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Server time: 2018-07-21, 13:51 WE ARE RECRUITING

Duelly

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8 h Beach Bambi

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  • Last played 2 months ago

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About Duelly

  • Birthday 12/10/1986

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  1. Elliott was born in the poorest parts of downtown Cincinnati to an alcoholic mother and an abusive father. His father overdosed when he was age six, and he and his two younger brothers were raised by his mother and grandparents. At age 17, one of his younger brothers died to a heroin overdose, and the other was well on his way. SHe took care of his mother, stricken with drug-induced schizophrenia, and was forced to grow up fast to hold together his younger brother and care for his mother. He worked his ass off through college, often neglecting himself to work for money, care for his family, and keep up with his studies. Over his college years, he lost nearly 90 pounds simply from not eating, finally shedding his identity as the “funny fat guy.” Soon after completing a master’s degree, he moved on to college as an instructor as he pursued his career in counseling for addiction. When his mother committed suicide in her residential facility, his brother vanished with all her money and valuables left at the family home. Elliott took the opportunity to rediscover his faith and began to volunteer around the city to combat the current opioid epidemic. In 2017, at the first opportunity to get away he volunteered in a university service trip to Chernarus with some of his students to help provide treatment to the people of that nation. Chernarus has always a long history of alcoholism and was recently overrun with opioids and a prevalence of independent opium poppy farmers. After just a few short weeks of service, outbreaks began. Elliott struggled to survive with a pair of his students, as well as his adopted retired service dog, Patches. They fled from the town of Svetlojarsk into the hills to the west and made camp in the woods. In a short amount of time, the two students he travelled with lost their lives to the infected threat, and he vowed it was safer to stay in the wilderness than to travel to town in search of help. In the thick forests south of Novodmitrovsk, he stayed hidden, making trips for supplies only when needed. Being independent was no strange thing to him, but learning to rough It in the wilderness, surrounded by a never-ending threat was certainly new. Elliott became truly alone some months later. Sam was convinced that there were no survivors after months had gone by since he heard the loud bombings. He had run into no survivors, and occasionally captured the infected to study them, before ultimately having to put them down for safety. He was caught off guard by a bandit at gunpoint, who was distracted by Patches just long enough for Elliott to subdue him, at the expense of the dog’s life. Elliott, unwilling to kill, kept the bandit hostage for several days, before he was attacked and killed by an infected in the night. Truly alone, Elliott stayed holed up in the wilderness, overlooking a hidden poppy field. He had finally felt the hopelessness some of his clients felt, that feeling of losing everything and wanting to give up… Elliott generally feels pity for the infected. He relates them to people he’s met in his profession- Walking, breathing, but not-so-coherent “husks.” He is unwilling to kill the living, and only kills the infected out of necessity, opting to run or hide instead. When scavenging for supplies, he will always keep medical supplies handy, and gather whatever prescription or street drugs he can, keeping them out of the hands of any potential survivors, and keeping them, for whatever intended medical purpose they may have. As he’s never heard of any sort of bacterial or viral infection capable of causing the “infected” phenomena, Elliott is convinced that the specific breed of poppy plant native to Chernarus is involved in the outbreak. He is quick to destroy any substances that appear to be locally made, including any marijuana that may have had possible contamination. He’s keen on consuming pre-packed foods and drinks, as well as packed and sealed medical supplies in hopes of preventing any adverse effects.
  2. Duelly

    LiF Status Report 02/02/17

    Excellent news! I can't wait to get home this evening and dive right in again! I know there's been a lot of setbacks and pressure from the community (which is actually a good thing, considering the inactivity at the end of our last endeavor's lifespan!) so thanks to all of you for all of the hard work and putting up with our constant nagging! I hope to be more involved in the community this time around, now that I've had a solid amount of time learning the game mechanics and finding what I enjoy doing in the game! TLDR; Huzzah!
  3. Dare I predict that the next "progress report" for this project will yet again be "should be up sometime this weekend?" we're looking at just a handful of hours before this particular weekend is over, and a new week begins. I would gladly do my part to help along the progress if there was a need. I just want to go back to digging my holes virtually, not verbally. Honestly, as excited as I have been for this to come to fruition, my anticipation is quickly diminishing. =/
  4. Duelly

    LiF Status Report 08-01-2017

    Yes, quite! Very excited for what's to come, and hoping we can breath life back into the game!
  5. Duelly

    Server down?

