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Server time: 2019-04-19, 21:19
The Nikitin Prodejna - Trade Post Event
TOMORROW | 2019-04-21 17:00:00 (server time) | Starts in 1 day, 19 hours, 40 minutes | Chernogorsk Docks | Peaceful
Reynauld Lachapelle
Character information
  1. Mental
  2. Morale
  3. Date of birth
    1951-04-28 (67 years old)
  4. Place of birth
  5. Nationality
  6. Ethnicity
  7. Languages
    French, English, German, Russian, Chernarussian
  8. Relationship
  9. Family
  10. Religion


  1. Height
    198 cm
  2. Weight
    76 kg
  3. Build
  4. Hair
    Thin gray hairs.
  5. Eyes
  6. Alignment
    Lawful Evil
  7. Occupation




Is the embalmer to blame when dead rise again ?



   Almost two meters tall with a set of wide shoulders supporting a thick, corded neck, the man kneeling by the makeshift altar was cutting an impressive figure. Clad in a jet-black chemical suit and his face hidden behind a grimy gas mask, he had laid his massive pack down and was reverently emptying its content into a nearby industrial barrel.

   The room, underlit by flickering candles strewn around on shelves and in alcoves was in fact the morgue of an abandoned military installation. Washed out pale-green tiles covered both the floor and the walls. A solitary stainless steel autopsy table was sitting like an island in the middle of the room, its surface clear of the dust that covered most of everything else.

   For anyone to waltz in there unprotected would be to risk contracting a plethora of diseases, and to leave some sanity behind on the way back. The bodies, stored in freezer now long without power, had thawed and rotted and were coating the slabs with a thick layer of wasted flesh, burst organs and other bodily fluids. The stench was unbearable, permeating every surface and clinging onto clothing like the decayed claw of a putrid god. The barrels, nearly lined against the back wall, provided to the ambient profanity just the same; filled to the brim with foul, writhing masses of flesh and bones .

   The dark figure produced a fresh set of candles, diligently scraping the remnants of the spent "wax"on the altar before lighting the new ones; the scent of the burning human fat almost pleasant in comparison. He would mutter and mumble quotes from some unholy scriptures before getting up, picking his bag back up and leaving the room. He closed the thick hermetic door leading to the morgue, nodded at the figure clad in the exact same uniform he wore, and left. Two years already, so much work, so little time.










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