archangel, he was a demolistionist. Not the kind that worked with bombs mind you, more the kind that worked with the machines, wielded a jack hammer or a sledge. People would often have things brought up that they didn't wish there anymore, so he was paid to bring it down. When the troubles began, and became a threat, he didn't panic but rather went to see what he could do to help as best he could. This led him to Archangel

You give out a heavy swing into the undead in front of you, hitting the first priest with a *CRACK*, breaking his spine in two as you send him spinning to the floor. You buckle as you hit him, but his dry bones are somewhat light, allowing your hammer to continue its journey toward the second priest further back. The hammer hits two ribs, smashing them and sending the skeleton to the floor, like a pullet who has had its strings cut off. Behind you, two undead have begun a second assault, coming at you, almost floating. You can't see their feet under their robes, as they quickly rush you. You attempt the same trick again, but only hitting one, crushing his skull as he goes limp. The second manages to grab your hand, unhurriedly as always, while you were still following the impact with your hammer swinging. It is colder then the last hand, as if it was ripping the strength from your body. You almost drop your hammer, but it is something deeper now. You feel like you want to run and hide, curl up in a corner and cover your face. You start to tremble as you manage to break the undead's grip, sending your hammer into him twice, once overhand once to the side.

You look around the room with your flashlight, seeing many bones on the floor. Helena was refilling the clips in her guns, quickly taking a single bullet and pushing it in, making small sound effects to herself as she does so. She reloads both her guns this way and cocks them, making another sound effect. "Ready for the boss stage?" She asked, moving her pistols around. She then walks over to the chandelier and stomps on a its skull, smashing it as if her foot was your hammer. The bones scatter, as you and her continue to walk into the next room.

It was a lot larger, but that isn't the first thing you had noticed. The first thing was the wall of body parts, a hideous and disgusting sight. Some candles had provided limited light, serving more to make the wall more menacing then to provide comfort. The top of the wall was made of human skulls, many aged with cobwebs over them, yellow from age, with different bones making up the another section, then another section of skulls, with even more bones under that. Two columns of bones rise out in the center, rising to the roof, made much like the walls. To both your left and right, a wall of skulls rose to the roof, many old and dusted, missing teeth. All the skulls in the room seemed to stair at the two of you, a faint blue light coming from their eyes. In the center, between the two columns, was the borrow wraith.

Above him, on a chain of human bones, was a wooden sign "Arręte! C'est ici l'empire de la Mort", illuminated by an eerie light from two skulls at its side, with candles in its mouth, swaying slightly. He was in front of a large bible, a cross behind him, wearing priests robes like those of the other undead. But he was different, he didn't seem to belong here, not in these catacombs. Not on this planet. Unlike the bones of those around him, his skin was like beef jerky, a disgusting color, kind of orange. His flesh, if you could call it that, was dried and holding to him like a glove, allowing you to see his bones on his exposed body parts. His eyes had appeared to be gouged out, with circles of flesh still surrounding them like a warped pair of glasses. In these empty sockets was a blue glow, the only thing stopping you from seeing the brain inside his head. Around him, a blue mist had risen like he was a smoke machine, creeping along the ground and engulfing the whole room. His disgusting hands were risen as if he really was a priest, as he looks at you with the evil blue eyes.

Even just looking at him had filled you with dread, a cold filling your whole body with the same intensity of the undead who had touched your leg on landing. The borrow wright looked toward you easily, slowly putting his hands down, as if he had finished a prayer. The entire wall trembled, the skulls began looking toward you definitely now. Silently, each wall began to move just as swiftly as if it was a single undead, as the borrow wright walked in front of the podium, acting more like a human then the others had, with obvious and deliberate steps. He looks at you from in front of the podium, as the cold feeling grows.

What do you do now?

[Xanmyral]

Alec shivered after dispatching the last skeletal priest attacking him. All of this wasn't right, the dead shouldn't be walking like this. He shook the hand that was grabbed by the dispatched priest, as if trying to shake the cold itself off of it, although he knew it a futile gesture. He just wanted this to be over with.

Looking at Helena, seems she's still in a good mood, making sound effects as she reloads her guns and makes a comment about fighting the boss. Alec could only conclude that she isn't taking this seriously... Or that perhaps she is? The more time he spends with Helena, the more she confuses him. Ah, now she smashed the chandelier easily with her foot. Yep, Alec is pretty set in his idea that the more time he spends with her, the more questions are raised. He just shakes his head and follows her lead, Shrike in hand this time.

