10-19-2015, 10:40 PM
All things are possible, even the worst of things.
If there is one thing he is good at, it is sleeping. He had gone to the meadow, a nostalgic trip to reminisce, and had ended up falling asleep. That is not unusual for him; he really is quite good at sleeping. To be honest, he can fall asleep just about anywhere. That is not the odd part. No, that would be the waking up.
As his chocolate brown eyes open, he takes in his surroundings with sudden shock. He is most definitely not in the meadow any longer. Glancing around, he sees many strange things surrounding him. Walls coated in thick, lustrous wallpaper, furniture with delicately carved legs and plush velvet upholstery, spindly tables topped by fragile vases, and a woman. How he knows what all of this is, he has no clue. None of them are things he has ever seen before. And he has seen some very weird things.
The woman speaks words out of a strangely shaped mouth, a flash of bright light blinds him, and suddenly he is like her. He jerks upright in open-mouthed awe, gaze dropping to stare at large, hairy-knuckled and tanned hands clutching at bare, equally tanned knees. What the…?
He flicks his bewildered gaze up to the woman as she smiles coyly at him. He clears his throat uncomfortably as he realizes that he is naked. Glancing around, he searches for something to cover himself with. Why he wants to cover himself, he isn’t sure. He only knows it is the thing to be done. Besides, this woman (Missy, she calls herself) is wearing clothes (how does he know that?), so it stands to reason that he should be too. Fortunately, in a nearby chair, he spots a neatly folded stack of clothing.
Scrambling quickly to his feet, he takes a hesitant step forward, testing his balance. It seems that even though he has never before walked on two legs, his body knows exactly what it needs to do. Hurrying to the chair, he grabs the first item from the stack: a white lawn shirt. Perfect. The next item: a… what the heck? A kilt? He glances at Missy skeptically (for though he has never before seen a kilt, he knows it is exceedingly odd that he has been given one to wear). She only smiles that secretive smile of hers. Shrugging, he puts the thing on. A much too complicated piece of clothing, as far as he is concerned. Finally it’s a pair of knee-high socks, followed by a simple pair of leather shoes.
Shahrizai had been so busy figuring out his new kilt that he hadn’t realized at first the Missy had started speaking again. As he finishes tugging on his shoes, he glances up at her through a wild profusion of curly black locks, her words finally sinking in. Straightening, his baffled gaze turns to find the two doors she is speaking of, one oozing a gooey substance, the other glowing faintly. He smiles wryly, his strange (well-made) lips quirking in amusement.
That’s quite the choice you’re offering me.
But she is gone, his sarcasm completely lost on her. As he glances in the direction she had been, his brown eyes find only air. With a sigh, he steps forward, studying the two doors closely. Well, he huffs softly, here goes nothing. Stretching one arm forward, his hand grasps the handle of the black door.
As he steps through, he is met with a fetid odor. On the other side of the door lies an alley. Garbage litters pitted and stained asphalt. An overturned dumpster huddles against one dank brick wall while a lovely and quite explicit graffiti drawing stretches across the opposite building. Well, hell. What has he gotten himself into now?
He takes another few steps forward, gazing around in astonishment (and, let’s be honest, mild disgust), when a hand suddenly clamps down upon his shoulder. He yelps, fists swinging wide as he pivots to face the threat.
Hush you bloody idiot, says a low, male voice in a rough British accent. Do you want them to find you?
Them? Them who? Wide brown eyes find a small, lean man with dirty blonde hair and a scraggly beard covering a thin face. The man is carrying a crossbow slung casually over one leather-clad shoulder. The other hand still grips Shah’s shoulder tightly. Lowering his voice, Shahrizai responds in a concerned tone.
What do you mean by 'them'? He pauses a moment, before belatedly asking, Where am I, anyway?
The man gives him a faintly disgusted look before turning and beckoning for him to follow. Shah hesitates for only moment before doing as he asks. If there is any chance he can find out what the hell’s going on, he’ll take it. His patience pays off when the man finally responds in a low voice. The zombies. Have you been living under rock? Those bloody buggers are fast and have the ears of a bat.
