Literate, plotted RPs, smut also welcome (Male for Any)

As the end of the year came and went, there was little change. A few disturbances in the world, here and there. Stirrings of war - though one can hardly claim that to be a surprise, really. One day, however, a few scientists looked outside, at the shining, blue sky, and thought, "Oh, what a lovely day. Perfect visibility for us to test a weapon, don't you think?"

And so (and who can blame them?) they decided to do so. A nifty little bioweapon, targeted quite literally at the minds of the populace, with a few prisoners from prisons and wars across the war strapped into the testing room. A viral agent dispersed into the facility through the air ducts... and then the faintest crack in the plexiglas of the viewing window. The subjects, with the largest dose, went symptomatic first. Writhing and screaming, scrabbling at the tables, bleeding from eyes and ears until they fell down dead.

The men within the viewing room, by contrast, took weeks. Just a few viral particles in their blood, enough to breed and make them contagious, mutating and reaching an equalibrium. Infecting everyone in the facility. Infecting their family. And their family's friends, and all their families, spreading on planes and boats and trains and buses, the outbreak spreading bit by bit by bit. Nothing to worry about, until there was. Nothing to fret over, until the moment the end came. Not all at once, by any means. The scientists who worked on the virus in the facility went first, and the purge of nuclear flames, meant to stop its spread, erased them, their notes, and the facility from the map, creating what would be deemed the 'dead man's mile', smack in the middle of Arizona's Mojave desert.

Other cities went into panic, days and weeks later. Vegas, the closest civic center, went up in flames, quite literally, when their quarantine barrier began to break down, and a firebombing was ordered to contain the disease. Nevermind that it was already spreading elsewhere-this simply couldn't be so widespread.

Well, it was, quite obviously, and, unsurprisingly, as much as society claimed to be 'ready' for a zombie apocalypse, it simply wasn't. Oh, certainly, people who had played video games and knew the concept fared a bit better... but only, really, if they were in enough shape to survive and use that knowledge.

The military fared better, marginally, than fiction suggested it would. Retreating strategically, taking in refugees, telling people to defend themselves, that they would wait for the infection to subside, for all the symptomatic to go out, before they began pushing back.

Everyone knew what zombies were, and what they could do. To aim for the head (and eventually, this became practically gospel, even once the 'dead' were more widely understood to be still-living, and thus still-bleeding-to-death-capable from a shot to the limbs.

But nevertheless, it just. Kept. Happening. City after city after city. Last stand after last stand after last stand. Death after death after death. Holding out, knowing someone would hear the gunshots, and come to help... and then both stranded and savior dying.

Grief and misery and loss unending, spreading across the globe. Oh, some regions fared better. The US, with its widespread gun-ownership, fared fairly well. The UK, with dense populations, low gun ownership, and widespread healthcare, fared far worse. The infected had a hotbed to spread in - the hospitals. Not everyone died, of course, they could escape and flee. India, with some of the densest population in the world, was nearly completely lost.

Japan, insular and self-contained, quarantined itself, and fared fairly well. Enough discipline to keep themselves under control, and enough government and social control to hunt down the infected. They still fell, of course... but not as quickly, or as violently. China, with dense population and social controls, still fell. Even the most severe of crackdowns cannot prevent the spread of a disease, when half your soldiers are already sick. South Korea, wary and prepared, kept much of the infection out, managing to self-police and keep order. The north simply vanished off the map. Either genocide brought the end, in an attempt at purging the sick... or the infection simply swept them over too quickly.

Most of mainland Europe, with such broad, easy transit, spread the infection quickly, and fared... around as well as the UK, simply with less chance for exodus than the island nation. The nations called 'third-world', the undeveloped and the poor... those with little immigration, were sometimes untouched, though no nation truly escaped. Much of the middle east, with UN peacekeeping, fell to a series of nuclear exchanges... though thankfully, they were limited, and only a few launched at other nations that had fallen to the plague, which automated systems and human holdouts managed to ward off.

