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Server time (UTC): 2020-02-21, 06:21 WE ARE RECRUITING
Bishop West
Character information
  1. Alias
  2. Mental
    Cocky and usually insensitive to others emotional issues, unless their experiences strike a chord with his own.
  3. Morale
    Humanitarian convictions used to dictate his morale compass, but he has since lost faith in this cause.
  4. Date of birth
    1991-03-27 (28 years old)
  5. Place of birth
  6. Nationality
  7. Ethnicity
    White British
  8. Languages
  9. Relationship
  10. Family
    Clara West (Wife) - Deceased | Kim West (Daughter) - Deceased
  11. Religion


  1. Height
    181 cm
  2. Weight
    94 kg
  3. Build
    Muscular but some subcutaneous fat.
  4. Hair
    Dark Blonde
  5. Eyes
  6. Alignment
    Chaotic Neutral
  7. Features
    Left eye has been removed from its socket.
    Long thin scar spanning down his bicep brachii (short/inner most bicep muscle head).
  8. Equipment
    Eye-patch (left)
    Protective gas mask
  9. Occupation
    Pharmaceutical Research Scientist
  10. Affiliation
  11. Role
    Chemical semi-synthesis specialist








Bishop sulked back into the leather cushioning of his economy-class seat, a dwindling ray of dusky light shone through the window to his left. The sigh of the chair compressing beneath him and the sigh that left his lips were almost indistinguishable. For a moment he closed his eyes, sedated by the relief that he had made it on board his Boeing 787 despite the struggles that come with an airport full of moaning and groaning hordes of dissatisfied and delayed travellers.

The moment soon escaped him however as the planes secondary engines spurred noisily to life. The titan traversed its way across the tarmac; aligning itself between the violent radiance of the runways crimson lighting - ever more prominent now the sun had begun to completely dip below the threshold of the surrounding landscape and almost all natural light had started to fade.

Bishop leaned up against the port-hole like window as his plane began to make its ascent. He rummaged about in his breast pocket, sliding out a worn leather wallet from within and unfolding it in his course hands. Staring longingly at a discoloured family photo he began to frown. The distance he began to put between his wife and two year old daughter made his heart heavy. 'I'll be back before you know it', he heard himself say to his daughter at the airport before departure.

His attention soon turned to the darkness beyond his window. He made out the dim silhouette of a man on a distant runway, donning two glaring bright signal lights in his hands, wafting them up and down - directing an incoming plane on another runway. But to his amusement, and much to his confusion - the static runway lights skirting the side closest to the airport suddenly vanished into darkness, then the signal lights' being waved about in the centre of the tarmac, and soon after the lights skirting the opposite side. All consumed by an eerie blanket of sweeping darkness.

This sight troubled him, it almost seemed supernatural by nature. As if something as dense as a black sea itself had flooded about and engulfed the runway. He glanced about the cabin for anyone else who had just experienced what he had - but they seemed entirely naive and unaware. For the best part of an hour his mind raced trying to find an explanation for the phenomenon, until he gave in, taking enough triazolam to last the flight. Eventually a darkness of his own took control until he drifted into a deep slumber...

Bishop awoke. An overpowering stench of smoke and the sound of metal bending were all about him. He was surrounded by plumes of fire dancing and crackling violently, encased in the now warped metal walls once belonging to a Boeing 787. He began coughing maniacally - unaware of just how much smoke he had inhaled. He got up and stumbled toward the exit. Skirting around seats in an intense state of panic that got worse with every lifeless body he saw in slumped in them. Once outside he tried to put as much distance between him and the wreckage as possible. Keeping an eye open for any signs of life in the in the dark of night that may have been illuminated by the billowing flames behind him.

Bursting out of the head-high army of wheat the Englishman arrived at a treeline and fell forward onto his knees. He erupted into a desperate series of coughs and gasps as he heaved against the smoke's affect on his lungs. He lay here for a while, gathering his breath and attempting to check his phone signal each minute - but to no avail. Eventually the ashy survivor got to his feet, as the fires from the crash began to dwindle in the distance.

