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Der Schatten

Are you alone?

0 · 322 views · located in London, England

a character in “Last of Us”, as played by Stilts



Name: He calls himself "Freight Enen"

Public Nickname: The Shadow

That masked vagabond that travels with Group 2
AKA- "The Creeper"

Age: 26

Gender: Male

No one knows. He's tall, well set, and fast enough to outrun bandits and fight off rabid animals, or on the off chance, another survivor. He's always seen in a roughened black mask; it's a particularity of his to hide his face from view.
I suppose you would have to get close enough for a glimpse, now wouldn't you, darling?

A dastardly bastard. An urchin, turned in, out, and around. Nowhere to go and no one to know, he has only himself. Or does he? Perhaps he found some comfort in those unlucky few he stopped beside the train tracks, or in the dark of night in the lower end of the city before everything went to shit. This shadow simply disappeared, back into the dark to muse on his loneliness, before he became hungry once more. It is always the hunger. Always. It drives him.
When the sun sets, and the cold drives his feet to move, the hunger grows and sets an acid burning in his gut. A powerful feeling of resentment and hatred.
He is a "Shadow," nothing more.

Tsk tsk.


Being touched.
Listening to voices, particularly if one is singing.


Those who dump sludge, grime, and crap into his river.
Sharp metal things, like steel and knives.


The hunger.
It is always the hunger.
He does not fight this. He does what he needs to survive.

It's In Your Hips, In Your Blood.


Being alone.
Ironic really, as he doesn't do much in the way of making himself "likable."

Brief history:
The shadow has no parents, no home. He is a vagabond, a leech, a squatter, and has always been such. A sly character, he often snuck into the houses of sleeping families. Not to murder, nor to raid jewels or the pantry, but rather to set his greedy paws upon their books, or a nice, heavy coat. He treasures books with a strange fervor, and spends many an hour running his fingers over the printed pages, staring at the unintelligible words that swim before his eyes in the dark. If only he knew what they said; perhaps he could find salvation.

Not that he wasn't someone of small repute. He was rather famous, in his old life. He has never been caught or revealed to the police.
No victim of his ever survived.

It's like poetry.

Thoughts of Other Characters



So begins...

Der Schatten's Story


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Der Schatten Character Portrait: Levi Roy-Georges
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#, as written by Stilts
Der Schatten.

A tall figure slumped through the street in the rain; heavy boots pounded a rhythm into the wet pavement. It was a soothingly deft sound to their owner, a ragged man, who slowed his steady pace only to nudge another of the dead bodies out of his path. Movement meant he was going somewhere, and that he had a purpose. Once people had started dropping dead, his purpose seemed less important. That made him angry.

It made him useless.

The masked figure exhaled in dissatisfaction. For now, he was content to keep moving through the city. If he kept moving, he had a reason to exist.

A heavy boot swung back to kick the skull of a cadaver, the muffled yet distinct snap of the spinal column reaching satisfied ears. He gazed down unsympathetically upon the rotting, bloated dead man as the head rolled back to stare blankly up at him, neck now elongated, the soft fat of his cheeks sunken and sallow, and the red, lazy eyes of those infected now glazed to a milky white, sightless long before their owner's death.

"Hmh. Putrid pussbags of diseased shit," he spat in a low grunt, stepping over the body and continuing on. People had never given him any solace in life, and they were just as infuriating in death. However, now that he had no one to complain to it seemed he had an inclination for nostalgia. He smiled at the thought, somewhat crookedly, through his mask. It was a simple mask, akin to ski headgear, but had been missing a opening for his mouth. To make do, he had cut one in it himself. A small bit of steam passed through the jagged slit, disappearing into the rain. He frowned. The night was getting cooler. The chilling rain beat down on the hood and shoulders of his heavy jacket, rolling off the scuffed rainproof material. It was steadily getting harder. This wouldn't do. He needed to find shelter until the storm passed.

