05-16-2018, 09:58 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 460px; text-align: justify; font-size:9pt"][you don't have to match lol only the last three paragraphs really matter.]
When he had awoken, he had expected a welcoming committee. Dantalion full well expected there to be an abundance of faces crowding around his hospice bed. Among them he most desperately wanted to see his wife, and behind her he expected the plentiful bunch of fake friends who would most definitely only have been there for the good publicity. Packed behind the door he expected a gaggle of news reporters, clamoring to get a good photograph of his unkempt, filthy face. He must have been quite the sight, freshly revitalized after twenty years of being comatose, and it's just too bad that there was nobody there to witness him.
Dantalion awoke not only to an empty room, but an empty home.
Not a maid nor mouse was to be found scuttling about the house he lived in. He had searched every inch, tapping his cane along every hollow spot in the wall, peering through every crack in the floorboards for even the slightest give-away that there was still someone. But all the furniture had been hidden with white sheets, and everything was coated in a thick layer of dust. He sneezed and sniffled with every other step. Dantalion had found it peculiar that none of the light switches worked when he tried them, and that his telephone didn't so much as produce a dial tone, but he had quickly reasoned it was because he hadn't paid his bills in twenty or so years.
He was weak when he woke up. It was a miracle he had made it for so long, especially given that the power had died only a few days after his condition was declared critical. For a few days or so, until hunger drove him out, Dantalion did nothing but sit in the parlor of his dark, cluttered home. It had been lonely, he admits, but nothing he couldn't deal with. After a lifetime of isolating himself in his office, working until he would pass out at his desk, he found more comfort and humanity in a stack of old paperwork than he did the portraits hanging on the wall. Their faces looked so unappealing now that the paint has become cracked and dull.
When the dull pain in his stomach turned into sharp pain wracking his entire body, Dantalion scrounged up the strength to leave. It wasn't hard to find food, thanks to a generous vendor nearby, who had been more than happy to give up her stock when prompted with a flash of the pistol tucked into his waistband. Quickly Dantalion succumbed to what he would have otherwise considered sins, things he wouldn't have even thought about doing as a God-fearing man, but the first time he stole, the first time he fired that pistol, his old, dead body felt... reinvigorated. It was more of a thrill to be a liar and a cheater than it was to be a law-abiding Christian who worked for his money.
Here he finds himself, loitering along the outskirts of the forest, with a distant view of the lodge. The trip here, to the next closest society, had been longer than he expected. His food had run out half-way here, and as hard as he looked, there wasn't one other soul that he could steal from. Every step he'd taken had zapped the energy out of him, and now, as he tries to peer through a window from so far away, he feels as dead and empty as he had when he'd woken up.
His plan had originally been to sneak in, pickpocket a few men here and there, snatch some food and supplies, and be on his merry way, but the more people that come streaming out those front doors, the less great his idea seems. Dantalion doesn't mean to sound like a scrooge, but he's not so keen on actually interacting with these people. He's skeptical that they'll even grant him any hospitality, let alone let him mooch off their supplies, and even if they were otherwise nice people, he's got several certain aspects about him that might make him an exception.
See, when standing still and viewed from a great distance, Dantalion looks like an average old man. Whatever weapons he may be wielding are hidden in his overcoat, his aged face appears relatively normal, and despite his tall, lanky structure, he doesn't really give off a threatening vibe. However, if one were to step closer to him, it would become apparent just how unnatural Dantalion is. He towers over just about everyone; when he moves, something snaps; something in his arm or his leg clicks and pops; the creaking in his bones is so loud that it could be heard from miles away. His eyes are sunken into their sockets and his lips are colorless and cracked, curled into a perpetually dissatisfied scowl. He is sickly pale, to the point where his skin has a blue tinge. Dantalion is best described as undead―or as a revenant, given that he's still breathing and currently not lusting for brains.
He's vaguely aware of his appearance. He's never given it much thought then, when he was alone, but now, as he walks stiffly out of the woods, Dantalion can't help but wonder if it would unsettle these people to the point where they would turn him away. On top of his ghostly looks, the politician's charm he once had has left him, as have most of his other social skills. Still he ventures forward. "Hello?" It's rather lame, but it's the best he can do, and arguably all he can muster. He just hopes that they won't immediately turn him away, and at least let him stay long enough to loot their things and be on his way.
