(OOC - Rewind Two days before the Mist)
Michael was sure somewhere in his life, he had done a great misdeed... Good men should not suffer these sights.
Yamasee S.C. was a bust, no more than a ruined shell, leaving no structure of man's remaining above knee height, every basement filled with bull dozed rubble, and not a fragment of wall or a nook to break a wind.
All but a single pristine building.
A former church remarkably suffering not even a shattered window. The green sward of the church grounds would have been serenity embodied, if not for the ghoulish lawn ornaments spaced evenly around the entirety of the building.
A collection of 4" x 4" arches eight foot above ground with over 30 Flayed men, women and children displayed on them like butterflies on a mounting board. Organs neatly placed at their feet with a precision that bespoke of both madness and obsession.
The grizzly sight was accompanied by a single sheet of plywood nailed sideways over the churches main entry; an epitath in day-glo green spray paint, sprayed in foot tall letters.
"Savannah's Rebels enjoy freedom in the next life."
His blood boiled at the lost innocents and each heartbeat rang like an anvil in his ears. The charnel smell and sights coupled with the adrenaline made every nerve vibrate like a bow string drawn tight and held to the muscles limits, were just more than a sane mind could cope with.
His system purged both water and food. Peaches and Spam chunks stood in stark contrast on the emerald turf, Michael blushed emberassed, then realized his audience would never tell a soul.
No matter how tired, Michael would never rest here... All thoughts of sleep were forgoten, he needed away from this place as fast as leaden legs allowed.
Onward he would stumble, raging internally, each cherubic face haunting him locked in rigors of pain and confusion.
Arrival in Savannah became a dimly remembered afterthought, his next step was towards the south yes... but only because he lacked a direction other than forward in a new personal quest of the next Raider's throat.
South Carolina State Route 21 became SR 17, and then a frontage road parralleling Interstate 95. It was about a quarter to five in the morning before muscle fatigue turned his legs to rubber and refused any longer to support him. It was on hands and knees he spotted a dry roadside culvert for shelter before a great blackness took away his sense of self.
On waking he never remembered the crawl to it or setting up a single can & pebble tripwire, nor moving the kukri from his belt to his lap. The evidence was there, but no knowledge of the doing.
(OOC) Taking a small break from the dice rolling aspect of combat (Ye Gods, what horrors I jumped into LOL) and yet I did not want to make the campaign sit on pause as I recharged. Story elements seemed like a reasonable compromise...