Zombies?
He doesn’t get the chance to respond. They are joined by another man, this one big and burly with a shaved head and tattoos covering nearly every inch of his skin beneath a red flannel shirt and jeans. He glances at Shahrizai, scowling. “God damn it Mick, not another one.”
What the hell am I supposed to do, leave him here to be turned into another zombie? We’ve got enough problems with the bastards as it is, the first man, Mick, responds hotly.
“Fucking hell. You could have at least found one that’s not wearing a skirt,” the burly man grumbles as he stares coldly at said skirt wearing man. Shahrizai glances between the two men, completely bewildered and starting to feel a little hot beneath the collar. Plucking absently at the cuffs of his shirt, he speaks almost distantly.
Kilt. It’s a kilt.
Clearing his throat, he continues, trying his best to diffuse the situation. He has a sneaking suspicion that he might need these men to survive.
Uh, I’m Shahrizai, by the way. Shah, actually.
I’m Mick, the shorter man says. The bald man continues to glare at him. He doesn’t say a word until Mick elbows him in the side, only then offering a grunted, “Killian.”
Shahrizai nearly laughs at that. The absurdity of the situation he has found himself in, combined with the gruff man’s decidedly unfitting name, becomes too much to bear. He resists only because he is fairly certain that Killian wouldn’t hesitate to abandon him. But his lips begin to twitch with his mirth. He covers his mouth with one large hand, hiding his silent laughter behind the appendage.
Glancing down to hide his humor filled eyes, Shahrizai catches sight of something that grabs his interest. His mirth forgotten, he leans down and snags the thing off the ground by his feet.
Suddenly footsteps echo in the distance, accompanied by a faint moaning sound. Both men stiffen. Mick quietly whispers Run to Shahrizai before both men turn and flee. Shah stands there in baffled confusion for a long moment before he takes off after them.
Damn it, he is not a runner. Although, he does have to say the kilt was a pretty good choice. Lots of freedom of movement in the thing. The other two men are fast, and Shahrizai has to struggle to catch up with them. When he finally does, he is panting hard and beginning to sweat. The two men do not slow.
Why… are… we… run… ning?
Shahrizai gasps the words between ragged breaths. Mick barely spares him a glance before muttering, Zombies.
Zombies, again. What… the… hell…
Glancing over his shoulder, Shahrizai tries to see these so-called zombies. He sees nothing. A few moments later, when he glances over his shoulder again, there they are. Ho-lee shit. Those buggers are fast. The creatures are pale, rotting skin peeling away from flesh and blood smearing their faces. He decides then and there that he definitely does not want to meet those things. He runs faster.
But they’re gaining. And the three of them are tiring. As their feet fly over the pavement, they make several sudden turns through alleys and across broader thoroughfares. Quite out of nowhere, the trio encounters a dead end, their only means of escape a single door. Locked.
Killian starts swearing, curse words that Shahrizai has never even heard before spewing from the man’s mouth. Mick says nothing. Instead, he turns and swings the crossbow from his back. Lifting the weapon, he settles it against his shoulder as he takes aim at the oncoming zombies.
Shahrizai glances around wildly as he turns in frantic circles. This cannot be how he dies. He could not possibly be destined to become a zombie. Damn it, but no. Abruptly he realizes that he is still clutching the thing in his hand that he had picked up in the alley several miles back. Unclenching his fingers, he opens his palm to find a key.
A key…
In an almost dream-like state, he steps forward, reaching for the locked door. Inserting the key, he turns it. Click. In sudden excitement, he shouts, jerking around towards his two companions.
Come on, guys!
But it’s too late. The zombies are upon them. Mick is shooting calmly at the oncoming horde, but he is rapidly running out of bolts. Waving wildly, he hollers at the two of them, gesturing at the unlocked door before grabbing at the handle and jerking it open. Both men glance around. It is the last mistake Mick will ever make. The zombies are upon him, burying him under a pile of undead bodies. With a yelp, Shahrizai dives through the open door. Killian is close behind him, an enraged yowl erupting from his throat as he pulls the door closed on a pale, grasping hand.