When he had awoken, he had expected a welcoming committee. Dantalion full well expected there to be an abundance of faces crowding around his hospice bed. Among them he most desperately wanted to see his wife, and behind her he expected the plentiful bunch of fake friends who would most definitely only have been there for the good publicity. Packed behind the door he expected a gaggle of news reporters, clamoring to get a good photograph of his unkempt, filthy face. He must have been quite the sight, freshly revitalized after twenty years of being comatose, and it's just too bad that there was nobody there to witness him.
Dantalion awoke not only to an empty room, but an empty home.
Not a maid nor mouse was to be found scuttling about the house he lived in. He had searched every inch, tapping his cane along every hollow spot in the wall, peering through every crack in the floorboards for even the slightest give-away that there was still someone. But all the furniture had been hidden with white sheets, and everything was coated in a thick layer of dust. He sneezed and sniffled with every other step. Dantalion had found it peculiar that none of the light switches worked when he tried them, and that his telephone didn't so much as produce a dial tone, but he had quickly reasoned it was because he hadn't paid his bills in twenty or so years.
He was weak when he woke up. It was a miracle he had made it for so long, especially given that the power had died only a few days after his condition was declared critical. For a few days or so, until hunger drove him out, Dantalion did nothing but sit in the parlor of his dark, cluttered home. It had been lonely, he admits, but nothing he couldn't deal with. After a lifetime of isolating himself in his office, working until he would pass out at his desk, he found more comfort and humanity in a stack of old paperwork than he did the portraits hanging on the wall. Their faces looked so unappealing now that the paint has become cracked and dull.
When the dull pain in his stomach turned into sharp pain wracking his entire body, Dantalion scrounged up the strength to leave. It wasn't hard to find food, thanks to a generous vendor nearby, who had been more than happy to give up her stock when prompted with a flash of the pistol tucked into his waistband. Quickly Dantalion succumbed to what he would have otherwise considered sins, things he wouldn't have even thought about doing as a God-fearing man, but the first time he stole, the first time he fired that pistol, his old, dead body felt... reinvigorated. It was more of a thrill to be a liar and a cheater than it was to be a law-abiding Christian who worked for his money.
Here he finds himself, loitering along the outskirts of the forest, with a distant view of the lodge. The trip here, to the next closest society, had been longer than he expected. His food had run out half-way here, and as hard as he looked, there wasn't one other soul that he could steal from. Every step he'd taken had zapped the energy out of him, and now, as he tries to peer through a window from so far away, he feels as dead and empty as he had when he'd woken up.
His plan had originally been to sneak in, pickpocket a few men here and there, snatch some food and supplies, and be on his merry way, but the more people that come streaming out those front doors, the less great his idea seems. Dantalion doesn't mean to sound like a scrooge, but he's not so keen on actually interacting with these people. He's skeptical that they'll even grant him any hospitality, let alone let him mooch off their supplies, and even if they were otherwise nice people, he's got several certain aspects about him that might make him an exception.
See, when standing still and viewed from a great distance, Dantalion looks like an average old man. Whatever weapons he may be wielding are hidden in his overcoat, his aged face appears relatively normal, and despite his tall, lanky structure, he doesn't really give off a threatening vibe. However, if one were to step closer to him, it would become apparent just how unnatural Dantalion is. He towers over just about everyone; when he moves, something snaps; something in his arm or his leg clicks and pops; the creaking in his bones is so loud that it could be heard from miles away. His eyes are sunken into their sockets and his lips are colorless and cracked, curled into a perpetually dissatisfied scowl. He is sickly pale, to the point where his skin has a blue tinge. Dantalion is best described as undead―or as a revenant, given that he's still breathing and currently not lusting for brains.
He's vaguely aware of his appearance. He's never given it much thought then, when he was alone, but now, as he walks stiffly out of the woods, Dantalion can't help but wonder if it would unsettle these people to the point where they would turn him away. On top of his ghostly looks, the politician's charm he once had has left him, as have most of his other social skills. Still he ventures forward. "Hello?" It's rather lame, but it's the best he can do, and arguably all he can muster. He just hopes that they won't immediately turn him away, and at least let him stay long enough to loot their things and be on his way.
[align=center][b][sup][abbr=ottawa everman, the badlands - dantalion, flintlock lodge]CHARACTERS[/abbr]  [abbr=body#0070]DISCORD[/abbr]