a cold eye stares as the axe rises.
A door near the second-floor kitchen swings inward of its own accord, and a Light steps through it.
He's not what you might expect: somewhere in his mid-twenties; dressed in heavy boots and worn clothes, layer after layer, most of them shapeless sweaters that dangle down over his hands; the top one showing is an odd design of pinks and purples with visible darns. The white coat over the top is stained and old; it looks like a transient once stole it from a lab technician. Or from a doctor?
His face is pinched thin, chafed by perpetual cold, and he looks as if he's well used to ignoring all of it; he's watchful, inexpressive. Oh, and there's an actual sword slung through his belt in a curved black scabbard. It's battered, and looks like a relic from before the last war. Or what was the last war in some peoples' worlds.
As he sets foot in the corridor, the door slams shut behind him; his arm is raised as if he was lifting something - a sheet, or a curtain? Seeing the corridor, and hearing the bang, he stands perfectly still; his face warps in disbelief, and his stare becomes fixed, and he does nothing but listen. As if he might die if he moves. When he's certain there's nothing to hear, he looks behind him, at the closed door, but doesn't try the handle. He doesn't make a sound.
He's indoors. And he's alone.
He hasn't been alone since he was seventeen.
[[OOC: The invasion continues! Light from deepinthegrey's zombieverse; shows a name but no lifespan.]]
He's not what you might expect: somewhere in his mid-twenties; dressed in heavy boots and worn clothes, layer after layer, most of them shapeless sweaters that dangle down over his hands; the top one showing is an odd design of pinks and purples with visible darns. The white coat over the top is stained and old; it looks like a transient once stole it from a lab technician. Or from a doctor?
His face is pinched thin, chafed by perpetual cold, and he looks as if he's well used to ignoring all of it; he's watchful, inexpressive. Oh, and there's an actual sword slung through his belt in a curved black scabbard. It's battered, and looks like a relic from before the last war. Or what was the last war in some peoples' worlds.
As he sets foot in the corridor, the door slams shut behind him; his arm is raised as if he was lifting something - a sheet, or a curtain? Seeing the corridor, and hearing the bang, he stands perfectly still; his face warps in disbelief, and his stare becomes fixed, and he does nothing but listen. As if he might die if he moves. When he's certain there's nothing to hear, he looks behind him, at the closed door, but doesn't try the handle. He doesn't make a sound.
He's indoors. And he's alone.
He hasn't been alone since he was seventeen.
[[OOC: The invasion continues! Light from deepinthegrey's zombieverse; shows a name but no lifespan.]]