mourning *

astrid  vogel   ╱   vincent  chua

[ghoulbit]

feat. deathstrcnds‌.

SKEPTICISM RUNS IN HER BLOOD, but now, camille figures, might not be the time to wonder at the benevolent hands that are extended to them. although their group is comfortable – arguably the most so, of all they’ve encountered – she can think only of mags, and of the baby she’s come to care so strongly for. camille was never one to settle; she’d thought she would travel, bounce from group to group, make a fortune on her own – but here she sits, staring with hard eyes and furrowed brow into a blazing fire, wondering not for herself, but for what she might do to make sure that mags ( her mags ) and ellie may ( her ellie may ) flourish, even under the worst of conditions. she has always done what needs to be done; perhaps it is time to do so once again. perhaps she should approach their leader – she is a nobody in their group, a newcomer, but she is unafraid. or perhaps she should take matters into her own hands. she has had ample luck doing so in the past. 

camille breaks another bit off the twig in her hands, which she has been tearing at bit by bit for near a half hour now, and tosses it into the fire. she breaks off another piece and hands it to the figure at her side, whose features are shrouded by the dancing, undulating firelight. “you think they’ve got marshmallows in there?” she wonders, the cynical edge to her voice unmistakable, no matter how heartily she tries to keep her tone light, “what i wouldn’t give for a roasted marshmallow right about now.”

        the fire crackles with a warmth that doesn’t quite reach her. with some degree of quiet apprehension, astrid stares into the flames, jaw clenched hard enough to fracture a molar. against her lap, juno rests her sleepy head. (she’d fallen asleep quickly, after the long day.) astrid threads her fingers through her sister’s hair, looping the ends in curls around her pinky before letting them come loose. she rarely finds herself lost in thought, these days — it’s far too vulnerable a state to be in — but the curious offer from aela warrants contemplation.

        it isn’t until she sees a hand outstretched into the peripherals of her vision that astrid starts, turning to look at the other. curiously, with enough caution to match, she takes the tiny scrap of a twig and fiddles with it in her palm. you think they’ve got marshmallows in there? astrid’s disbelief makes itself known with a breathy huff of a laugh, her voice tainted too with its own bitter cynicism. “sure, why not. if it’s got all the stuff they’ve already said they have, some marshmallows doesn’t seem like a far stretch.” running water and actual beds may have been basic amenities to her five years ago, but these days they’re as much of a luxury as anything. astrid doesn’t know yet what to believe. does she stick with her gut and choose to continue braving it out here, assuming the known evils are the lesser ones, or does she push the collective to take the chance, for juno? she tosses the bit of wood into the fire, eyes almost glazed as she watches it burn to ash. “and maybe if we’re really lucky, it won’t be some dystopian scam where they’re buttering us up to harvest our organs.”

[ghoulbit]

feat. humanitics‌.

FIVE    YEARS  ,    THEY’VE    BEEN    FIGHTING  .    five    years  ,    they’ve    been    just    barely    scraping    by  .    can    someone    blame    her    for    grasping    at    any    chance    of    salvation  ?    can    she    blame    them    for    the    same  ?    as    it    turns    out  ,    yes—    quite    easily .    not    looking    for    a    fight  ,    but    like    hell    will    she    back    down    from    one  .    they    need    that    food  .    adrian    has    long    since    stopped    crying    at     his    hunger  ,    far    too    used    to    the    feeling    to    care  .    somehow  ,    that    hurts    worse  .    once    upon    a    time  ,    she’d    promised    herself    that    her    baby    would    never    long    for    anything  ,    not    like    she    had  .    now    look    where    they    are  .    it    makes    her    feel    sick  .    it    makes    her    feel    sad  .

