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Post by Scotland on Mar 12, 2012 12:11:51 GMT -5
His broadsword bit sharply into the trunk of a tree with a loud crack and Scotland wrenched it out through sheer power, causing bark to fall off in chunks. He spun and swiped through the air behind him, letting his arms and sword swing out to the side and then in an arc backwards to come back up over his head and into a downward chop so the end bit into the dry earth. He immeadiately slid his left foot out to the side, which shifted the center of his body away from his sword, and tilted the sword with the tip still in the ground to block an imagined opponent. The tip of the sword ripped out of the ground into an upward diagonal swipe to finish off the imagined opponent and he again let his arms swing out to the side and backward to come back over his head into another downward chop on the imaginary foe.
When the tip of the sword bit into the earth again, Scotland paused, drawing deep breaths of air into his lungs. He'd taken his jacket and shirt off, letting what breeze there was catch his sweat and keep him cool. His axes and firearm were left back at his bunk, not expecting to meet up with anything his sword couldn't handle. He never liked being cooped up, prefering to be out wandering the moors and hiking through the woods or strolling the shores. Though he liked Canada, it still wasn't home.
However, it felt good to be swinging a sword, feeling the familiar burn in his muscles. He was always with his sword these days, even sleeping with it because they never knew when an attack might occur. It was almost like the olden days. Back when England was still an uppity kid. He'd been a cute little bastard, but a mean little bastard. He hadn't changed much.
Scotland looked around and listened for any sounds or sights that might suggest he was in immeadiate danger. No shuffling, no moaning, no snap of twigs underfoot. A creature of some sort made a shrill noise nearby, and Scotland started looking for it, sword in hand. Maybe it was something edible.
[Feel free to join me for a spar, hunt or just conversation. Whatever mutant thing I catch, I'm bringing it back to the kitchen to terrify whoever is there.]
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Post by England on Mar 12, 2012 16:59:31 GMT -5
England, alert for any sounds, advanced through the thick beginning part of the forest. He knew that beyond the first four, five hundred meters, the forest became more spacey and more resources could be found there than anywhere else.
Hands brushing the emergency pistol he had at his side, he stepped over a pile of twigs to avoid them cracking noisily under his foot and froze.
For a moment, there was peaceful silence. And then, a shrill noise arose from within the woods.
... Well, Antonio did once mention the need for fresh game...
Time to get to work, he decided as he pulled his gun out of its holster.
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Post by Scotland on Mar 13, 2012 4:40:38 GMT -5
Scotland stepped lightly, carefully, fully aware of where his feet were landing so as not to make unnecessary noise. His senses of smell and hearing seemed to expand as he began to rely heavily on them. The breeze was blowing towards him, meaning he was downwind and his scent was not being carried towards what he was hunting. His sword was held in one hand and pointed down at the ground, a little away from his body to help break up his outline and match the standing trunks of the trees. A bow would be a much better hunting weapon, but beggers could not be choosers.
He slunk from tree to tree, tracking in the direction the sound had come from. It had been the death scream of a rabbit. Or what a rabbit had become in these times. The snapping sound from his chop at the tree had probably startled it and sent it into the jaws of some kind of predator. It was the predator he had to be wary of. He paused by a tree, keeping the sharp red of his hair behind the trunk at spotting movement and smelling a earthy damp scent that could only be described as similar to wet dog. Peering around the trunk, there was a partially mutated dog, coyote or wolf chewing away at the remains of a rabbit, a stone's throw away. The creature's shoulders and neck had bulked up, giving it an almost hyena-like appearance and stance. Its claws were unnaturally long, and unknown to Scotland, its jaw muscles had connected to the new larger neck and shoulder muscles, giving it enough bite power to snap bones.
Scotland had a moment to decide if bringing such a predator back to the kitchen was worthwhile. Predators typically tasted gamey and weren't really good eating. Still it was better not to have to compete with another predator for what meat existed out here. Plus seeing the looks on some of the others' faces when he brought it in would be amusing. What's wrong wit' it? Cook it n' eat it, ye picky bastard!
[All welcome to join! Scotland hasn't advanced on the beast yet. I'm afraid he may be shot.)
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Post by England on Mar 13, 2012 16:48:12 GMT -5
Breathing very quietly from his mouth, Arthur crept through the trees, aware not only for animal predators, but also for the ever-looming threat of undead predators. He went slowly but swiftly, wanting to pinpoint the exact location of his prey before moving further.
The forest had gone silent. As he exited the thick mass of trees, he opened his ears once more for any foreign noise.
The cold wind blew through the trees, ruffling their leaves noisily. And then, as the noise died down, Arthur heard it.
The very near sound of bones snapping.