A large gloved hand lifted to adjust the hood of his coat to better shield himself from the torrent of rain. There didn't seem to be anyone left alive in this once bustling metropolis. He had followed the river from the familiar countryside into what he suspected to be the skeleton of London proper, and yet, had not seen a single living soul within the city. Had they all fled, leaving behind their dead to rot in the streets? Or, had they been too late to save even themselves? How did the panic of the first few weeks manifest, he wondered. It was a curious thing; a pandemic he wasn't aware of until the country streets he roamed began to fill with uncollected body bags, and before long, defiling his river with it's festering dead. Then there was the other curiosity; the marvel of his own health. He mulled this over as he strode on, following the flickering solar-powered street lights and the soothing sound of the River Thames nearby.

A flash of light lit up the bodies strewn before him. Some seconds later a loud roar of thunder rolled through the silent streets. Another crash echoed the thunder shortly after, but it was not heaven-sent. It was something close. He turned slowly. Beady eyes under a thick hood stared hard into the dim interior of what seemed to be a restaurant. The hooded figure cocked his head. Perhaps it was an animal, feeding off the dead and their scraps. His hand slowly reached into the pocket of his heavy coat as he stepped out of the street light's range, melding back into the shadows.

The question of the culprit was revealed suddenly as a slim figure darted out and across the street. It seemed to be grasping something; something it struggled with for a moment in front of the entrance to a convenience store before scurrying inside.

Hello human.

The hand was drawn back out of the pocket of the man standing just beyond the pool of light, and instead reached within the heavy coat and up over the shoulder. It reappeared with a black object; cylindrical and about a foot long. Light, like something a runner would carry during a relay race. A flick of a wrist extended the aluminum alloy, lengthening the baton. The masked grin stretched wider; it's owner setting course for the same store as the stranger who had fled the diner, his strides longer, and eager.

He stepped over the cut lock and chain and pushed open the door slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust. The convenience store was dark; the only illumination came from the faint light permitted in through the windows of the shop, and the digital clock on the wall above the cashier. It read 8:04 P.M. According to his watch, it was correct. Must run on batteries.

Stepping carefully around broken glass and an upturned magazine stand, the tall man entered, finger tapping methodically on the grip of the baton. Gray eyes scanned down the isles he passed as he listened for any noise. Come out, come out…

He continued on; only three more isles to go before he would be at the back of the store, near the refrigerators.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Der Schatten Character Portrait: Levi Roy-Georges
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Oh please open.
Levi struggled with the bolt cutters as he aimed the two blades around the thick chain. He sighed with relief as the blades cut through and the chain clattered to the ground, dragging the lock with it. Placing a hand on the handle, he tested to see if there wasn't another lock on the door, thankfully there wasn't as the door swung open. Thank any heavenly being out there. Levi sighed as he entered the convenience store, observing the pristine scene, only interrupted by a couple dead bodies and upturned decoration, who Levi assumed were ruined by the manager and staff, wo lay on the ground.
Poor sods. Levi thought as he nudged one out of his way. He was approaching the back, the hum of refrigerators absent, generators long dead. He spotted a few drinks sitting in one of the fridges, but none held Levi's interest, as he approached the sweeter drinks and grinned eagerly as he spotted a few bottles of lemonade. "Some good things can come out of today." He muttered as he quickly opened the door and grabbed the bottles. He hummed an old song from his early years and continued to find a good place to wait out the storm.

"Wait. What was that?" He whispered quietly to himself, flinching at his own voice and mentally berating himself for speaking. There were soft footsteps in the same building as his. There aren't zombies. Someone who's alive? That's... Rare. And dangerous. Levi positioned his scarf to cover his nose as well as he slowly entered the aisles and looked for something to hide behind, cringing with every audible step from his boots.
Lem positioned the bolt cutters which he had kept with him behind, just in case things got in close-quarters, and picked up his shotgun which hung from a harness on his bag, and held it fron of him. He was crouching in a large shelf, some thing that would have held walkers and the larger items that a convenience store would have held. Levi placed his backpack next to the cutters and eyed the zipped up bag of shotgun shells. It would be too loud for me to load it right now, I'll just hope whoever is here doesn't notice it isn't loaded.
The footsteps were coming closer and Levi's heartbeat was growing faster and faster as the seconds ticked by. And that's when he saw him.