        ❛    look—    i    get    that    you    need    food    too  ,    but    some    of    us    have    kids    to    feed  .    shouldn’t    they    get    priority  ?    ❜

         the sound of the other’s approach instantly puts astrid on high alert. she turns fast, positioning herself in between the woman and the food she’d managed to scavenge. one hand subtly angles toward the shotgun slung behind her back while the other twitches at her side, careful and cautious. she’s quick to lay claim to the loot with a wary, guarded snarl and a fighting stance, but the stranger speaks first, with a hard conviction that astrid thinks is almost guilt-trippy. her voice echoes ever so slightly in the dusty, decrepit grocery store, interrupted only by the rustle of gravel carried in by the wind. “...yeah? well, ‘some of us’ would rather not prioritise someone else’s kids. you’re not the only one with lil’ mouths to feed, ma’am.” eyes narrowed, voice sharp, astrid shifts her weight on her feet, ready to defend herself and her score at a moment’s notice.

[ghoulbit]

       remy hii, cis male, he/him, 34 · for a loner, i’d call you lucky for making it this far. i heard from another group of travelers that your name is VINCENT CHUA and you’re a LIBRA who used to live in QUEENS, NEW YORK. i thought you’d be a little more worse for wear, but considering you’re ALTRUISTIC, TACTFUL and MALLEABLE, i guess that’s what’s keeping you alive. pre-apocalypse weren’t you a PARAMEDIC ? anyone ever tell you that you remind them of that song — MARS by SLEEPING AT LAST. god i miss spotify.

it’s zed again, this time with my splintered sunshine boy winnie, whom you can read about under the cut; his extended bio, meant to be supplementary to the intro below, can also be found here. please do feel free to message me if you feel you’d be interested in plotting!

aesthetics: a collection of old books, dog-eared and cracked at the spine. dried flowers in mason jars. a perpetual tension coiled around you like rope. carry the world on your shoulders, even if your spine cracks under the weight. give your lungs away so someone else can breathe. there’s a ghost in your chest, but these days it feels like you’re the one haunting this body.

overall, vincent radiates a sort of burnished warmth to almost all he meets. he’s socially clumsy but quietly assuring. he’s nurturing, naturally empathetic and kind — loving; loyal; always truthful. completely beset with private grief. well-intentioned, well-mannered and well-meaning, a strong believer in the value of human life. 

vincent — winnie to most friends and family, on account of him mispronouncing the ‘v’ in his name as a kid to the point where the nickname stuck — is a medic with a warm heart and a cold sense of pragmatism. as a kid, he grew up with his two younger sisters in a household struggling to keep afloat.

his job as a paramedic was his primary driving force, and even now with the state of the world as it is, he is staunch in his desire to help. he lost all his wide-eyed dreams about saving the world far too long ago, but still he puts all of his heart into every individual under his care — and even those who are not.

winnie has a preference for focusing on tangible issues rather than ‘the big picture’. as a travelling medic in the wasteland, his main concern is making sure people get through the day — tomorrow’s worries are for tomorrow. he thinks of people as individuals rather than groups, and finds it relatively easy to make connections with others.

that said, he’s had his trust betrayed on numerous occasions, but he is still relentless in offering his affections and loyalties, perhaps too stubborn or too stupid to isolate himself. he thinks community and compassion is super important, but often struggles to articulate that, and may instead come off as naive, clingy or in some cases even a bit patronising to those who don’t share his ideals.

he hasn’t seen either of his sisters since the start of the apocalypse, given that matilde was studying in florida and alice had gone to visit her when things went to hell. once reality hit, his first action was to travel to their last known location, but they seem to have fled before he got there. he hasn’t given up looking, though.

though he’s a good medic and has gained even more field skills since the end of the world, winnie is pretty lacking when it comes to combative ability; he can’t handle firearms very well and has taken to using melee weapons. he’s not awful at them, but the main problem is that he’s unwilling to fight. he’d rather alternatives, like diplomacy or stealth. he’s only killed maybe a handful of zombies in the whole five years.

as an aside, though, he’s pretty terrible at bargaining/negotiating in his favour. once, he somehow let a random stranger talk him into giving them his crowbar, a can of sardines, one of his old shirts and some cough medicine in exchange for four bullets. …he doesn’t even carry a gun.

for now, he’s a loner, and may be vaguely known as that one guy who offers medical services to anyone in need of it. he’s still searching for matilde and alice, and while he may sometimes ally with small groups or other loners to travel, he will eventually split off from them if he gets a lead about his sisters in the opposite direction.

