Person Journal of Razzel Anderson

[ItzThatcher]

A picturesque view is seen as the story begins. The classic valley below with the clear blue river, the nice river banks, the small herd of Deer. The lush, early springtime forest filled with all types of plant fauna spread out on the ground. As our view zooms out, we see that this view was possible because of a small half clearing on the cliff edge. All seems quaint and tranquil in this little corner of the world, but then a shuffling and groaning is heard. Slowly coming into the view is a grotesque form of a Human. The torn and shredded clothes that used to be the norm of civilian attire in the local region, the jacket somehow amazing still picturesque perfect. The wool coat with a grey fur lining on the hood hardly providing anything on the already dead corpse, judging by peeling skin and missing left cheek on the face. It's skin is pale as it shambles, a blueish grey pigmentation, with splotches of blood here and there, some visible bite marks on their face, cheeks and some of the neck that was visible. It seems that even with all of this, including the broken ankle it seems to have, it still sought some sort of purpose or intent as it's pale white dead eyes moved unseeing, closer and closer to this cliff edge.

Then, in the left hand side of the little sight we behold, some bushes parted, only a little, so show a pair of inquisitive grey eyes looking into the clearing, or more specifically, the grotesque sight that was once a Human. Slowly coming out of the parting bushes is a old rifle, by the looks of it, a Winchester 70. You hear a slight click coming from the bushes, the eyes hardening slightly, the once nice and curious gaze turning into a hard steel grey of armor. As the corpse continued it's stumbling path to the edge, the person's eyes followed it until it passed their position. Soon enough the person stepped out, showing a age of 30 or so years. His face is grizzled and worn, customary of being in this apocalypse for so long. So far he has kept his brown hair in a somewhat kempt fashion, his thin beard on his face brownish grey. He was wearing a really worn jacket that needed replacement, black cargo pants, some combat boots, and a plate carrier with the holster and pouches attached. On his back was a military backpack, a SPONSON, and in his hands was the rifle, firmly grasped. Lightly stepping behind the walking undead, he slowly raises his rifle, points it at the back of it's head, released the safety, and proceeded to send a .308 round through it's cranium.

As it fell, the person watches it with a morbid satisfaction. Their grey eyes displaying a pleased and content light, for only a moment, before it was back to a compassionate, and yet weathered, gleam. Setting the rifle aside for a moment, he slowly removes the jacket from the now dead walking dead. Bringing it close, he smelt it, and smile faintly. "No rotten smells..... thank god...." he mutters, before slowly slipping it on, feeling the warm come through immediately. Sighing in contentment, he slowly looks down at the corpse, a frown marring their aged features. So, with their feet, the pushed it off the edge and into the forest below. After this, picking up their rifle, they were about to move on, when a small, extremely small, gleam on the horizon down the valley caught their eye. Frowning, they crouch and set their body steady, shouldering the rifle and looking down the scope. Their hand would come up occasionally to change a thing on the rifle, or adjust the knobs on the scope, but eventually they stopped and stood their for some time.

A confused frown mars their features, a hand coming up to idly rub the small beard as they seemed to contemplate something. Their hands reached up and slipped the backpack from their shoulders. Bringing it around and opening it they started to go through some of the things in there. A occasional clink of shells hitting one another, or the clank of the tin cans that provided him most of his diet came from the bag. Eventually, they pulled out a map, or a couple of maps, and started to look at each of them, occasionally looking back up to the slightly before noon horizon. Soon, they sighed before putting the maps back into one of the pouches on the plate carrier. "So.... Chernarus..... and that should be Severograd...... wonder what awaits me here..... well.... at least a good story could come out of it..... hmhmhmhmhmhm....." mutters the man, walking away from the clearing, whistling a jaunty tune as they slung the backpack back over their shoulder, the rifle soon following, and disappeared into the bushes. The strange thing was that the tune seemed to stick in the air long after he was gone.

[ItzThatcher]

The man from before is sitting in a lone tower, a really tall tower, on top of a mountain... yeah that tower. Anyways, the man was relaxing, wrapping his coat around his body a little tighter so as to bring more warmth, before he picked up a long, wooden pipe, familiar to that of a pipe in a movie some time in the past. Putting some green colored herb into the pipe, he pulls out a match and lights it, placing it into the pipe for a few moments, letting it flame and spark. Puffing on the pipe, letting white smoke come out of his mouth, he sighed slightly in contentment as he stared out over the surrounding landscape. Idly breathing in the smoke, he slowly pulls out his little black journal, a pencil, a used eraser, and a small metal clip to hold pages. Placing the clip on the right page, he begins writing, muttering the words quietly to himself.

*In the Journal of Razzel Anderson*

The current date is assumed March 3, 2016. It has been sometime since I wrote in this, so I guess I will give a brief overview the events of the time passed. I finally reached this land called Chernarus, and to a city I believe Severograd or something of the like.... either way, the events after that would scar me... literally. I met the people call themselves the "Brothers and Sisters of the North", or as some I have met call them, the "Jays". For what the last title stands for, I do not know. They were... civil enough, though they held me up, and then marked a "W" upon my forehead. I wished for the spot to be placed so that is my mistake. Either way, a good man among them, the one who marked me, a Brother Duncan if I recall properly, wished me luck and gave me their radio channel. He also directed me to some good people I have met, "The Trust." When I finally met them, and spent some time among them, they seemed the most civil and kindest I have met in my travels. Either way, nothing much has happened after that, except for meeting two strange women, a man named Tony who seemed to lead a mafia, or something akin to that. Nothing much else to tell. I will update in the next log... unless if I should die.

Sincerely,

Raz