Announcements: Universe of the Month! » Finding Universes to Join (and making yours more visible!) » Guide To Universes On RPG » Starter Locations & Prompts for Newbies » RPG Chat — the official app » USERNAME CHANGES » Suggestions & Requests: THE MASTER THREAD »

Latest Discussions: Presuppositionalism » Aphantasia » Skill Trees - Good, Bad & Ugly » In-Game Gods & Gameplay Impact » Cunningham's Law » The Tribalism of Religion » Lost Library » Game Theory » The Hidden Void » Removing CS From an Indy Universe : Solution » On the Matter of New Players and Orphaned Plays » STOP BLAMING US FOR RPG BEING SLOW! » Polytheism » The Game of Life » Just War » Science and Philosophy » The Bible as Literature » Humans in the MV. Questions and thoughts. » Surviving the post-holiday apocalypse. » SL: 1097 Bestiary of Monsters »

Players Wanted: Looking for roleplayers » A Fairytale World in Need of Heroes & Villains! » Are You a Crime Addict? » Wuxia RP » Looking for roleplayers » New Realistic Roleplay - Small World Life ٩( ´・ш・)و » Mentors Wanted » MV Recruiting Drive: sci-fi players wanted! » Veilbrand: The Revolution » Gonna do this anyway. » Looking for Kamen Rider Players » Elysium » Looking for roleplayers for a dystopian past! » Revamping Fantasy Adventure RPG, need new players » Here, At the End of the World (supernatural mystery drama) » Seeking Role Players for a TOG Based RP » so I made a Stranger Things RP idk why not come join » LFP - New Roleplay » Gifted/Mutant individuals escaping the gov » Spaceship Zero! A retro horror sci fi RP with rayguns :D »

0
followers
follow

Silas Henderson

"Well, we're not dead yet. That's something."

0 · 430 views · located in Earth

a character in “The Return”, as played by Luv-is-a-Bug

Description

Image


Name: Silas Henderson

Age: 24, 25. Honestly, he’s not entirely sure anymore

Group: Survivors

Role: Leader

Personality: Pre-apocalypse, Silas was a pretty normal guy. He worked a normal job in a normal town; he took home a normal paycheck to a normal family (sans his alcoholic father). He got along with most people, and had a few close friends. If you'd ask someone to describe him before the outbreak, they probably wouldn't have had much to say. He was, for all intents and purposes, your average Joe. From kindergarten to freshman year of high school, the same note came home on his report cards: "Silas is a bright young man, but he does not apply himself". This was and is Silas' approach to most situations: put in the smallest amount of effort possible to produce the desired results. The greater the reward, the harder he works. These days, the "reward" comes int he form of finding a cure for the Z1-01 virus, and it's a goal he'll stop at nothing to achieve. Silas has risen to the occasion as the leader of the survivors, doing his best to keep the group of misfits together. Living under such intense pressure has a tendency to create tension, and most days it's all Silas can do to keep the group's more explosive personalities under control. He does his best to do right by the group, but it's hard to live by moral code when you're being attacked by the undead. The struggle of balancing morality and survival has taken it's toll on him, but he's doing his best, and he genuinely believes that if the group can make it to D.C., they'll find a cure.