But, perhaps, that is beyond the scope of things. Back in the US, a few hundred miles from the test site, a man picks his way through the shadows of an alley, brown-black eyes flicking around him. Almost scrawny in his build, narrow across the shoulders, and looking practically starved, he's a figure of poverty, in any other time. Here and now, though, he's a healthy citizen of the United States, in his natural habitat. He's nearly naked, bare to the waist, the pus-filled blisters on his arms hinting at the IVs that had been anchored there days before. Violent in his movements, paranoid, twitchy, he opens the cover of a dumpster, rifling through its contents, looking for food... before the lid is slammed down on his head, a squeal escaping the creature before a gun is pressed against the plastic, just where its head should be, and the trigger pulled, the silencer making the raucous report little more than a cough.

The bearer of the weapon adjusts his coat, letting the infected slide out of the dumpster to crumple on the ground, and nudges it with his boot. Nothing worth taking from the wretch, really. But oh well. One less to barrel down the streets screaming at him for his entrails. He holsters his pistol, and steps over the corpse, peering out of the alleyway. Blue eyes half-revealed by his hood, hoodie's sleeves stained with blood and dirt, jeans filthy with the same mixture, and boots splattered just the same, he makes for another fairly typical picture of modern America as he sets out at a jog down the street, pulling an axe from his belt, and hefting it, the weapon having been specifically made for the military... and looted off the corpse of a soldier he'd found. The same goes for the pistol, and for the rifle that's slung across his back. Eight weeks from going into boot camp, this had hit... and he's been relying on the little bit his dad taught him about guns and surviving in the wilderness since. Not that all of it applies, exactly... but books filled in the rest. Bits and pieces of knowledge cobbled together with pragmatism and common sense and critical thinking.

It doesn't take long for him to reach his 'home', a small warehouse that he's used the boxes in to seal the doors, and blockade the windows. He's got a bed made from three mattresses and half a dozen blankets to ward off the cold inside one of the spare crates, and a small kitchen in another of them, the smoke from which he has guided up through a small chimney he made from scrap metal, and into an adjoining crate, that then lets the small wisps of heat vapor, and occasional fumes, out of one of the large windows, through a hole no more than two feet wide, and covered with steel mesh.

Not much food, right now... but canned goods are still, well, good, and so is soda, bottled water, and other foods. Milk, not so much, but the canned and dried variety's okay. So's concentrated/condensed milk, and once water's added it's... unpleasant, but doable. He's getting the nutrients he needs, even when it's meant boiling the meat blood and drinking it - which was godawful, but he's getting the minerals and amino acids and all that junk.

He settles in on his bed, and runs a hand through his hair. "So." he says to himself, looking at his filthy clothing, and then slowly stripping out of it. "The quarantine wall's still all the way up, but there's nobody manning it. But there's infected everywhere, now." he says, sighing as he pulls the filthy shirt off his head, and then swearing as he rips the fabric, having caught it on the siding of the box. "Well... shit." he says, and tosses it out of the box into a small dumpster, the one not for compost, and then goes rifling through his belongings, stripped to the skin now... and eventually comes up with new clothing, dressing himself back up quickly, and then tugging the clothes back into place. A little loose, but comfortable enough.

Once... Once he was a good man. Once, Black Morgause had been able to hold his head high, and state that he was a good man. Virtuous and just, skilled in society and word. Once. Until the day he... offended Cyron Damaskus. Sitting, when he should have been standing, when the man's cat came into the room where he had been speaking with other members of the court. He had been on visitation, from another kingdom, trying to make a name for himself, perhaps to earn a wife amongst the nobility.
Instead, the madking ordered him imprisoned, and his fellow nobles executed... on the grounds that the cat had been sitting in his lap, and so he had at least shown some respect.

Prison was... informative. Titles were nothing, all that mattered was the strength of one's arm and the ability to keep oneself safe. And then, the sale to the Temple. His time with Jaemie in her training, and then his bonding to her. The realization that he did, in fact, still have some soul in himself, that he did still have something that made him human.

And then the sheer dread as he heard of their summons, hiding himself inside the armor the Temple granted him, to serve as a guard to her. Hiding behind the anonymity and the facelessness... except, the King had asked to see his face, hear his name... and then had completely been without words. No recognition. Nothing.