When they entered the next room, Alec couldn't help but be stunned by what he saw. Walls made of the dead, each with a burning blue eye in it, staring. Some sign in French, he couldn't read it but he figured it meant something along the lines of 'place of the dead,' or 'empire of the dead.' Apt name, if that was it. But what truly drew his attention, and sent a shiver down his spine, was the... Thing. That's the best way to describe it, he even doubts if it was human or... Whatever. Just looking at the thing filled his body with a chilling cold, a chilling... Wrongness that permeated him. Alec gritted his teeth as he fought back the anxiety, every fiber telling him to flee. He has to stay, there was a job to do.

Then the walls stared moving, that didn't help the situation at all with him, although his eyes were locked onto the burning fires of the wrights, trying to put on a scowl... But the longer he looked at the thing, the more psyched out he felt. The colder he felt. The more wrong this entire thing felt. Alec wanted this to be over with, he has a job to do. "What is your purpose!" Alec spat out the words angrily, masking his fear and worry with his anger at the situation. He drew his Shrike to bear at the thing, not expecting it to really answer him. If it does anything besides speak in some manner, he'll turn that thing into perforated flesh if he can help it.

[Rolepgeek]

Oh come on! Patricia thought as she took careful aim, and sent some more bullets into the thing's hand and detonator. If it wasn't dead after she emptied her clip into it...then they weren't just up against cultists.

[Stirk]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Name: Alec Rowe
Age: 27
Equipment: Sledge hammer, pack of cigarets (2), Lighter (full), werewolf salve, flashlight, Ares Shrike, 185 5.56 rounds (Loaded).
HP: 15
Stats
Int: 8
Str: 15
Agi: 7
Skills: Close Combat (3), Demolition (3), Heavy weapons (2)
Advantages: Determined
Disadvantages: Chain-Smoker, Stressed
Perks: Large Frame, Good Samaritan, Quiet
Quirks: Quiet, Good Samaritan, Large Frame
Bio: Alec grew up in a big city in the US. He was large by most standards, even as a kid, and its served him well enough. He's never been the most dexterous, indeed Alec considers himself a bit accident prone, it not being too uncommon for him to bump into things due to his large frame. He's never been the brightest either, didn't do too bad in school but did noticeably lag behind some of the other students. It wasn't that he couldn't apply what he learned, it was that it simply took him longer to learn something that came more naturally to others.

But, what he prides himself in is his strength. Being large, most people let him be as who would want to mess with that one kid about a foot or two taller than about everyone else? That was always fine with him, left him time to himself. Alec always appreciated his time alone, enjoyed it indeed. For when he was alone, all the pressures of the world just slipped away from him, he could relax without having to feel like he was constantly playing catch-up with everyone around him. He never really had to work hard to make his body strong, it always just seemed to be so. Knocks he's taken would often harm others, but to him it was just something he'd shrug off. Alec never found a reason to voice his pain, it was always something that was passing, something he often forgot about five minutes later anyway, so why give it a voice? He's gotten more than one weird look for stubbing his toe and taking it in silent stride with nothing more than a grimace.

But indeed, what he prided himself on the most however, was strength of spirit. While he may not of been the most brightest, he still tried his hardest to learn, while he may not of been the most dexterous, he still tried his hardest to watch his step as he could. From what he's seen, his strength has been a boon to him, one that he should use to help instead of hurt people. He's often used to giving it his all when he needs to, so he shies not from hard work.

Joining the Archangels wasn't that big of a leap for him. While he would of preferred to make instead of break, he understands that he has a certain talent with stuff and before he joined Archangel, he was a demolistionist. Not the kind that worked with bombs mind you, more the kind that worked with the machines, wielded a jack hammer or a sledge. People would often have things brought up that they didn't wish there anymore, so he was paid to bring it down. When the troubles began, and became a threat, he didn't panic but rather went to see what he could do to help as best he could. This led him to Archangel

You bring the gun into hip firing position as Tommy had showed you, your knees slightly bent, arms stretched in an interesting way, as you begin firing. You had put your flashlight on a holster on your sleeve, allowing you to see were your arm had pointed. You enter the position, you still feel strange, and your position feels off a bit, but it does feel like it is helping. You let out a burst from your guns, ten bullets, spraying them toward the borrow wright in quick succession as the gun struggles in your grip, lighting up the catacombs with its flash. Both of the columns fell silently, blocking each of your bullets and acting as a shield. Some of the skulls lost their light as the bullets hit, though the columns seem generally unaffected. You can hear the steps of the borrow right, loud and echoing, between the sounds of your gunfire and the casings hitting the ground. After your burst of fire, the columns return upright, as the borrow wright continues to walk toward you casually, not showing any signs of slowing.