History: Silas was born to Ray and Maggie Henderson in Crawford, Virginia, a small town named for the Crawford Cotton Mill. 90% of the town's residents worked at the mill, including Silas' father. Ray Henderson made a respectable living as a machinery operator at the mill and did his best to be good to his wife and children, but was susceptible to human vices. He liked to gamble, and liked to drink even more. As the oldest son, Silas was acutely aware of his father's habits, and resented him from a young age. The two butted heads frequently, which his mother attributed to the two of them being so alike. Silas, who wanted nothing more than to free himself of his father's influence, distanced himself from the family, throwing himself into his schoolwork.
When Silas was 17, his father was injured in an accident at the mill that left him physically disabled. Silas' plans of escaping Crawford to attend Virginia State University came to a grinding halt, and he began working at the mill to support the family. For months, Silas swore to himself that he'd make it out of Crawford, that he'd find a way to leave the crappy mill town, and his dead beat father, behind. But as months stretched into years, Silas began to lose hope, and settled into his position as the family provider. He resigned himself to being average- working 9-5 at the mill, paying the family's bills, and keeping his father (who seemed to have gotten into even more trouble since his accident) out of jail. The highlight of his week was grabbing a beer with the boys on a Friday night.
And then everything changed. Silas was in the break room at the mill when he first heard the news of a mysterious disease that had hit the west coast. California seemed a long ways away, and he didn't give the broadcast a second thought. But as weeks passed and broadcasts became more urgent, people in Crawford started to panic. The first person to die of the virus in Crawford was Peggy Larkin, who returned to the small Virginia town after visiting her sister in California. She died of an extremely high fever, baffling the town's doctor, then (to the hospital staff's surprise and horror) resurrected as a zombie, attacking 8 members of hospital staff. And that was all it took. Silas left the mill one night to find the town in chaos. His mother had run off with his siblings, leaving Silas a note to tell him where she'd gone. He took off after them, meeting his father (who had become a zombie) on the way out of town. With a shot to his father's head, Silas left Crawford for good.
Since that fateful night, he's been roaming Virginia, crossing paths with other survivors and adding those he trusts to their group. His current goal is to get the survivors to Washington D.C., where he believes there just may be hope for a cure.

Habits/Vices: Like his father before him, Silas is a chronic smoker. He knows it’s bad for him, but he doubts he’ll be around long enough to experience smoking’s ill effects. You’re unlikely to catch him without a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket or one dangling out of the corner of his mouth.
Silas is also incredibly superstitious (another trait he inherited from his father). Ray Henderson was always a betting man, and Silas accompanied him to many horse races, poker games, and other less-than-savory places. His father was easily enticed by the lure of easy money, and was known to show up anywhere he felt he could make a quick buck. He believed he could improve his chances of winning by keeping a lucky rabbit’s foot, avoiding the number thirteen, and any number of baseless good luck measures. His wife always thought him a fool, but Silas unconsciously inherited his father’s views of life and luck. In his mind, there is no fate, no destiny. Sometimes, shit just happens. The way he sees it, this whole zombie apocalypse is just the world being dealt a shitty hand. He’s not as superstitious as his father, but he still wears a small horseshoe on a chain around his neck, and if you check his belt loop, you’re likely to see a bedraggled rabbit’s foot hanging there.

Image

Are people basically good, or basically evil?: Silas has never been the most trusting individual. He grew up watching his father make deals with shady individuals, and while he knew some of his father's actions were motivated by his desire to provide for the family, he couldn't overlook the underlying selfishness and greed of Ray's gambling habits. In general, he believes people are motivated by their own selfish needs. Everyone does what they have to do to survive, and at the end of the day, the only person really looking out for you is you. Even before the outbreak, Silas' friendships were few. He's fiercely loyal to and protective of those he knows, but he's wary of strangers and likely to keep people at arm's length. His dislike for outsiders has only increased since the apocalypse began, though, on some unconscious level, he realizes the only way to survive this disaster is with the help of others.

Weapon of choice: In the 3 years since the zombie apocalypse began, Silas has used everything from a machine gun to a sharpened toothbrush to kill zombies. Not all weapons are created equal, but you've got to use what's available, right? Somehow he's managed to hang onto to his .40 caliber pistol, a handy little weapon that's got just about everything you could want in a zombie-killing piece of machinery: portability, accuracy, and ease of maintenance. He keeps it on his person at all times, and it's definitely his go-to weapon when things get hairy. When the situation requires a quieter approach, he's partial to his hunting knife (though the tendency of the blade to lodge itself in the decaying skulls of the undead is less than ideal), which is generally strapped to his thigh. And, if all else fails, it's always good to have a crowbar on hand. Sometimes you just need to do a little skull-smashing to work out those zombie-enduced frustrations.

Physical Description: Standing 6'2" and weighing nearly 190 lbs, Silas is a big guy. He has his father's strong jaw and brown hair, but that's where the resemblance ends. He doesn't feel he looks much like either of his parents, really, though people used to say he had his mother's eyes. (Before she became a flesh-eating zombie, of course). His hair is generally unkempt, though he does his best to keep it cropped fairly short. He shaves his face when he has the time, but more often than not his jaw is covered by sandy scruff.
His wardrobe is limited, consisting of 2 plain grey t-shirts (both stained with sweat, blood, and god knows what a else), 1 pairs of jeans (equipped with plenty of pockets), a flannel shirt, and a light jacket. On his feet he wears a pair of brown work boots, which are falling apart. If he notices the numerous holes and tears in his clothing, he certainly doesn't let on. He wears the aforementioned miniature horseshoe on a length of chain around his neck, and keeps a rabbit's foot on his belt loop.
He's far more concerned with his weapons than his wardrobe, and is never without a knife and his gun, which he carries in a holster on his hip.