And then the war. The war, the endless war. Death and killing and laying waste. The politics were... interesting. Seeing how the Temple allowed their power to be abused in this way, wondering how they could do so... except he was simply too busy. Assassination attempts, on the 'demon witch'. Taking the pain from her wounds as his own, and knowing that it isn't in reverse... knowing that he can feel the grating of an arrow in her flesh atop that of the cuts, the wounds, the burns and broken bones... but that she can not feel the same.

Keeping her alive, keeping her safe. Ten years, since he was sold into the bowels of the Temple. Ten years since that smiling young man had been pressed into shackles. Twenty-seven now, six feet tall and an inch, muscle and scars across his entire form, a massive broadsword hanging at his side. A general in his own right, if he'd served in any other army. Leading charge after charge, cutting men down as they tried to rip Jaemie apart. And rarely even uttering a sound, a word. The armor he was given shattering from a lance taking him in the chest, and a new suit replacing it, covering over the scars and bandages that never quite have time to heal.

He can feel the awe that surrounds them both, the admiration from the soldiers who she commands... many of them younger, many older. All of them revering the young mage and her servant. Whispers of lust toward her, and then words refuting it, that she must be attached to her... knight. Hah. As if he has such a title. Little more than a living shield for her to channel her magic through.

As he marches through the camp, wiping off blood from his gauntlets-a captured deserter had needed execution, and there was no reason to appoint a new one, after the old had taken a spear through the chest a week ago, when a raid hit their camp. So he did it himself.

He lifts the tentflap, reaching up and pulling his helmet free as he does, and bows his head to Jaemie. "Ma'am." he says quietly, eyes flicking downward in respect. His face is broad, but not ugly, square-jawed and strong, with a quintet of scars across it, from some odd war-beast one of the nations had sicced upon them, its claws catching him clear across the face... what, four years ago, now? An x-shape across his throat, from an attacker, the slashed neck barely slowing him as he killed the man with his bare hands, sword broken, and then headed back to Jaemie, being healed... and then trudging back out into the fray, ignoring the pain in his body. Scarred as much as she is, on every part of him. Where her nose is crooked, his is straight, with a divot taken out of the center, from the claw-marks across his face, and his jaw hangs slightly lower on the left side... a war-hammer to the face, if memory serves, knocking him sideways and keeping him even more mute until it mended.

"I heard there are new orders. Does the king wish us to move on from here, then?" he asks, eyes still downcast... and then gradually sweeping up, fixing on her face. "You know the men are ill. Sick and wounded. We need reinforcements and medicines if we are to continue, and men to carry the wounded home." he reports, voice low, almost robotic, and exhausted as he sinks into a chair, starting to slowly unbuckle his armor, hissing quietly as the armor scrapes over one of his newer wounds, unhealed as of yet. But no reason to waste magic on it, when there are so many others wounded worse.

Cold. Very cold. He feels... sluggish. Not himself. The rage is... dampened, somehow. Dulled down and hidden. Lights around him, as his eyes open, skin splitting to reveal them as he takes stock of his surroundings, 'clothes' shredding themselves as his flesh strains against his confines. A cage. Tight and binding, restricting his movement. Cameras at each corner, and a screen on the wall before him as the cage shudders, and then falls aside, letting him heave himself upright.
Blood and flesh quiver into place as he stands, eyes closing, and then opening on the slowly-forming face. His hand reaches upwards, and rips the shard of metal from his flesh, freeing space within his skull for his brain to reform.

By the time he's repaired himself, the figure on the screen is halfway through a spiel about how he's being forced to work (In milder terms, granted, but coercion is coercion, whatever the name), and to make something of himself. They know what he is, know his name, his family, his friends (though he has none, so it must be a generic message), and know his crimes. The former don't matter. The latter... somewhat. Most people dislike the idea of slaughtering an entire group of people for the fun of it.

"So. Do I have to say "Agent" to talk to a representative, or something of the sort? Or do I just sign on the dotted line so you don't kill me?" he asks, the voice summoned forth from his chest booming in the small space, raw and dark with his rage. "Or do I just wait for you to come and try to kill me? Good luck with that, by the way." he adds, waving a hand absently. And, a moment later, a slot pops open in the wall, revealing a drawer containing a sheaf of papers, a pen, and a thumbprint scanner.