    Must keep digging, must keep digging!
  6. IGN: Volker Bailey Age: 29 Country: USA English skills: Primary Language DayZ Mod Experience: Limited Mod experience. Prefer SA DayZ Standalone Experience: 1900 hours of Dayz SA experience dating back a few years, Most has been on RP, though Roleplaying Experience: 20 years of roleplaying experience dating as far back as AOL chatroom, over other MMO games, browser-based games, etc. What kind of In Game role best describes you: Support- Typically cover fire or overwatch in combat scenarios. Prefers to be a neutral party for negotiations and the voice of reason. Have you been in any clan/group previously: This character- Damnation. Previous character: Gamblers, Jackals, Lost Souls. Additional notes: Despite the dynamic of the previous groups I've been a part of, I really enjoy story-driven RP/internal RP/character development over combat situations, hostilities, etc. Best way to contact you: Private Message. Backstory: Volker Bailey was born and raised in Kentucky to a poor family. Despite growing up in a home where his parents were abusive and cooked/sold meth, as well as prostituting out their oldest daughter, Volker would strive to break the cycle of drug abuse, blatant racism, and criminal activity of his family. He attended a community college, working his way through on the salary of a railroad worker, driving spikes and repairing rail road ties, until he finished his program to become a firefighter. Life was going well for him, far away from the toxic influences of his family, until his parents and sister returned to ruin his life. His wife and daughter dead, Volker ended up killing his father and mother in an act of passion before fleeing the US and living his life in penance in Chernarus. He spent seven years in solitude in the countryside of Chernarus before the outbreak occurred, using skills he developed as a typical hunting and fishing boy in the south, as well as his adult experiences. Note: Please, no blind invite. Only PM me if you have read the above and believe I will make a good fit with the group, including character-wise.
  7. Duelly

    Damnation [Open Recruitment]

    Whoop Whoop! Welcome Captain eyebrows!
  8. IGN: Holly Grant Age: 34 Country: United States English skills: Primary Language DayZ Mod Experience: Very little- did not enjoy gameplay. DayZ Standalone Experience: 1800 hours, a great majority of it being DayZRP Roleplaying Experience: Nearly 20 years of experience with RP across various video games, text based (AIM chatrooms, anyone?!) Have lead various roleplay groups in other games. What kind of In Game role best describes you: Support/Distraction/Mediator. My characters tend to be cool-headed and conversational, typically avoiding or bottlenecking dangerous situations through discussion and roleplay. Have you been in any clan/group previously: Yes, but not on this character. Gamblers, Jackals, Lost Souls. Additional notes: Despite the reputations of the groups I have been a part of, I am primarily a story-driven roleplayer moreso than PVP, firefights, etc. My characters often mediate between groups and are loyal to their own, typically only resorting to violence when it comes to protecting others. Best way to contact you: PM Backstory: In short, Holly is a woman who has been controlled her entire life by her own coping mechanism for a childhood trauma. At age twelve, she was sexually assaulted. In her childish ways to cope with this tragedy, she had developed a false memory that she was abducted by aliens. From that day forward, she was constantly living in a state of mild paranoia and disillusion of the return of her abductors, the "greys." Her entire life consists of self-sabotaging her own achievements, most notable, her discharge from the police force in an altercation that cost her an arm and a leg (literally). She wears a prosthetic arm and leg, leading her to be sensitive of her condition, and constantly blaming the extraterrestrial visitors for her life's misfortunes. Overall, Holly will be suspicious of others until she has determined that they are indeed "human." She believes the infection is a bioweapon released by the greys to weaken the human population for enslavement. Holly perpetually clings to her old career as an officer, usually wearing police-issued uniforms or wielding police-issued weapons. She made her way to South Zagoria with the intentions of visiting alleged alien "hotspots." Her trip was a culmination of crowdfunding that leeched off the paranoia of others. She has since been primarily alone, never staying in one place very long.
  9. Duelly

    Jackals (RECRUITNG)

    Welcome Sister!
  10. Duelly

    What would make your character happy?