Image

So begins...

Silas Henderson's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Silas Henderson
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Silas hated June. To be fair, he hated every month spent in the zombie-infested hell Earth had become, but he hated June in particular. June marked the beginning of summer in Virginia, and summer meant trouble. The heat, humidity, and bugs Virginian summers brought were less than desirable on their own, but add reanimated corpses to the mix and summers became a new kind of misery. Warmer weather meant more zombie activity; the z's tended to become more active in the summer months and slow down in the winter. The biting insects and sweltering heat that made travel so difficult for humans had no effect on zombies, and many exhausted survivors fell victim to the undead under the baking heat of the summer sun. Vigilance was more important now more than ever, but Silas knew the group was on its last leg. Rations were low, and just a few short weeks ago the group had lost one of its own to a vicious zombie attack. The remaining survivors were strong- Earth's extreme conditions left no room for the week- but still, there was only so much a group could take...

The sun was already up by the time Silas awoke, and it took him a minute to adjust to the bright light of its rays. The group had pitched camp in a thickly wooded area, but the unrelenting sun had somehow managed to find it's way through the dense foliage, dappling the forest floor with golden light. Silas looked around at the other survivors, making out the indistinct lumps of sleeping figures through his bleary eyes. It didn't seem anyone else was awake yet (save for the survivor on watch), but in his groggy state he couldn't be certain. Rising from his bedraggled mat, Silas stood and stretched, listening to his bones pop and crack as they adjusted after yet another long night spent on hard ground. If there was one thing that struck him about the whole zombie apocalypse thing (aside from how quickly humanity had fallen apart), it was how old he felt. Though in his mid twenties, Silas often felt like a much older man, both physically and mentally. The only person who seemed immune to the exhaustion the apocalypse brought was Boris, who had the energy of a man half his age (and a brain twice the size of anyone Silas had ever met).

A quick pass of his hands over his body confirmed all his weapons were in their proper places, which was at least some comfort. He drew his knife and walked the camp's perimeter, ready for any starved z's that might come stumbling out of the forest. They'd set up tin cans on a string as a makeshift alarm, but still, you could never be too prepared. After he was satisfied the surrounding forest was clear and the group faced no immediate danger, he returned to his mat and grabbed his canteen, taking a few moments to quench his first and splash water onto his tired face. Just another day in the apocalypse. Fucking brilliant. Today they were headed Northwest, which was the general direction they'd been traveling for most of their journey. The plan was simple: walk as far and as long as they could without getting killed. When it got dark, they would set up camp and go to sleep so that they could wake up and do it all again the next day. Sure it was monotonous, but it was as close to a plan as they were going to get. For weeks they'd been making their way towards Washington D.C., and now they were finally getting close. On that note, Silas decided he had better wake the others. They weren't doing themselves any favors wasting daylight, and it would be good to get the group moving before it became unpleasantly warm. "Rise and shine," he called out, his voice carrying across the camp of sleeping survivors. "It's another beautiful day in the apocalypse." Deadpan humor was Silas' preferred coping mechanism, and it was how he got his kicks in a world otherwise devoid of any sense of fun. He began packing up his things as the others slowly roused themselves, listening to the disgruntled protests from the tired survivors. He already had a feeling today wasn't going to be easy...but then again, things in the apocalypse rarely were.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Silas Henderson Character Portrait: Amy Prior Character Portrait: James Minton Character Portrait: Bronislav Anisimov Character Portrait: Colin James Lu
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

(Mis-tagged James)

As of now, it was still cool. The lack of direct sunlight into the area and whatever coolness the ground retained kept the warmth away for the moment, and the insects with it. Boris didn't like the insects. They were always there during the day, biting exposed flesh to sake their hunger without any consideration for what the humans felt. Quite rude of them, he thought. Thinking about it, he decided the zombies were rude as well seeing as how they took no consideration of what humans felt either. Why were they so rude to people? Everything was always better if you helped and respected those around you. Maybe they had some grudge. He hadn't exactly been kind to them either. He felt sorry for them. Almost. For some reason, they always tried to grab him and take Natalya without permission. That was enough reason for anyone to be hurt. Nobody touched Natalya if he didn't say so.