"Or that works, I suppose." he adds, shrugging absently, glowering at the camera... and then pressing his finger down on the pad. It beeps twice, and then, surprisingly enough, the draw flips like a beartrap, severing his hand, and making the male stagger back in surprise, before lifting the stump to eye it. No longer bleeding, even. Oh, well.

His free hand signs with a flourish and then shoves the drawer, severed hand atop the metal and all, back into the wall. Even then, the stump has begun to reform, and he yawns quietly, covering his face with the stump. "I'm waaaaaiting." he sing-songs, smiling faintly and beginning to pace in a circle around the cell, humming a quiet tune.

Jaexx grins at her up her body, knowing that she can't see him, but not really caring. Perfect. No way for her to guess at what's coming, no way for her to try to jerk away, or tense up in anticipation. Perfect. His tongue finds her slit, teasing at her, testing her. With the difference in their body temperatures... it's disconcerting... but still wonderful. He grins again, and his tongue slides into her, teasing at her entrance, testing her, probing. Very deliberately, he arches it, finding her g-spot, and pressing lightly. He feels, more then seeing or hearing, her reaction, and chuckles, sending light vibrations through her. "Have you had a man before, Eira?" he asks, nipping again at her thigh, his fingers coming to her womanhood, and spreading her gently, stroking her with his fingers, building a slow burn with them, not letting her relax, but giving her just enough mental room to answer his question

Jaexx smiles again at her, and keeps nipping at her throat. "Yes, Eira?" he breathes into her ear, caressing her cheek with a hand, and continuing to pump his three appendages in and out of her, twisting them around inside her, caressing her walls with them, feeling how she bucks and writhes with pleasure. "Do you want more from me, then?" he breathes, squeezing her breasts with the appendages that grasp them, coils of flesh wrapped around each, with a broad, warm mouth enveloping the tips, tinier orifices kissing and licking and biting on the soft skin as they are kneaded.
Another tip presses against her rear, and he smiles at her, before it joins the other within her, the two intertwining and fucking her, purposefully stretching her hole out just a bit. "You enjoy being claimed like this, then?" he breathes into her ear, letting his cock within her alter, becoming a tentacle just like the others, all, and the dozens more that simply laze upon the bed and wrap her up, joining with his body at around waist height. "You like being claimed by me, my little vampire?"

The end came, and it was my fault. This is not an exaggeration. It is not an apology, confession, lamentation, or anything else you might like to call it. Just fact. The world around you now is my fault. I let the virus go. I let them use it. I just wanted to make her proud.
-Gareth Demonakos (b. 1982 - d. 2026)

By 2018, the world had reached a balance once more. War had ended, the US rebuilt, Europe rebuilt, even Asia was on its way. Four years of hell, with nuclear death a fraction of a hair away, left the world weary.

And so, when a curious drug called Demex was revealed, it's creators decided to change the target market entirely. No longer would it be for the soldiers, sent into battle to die for their country, but it would be for the family, the veterans, and all. A way to let them recover from the chemicals that still burned the air, and to turn attentions from personal illness to the national effort.

Almost patriotic, if not for their profit.

Demex promised, and delivered, a better life. Free from cancer, free from illness, free even from those pandemics and disorders- no more MS, no more AIDS, no more Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, or even autism. No more allergies, even.

Perfection, for the neat price of $4,997.86... After insurance. A "generous" deal, but not exactly affordable to anyone.

And so, we have the 'ERA'. Former soldiers and activists alike, protesting the withholding of such a miracle... And then taking matters into their own hands. Edge Riders Anonymous stole and aerosolized over 100 kilograms of the drug, then sprayed it in every major city in the US. A nice little bit of biological terrorism (or activism, depending on who you talk to), that, while well intentioned, would prove to be a death blow.

The virus spread within weeks, infecting every corner of the world, working its way into the flesh and bone of everyone alive. It was a blessing, for many. The long-term wards of hospitals closed down, releasing millions who recovered from cancerous lesions, or other seemingly intractable conditions. The national death rate dropped by nearly half, disease nearly nullified. A golden age seemed sure to come, for the survivors of the third great war. And yet, it never came.