    Finally proving the existence of extraterrestrial life, and linking them to their plot to weaken the planet's forces for invasion by spreading a bio-weapon capable of creating flesh-eating, infected killing machines. Also, uncovering the plot by former governments (and possibly resurging ones) to allow such things to happen in order to secure themselves key positions in the new colonization of the planet. With this acheivement uncovered, several other boons as a result would make her happy as welll.. Not having to carry around citrus fruit and tuna (known natural repellents of the infected, and the "greys," respectively. People not thinking she is batshit crazy, and acknowledging her paranoia as simple preparedness for the unseen truth. A more lucrative business in her sales of "alien artifacts" throughout Chanarus. Fulfilling delusions of grandeur of being the savior of the planet. That said... when are they adding tinfoil hats to the game?!?! We're not crazy! Promise!
  11. Duelly

    Search For Professors and Questions about the curriculum

    *Maxwell ponders as he hears the initial radio transmission. He was no stranger to Alcyone and their goals to continue to provide the fruits of academia to this world. He scratches his chin as he listens, impressed by the amount of response, he grins as he picks up the radio. Something in that instant really sparked his interest. He held the radio to his mouth, pressing down the button and calmly speaking in his raspy voice* Dear sir. I am well aware of Alcyone, and I’ve met Alyssa several times, but I’ve never thought myself to really be in line with your endeavors… of course I’m all for the conservation and continued spread of knowledge but… *sighs gently* I guess your words today inspired me. *he sits in the corner of a house, lighting a match and staring into the flame in the dark of night, the strike of the match can be heard on the open channel as he paused between speaking* I guess you could say you’ve lit a fire so… If you’re in need of an adjunct professor, I’d gladly be happy to share my knowledge in psychology to some students. Not that I have my damned diploma on me, but you’ll have to take my word for it that I have a Master’s in Cognitive Psychology, and some other credentials that probably don’t mean jack these days but.. *pauses* I think I have a lot to share with many an eager student… *he says with a grin* Additionally, I’d love to learn more about construction and mechanical work.. hard skills like those are certainly of great value now more than ever. *he takes one last breath, as the flame of the match fades, leaving a smoke trail in the darkness* Keep in touch, friends... *he trails off as he releases the button*
  12. The afternoon sun shone through the broken windows of the abandoned house where Avian had taken refuge. Avian sat on the bed, staring out one of the window. This had gone on for at least an hour. All seemed quiet in the tiny town. It was time to make his move. Fueled by hunger, Avian had scoured the house for food-to no avail. A bottle of vitamins could only go so far in reintroducing precious, needed supplement to his body. He slowly slipped his way toward the front door, carefully cracking it open as he peered out into the afternoon sun. He examined the streets, and neighboring yards. He has his eye on the house just down the road. It was large, and seemed in relatively better condition than the surrounding structures. It could be his chance to find untouched supplies. He slinked out into the street, his wiry frame, malnourished as food supplies had dwindled in recent months, was heavy with exhaustion. He took each careful, deliberate step with caution, avoiding any loose rocks or pebbles that could skitter across the ground with a footstep, heralding his presence to the infected. He made his way to the front porch of the house. The steps creaked under the pressure of his body. He took each step slowly, grasping the doorknob and entering the home. He quietly shut the door behind him, and finally look a long breath of relief. After terror had subsided, and the feeling of paralysis left his extremities, Avian began to quietly search the house. Scavenging every nook and cranny of houses became a learned custom by this point. Even what seemed to be a mundane, everyday object that one would have ordinarily glossed over in the old world now could prove invaluable on the path to survival. Cabinets were opened, Furniture was overturned, and boxes were emptied. Abject disappointment followed. The house appeared to be a safe hold in the early days of the outbreak, leeching it clean of supplies. Avian laced a pair of low-top hiking boots that were far too large, no matter how tight he laced them. Success rang out in the form of a bag of uncooked rice, a victory that was far bitterer than it was sweet. With no means to cook the rice, and a stomach that controlled his every thought, Avian peered down into bag. The little white grains were, of course, rock-hard. He sighed as removed his backpack from his shoulder, and withdrew a half of a plastic bottle of drinking water. He closed his eyes, taking a breath for the unpleasant experience that would come next. The rice was hard and dry, as expected. He may as well be eating little white chunks of gravel found outside. With each handful he scooped into his mouth, he added water to wash it down. Chewing was futile- the rice was not easily pulverized, and found its way into every unpleasant crevice of the mouth, prodding his gums with