A man dressed in all black stood in his view, a rod or something in his hand, and a mask to cover his face, Oh good lord and all that is good please don't let this psycho kill me. He readied his shotgun with trembling hands, his heart still beating as fast as possible, adrenaline pumping through his body.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Der Schatten Character Portrait: Levi Roy-Georges Character Portrait: Avie Trebold
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#, as written by Airanea
Avie Trebold

The haunting of London never failed to amaze Avie, how could it fail to amaze anyone? The empty streets littered with decaying bodies and abandoned cars, to not hear the sound of footsteps along the pavement. No longer the voices of tourists and locals, the beeping of horns, the slamming of brakes, the laughter of children, the weeps of the heart broken, the song of street performers – it was all gone, replaced by an irreversible silence.

A silence which latched onto the city like a littering of ash, here to stay, to smear deep into every crevasse and crack – coating every alleyway and rooftop, and no matter how hard it may rain that ash of silence, that cloud of eerie, the terminal feeling of perpetual loneliness never washed away.

The drip drop of fallen water filtered out that lonely quiet, maybe she wasn’t alone, maybe Mother Nature was there the entire time, holding her hand, snugging her close, stubbing out the fear – as if every drizzle of the London weather was a reminder that she would always have the lady of the natural to accompany her lonesome travels.

Through the shadowed alleys wandered Avie, she moved along the edges of stone walls allowing for the eaves drops that hung to give her partial breaks from the rain, and every door passed she twisted at the knobs. Many of those doors were locked; those that weren’t locked were so littered with the deceased that she continued on her way, she just wasn’t in the mood to deal with the mess.

Combat boots that weren’t hers padded along the narrows, splashing in the puddles. Untied laces dragging along the pavement, and from between thick lips a light whistle came breezing out, humming Moonlight Sonata – if someone was going to survive at least it was someone with the love for the classics.

Over her shoulder rested a roughed up baseball bat, one hand gripping it loosely as it bounced softly with each step she took - the other tucked in the pockets of a leather coat that was probably two sizes too large . A jacket that was not hers to wear.
Roughly six months ago Avie ran into another survivor, she had been bunking at a nearby church, for which religion she didn’t know, and who fucking cares. That church was littered with the rotting and the freshly murdered.

People and their religion, it was unbelievable the amount of scum that came there to repent their sins before being taking to the greater lands of their fucking god, or given new breath to a body that was not plagued by what Avie began to refer to as the ‘RTD Virus’.

Everyday she did her clean up wearing disposable medical gloves, dragging body after body in the back of the church where a quaint graveyard rested for who knows how many years. She lit those bodies up, sending flames to flicker and whip in the wind releasing that dreadful stench – maybe this attracted more religious creeps, it didn’t matter, most of them were sick and dying, most of them she helped find their way to the pearly gate.

A saint in the eyes of some – a demon in the eyes of others.

With this crowd of ignorant sinners came a man who hadn’t been tainted by the virus; a man named Jose, a man Avie would grow to tolerate, someone to screw to kill the loneliness of the world they were forced to face, a time killer, nothing more nothing less.
Together they lived, survived, until a month ago, fucking Jose got a little too close to a body, he slipped in the maggot infested inards, falling face first into the corpse, surly he was infected, wasn’t he?

Well we all do what we have to do in times such as these – that handy dandy baseball bat found itself playing ball with Jose’s head – she had to put him out of his misery before it was too late – right? Despite his screams, his begging, she had to help him find a softer fate – right?

She took his jacket, his boots, his supply bag, and that was that. She hasn’t thought about Jose since.

The drip drops of rain ran the length of Avie’s face, following the traces of her bone structure, sliding down the bridge of her nose only to fall from the tip, tumbling down to land somewhere on Jose’s jacket. Long strands of raven black hair clung to her face, plastered in waving wet patterns.