Helena, for her part, happily helped "You get the mummy, Illtake the walls!" as she begins making air plain noises, running parallel to the walls as she unloads her bullets into it, her guns illuminating her toothy grin. Apparently, she has not been effected at all by whatever is messing with you.

You look at the borrow wright, walking calmly toward you. Ever step made you colder, sending shivers down your spine. You fire five more rounds, now with the columns a little bit behind him, standing carefully, as if they had really been dead. You appear to have hit him four times, one going wild, but your triumph is short lived. The borrow wright you thought you saw dissipated with a whiff of the dancing fog, another appearing a few feet to the right.

You are now completely terrified, the world seemed to be fading. You look into the borrow wright's mockery of eyes, and the world seems to go black. All you can see is the eyes of the skulls around the room, blue flames that illuminate darkness. Your flashlight appears to do nothing against it. Your strength leaves your body, causing you to rest your gun on the floor, as you feel to heavy to even lift yourself. All you can hear is the rhythmic footsteps of the borrow wright as he comes closer, unstopping, *tap* *tap* *tap*. All you can see is the borrow wright, a dried husk of a man, as he stepped forward. You attempt to act, but find yourself unable to do much. It was now about as powerful as when the priest had touched you, the cold feeling down to your bones. The heat leaving your body. It was....as if your very soul was being ripped from your body, leaving you a husk as he was. He steps toward you, now within touching distance, as you feel completely dead inside, filled only with terror, on your knees. Your every movement takes a massive amount of effort to move, it takes a huge amount of effort to even think of anything but pure terror and the borrow wright in front of you. He is now within touching distance, standing in front of you as he slowly raising his arm, a single finger outstretched.

What do you do now?

------------------

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Name: Patricia Garfien
Age: 37
Equipment: Backpack :Surgical bag, hatchet, (Speed loader) ,whiskey flask (3), rosary, glasses, Glock(7),  Glock magazine (3), PP-19 Bizon 2 (53 overpressure), lighter (full),   Glasses case
HP: 9
Stats:
Int: 9
Str: 11
Agi: 10
Skills: General Medic(3), Small Arms (3), Shotgun (2), Sub-machine gun (2)
Advantages: She has steady hands, and is very calm in high stress situations. This can be a lifesaver in the field.
Disadvantages: Territorial about her work, needs glasses/contacts(farsighted), and a functional alcoholic.
Perks: Excellent bedside manner.
Quirks: Racist. Yep. Against EVERYONE. Not to the point where she dislikes them, just the point where she believes just about every stereotype there is. Curiously enough, not religious, or homophobic, or sexist. I can change this if it might cause problems.
Bio: Patricia grew up in southern Texaz, raised by two rich white parents who fit every stereotype of rich white people there was, or almost. They did love their daughter, but they were also assholes to most people below their station. When she became a surgeon in college, they were delighted to see their little girl take up such a proud profession. When the chupacabras started striking, she managed to save her brother's life, barely, but had to run, and he was left behind. She rode a horse for hours, eventually letting the poor thing rest, where she was taken in by some kind colored people. Long story short, she ended up joining the Archangel foundation, to help keep the fighting men alive. That said, being a Texan, she's not bad with a pistol either...

You quickly point your glock at the detonator and take careful aim.... to late! He pushes his large thumb against the button, causing a fireball to erupt from his chest, sending fragments everywhere. You cover your face instinctively as a sharp pain goes through your legs. You uncover your face and look around.

In the man's place was a small square shield, like the kind knights used. It had several bullet holes in it, more dents then holes, as well as a gaping hole in the direct center. Behind the shield was Kevlar backing, apparently the thing that had caught the bullets. You quickly look at your own wound, finding it to be a small bruise and nothing serious as you think what to do next.

The steel manhole-like thing with a latter looked incredibly sturdy, if it has more fortifications like that down there it would be difficult to fight through. You might be able to take advantage of your current surprise and hurry in, before they ready themselves. You could also wait for your teammates, they might take a bit and you would lose the element of surprise, but you would have some backup.