pain. After minutes of agonizing feasting, he could no longer muster up the courage to make another swallow. With no more water, he crumpled up the bag of remaining rice, tossing it, and the water bottle, into his bag. He closed his eyes as he sat against a wall, taking a breath. His stomach was certainly not happy, but it would ease the pain of hunger. Avian was no stranger to rice- his entire diet was dictated by his allergy to wheat gluten, making rice a familiar friend. The kind of friend that always overstayed his welcome and ate all of the food in your fridge, and filled up your DVR with crap shows like “Ancient Aliens” and various singing talent competitions. Rice was –that- kind of friend. Avian pulled the zipper up on his jacket and opened his eyes. He stared at the pin attached to his collar. Bright, crimson letters stood out on the white background. “Sacred Heart Perish Youth Volunteers.” He sighed heavily, as memories flooded back to him. The young men and women whom he chaperoned for, all gone. Missing, dead, maybe worse. His church youth group was excited for the trip. Everyone relished in the idea of taking a plane to a foreign country; feeding the hungry, clothing the cold, and spreading the good news. Teaching the lost how to love Jesus, and love like Jesus. He closed his eyes as he clutched the pin. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Everyone was gone. What had his life become? Surely this was not the rapture! Surely good and righteous Graham Cracker was not one of those left behind! Disbelief. Panic. The loud roaring of an engine could be heard from somewhere near. People! Avian scrambled to his feet and ran to the door. He opened it and looked around. The sound was getting louder. He fled from the house, out to the street. A white, small SUV was roaring down the road. Avian cried out, throwing his hands up into the air, jumping up and down like an attention-starved five-year-old. Three men wearing various camouflage gear and holding large guns were manning windows. They drove by with no hesitation, leaving a cloud of dust. This dust was, true to the expression, veritably eaten by Avian as he coughed. Solitude. Not even a hesitation or second glance. They were gone. The only humans he had come across in what seemed like forever. Avian felt a wave of despair wash over him, which was quickly replaced with terror at the familiar sounds. The vehicle had not passed through without consequence. The stirs of the infected now rose from the town. The streets were not heavily trafficked with stumbling, groaning bodies. The engine’s roar sounded the alarm that would lead the rotties right to Avian. Panic. It was time to run! A road lined with trees as far as the eye could see, with no sight of safe refuge in sight. His brain gave the command, and his legs followed through, as he found himself sprinting away from the town, with no real destination. He felt light as a feather, running down the road like an Olympic athlete. Distance quickly made itself known between Avian and the town. He thought to himself “I’m going to make it! I’m going to be safe! They’re so far behind!” Finally, his brain reminded him of a looming, impending doom. He had forgotten vital tools of his survival on his rush to catch the attention of the vehicle. “Crap. My bag…”
  13. The dense forest was quiet, that morning. Not a bird’s song, not a footfall, not even the wind amidst the trees. Avian had shacked up in a deer stand for the night. The neighboring town was just too thick with walking rotties to take refuse there. He wiped the sweat from his brow as he attempted to connect a shoestring to the end of a notched stick. After struggling for far too long, he managed to create a makeshift bow. He looked at the flimsy, sharpened stick and drew back on the shoestring. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath. “Please, please work..” Avian pleaded. He released the string, propelling the sharpened stick as it cut through air. He held his breath, and let out a defeated sigh as he watched the stick travel several feet out into the brush, landing pitifully, many yards from the tree he had aimed at. Avian, defeated, sighed and tossed the “bow” aside. He could hear his stomach growl. He curled up into a ball, pulling his knees to his chest and closing his eyes, on the verge of tears. “I can’t do this alone...I’m so hungry…” Avian muttered. He looked out from the deer stand, hearing leaves brushed along the grassy hill. The hooves of a deer could be heard. He held his breath silently, examining his surroundings closely until he had spotted it. The deer was bigger than he had ever expected. He stared for several minutes. The deer seemed to have looked his way, staring back. Their eyes locked. Avian’s palms began to sweat as he could feel the doe staring into his soul… Avian broke the dreadful stare, peering over at his “bow.” Upon tossing it, the shoestring had come loose. He looked to the corner of the deer stand. A rifle, along with a box of ammunition, laid on the hard, wooden floor. He reached over to touch the weapon. It petrified him. Avian felt a sense of familiarity with the weapon, and disappointment. He must have been the only boy to grow up in Springfield, Ohio who had never “bagged a deer.” His father, his younger brother, hell, even his older sister had all experienced a shrine of proud family moments, grasping the antlers of a dead buck and smiling for a victorious photograph. The framed memories lined the walls of his childhood home, haunting