A worker in New York, clearing out the bowels of the city, cleansing it of the biological weapons which plagued it in the latter days of the war, had a crack in his gas mask. Not enough for him to even notice. Not enough to give him a lethal dose, or even for his blood tests to turn anything up.

But enough to let just a handful of toxins in, enough to confuse Demex's viruses. Inside an hour, he breathed poison to all those around him, infecting them. And then they passed it on. Inside a day, his eyes lost all their color, turning a dull pinkish shade, then darkening to a bloody red. In a week, the cravings started, for fresh, raw meat, and plenty of it. In a month, he and all of his coworkers were chewing on strands of torn flesh, happily eating their families while their brains regressed.

Of course, not everyone believed in these tales. "Zombies" in New York? Preposterous. And even if there were some bioweapon, as many feared, the city was redesigned, when it was rebuilt, to allow for easy quarantine and control.

Yet, somehow, it spread. Even when New York was leveled with a bomb, scorched flat to the earth, somehow, some poor soul escaped, and spread the infection.

It appeared next in Blackridge, California, the home of the firm which had engineered Demex... but nothing was provable, of course. Nothing provable that the Triteon Corporation had deliberately procured the virus, and experimented on it for... quality control.

Nothing provable that they brought the end.

The virus spread, relentlessly and effortlessly. Incubation periods varied, strains mutated, became inactive. For months, the US once more committed a war against, this time against its own, ailing populace... until it was overwhelmed. And still, somehow, the virus spread. To Europe. To Asia. To Australia. To each and every corner of the globe but the most insular, hidden communities. It spread until the world grew silent again.

Fifteen years have passed since the advent of Demex. The world's population, at more than seven billion at the start of the war, fallen to five billion, in the deadliest conflict ever seen, fell yet more in the years following the Virus' spread.

By late 2018, nearly three-quarters of the population of the planet became infected with the virus. Of those three-quarters, ninety percent lost their sanity, and began attempting to kill and devour the healthy and one another to sate their hunger. Of the remaining population, sane and alive, 97.5% were, over the course of the following decade, devoured.

Now, the population stands at around four hundred thousand million, scattered across the face of the earth, at times banding together and at times killing one another, as suited to their fancies.

Of those four hundred million, five million live within the former United States. And of those, half were born within or after the time of the third world war. All they have known is warfare and misery, and so, after all, who can blame them for staying so scattered?

Without posting the entirety of my long, drawn out ramblings upon Amaera, let us stand with this. It is a fantasy setting, akin to most others, of my own creation. It involves several races of my own design, as well as a few of popular note such as Orcs, Dwarves, and Elves. If we play in this world, you can guarantee that it'll have my full attention and interest, and I'll gladly introduce you to the nature of it as much as you want. I know it sounds fairly stupid, but believe me, I've put as much work into this as blackridge... I just don't have a plot, yet. Only setting.

Modelled after Fallout, this idea revolves around the Nuclear Apocalypse... save that after this end, a new beginning came. Supernatural beings, previously hidden, had no more reason to hide themselves away. Vampires, Werefolk, et cetera, all came up into the dim of the nuclear winter, and into the wastelands after it faded, and all made a life for themselves.

In a world with any number of supernatural beings forced into acknowledgement, vampires, demons, fae, and all, the solution was a relatively simple one. Each and every one of these individuals will be chained to a human 'handler', and these pairs will be made to live within sequestered 'sanctuary' cities. Unfortunately, not all of the 'handlers' chose this job. Many were forced into the program, or simply abducted and awoken tied to their bonded (quite literally, with a chain reinforced with magics keeping them together). Likewise, the inhuman were given a choice: Obey this order, or be hunted and die.

Vampires are, and have been for a very long time, real. However, unlike most expect, they cannot feed from humans, and instead must feed from one another. While a bite from a vampire will turn a human to one of them, it will not nourish the being, until the transformation is complete. Once it is, however, the two are bound by the laws of the vampire community, the 'council', to not turn another until their bonded dies, and to not ever expose their nature. However, a few, ancient beings, outdating this council, scorn the rules, and do as they please, turning and murdering in the name of boredom.

