Ghost Town Memories [MM]

[Storyteller]

Title: Ghost Town Memories
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Characters: Casey, Claude Lambert

Casey must post first, outlining a story on the following theme (feel free to get creative):

Setting: Trapped in a part of the quarentine zone
Backstory: The group were meeting to dicuss something (some or all characters).
Occurance: [character 1] is approached by somebody who claims to have known them from many years ago
Variable: Casey is vomiting blood.

Participants: 2
ARES: yes
Speed: very slow
Chapter: no
Minimum Words Per Post: none
Maximum Words Per Post: none

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[Casey (DELETED 11644)]

Casey held her stomach, her teeth clenched tightly. Then looked at it, the wound was actually barely there a few bullet holes. They'd vanish by the next day. No big deal, she'd dealt with worse. But still, she dropped to her knees as blood poured from her mouth and she wheezed. At least breathing was not necessary she thought gratefully her hand lightly over her stomach still. Soldiers were outside the Quarantine zone, should have just come from Bellwood and leapt over the fence that would have been so much easier. But nooo had to be one near enough to the entrance that they shot her while she was headed in. Morons. That was the one issue she had with the path of vampirism she had gotten, she was much more prone to getting caught then others were. Took into the broken down fire department instead to stay hidden, but that didn't help. Now there were Mooncalves outside. Normally her chances against those were actually fairly good. But she really didn't feel like risking that right now.

Casey leaned against a wall and slid to the floor, no doubt there was a zombie or two roaming around somewhere. Always seemed to be. Course they wouldn't be a huge issue. But still, what a bother. She had come here trying to talk to someone about...something. Just kind of slipped her mind. She was a bit busy with the fact that she was leaning over to the side again her stomach wrenching more blood out of her. Man that sucked. She was gonna need to fix that. Maybe it was worse then she thought.

[Claude Lambert]

Night and day seemed to blend into a single coercive time-frame. The Canadian winters were dark and cold and often wet; dreary grey clouds were a permanent fixture in the sky. As a result, the lamps in Claude Lambert’s office were permanently left on as well, filling his wooden world with a golden glow. A stack of unfiled papers cast a long shadow over his working space from the bankers style desk lamp, reminding him of all he had left to do. An angry noise whistled from his nostrils as he sat back; the parker house swivel chair yawned under the effort. He was careful not to lean too far, not merely because he questioned the integrity of the antique leather chair with its dusty wooden parts, but because there was an oversized bookcase just behind his head.

Space was a premium in the man’s office. He had packed the great walnut burr bookcase to bursting and further stacks of papers and books were propped up in the corners, held down by hand-blown glass paperweights. Apparently, the librarians and bibliophiles of Harper Rock city preferred to do things the old fashioned way, which left Claude with the glorious task of reading thousands of pages of text and documenting only what was relevant to his business. Recently, his work had taken an unusual turn. He had become fascinated with the city’s unique inhabitants, but when he had searched for further information, he had been left wanting. Most, of course, would still deny the very existence of the undead and wouldn’t be open to the idea of there being animated skeletons running around in catacombs beneath their streets! And so it was, that Claude set himself the task of collating all there was to know about the beasts of Harper Rock - adding in his own opinions as he could, too.

It was said that if one enjoyed what they did then they would never have to work a day in their lives. Claude could agree with the observation, but then again, he also saw the value of variety in a man’s life. Sitting day in and day out at his office desk, cross-referencing journal annotations with doctrinated sources, and finally transcribing those works into a digital format, was most taxing and grew very monotonous. Thus, Claude decided that a little field work was in order. Glancing at the clock above the door, he realised that he couldn’t quite tell whether it was 7 o’clock in the morning or in the evening. Either way, he didn’t feel in the least bit fatigued; a side-effect of the Vampiric blood coursing through his system to be sure. He still had to finalise a chapter on Mooncalves and their paradoxical natures, and where better to find one than the Quarantine Zone? Plus, it was right on his doorstep.

Claude packed a small satchel for his belongings; a notebook, a camera, a noise maker, smoke bombs, a number of small vials to collect specimen samples, and a small lace bag for holding herbs and flowers. He had also prepared a stash of clothes in his office that he could change into depending on the context. Of course, Claude preferred to dress in suits that would flatter his athletic physique and would appeal to formal occasions. Field work, however, would tear the fine stitches of an English herringbone suit and soil the immaculate beauty of a silk shirt quicker than a cat would eat the recently deceased body of its master. It made for much better use of his time and resources to prepare a secondary attire, one that consisted of thick jeans, a vest top, and a waterproof overcoat.

The beige mackintosh jacket had the benefit of multiple, large pockets that could carry any number of helpful items such as his wallet, phone, and keys. Also, as it was lined with a thick layer of blue tartan fleece, it helped to conceal some of the weapons he was carrying. Claude rarely went anywhere these nights without some form of protection, but as he was hunting big game tonight, he chose to bring his custom sub-machine gun - small enough to fit into his brown leather satchel - and an enchanted broadaxe, which could be assembled at the scene of a fight. With his boyish good looks and charming personality, few suspected very much of the German, leaving Claude to get away with absolute murder. Fortunately for the denizens of Harper Rock, he was far more interested in slaying monsters than men.

After a short transit ride and an even shorter walk, the young Blood Thief had arrived at his destination. With his jacket zipped and buttoned right to the chin, and his satchel over his left shoulder to lull beside his right hip, Claude looked like a veritable journalist. As a result, he got a very cold welcome by the NADUMA who patrolled the area. Many of them shied away from him or gave him wary, suspicious glances as he passed. He felt it rather ironic that they should count him as treacherous in anyway, but he let the thought retire as he caught sight of a young lady huddled against a wall. He could only see her from the back, but knew that something was not quite right. His theories were quickly validated when her head fell forward and a torrent of blood splashed at her feet.

“Oh dear,” he murmured to himself. “I guess it was someone she ate.” Claude tittered quietly at his own joke before approaching her; his footsteps as soft as silk. “Everything alright, miss?”

While it was clear that Claude spoke remarkably good English, there was a hint at least that his refined accent and mannerisms were not strictly natural. There was a whisper of something crisp and throaty that coated certain consonants like a candy shell. It wouldn’t be immediately apparent that Claude was a German national at this point, but perhaps easy enough to perceive that he was European.