Turning back to the piece of wood he was working, he strained to make sense of what he was carving. There was no discernible shape, nothing that he had seen before. Lucidity slowly seeped in through the shroud of insanity, granting him realization of what he had just been saying to himself. Laughing, he reflected on the absurdity of considering zombies as rude. He was crazy, but sometimes it could be fun. Other times it wasn't. Grimacing as he thought back to the fellow survivor that had died a few weeks ago, he berated himself. He was destined to save humanity. The spirits had told him so. Yet he couldn't save one person. Had he done something to displease the spirits? Maybe this figurine he was making would work to appease them. Examining it closer, he saw it was a fairy of some sorts. Yes, the spirits would like it.

As Silas began to wake up, Boris was reminded that he was supposed to be keeping watch, not talking with himself. But as long as nothing got through, everything was fine. No sense in saying anything. What never happened could not hurt you. Picking up Natalya- a spiked bat with electrical wiring running along the body- he nodded to Silas in greeting. Despite his young age, the man had led the group well throughout the apocalypse. There was something in him that lent itself to leadership. What hardships had he experienced in these past three years? Worse than his? It was only due to his currently lucid state that he remembered what had made him go insane at all.

Returning to where his bedroll lay packed, Boris finished storing the rest of what equipment he had left. Leaving it there until they were actually leaving, he returned to where he had been sitting for watch. There was something special about that place. Looking to the wooden figure in his hand, he lay it at the base of the tree and said a brief blessing over it. Rotating to face the group again, he asked, "Where do we hope to end up today, Silas?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Silas Henderson Character Portrait: Amy Prior Character Portrait: Bronislav Anisimov Character Portrait: Colin James Lu
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#, as written by RCJJ23
Colin had taken up watch for the past few hours along with Boris though he didn't tell Silas that, on alert for any sound out of place and any movement not meant to be. By now he'd already gone through his daily ritual, caring for his rifle that had served him well for the past couple of years. Even though he hadn't heard or seen anything for a while he was still on high alert, so when he heard the sound of something getting up behind him, he spun on his heel, bringing up the Sako whilst doing so. He tensed for a few brief moments before recognizing that it was Silas that was getting up. Colin lowered his rifle and went about his rounds once more before settling down to a more relaxed state. He settled down next to his pack, opening it up to get the half full bottle of water that was inside. He pushed his clothes aside and took it out from the bottom of the pack. Already it was starting to get hot, and he didn't want to survive for this long to die of dehydration. When he looked up again, Silas had gone.

Probably to go do the rounds. Silas always did like to make sure.


Colin looked over the ragtag bunch of survivors that he'd joined for a long time now. One less face then he was used to seeing, another dead body that he blamed himself for. Too slow to pull the trigger, too late to save a friend. He shook off the memory. Amy Prior, probably the youngest of them all. She was quick on her feet and served as the group's scout. Only female in the group. Bronislav Anisimov, probably the oldest of them all. Short, insane, but brilliant. That baseball bat had saved their lives more than once. Pretty good at everything really, even gave him a small wood carving. Got used for firewood, though he'd never tell Boris that. Silas, though he was gone for the moment. Older than Amy, but younger than both himself and Boris. He was one of the first people Colin had met when he went away from Norfolk. Had his crosshairs over his head when he didn't know it, but decided not to shoot. He hadn't told Silas about thinking to shoot him, since he didn't know how he'd react. He took up the role as leader and he made most of the decisions, like now, where they were heading up to D.C. Colin was broken out of his thoughts when he saw Silas coming back in to the clearing.

"Rise and Shine; It's another beautiful day in the apocalypse."

Colin raised an eyebrow, getting up and shouldering his pack. The weight of the steel plate was noticeable, but comfortable.

"The smell of rot is in the air! The sounds of death fill our ears! Oh what a wonderful day!"