Based upon a friend's idea, this revolves around the concept of a Company abducting remarkable individuals, blackmailing them, and forcing them to work as agents for their ends. Their missions are obscure and seemingly pointless, leading to little more than waste of life and chaos, but there is a method to the Company's madness, and if one can discern it, they are promised not only freedom, but more money than they could dream of, and an opportunity to join the upper echelons of the agency, and aid their cause. Though not all are precisely enthusiastic about this.

A voice stirs you from your sleep. Your body aches, down to the very bones, like you've been beaten to within an inch of your life. Ahead of you, you can hear a voice, calling, urging you onwards. Beside you, the groans of others, likewise awakened. Behind you, the growling of beasts. "Come on! Come on, they're coming! Get up, get moving! Run! We need to run!" the voice pleads, and screams come from behind you, a warm slap against the back of your neck. You try to open your eyes, but there is nothing. No light, nothing. Breath rasps against the back of your neck, and you run.

For hours and hours, you run, tripping over the bodies of those who fall ahead of you, caught up in a stampede of feet. People are taken, from behind you, from beside you. Claws catch at your clothes, tearing them, but you evade them. Hours of running, to exhaustion and misery, and still those things pursue, blood drying on your body from their previous victims. Still, others are beside you, but your eyes must be sealed shut, because nothing, not even the light of the stars- and you can feel the wind on your skin, it must be outside, wherever you are- nothing reaches your eyes.

Nothing, until at last, in the distance, a dim crimson light comes to your eyes- the light of an alarm, a warning light. One of the old bunkers, something in your mind tells you, not your own thought, but a distant notice. An old bunker from the war.

A press of bodies around you as you struggle to get in, to find a way into the door, even as there are still more taken from behind you, and finally, you can see faces, human faces, young and old and tired, not the fittest, but those with the greatest will to continue. You can hear the things behind you, but turning your head, nothing is there. Nothing, not even a refraction of light, beyond the dim glow of the lamp. Like the world cuts off with a knife just after ten, fifteen feet.

Nothing, except you can hear the things out there. Hear them feasting, devouring.

"In! In! They can't pass the light, you need to all get in!"

Dominus City. Home, originally, to a pair of corporations which hurled themselves at one another in every field, from biotechnology to nuclear energy.
Tritecorp, the older of the two companies, one day developed a drug which was christened the Z product, and distributed it cheaply. The testing spread through the city, and lasted nearly a year.
As the trials were ending, the Product reacted differently. It caused dementia, illness, insanity of all kinds, and warped the bodies of the patients, making them into creatures more suited to legends.
When a man named Jakob Dellare spoke out, swathed in bandages from the illness he had suffered, naming TriteCorp for the culprit, they struck out at him. A hitman killed his family in the night, leaving them for him to discover. Set his home ablaze with him in it.
Dellare was driven mad by the loss, and called for his supporters to avenge the act. In hordes, the panicked, resentful people swarmed the headquarters of TriteCorp, only to be rebuffed by another, equally large group of citizens.
The mob faltered, frightened by the numbers, until one of the citizens guarding of the building hurled a rock, striking Dellare in the eye and blinding him.
The citizens surged forward, and hundreds died as the changes manifested themselves further, brought on by fear and rage.

It has been two years since that day, and Dellare has disappeared, replaced as the leader of the protesters by a man who calls himself Blint. The city has been sealed by an invention of TriteCorp's rival, Schow-Gen Technologies, a field which instantly kills any human being attempting to cross it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Those who held to an ideal of order and morality followed a former employee of TriteCorp. The bright intentions of the Paladins, as they were nicknamed, existed at first only to keep their counterparts under control. This later turned into an drive for annihilation of the other side. Many fear the effects that withdrawal from the Product would have upon them, only fighting to preserve their own lives. They have cleared a complex around the TriteCorp tower that they have named the Layer Yard, and now use it as their base of operations. They control the whole of the Uptown and Financial districts
The paladins believed that the only way to solve this problem was to destroy it. The Product gave the Paladins what they view as gifts, regardless of their true impact. With their feathered wings, soft white eyes, and an inspiring and mystical presence, they are ready to cleanse the filth from their city, to protect the innocent, and preserve the rule of law.

