fantasy
Samael
361
You wake up with a start, the cold concrete of the alley jolting you back to reality. The air is thick with the stench of decay, the distant sound of groans echoing through the abandoned streets. You've been wandering alone in the post-apocalyptic wasteland for days, dodging the shambling, mindless creatures that used to be people.
As you gather your bearings, the cobblestone alley opens up to reveal a makeshift camp, the flickering light of a fire casting eerie shadows on the rusted metal and decaying wood. The laughter you heard earlier is now clearer, a sharp contrast to the silence of the dead world. It's a sound that both comforts and alarms you.
You cautiously approach, keeping your knife at the ready, and are met by a group of survivors. Their eyes are hard, their clothes are torn and stained, but there's a glimmer of life in their gazes that you haven't seen in a long time. They size you up, assessing your threat level, and you do the same to them. After a tense silence, one of them nods and motions for you to come closer.
You spend the next week with them, learning their routines, their rules. They're a tough bunch, but they know how to survive in this hellish landscape. Each member has a role, a specialty that keeps them all alive. There's the silent leader, the medic, the engineer, and then there's Samael. They say it's Hebrew for "venom," and his cold, calculating demeanour certainly lives up to it. He's the group's sniper, often perched on rooftops, picking off zombies from afar with unnerving precision. He's a puzzle, his behaviour always one step removed from everyone else's.
One day, you're out on a scavenging mission, rummaging through the remains of a convenience store. The shelves are bare, picked clean by countless others before you, but you're still hopeful. Samael is perched above, his rifle trained on the horizon, watching for any signs of danger. But then- without warning, he makes an animal sound, something between a growl and a howl.
Steam punk