The thunder cracked above and the lightening lit her way for passing seconds, it shook the ground which she strolled upon, it flashed to show the stoic face of a woman lost in thought.

She might as well take cover, dry her clothes, and recount her supplies – but where to stop? Eyes which seemed as black as night whipped from building to building, back door to back door, hands checking knob after knob.

Dews of wet dropping off thick black lashes and every so often that pink dry tongue slipped out, lapping up the moisture that collected around her mouth, breaking a beat in that whistled echoing song.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Der Schatten Character Portrait: Levi Roy-Georges
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#, as written by Stilts
Der Schatten.

The sounds of ruffling came from an isle just before the back of the store, leading the intruder to pause and smile. He stepped around the shelves, then frowned. His eyes scanned around the dark, empty isle, before dropping to the slight movement within a shelving unit that caught his attention.

It was the barrel of a gun, and it was trembling.

He stood there for a moment, gaze fixated on the shotgun, before he looked up into the eyes of the man crouched within the shelf. Skittish. It didn't take eyes to see it. Even this far from the man he could almost smell the fear rolling off him.


Shaking his head slightly to dispel dark thoughts, he smiled, a flash of teeth showing briefly through his mask. Fliping the tactical baton in his hands, he pressed a button on it's grip and smashed the point inwards on the shelf next to him. Now collapsed, he raised the blunt weapon between two fingers, showing it to the man with the gun. Rotating his palm up, he let it roll slowly off his fingers and clatter to the ground, then kicked it towards the stranger.

"Put that away before you hurt yourself." The order was followed by a gesture to the gun in the man's hands. His voice was rough from disuse; a low rasp more than anything. He hoped it wouldn't scare off the stranger any more than he already had. He had taken a liking to him. Would be a shame if the recoil of the shotgun smashed in his pretty face. From what he could see of the man's cramped position, he didn't have much space.

Shedding his coat, he cocked his head, a chuckle following his earlier command, "why are you hiding? I am not going to harm you."

The coat fell to the ground, followed by the bag on his back, and he advanced slowly, his hands up,

"I have no weapons on me now," but had also chosen not to remove his gloves or his mask. He was dressed in a basic cotton sleeved navy shirt and black pants, worse for their wear. A few slow steps brought him before the crouching man, and he extended a hand steadily, ignoring the gun pointing to his abdomen.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Der Schatten Character Portrait: Levi Roy-Georges Character Portrait: Avie Trebold
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#, as written by Airanea
ImageAvie Trebold

Rattle rattle rattle shake.
Rattle rattle rattle shake.

Still that whistle kept on, only now she blew to the best of Nora Jones.

The hollow sound echoing done those long narrow paths.

"Kick your shoes off don't you fear, bring that bottle over here cause ill be your baby tonight." Her voice broke through and as the sound broke off the high stone walls. She wasn't a talented singer by any means, no applause deserved, but in this world who cared, it was a voice none the less, even if it was her own it brought a comfort to ring along with the pit patter of arsenal rain.

Rattle rattle rattle shake.

The beads of rain drizzled down the deep bends and curves of her face, slithered down the plains of the leather jacket, and pooled at the sole of her combat boots.

Rattle rattle.... "What the fuck was that?"
We heard a scattering, then a voice, more than one voice. With her hand still on the handle she let eyes scan that long and dark alley. No animals, no people. With brows furrowed she pushed a ear the the door she tried to open, listening.

There it was again.

The door was obviously locked but the window right to the right was already smashed, small chunks of glass scattered, glistening in that black rain.

With a hump over the sill, those damn boots crunched at the sand made glass.

One slow step after another, lips no longer giving music to the air of doom and gloom, both hands holding tight to the baseball bat that was propped over her shoulders, deep brown eyes framed by thick black water dripping lashed peered out the wide open door, she could see the standing and shadow made Der - but where was that second voice coming from.

Yes Avie, one slow step after the other, one sight on the figure, the other sight searching for the second.

Watching, seeking.
Watching, seeking.

She approached the frame of the back door, standing silently, waiting.