Those who followed the want for vengeance followed Blint, a man hell bent on revenging himself on TriteCorp. They do not fear death, or even the suffering of being denied a monthy dose of the product. Many fight for the vengeance and the chance to prevent this incident reoccuring, but just as many are in the fight only to inflict suffering. Despite their cruelty, the city remains intact, if a shadow of its former self.
They control the Downtown and Industrial districts. The Industrial district has been repurposed, and now is now home solely to the Shadow Knights and the citizens who work to aid them. Their base, such as it is, is a desiccated skyscraper, called the Citadel.
The changes inflicted upon their bodies were no more or less severe than those upon the paladins, but the Knights did not favor the changes as the paladins did. Their bodies warped by the product, their bloodstained fangs gleaming crimson, and with the leathered wings of Blint beating a hellish tattoo upon the sky, the knights hurl themselves against the Paladins, caring nothing for their losses. The betrayers, the liars, will pay for their sins.

On an unspecified date, in an unspecified location, approximately two years ago, there was not an alarm. There was certainly not a breach of security. And there most assuredly was not an escape of twelve remarkable individuals from within this location.

The reasons for this nonexistent incident are unknown. These individuals would have no reason to leave the location, if such a thing had occured, of course, and there is most certainly no way to discover those reasons. These remarkable test subjects, if they had escaped, would most certainly be pursued, though directly involving the agency which may or may not run this facility would be sloppy, at best. Intermediaries, hired mercenaries or private eyes, would be the best choice.

Assuming, of course, that such a prison break had occured. Which it most certainly did not.

Two companies have, for the last ten years, been working their way throughout the society of the US. One, the Pacific Institute for Biomechanical Augmentation, located in the Silicon Valley, pioneered the concept of technological bodily augmentations, replacing injured body parts with identical modifications, and creating prosthetics and cybernetics for those who are not injured. The other, the New York society for Biological Modification, located upon the east coast, delved more deeply into the concept of genetic engineering and biological manipulations, trying to achieve the same ends as the other, through more 'natural' means.
As business competition became tougher, the two factions began a series of propaganda campaigns. The idea of sullying one's body with machines, replacing the natural, healthy parts, makes you less human. It makes you further from God's image, and it is pride to change one's body so, without true need. Altering one's genes is tampering with His work. It is taking God's work into your own hands. Soon enough, political parties have formed, the Mechanical Prosthesis Party and the Biological Augmentation Party. The MPP and BAP soon overshadow previous parties, and directly compete for the support of the people. Machinists and Geneticists now directly compete on the streets and in the media, a mass migration forms, Machinists westwards and Geneticists eastwards, and tensions rise further and further... until extremism rears its ugly head. A plague bomb is detonated within a coastal California community, killing close to 100,000... and then months later in retaliation, a biomechanical plague of nanites is released upon Chicago, devastating infrastructure for miles and killing close to 250,000...

So. You've decided to pay attention, then?
Good. Because what you learn here doesn't just affect you right now, it will keep you upright and sane through your entire life, so long as you listen.

Seven years ago, a virus dubbed Kura, closely related to Kuru, and the ever-deadly Creutzfeldt–Jakob syndrome, emerged in the general populace. At first, it was mild, no more severe than a common cold. After a few months, mostly everyone in North America had caught it and fought it off. Then it spread. First to South America. Then Europe. Et cetera. Within a year, the entire world was suffering from it. And it's symptoms began growing worse. Those who originally contracted it sickened and became bedridden, their bodies spasming violently and constantly. After this, they would enter a coma-like state and, after a day, expire.
The period of reanimation takes between seven and forty-eight hours, depending on the physiology of the subject and the severity of the changes. After that, the 'deceased' becomes active and hostile, save for a few cases. These zombies, for that is what they are, still inhabit most of our world. A few scattered pockets of civilization exist, of course, but are always under siege by hundreds, or even millions of these monstrosities. We do not have enough weaponry to retaliate and break free, nor the methods to evacuate. All we can do is stay in communication with other 'safe zones', and hope to god that those of the living still out there, and even the infected that didn't go insane, can find their way to us.