[ghoulbit]

       hunter schafer, trans woman, she/her, 20 · for a member of THE COLLECTIVE, i’d call you lucky for making it this far. rumor around camp has it that ASTRID VOGEL is an AQUARIUS and used to live in SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH. i think i heard someone say that they’re very DILIGENT, AGGRESSIVE and UNCOUTH but who wouldn’t be in the middle of the apocalypse, y’know, especially cause they’re a MEMBER. anyway, they remind me of that song — MOURNING DOVES by MIKKY EKKO. god i miss spotify.

hi everyone!! i’m zed (she/they), 22 and coming at you from the ever inconvenient GMT+8 timezone! i’m so incredibly excited for this rp, and i look forward to writing with all of you! below the cut you’ll find a rundown on astrid; for further reading, her extended bio can be found here. feel free to come into my DMs if you’re at all interested in plotting with me!! 

aesthetics: calloused and chalked-up hands, with bruised and cracked knuckles wrapped in bloodied cloth. the smell of dirt and gunpowder. an early run in the dewy morning. compassion and anger in equal measure, so vicious it stains your hands red. how do you save a world you don’t think is worth saving? 

snarky as hell and always thinking she’s cleverer than she is, astrid vogel is made of three parts anger and two parts exasperated humour. armed to the teeth with sharp jibes and bullets galore, she’s always cracking morbid, deadpan jokes about the apocalypse (because she’s a gen z kid first and foremost, and what else is there to do now that memes aren’t a thing?). skills include close range combat, traversal, and avoiding emotional attachments.

more seriously though, astrid is… too hardened for a girl her age. too cynical, too ruthless, and more abrasive than she has any right to be. but as far as she’s concerned, it’s a necessary aspect to staying alive. she’s tough, violent, aggressive; she hands out loyalty or affection in short supply, careful and cautious despite her volatility. most importantly, she’s determined as all hell to make it through this.

of course, she wasn’t always this way. she was only fifteen when the outbreak first got way out of hand — she was a bit of a sport climbing prodigy before, though rather terrible at school. (one good thing about the apocalypse? she got to skip that algebra test she had on monday.) all in all, she’d been a normal kid: energetic. bright and cheeky. maybe a bit mouthy, and way too fond of trash talk during competitions.

but since the whole end of the world thing, she’s had to adapt — life in the post-apocalypse definitely wasn’t going to grade her on a curve, and with her younger sister to look after, she had to learn to carry the weight of responsibility very early on. she’s toughened up, maybe too much, and picked up all sorts of skills she’d otherwise never have needed as a teenager.

before all this, she grew up in utah; as aforementioned, she loved rock climbing — with a particular knack for bouldering over lead/speed — and was largely happy. she’d come out as trans about a year before the apocalypse, and her parents were so supportive it made her heart hurt. like, ‘mum remembered to pack a supply of hormones under important meds while fleeing the fucking outbreak’ kind of supportive. (she had to start raiding pharmacies for them pretty quick, though.)

besides that, her dad worked in the military but was killed during the early parts of the outbreak; and her mum took care of her and her younger sister up until she died, too. for two years astrid travelled alone with said sister (juno), but they were literal kids facing the end of the world, so she finally joined the collective a couple months or so ago as a means to keep thirteen year old juno safe.

and that ‘finally’ is pretty important, to astrid - even if she swallowed her pride and came to the collective for help in the end, she was capable of keeping herself and her little sister alive for two whole years. she’s far from a helpless kid, and she will not accept being treated as one. she came here because she believed it was best for juno, all things considered.

and really, she’d do anything for her sister. she’s the only family astrid’s got left and despite all her rough edges and snark, she cares wholeheartedly for juno and what she represents to her. she’s curt and abrasive and perhaps a little bit full of herself, but around juno she still has an intrinsic sort of tenderness that is necessary to her own survival.

other things to note: only a member of the collective, given her relatively new status. doesn’t see any real need to prove herself, but also doesn’t like just sitting on her ass, so she might work for a proper role soon. combatively speaking, has a preference for shotguns. (if a blast to the face doesn’t do it, a bash or a brass-knuckled punch usually staggers long enough for her to reload and shoot again. what could be better?)