As his chocolate brown eyes open, he takes in his surroundings with sudden shock. He is most definitely not in the meadow any longer. Glancing around, he sees many strange things surrounding him. Walls coated in thick, lustrous wallpaper, furniture with delicately carved legs and plush velvet upholstery, spindly tables topped by fragile vases, and a woman. How he knows what all of this is, he has no clue. None of them are things he has ever seen before. And he has seen some very weird things.
The woman speaks words out of a strangely shaped mouth, a flash of bright light blinds him, and suddenly he is like her. He jerks upright in open-mouthed awe, gaze dropping to stare at large, hairy-knuckled and tanned hands clutching at bare, equally tanned knees. What the…?
He flicks his bewildered gaze up to the woman as she smiles coyly at him. He clears his throat uncomfortably as he realizes that he is naked. Glancing around, he searches for something to cover himself with. Why he wants to cover himself, he isn’t sure. He only knows it is the thing to be done. Besides, this woman (Missy, she calls herself) is wearing clothes (how does he know that?), so it stands to reason that he should be too. Fortunately, in a nearby chair, he spots a neatly folded stack of clothing.
Scrambling quickly to his feet, he takes a hesitant step forward, testing his balance. It seems that even though he has never before walked on two legs, his body knows exactly what it needs to do. Hurrying to the chair, he grabs the first item from the stack: a white lawn shirt. Perfect. The next item: a… what the heck? A kilt? He glances at Missy skeptically (for though he has never before seen a kilt, he knows it is exceedingly odd that he has been given one to wear). She only smiles that secretive smile of hers. Shrugging, he puts the thing on. A much too complicated piece of clothing, as far as he is concerned. Finally it’s a pair of knee-high socks, followed by a simple pair of leather shoes.
Shahrizai had been so busy figuring out his new kilt that he hadn’t realized at first the Missy had started speaking again. As he finishes tugging on his shoes, he glances up at her through a wild profusion of curly black locks, her words finally sinking in. Straightening, his baffled gaze turns to find the two doors she is speaking of, one oozing a gooey substance, the other glowing faintly. He smiles wryly, his strange (well-made) lips quirking in amusement.
That’s quite the choice you’re offering me.
But she is gone, his sarcasm completely lost on her. As he glances in the direction she had been, his brown eyes find only air. With a sigh, he steps forward, studying the two doors closely. Well, he huffs softly, here goes nothing. Stretching one arm forward, his hand grasps the handle of the black door.
As he steps through, he is met with a fetid odor. On the other side of the door lies an alley. Garbage litters pitted and stained asphalt. An overturned dumpster huddles against one dank brick wall while a lovely and quite explicit graffiti drawing stretches across the opposite building. Well, hell. What has he gotten himself into now?
He takes another few steps forward, gazing around in astonishment (and, let’s be honest, mild disgust), when a hand suddenly clamps down upon his shoulder. He yelps, fists swinging wide as he pivots to face the threat.
Hush you bloody idiot, says a low, male voice in a rough British accent. Do you want them to find you?
Them? Them who? Wide brown eyes find a small, lean man with dirty blonde hair and a scraggly beard covering a thin face. The man is carrying a crossbow slung casually over one leather-clad shoulder. The other hand still grips Shah’s shoulder tightly. Lowering his voice, Shahrizai responds in a concerned tone.
What do you mean by 'them'? He pauses a moment, before belatedly asking, Where am I, anyway?
The man gives him a faintly disgusted look before turning and beckoning for him to follow. Shah hesitates for only moment before doing as he asks. If there is any chance he can find out what the hell’s going on, he’ll take it. His patience pays off when the man finally responds in a low voice. The zombies. Have you been living under rock? Those bloody buggers are fast and have the ears of a bat.
Zombies?