However, that's not why we're here.
Last year, as the safe zone here became completely self-sufficient, a group began a broadcast known simply as 'Hunting'. This show is frowned upon by many, but it's only undertaken by some, and they accept the risk.
The hunters are individuals who are let out into an infested area after being taken out by an armored car, and left to find their way back. They are given weapons and enough supplies to allow them to last a week without scavenging, as well as a drone equipped with a camera that records their activities, and broadcasts them over the airwaves, to entertain the masses still safe and sound in the cleared cities.
The Hunters must work their way home, avoiding or battling hordes of zombies and any humans that might stand in their way. Fortunately, there are some survivors along the way, in isolated communities that can assist them, and help them back to their reward.

2018, April: World War 3 officially ends, due to a treaty between the Russian Federation and the US. Over the course of the war, roughly 2.2 billion individuals were killed, due to heavy use of chemical and biological weapons, as well as limited nuclear exchanges, which were quickly annuled, by rogue factions within the US and Russia. Reconstruction, already begun during the war, of New York, which was annihilated in a biological attack just after the beginning of the war, continues apace, as does reconstruction elsewhere. In the wake of domestic attacks, much of the US has become more heavily built and security-minded. Patriotism has flown to unheard-of levels, and, surprisingly, there is little dissent, due to savvy wartime decisionmaking and a relatively stable economy.
2018, May: DEMEX, a product initially put into development as a countermeasure for use by troops in chemical weapons zones, is instead offered on the civilian market. Unfortunately, its prohibitive cost means few can acquire the retrovirus injection, and so it remains unused. After a short time, a rogue group, known as Edge Riders Anonymous, made up partially of ex-military and partially of civilian elements, hijacks a shipment of Demex, and uses an aerosol dispersement system, akin to that used in the New York attack four years prior, to spread the virus over a dozen major cities in the US. Shortly after, the group is forcibly disbanded by government action. Their efforts are successful, however, and the treatment, highly infectious due to its nature, spreads across both the US and the world.
2018, July: A worker in the bowels of New York, while aiding the efforts to clean the areas affected by the biological weapon, which has still not been completely eradicated, cracks his mask, becoming infected by the agent. By the end of the month, the ruins of New York were once again diseased, with those infected by the new strain of Demex tearing their ways through quarantine teams, clawing at the city walls... and then wiped from the map with a thermobaric bombing run, sterilizing every last inch of the city, leaving nothing but charred, warped girders and ash in their wake.
2018, August: Another outbreak of the modified strain occurs in Blackridge, California, and spreads within days to LA, San Fransisco, and San Diego, infecting airport passengers. The airlines carry these diseased individuals across the nation, and the pandemic truly begins, as international flights and refugees leave the nation, infecting country after country.
2018, October: The President of the US, along with the vast majority of Washington, DC, is lost to the plague, though confirmation of death is never established. The virus is now truly pandemic, and global.

The Plague began as a retrovirus medication, intended to cure diseases and bolster the immune system in the wake of the heavy use of biological and chemical agents during WWIII. When a particularly virulent engineered pathogen from the war came into contact with the original virus, both mutated and partially combined, resulting in an infection which heightened the immune system and the body's healing processes, while also interfering with the activity of the frontal lobe, producing enhanced aggression and breakdown of rational thought in the infected. While not 'dead', the infected are believed to be mostly incurable, though the existence of non-feral infected suggests this may be only a matter of the proper procedures.

Godless
Concept:
The Temple of Scalla was rumored to be the most beautiful creation in all the world. With the elegant towers that glowed emerald in the sun as it stood defiantly on the top of Mount Styr, where howling winds and beasts roamed. The temple was also a prison, though that was far less known...

The mages on the world, ever faithful in their neutrality to the nations that grow and inevitably die, held within their walls various chattel from the dungeons all over the world. Most would die in the freezing walls of their barracks. Some would survive long enough to achieve freedom in The Cull.

The Cull, a ritual that took place every blue moon*, would allow the apprentices of the various mages to form a "bond" with one of the prisoners, and thus move from apprentice to Magus and complete their training. These bonds are of utmost importance as it shifts the cost of magical energy from the mage, to the bonded. However, it is also the sickest form of cruelty that any race has devised.

In forming the bond, the souls of each person rip in two, causing many to die in the process. Those who survive are sent to various kingdoms all over the realm appointed as advisers to kings and queens.