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Post by Scotland on Mar 14, 2012 3:37:28 GMT -5
Scotland waited for the creature to nearly finish crunching the rabbit down, and then sharply banged his sword against the tree he was using for cover. If he'd had a shield, he would have banged against that in taunt. The tree would just have to do. As the creature's head swung towards him, he stepped out into view. A line of fur rose along the creature's spine, much like a cat hunches and fluffs when threatened, and a growl started up.
"Com'on." Scotland banged his sword against the tree again as he moved away from it. "Com'n get it."
The creature dropped what remained of the rabbit to charge at Scotland, lips pulled back from its teeth and snarling. Scotland waited for it reach him, sword held just away from his body with the tip pointed at the ground, held by one hand and leaving the front of his body wide open. His battle plan was already worked out in his head, and the plan did not call for the sword first.
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Post by England on Mar 14, 2012 15:50:33 GMT -5
England leaned against a tree, listening to the animal move. All of a sudden, a banging noise resonated in the forest, and England's heart jumped far up his throat. His hand instinctively went to the gun at his side, pulling it out and holding it close to his chest, his eyes darting around for any sight of enemies.
When he heard a familiar voice calling out, though, he relaxed. But only slightly. Just enough to find it in himself to turn around and peek from behind the tree, immediately locking gazes with the fieriest, brightest red hair he'd ever come to get acquainted during his millennium-long life.
Scotland. Of course.
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Post by Scotland on Mar 15, 2012 5:05:33 GMT -5
Scotland waited for the beast to get within a man's height of himself and with a quick twist of his hips, his foot swung out and kicked the beast in the chest. The beast yelped as it was knocked off course and one of its front legs stumbled on the grass, bringing its upper body down to the ground. In the time it took to get straightened out, Scotland was closing in on it. A large stride became another kick right into its ribs.
The beast snarled this time, skidding only slightly across the dry grass and launched itself forward in retaliation with a great push of its hind legs. Scotland dropped the tip of the sword into the ground and slid his right foot back. The shift caused his body to face the lunging beast directly and slightly hunch down, with the sword angled between him and the beast.
The creature slammed into the flat side of the sword the next moment, causing the tip of the blade to dig a trench in the ground backwards towards Scotland. But it did its job of blocking, the beast falling onto its side by Scotland's left foot. Scotland quickly stepped right over the blade and slammed a foot down on the side of the creature's neck near the jaw.
The ill-fated canine snarled and began to flail, claws digging furrows in the ground for leverage to get up. Scotland's left hand joined his right on the hilt of the sword and rapidly changed their grips to bring both thumbs facing up. Jerking the tip of the sword out of the trench, Scotland drove the tip back down in between the ribs of the monster, causing it to yelp-bark in pain. The redhead kept pushing down on the blade with the strength of his shoulders and back, aiming not to pierce the creature, but to pierce the ground below it.
The about-to-be-dinner-or-something dog bit at Scotland's near ankle, but found the leather of his boot too tough to pierce before it finally gave up the fight and shuddered into stillness.
[Actually acted this scene out to see how it would work...I'm such a nerd.]
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Post by England on Mar 15, 2012 18:06:40 GMT -5
England stood watching in some sort of a shocked silence, witnessing as his brother violently killed the beast. His grip was white on his gun, almost as white as his face, and he only realized he was clutching his weapon like a lifeline when he finally made a move. England shuddered as he looked at Scotland's satisfied face, and the way he held his sword, towering above the still animal he'd killed. Such brutality was so characteristic of Scotland. England should have expected it. But he never could get used to it, even after so long...
"Well." he cleared his throat, wishing his voice didn't sound so shaky to his ears as he stepped out from behind the tree and faced his older brother. "I am guessing we'll be having barbecue tonight?"
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Post by Scotland on Mar 16, 2012 14:11:52 GMT -5
Scotland lifted his head slightly when he heard the footsteps on dry grass, taking in the sight of England appearing from behind a nearby tree and looking a little pale. Scotland still clutched at the hilt of the sword with both hands, looking at his blonde little brother from under his eyebrows. He let his eyes speak for him, giving the other a bit of a challenging glare. Inwardly he's glad England saw the kill. He's glad England seems a little shaken. A small reminder of what the darling little Albion had trapped in his house. They had joined together with a lot of reluctance on Scotland's part, in a move to keep a certain man off Scotland's throne. A man neither of them wanted to see in power. But even after that man had withered and died, England had refused to let big brother go.
At the other's question, Scotland plants a foot on the beast's ribs and pulls the sword out with a slow and steady pull, a wet sucking sound accompanying the freeing of the blade.