What do you want to do now?

[Xanmyral]

Ten bullets rattled themselves into the air, each finding a target in the columns. Alec could scarcely believe it, but right now he's finding that he's been questioning more and more as time goes on. He mentally cursed to himself as he watched the columns move right back to where they were, the Wright-Lich thing moving as if nothing had happened. He heard Helena speak to him, but he couldn't only catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye, her being as her usual. How does she do it? But the main object of his gaze, the wright, moved closer to him, each increasing the wrongness he felt.

Five more shots, four hit of them. Alec could barely contain a satisfied sneer that quickly disappeared when the wright vanished in a puff of fog. What. An illusion! A trick! He wheeled around to realign his aim at the wright, but something felt... Wrong. Each centimeter he moved to face the wright, the world grew that much darker. Soon, everything was nothing but pitch, inky blackness that excluded all light but the blue lights. He could barely see himself. And the wright moved towards him.

Move! Each step, a deafening thud against the ground. It almost sounded like a heart beat, a slow one... One of someone dying. Move! For one of the few times in his life, Alec felt his strength betray him when he needed it most. His worth. Move! Alec only felt fear in him, a cold dark pit where nothing existed, not even himself, nothing but this thing. It was wrong. MOVE! Everything felt cold now, Alec questioning if there was anything else. The being of terror, the nightmare outstretched a finger, as if to focus all of its horrible wickedness in a singular point, to harm him with it.

MOVE! A voice screamed out in his head in defiance, each time yelling louder and louder, trying to drown out the deafening silence in his head, to move, to pick up his arm again, to not give in, to fight! He had a job to do. Alec had to move. With the last of his fortitude, he tries to move away, to bring his Shrike up to bear and showing this thing what superior fire power says about its darkness.

[Move doesn't look like a word anymore after this post.]

[Rolepgeek]

Come on...come on...there we go pull the tri- FWOOSH Patricia falls backwards as the firebal envelopes the room. Apparently it was a very weak explosion, since she's still alive, and the only shrapnel that hit her only made a bruise...thank God. Staring at the hole, Patricia shakes her mind to clear it, hisses at the pain in her leg, then finds a nice little niche she can watch the room from without being too obvious. It is a pretty empty house though, so it's not perfect. Whipping her submarine gun out, forgetting to reload the glock(or not caring to), she waits for her team to arrive, or cultists to show themselves.

[Stirk]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Name: Alec Rowe
Age: 27
Equipment: Sledge hammer, pack of cigarets (2), Lighter (full), werewolf salve, flashlight, Ares Shrike, 185 5.56 rounds (Loaded).
HP: 15
Stats
Int: 8
Str: 15
Agi: 7
Skills: Close Combat (3), Demolition (3), Heavy weapons (2)
Advantages: Determined
Disadvantages: Chain-Smoker, Stressed
Perks: Large Frame, Good Samaritan, Quiet
Quirks: Quiet, Good Samaritan, Large Frame
Bio: Alec grew up in a big city in the US. He was large by most standards, even as a kid, and its served him well enough. He's never been the most dexterous, indeed Alec considers himself a bit accident prone, it not being too uncommon for him to bump into things due to his large frame. He's never been the brightest either, didn't do too bad in school but did noticeably lag behind some of the other students. It wasn't that he couldn't apply what he learned, it was that it simply took him longer to learn something that came more naturally to others.

But, what he prides himself in is his strength. Being large, most people let him be as who would want to mess with that one kid about a foot or two taller than about everyone else? That was always fine with him, left him time to himself. Alec always appreciated his time alone, enjoyed it indeed. For when he was alone, all the pressures of the world just slipped away from him, he could relax without having to feel like he was constantly playing catch-up with everyone around him. He never really had to work hard to make his body strong, it always just seemed to be so. Knocks he's taken would often harm others, but to him it was just something he'd shrug off. Alec never found a reason to voice his pain, it was always something that was passing, something he often forgot about five minutes later anyway, so why give it a voice? He's gotten more than one weird look for stubbing his toe and taking it in silent stride with nothing more than a grimace.

But indeed, what he prided himself on the most however, was strength of spirit. While he may not of been the most brightest, he still tried his hardest to learn, while he may not of been the most dexterous, he still tried his hardest to watch his step as he could. From what he's seen, his strength has been a boon to him, one that he should use to help instead of hurt people. He's often used to giving it his all when he needs to, so he shies not from hard work.