He doesn’t get the chance to respond. They are joined by another man, this one big and burly with a shaved head and tattoos covering nearly every inch of his skin beneath a red flannel shirt and jeans. He glances at Shahrizai, scowling. “God damn it Mick, not another one.”
What the hell am I supposed to do, leave him here to be turned into another zombie? We’ve got enough problems with the bastards as it is, the first man, Mick, responds hotly.
“Fucking hell. You could have at least found one that’s not wearing a skirt,” the burly man grumbles as he stares coldly at said skirt wearing man. Shahrizai glances between the two men, completely bewildered and starting to feel a little hot beneath the collar. Plucking absently at the cuffs of his shirt, he speaks almost distantly.
Kilt. It’s a kilt.
Clearing his throat, he continues, trying his best to diffuse the situation. He has a sneaking suspicion that he might need these men to survive.
Uh, I’m Shahrizai, by the way. Shah, actually.
I’m Mick, the shorter man says. The bald man continues to glare at him. He doesn’t say a word until Mick elbows him in the side, only then offering a grunted, “Killian.”
Shahrizai nearly laughs at that. The absurdity of the situation he has found himself in, combined with the gruff man’s decidedly unfitting name, becomes too much to bear. He resists only because he is fairly certain that Killian wouldn’t hesitate to abandon him. But his lips begin to twitch with his mirth. He covers his mouth with one large hand, hiding his silent laughter behind the appendage.
Glancing down to hide his humor filled eyes, Shahrizai catches sight of something that grabs his interest. His mirth forgotten, he leans down and snags the thing off the ground by his feet.
Suddenly footsteps echo in the distance, accompanied by a faint moaning sound. Both men stiffen. Mick quietly whispers Run to Shahrizai before both men turn and flee. Shah stands there in baffled confusion for a long moment before he takes off after them.
Damn it, he is not a runner. Although, he does have to say the kilt was a pretty good choice. Lots of freedom of movement in the thing. The other two men are fast, and Shahrizai has to struggle to catch up with them. When he finally does, he is panting hard and beginning to sweat. The two men do not slow.
Why… are… we… run… ning?
Shahrizai gasps the words between ragged breaths. Mick barely spares him a glance before muttering, Zombies.
Zombies, again. What… the… hell…
Glancing over his shoulder, Shahrizai tries to see these so-called zombies. He sees nothing. A few moments later, when he glances over his shoulder again, there they are. Ho-lee shit. Those buggers are fast. The creatures are pale, rotting skin peeling away from flesh and blood smearing their faces. He decides then and there that he definitely does not want to meet those things. He runs faster.
But they’re gaining. And the three of them are tiring. As their feet fly over the pavement, they make several sudden turns through alleys and across broader thoroughfares. Quite out of nowhere, the trio encounters a dead end, their only means of escape a single door. Locked.
Killian starts swearing, curse words that Shahrizai has never even heard before spewing from the man’s mouth. Mick says nothing. Instead, he turns and swings the crossbow from his back. Lifting the weapon, he settles it against his shoulder as he takes aim at the oncoming zombies.
Shahrizai glances around wildly as he turns in frantic circles. This cannot be how he dies. He could not possibly be destined to become a zombie. Damn it, but no. Abruptly he realizes that he is still clutching the thing in his hand that he had picked up in the alley several miles back. Unclenching his fingers, he opens his palm to find a key.
A key…
In an almost dream-like state, he steps forward, reaching for the locked door. Inserting the key, he turns it. Click. In sudden excitement, he shouts, jerking around towards his two companions.
Come on, guys!
But it’s too late. The zombies are upon them. Mick is shooting calmly at the oncoming horde, but he is rapidly running out of bolts. Waving wildly, he hollers at the two of them, gesturing at the unlocked door before grabbing at the handle and jerking it open. Both men glance around. It is the last mistake Mick will ever make. The zombies are upon him, burying him under a pile of undead bodies. With a yelp, Shahrizai dives through the open door. Killian is close behind him, an enraged yowl erupting from his throat as he pulls the door closed on a pale, grasping hand.
shahrizai
hestoni x scorch