"Ah guess we be," he finally said in agreement, the tense aura of earlier having dissipated with the freeing of the blade. “Why ye out here?”
Right after he asked, Scotland hefted the blade up and brought it down in a heavy chop to the beast’s neck, nearly severing the head. Better he clean it out here than leave a blood trail back to their sanctuary.
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Post by England on Mar 16, 2012 20:30:54 GMT -5
"I was out for firewood. Found more than what I bargained for." England tried not to shiver as he watched his brother take the animal apart. "May I return the question? Is it a hobby of yours to come out into a dangerous forest alone and hack at mutant beasts in a very barbaric fashion?"
He then eyed the decapitated, emptying beast with distaste, and decided he'd rather go hungry tonight.
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Post by Scotland on Mar 17, 2012 6:54:25 GMT -5
One more hack, and the head was off, allowing the blood to drain. At England’s words and disgusted tone, Scotland is tempted to grab the severed head and throw it at him, just to watch him freak out. Instead he let the sword tip rest against the ground and laughed uproariously at the question.
“Aye, Britney, been doin’ that since ah started,” he admitted with a wink, using one his nicknames for England. “Tis what me life has been.”
He glanced around, listening for any signs of unwelcome visitors, and then looked back at England’s hand clutching at the firearm.
“Firewood be hard tae come by?” he asked, looking pointedly at the fact England didn’t hold so much as a twig.
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Post by England on Mar 17, 2012 9:59:03 GMT -5
Wanting to retort, England bit back his tongue for he had nothing else to say to the nickname he'd been given. Instead, he let Scotland finish, his mind effortlessly coming up with plenty of more or less biting remarks to make.
"Firewood wasn't exactly my priority when I heard noises in the forest that I didn't recognize. Although I do admit that I should put resource-gathering very much in the front of my personal and the warehouse's security. After all, even if we're all surprise-attacked by zombies, a little firewood could always work miracles." he crossed his arms and leaned against a tree, raising a brow at Scotland's obvious question as he worked the sarcasm in his voice perfectly.
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Post by Scotland on Mar 17, 2012 10:45:02 GMT -5
Scotland grinned as England's claws peeked out, along with some hissing. Ah, it was fun to rile him up. It had become one of Scotland's hobbies.
"It would th' way ah do it," he said non-chalantly to the firewood miracle statement, hefting the sword again.
He hacked off the beast's front legs midway to get rid of the clawed feet. Chopping on the beast seemed to put England off-kilter, and it was unfortunate he only had the back feet left to chop off. Then he pushed the beast's hind end around with his foot so it laid with the severed neck on a decline, and allowed gravity to pull the blood out.
He planted the tip of the sword in the ground again and held the hilt with one hand while the other dug into a pants pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He shakes the pack a bit to get the end of one of the cigarettes to pop up and takes it from the pack with his lips. He hung onto the end of the cigarette with his teeth as he returned the pack to his pocket and pulled out his lighter.
"Ye 'eard any reports o' shufflin' comin' this way?" he muttered around the filter as he lit up.
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Post by England on Mar 17, 2012 12:13:57 GMT -5
England scrunched his nose at the smell of the cigarette immediately invaded the clearing, mixing in with the sharp metallic scent of blood and making a nausea-inducing combination. And as his eyes trailed over to the fag pinched between his brother's lips, England got a half a mid to march over there, pull it right out of his mouth and crush it in his palm.
How utterly disgusting.
"I don't think I saw or heard anything around here while I was walking." he simply answered, nose twitching incessantly as he tried to dispel the smell of smoke he hated so much. "Then again, since you seem to be fond of sending obvious signals to undead monsters." he motioned to the dead animal leaking out blood. "You shouldn't be too concerned, right? Next time, take a flare with you from the storage room. That way, if you want to call the zombies over, you won't have to track down any animals to kill."
As soon as they were done, they would have to move far away. England was not in the mood for fighting right now.
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Post by Scotland on Mar 17, 2012 12:59:00 GMT -5
Scotland grins again around the end of the cigarette and his eyes glint behind the smoke rising before his face. England's annoyed faces were the best.
"Right grand idea that," he said around the cigarette with an approving tone and hefted up the sword again to hack off the beast's remaining feet. His sword is filthy and needed to be cleaned and resharpened before he dared to put it back into a sheath. So he reached down with one hand and grabbed one of the beast's hind leg stubs to lift it up and help the rest of the blood drain. The more that drained here, the less that followed them back. The zombies could feast all they wanted on the head and feet, and chew on trees or whatever else they chewed on. In Scotland's mind any that wandered in closer to the sanctuary could be picked off by snipers.
"Who be th' cook?" he inquired out of the blue. He hoped it was someone pissy.
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