Joining the Archangels wasn't that big of a leap for him. While he would of preferred to make instead of break, he understands that he has a certain talent with stuff and before he joined Archangel, he was a demolistionist. Not the kind that worked with bombs mind you, more the kind that worked with the machines, wielded a jack hammer or a sledge. People would often have things brought up that they didn't wish there anymore, so he was paid to bring it down. When the troubles began, and became a threat, he didn't panic but rather went to see what he could do to help as best he could. This led him to Archangel

You fight with all your strength, putting the gun up directly in the face of the borrow wright, pointing it up at him from your position on your knees! You triumphantly move your hand to the trigger finger, exerting all your effort, and begin to squeeze it...

But the borrow wright, unhurried, touches your shoulder with that one finger. Suddenly the cold, as if the whole arm had been ripped off and put into a glacier. It felt like your soul had been shattered, as your gun falls to the floor once again. The coldness spreads, as if a frost, as your arm goes numb. Your whole arm freezes, spreading up to your shoulder, as slowly as the borrow wright moves. Soon, your shoulder goes numb as you fight to think of ideas to save yourself. All you have is your right hand....The borrow wright slowly bends down, its stretched out face going directly toward yours...

You quickly think of what you can do with one hand. The shrike is to heavy to lift. Maybe you could punch him? It might break his spell, allowing you to get some strength back, but you are not shore you have much strength. You could try getting a cigaret, maybe it will help you break the spell. Or it could just waste your time while you die. Your thoughts go to the salve....

----------------------

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Name: Patricia Garfien
Age: 37
Equipment: Backpack :Surgical bag, hatchet, (Speed loader) ,whiskey flask (3), rosary, glasses, Glock(7),  Glock magazine (3), PP-19 Bizon 2 (53 overpressure), lighter (full),   Glasses case
HP: 9
Stats:
Int: 9
Str: 11
Agi: 10
Skills: General Medic(3), Small Arms (3), Shotgun (2), Sub-machine gun (2)
Advantages: She has steady hands, and is very calm in high stress situations. This can be a lifesaver in the field.
Disadvantages: Territorial about her work, needs glasses/contacts(farsighted), and a functional alcoholic.
Perks: Excellent bedside manner.
Quirks: Racist. Yep. Against EVERYONE. Not to the point where she dislikes them, just the point where she believes just about every stereotype there is. Curiously enough, not religious, or homophobic, or sexist. I can change this if it might cause problems.
Bio: Patricia grew up in southern Texaz, raised by two rich white parents who fit every stereotype of rich white people there was, or almost. They did love their daughter, but they were also assholes to most people below their station. When she became a surgeon in college, they were delighted to see their little girl take up such a proud profession. When the chupacabras started striking, she managed to save her brother's life, barely, but had to run, and he was left behind. She rode a horse for hours, eventually letting the poor thing rest, where she was taken in by some kind colored people. Long story short, she ended up joining the Archangel foundation, to help keep the fighting men alive. That said, being a Texan, she's not bad with a pistol either...

You pull out your sub machine gun, kicking out the stand to allow you to hold it better. You do remember that you have pain medication in your bag, and think of taking some. You find a place to watch the room, the corner on the side, as you wait. After a few minutes, the twins come rushing in, raising their weapons as they entered, putting them down again when they saw everything was safe. A few minutes later Goldman and Charlie came, separately, both rushing to get here. Colt took the longest time, apparently he had gotten lost and had needed new directions. Once everyone got in, Goldman gave the order to advance. The twins took point, going down together first, sliding down the ladder quickly. Next, you and colt went down. The ladder was cold as you went down, the sound of your steps echoing across the concrete walls. The room was well-lit, a large cylinder light like those in large buildings had made the room easy to see in. After about ten feet, it lets off to a steel door. The door was open and the twins were watching it, weapons ready. You do the same, as the rest of the squad comes behind you. The twins nod as they go through the door, leading you to a stairwell.

The walls were cement, as was the stairs, with a steel guardrail. On the right, there was a steel door, with a stairway going up on your right, and a stairway going down ahead of you. The squad looks around, as you decide what to do. "The upstairs probably leads back to the house." Goldman states, as he looks around. "We should investigate the door, as well as send someone down stairs. How should we separate?"

Any plans?