The worn and wary silhouette made his way slowly back over to the wreckage, eyes fixated forward on the billowing smoke plumes. Bishop thought he heard the wind moaning off to both of his flanks as it filtered through the towering wheat shafts, but the deep and disgruntled nature of the noise seemed almost human and had far too strong a presence in his ears for how little a breeze he felt against his flesh.

He sat still, lowering himself to the ground as if to get a better view through the dense field when suddenly his heart skipped a beat and an ignorant grin plastered itself abroad his stupefied face. To his amazement a pair of legs strode through the field a few feet in front of him. Two became four, and soon after his count had multiplied beyond his comprehension - all seemingly ambling for the wreckage in the middle of the dusk-covered field. His lips parted as an exclamation for rescue withered and failed into a pathetic choke in his smoke-ridden throat.

He had his hands cupped around his mouth, ready to direct a plea at his rescuers when suddenly a terrifying crack assaulted his silence-attuned eardrums and the wheat before him danced about sporadically. Shortly after a loud bang was heard from the treeline. He was aware of the danger this series of sounds presented. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he threw himself to the dirt and sprawled out as a flurry of gunshots rang out about him. They came so frequently that the noises merged into a unrelenting drone of explosions and cracks snapping about his ears and above his head. He clasped vigorously at his ears. He creased in discomfort for what felt like a entire minute as firearms the likes of which he had never heard discharged about him. He peered around hurriedly for the people he had seen a few feet away but did not see anyone and soon came to the conclusion their survival was virtually impossible.

Bishop began crawling forwards now, keeping low in fear of another hail of bullets in his direction. However a brief few seconds passed and the firing squad drew closer - a variety of voices called out in shouts behind him, with response calls following briefly afterwards  - all in a Slavic dialect that may as well of been otherworldly to him. Upon hearing how much closer these voices had gotten he concluded the shooters would soon be upon him if he were to continue crawling, and with that he panicked to his feet in a crouched over manner and made haste towards the opposite end of the treeline skirting the field, wishing the dense wheat-field and his hunched over frame would keep him from sight.

As soon as he broke into the forest, he stood up tall and began sprinting, adrenal gland giving him no time to think of the atrocities committed back in the field. That would come later.






Looking more gaunt and emaciated than ever before, Bishop heaved himself and his belongings up to the decaying door of a hunter's log cabin. He slid his arms out from his twig-torn backpack and tossed it down into the porch. He took a step back out of the porch and peered briefly through the windows to see if his hunger induced delusions had masked any signs of life inside during his descent into the valley. He saw almost nothing and heard even less, naught but the eerie rustling and swaying of the alpine forest as night encroached about him. He entered the cabin, destined to spend many a night laid awake to the sounds of his thoughts racing - memories of the far away old-cobbled estate tucked into the Lincolnshire countryside that he called home, memories of his friends and of his family - of his wife and daughter captured so vividly in his electricity-starved mobile phone.

He spent the mornings among the forest honing his marksmanship with an old Winchester bolt-action rifle, handling similarly to the shotguns and rifles he had used back home. He found that the hunting of deer and elk as game came increasingly more natural over the forthcoming weeks - and even when days at a time would not yield any kills he could rely on the rabbit cages to have sprung on some unsuspecting critter with a side of soaked grains from the wheat field to keep him satiated.

About midday everyday for 2 weeks Bishop would venture back to the wreckage to see if a rescue party had come (albeit it near impossible to locate after fleeing so deliriously after his 'arrival'). On his first return to the crash site he discovered a searing mound of ashy corpses, the haunting smell of burnt flesh and a distinct lack of human life. Much to his dismay, the only thing that would differ in future visits would be the temperature and colour of the leaves on the trees as the world regressed around him, his life otherwise very much at a standstill.




Coming soon.






*A tear runs down his face*

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5 minutes ago, Jackfish said:


*A tear runs down his face*

I think if they were Bishop would've been murdered long before the outbreak 😨

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