him. Mocking him for his inability to fit in with the rest of his family. Avian could feel tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. He shook off the memories. He carefully picked up the gun. It was cold, heavy, and intimidating. He held it as if he were a bomb disposal team handling a dirty bomb on a timer. He pulled the gun up to the blind, holding the weapon as he looked through the scope. He spotted the deer. He nervously placed his finger on the trigger. His hands were slippery with perspiration. His breathing was labored; he concentrated on the deer-concentrated on his last chance at a meal. The trigger was pulled. A muzzle flash and a loud, deafening sound echoed through the stand. Avian fell backwards, dropping the rifle onto the hard, wooden floor. His shoulder felt a dull, aching pain. After catching his breath, he scrambled to his feet to look for his fallen prey. Failure. Utter failure. The deer hadn’t even moved. It stood there, staring into his eyes. Mocking his defeat. Mocking his life of avoiding his father’s hunting sessions while sitting in his room, writing short stories and drinking Fresca. Mocking his night of solitude and “Friends” binge-a-thon while his classmates got drunk and lucky at prom. Mocking his Theater degree at a performing arts college, and his Ipod playlist full of show tunes and relics of musical splendor. Mocking his life; his whole existence. Avian glared with a quiet rage that only slightly drown out the disappointment that consumed him. He picked up the rifle once again, struggling to draw back the bolt… The deer escaped. Footsteps. Groaning. Monotone wailing. The rotties were drawn to the shot. Avian froze. He stared out of the blind to assess the situation. Panic. Avian, gripping the heavy rifle, shouldered his backpack and sprung from the stand. He ran through the tree line. There was nowhere to hide. He dashed for the neighboring town. He ran through a puddle of thick mud. Despair. His foot escaped his lace-less shoe in the mud. He paused slightly, before realizing there was no time to retrieve in. He ran for the town, the gravel now hurting his foot. He dashed into a small, two-room house. He slammed the door, shoved the gun against it to try to block it, and ran into the back room, sliding under the bed as he tried desperately to catch his breath. His thin frame against the cold-blood-stained wood as he tried to quiet his breathing. His foot was moist and muddy, his spirit broken, and his stomach still empty. Several minutes went by. The air was quiet and still. He had escaped. Adrian closed his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks as he felt as if his chest were about to explode. He laid his head against the floor, sobbing, and muttering to himself, berating himself on his failures and misfortune. “Way to go, graham cracker…” He whispered despairingly.
  14. Maxwell plops himself on a rock, in the seeming middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees. Out of breath, he places his hands on his knees, hunching over as he breathes deeply. He shakes his head and looks up. The last rays of daylight are licking the leaves around him. “great, now I really AM lost..” he mutters to himself. He carefully pulls out of his pockets a partial, tattered map. His hands shake as he glared as it, and tosses it to the ground in disgust. “Looks like I’m on my own.” He berates himself. He’d spent so much time in this country, how could he not know where he was? He closes his eyes and listens. No noise. No footfalls, no brush moving, not even wind. He slowly slumps to the ground, leaning his back against the rock, recalling the recent turn of events that led to his current predicament. It was a “normal” day in hell for Maxwell, when things were turned upside-down once again. Resting in his hideout, an old school that he had partially fortified, Max was recovering from the wounds of a firefight. Eating a can of beans, he could hear crying outside. Children’s cries. Curiosity got the better of him. He finished his beans, and began scanning the windows. How long had it been since he’d seen a child? Were there even any left? Had his mind been playing tricks on him? He spotted movement. A small figure darting into a house. More crying. Convinced, Maxwell climbed down his safety ladder gingerly, and made his way to the street, his sub-machine gun at the ready, as he scanned the area. He followed the crying, carefully entering a house. He searched the house. The whimpering came from the bedroom. He entered the bedroom, and spotted the child. Dirty, wearing torn clothing, the small boy stood up from his refuge in the corner. His dirty-blond hair matted to his head from sweat. He looked up to Max with dull, hazel eyes. He seemed oddly unafraid, as if he knew that Maxwell was not one of the infected. “P-please! I’m scared. My sister is stuck!” The boy cried out, as he ran to Maxwell’s side frantically. “She is trapped in a house and those things are all over!” The boy looked up to him, pointing down the street. Desperation in his eyes. “Are you hurt, kid? Are there any adults around?” Maxwell looked concerned, then looked around the house, out the windows, before returning his cold gaze to the boy, placing a finger on his lips. “Whisper…” “I’m not hurt!” The boy’s voice only slightly more quiet. “She’s just down the street! We need to help her!” The boy ran from the room and poked his head out of the front door, looking down the road. Maxwell quickly followed and pushed the boy back, edging out the door, as he glanced around. “Okay.. It looks clear.. Lets hurry, and be quiet. I’ll help get your sister out if I can, then you two need to find someplace safe.” Maxwell instructed as he headed out onto the street. The small boy went running down the road. Maxwell ran to catch up, trying not to shout and draw any attention. No infected appeared to be around, thankfully. The boy finally came to a two-story house. He ran to the front door, attempting to open it, but struggled. “ugh! It’s locked or something. Please open it!” The boy pointed toward the door. Maxwell looked around. There was no noise, no evidence of Infected. He calmly approached the door and pulled at the handle. It wouldn’t budge. He slowly placed his shoulder against the door, attempting to ram it. “Are you sure she’s in here?” Maxwell grunted as he peered through the door’s small window. “I know she is! Keep trying!” The boy frantically tried to peer through one of the boarded-up windows. “Please!” “I’m trying, kid.. this is bolted up good…” Maxwell prepared to once again ram the door, as he felt it weaken, hearing some splintering, as if the door was boarded up from the inside. He put forth his shoulder, and prepared to ram the door once more. A sharp pain in the back of his head. Everything went black. “Put him in the back with the others.” *Some Russian chatter* “No, please. Where are you taking us?” A woman’s pleading voice. *some muffled cries* Maxwell sat back up on the rock, listening for any sort of noises to tip off the danger. It was getting darker now, and colder. Thinking about the way he had been tricked filled him with anger once again. He clenched his gloved fist. “Those fuckers..” He was angry. Both at himself, for being so easily tricked by listening to his one shred of humanity to help a child, and angry at the monsters who used a child to set him up in the first place. He began thinking about what had happened after that. Nothing but flashes. He recalled waking up in the back of the jeep, alongside two other captured “prisoners.” He remembers the chatter of the Russians. The compound he found himself in. Survivors beyond the Russian border, past the mountains. He remembered the hard labor and torture that he endured. Fortifying the structure, risking his life for supplies and retrievals while unarmed. The woman was given hard tasks as well, but had medical experience, and thus, was put to work nursing and feeding the survivors. The other man… he gave up the fight early on. Maxwell remembered the conditions of his “prison.” He began memorizing routes as he was sent to scavenge, under the close eye of armed guards. The Russians, who appeared to be ex-military, or something similar, left when things weren’t looking good. Food was scarce now, and ammo was low. It was the opportunity Maxwell needed. The rest of the survivors, a few, speaking English, now remained. They were weak. They were lamb. Lamb that had a caged wolf in their backyard. Maxwell began to use his rather charismatic and manipulative personality. He recalled turning a few of the teenagers against the adults. He had found himself freed of his binding. He had even convinced one of the weaker minds to board up the exits, and begin a fire. It was not easy to escape. The boy did a better job than expected. The fire was intense, accelerated by the stockpiled gasoline. Where were the children now? Cries for help. Maxwell began his emergence from the facility. He suffered severe burns on his already feeble body. Maxwell was strong. He was the wolf, who no longer was a captive by the sheep. He emerged from the embers of the burnt compound. Maxwell looked to his hands. They trembled slightly. He remembered the pain, as he hoisted the burning support beam from his body. The black leather bubbled and melted to his hands. It was excruciating. Nerve damage to a few parts of his body. A hot ember burned his cornea, leaving him blind in his right eye. He was a survivor. He was strong. The mark on his cheek was always proof of that. Maxwell stood up quickly. He took a deep breath and looked around. He was alone, but he was no loner. He missed his friends. He missed the men he knew as brothers. He missed her. Maxwell looked down to the rock, then back up to the darkened sky. Were they still okay? Of course. They were strong. Maxwell began walking, knowing soon he’d find his way again. After all, this hellish country was his home. The chaotic land that was Chanarus really was a world which he inherited. He grinned feebly as he picked up the pace, thinking to himself. “I’m back…”
  15. *Maxwell hears a few radio transmission and jolts up. he winces from the sudden movement and fumbles for his radio as he flicks it on, taking a deep breath* Is that you, Boss? It feels like it's been ages! I'm glad to hear.. that you're alive and well my friend. *he slowly shuffles to his feet, grimacing and slightly groaning into the radio* You know where I am...? I will be here for a while... I'm not sure what little information I can give you will help but.. you always seem to have the right hand for the pot. *he chuckles slightly* Keep in touch and we'll have a nice little get-together. I'd like to meet your new "partners." *he takes a deep breath and grins* You know, you've always got my gun on your side. Stay classy, Mr. Denver. you ARE my light in the darkness. *he ends the call with a gentle but labored laugh, feeling invigorated by the familiar voice of his esteemed comrade*
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