Name: Tamsin
Age: He can't remember... ^^'
Height: Five foot, seven inches
Weight: One hundred, five pounds
Hair Color: White
Eye Color: Yellow, red when startled.
Type: Witch

[Okay not sure if you've ever read this, but I've read several articles for the reasoning behind why the Witch cries and the most common one is that before the outbreak and infection, she was beautiful. While's she infected, she's conscious in the change in her appearance and is trapped in this state of horror over how she looks. So that's why she cries and doesn't like the light. And she attacks because she doesn't want people to see her. :C So that's where the basis of my witch it coming from.]

He'd been crying, loudly at that, but it was something that couldn't be helped. Trudging along aimlessly, he'd seen his reflection in the broken glass of broken down, abandoned car's busted side mirror. Why did he do this to himself? He knew better than to look. But he had. He'd looked and reminded himself of what an ugly monster he'd become. How lonely he'd become… Tamsin had given up for the moment - forgetting what his intent for the night had even been - and dropped to the ground to cry again.

Crying was unbearable. Before the infection, his memories were fuzzy. What he did remember was that he'd been beautiful. Beautiful with blonde hair, glowing skin, an abundance of friends, and lovers. Now, he wasn't. He was ugly. His hair had grown out, stringy and dirty, and his skin had turned an unseemly color. His appearance wasn't the only thing that had changed. He could hardly control his body most of the time. The little set off and he either freaked out and ripped something apart or broke down and cried. Sometimes a mixture of both. It was his own personal hell. Only worsening when people came around. Didn't they know he only wanted to be left alone? He'd leave them alone if they just let him be. Instead, they shined their lights on him - singled him out! - and screamed "Witch!" even though he wasn't.

Stop. Stop. He ordered himself to stop crying. This was stupid. He had something to do - what was it? His memory had turned to shit after he became infected. Or maybe it had always been. He couldn't remember. Tamsin pulled his sorry ass off the ground and kept walking, trying his hardest to stop crying. Before he'd gotten upset, he'd been walking down the length of a road. Maybe once he got to the end he'd remember where he was going. The street lamps - light - triggered him again and he stopped. "I hear a witch - hit the lights!" He heard whispered around him. People. People calling him a witch. He stopped crying. There was a heaviness in his chest, he was angry. He heard the growls in his hears before he realized he was making them.

He could see them. Four people. With guns. He had to hurt them before they hurt him. Tamsin wasn't fast enough though. He turned to get up and a loud shot went off by the side of his head, startling him. The bullet connected first with his shoulder, before another went through his leg. He screamed and tried to get up, but he couldn't. He hadn't been fast enough and the humans hurt him then ran away, leaving him to bleed out. But he wouldn't die. Wasn't he already dead? Maybe his body would rot away and he could finally be done.

He used the right side of his body to drag himself out of the light of the street lamp. If he was going to be ugly and dying, then he would do it in the comfort of the dark. Now he really had something to cry about.

[Eh, a bit short, but I'm really tired and gotta get to bed ^^' ]

Name: Berilo Arataki
Age: Twenty-four
Height: Six feet, two inches
Weight: Two hundred and ten pounds
Hair Color: Dark, dark brown
Eye Color: Peppermint
Type: Survivor

---

(( I've heard about that theory. I figured it was either that theory, or the theory that they get head-splitting migraines that make them super-sensitive to light and sound. Usually, I just mix those two theories together to make it interesting. X3 But that's just me! I like your theory! ))


"Hey, now." The insistent cat mewled in protest, pawing at the frayed hem of one of his pant legs. The owner of the aforementioned pants smiled at the tiny creature, adjusted his thick black-rimmed glasses, and knelt down, reaching his hand out toward the cat. It immediately shuffled forward, rubbing its cheeks affectionately against his outstretched fingers. "Come on, piccolo. You're sweet, I know. But I can't keep you. I barely have enough food to feed myself." With a final pat to the calico's head, Berilo rose to his full height once again. "Run along, now. And do take care to find a good hiding place, sì? I wouldn't want you to end up as some hungry beast's dinner." With a parting sound of protest, the tri-colored cat grudgingly turned and pattered off into the nearest alleyway. Undeterred by the encounter, Berilo continued walking.

As he walked, he reached a hand up and ran his fingers through his dark chocolate brown hair. Almost instantly, those fingers jerked away and his nose wrinkled up with disgust. His hair...it was so greasy! He couldn't remember the last time he had himself a good bath. Yes, a proper bath, with that spearmint-scented shampoo he always liked so much. Or...a good, proper meal, with all the fixings! He longed to have a boring Saturday night in, ordering Chinese takeout and curling up in front of his TV to watch some good television. He wanted to suffer through a heated, hour-long phone call with his disgruntled boss, demanding why the blueprints for their next big project hadn't been turned in yet, and he wanted to argue with him about how the quality of the design meant more than how quickly it was completed.

Berilo missed all the comforts of home, especially electricity, running water, and heating and air conditioning units. He missed his overbearing mother and the father who never understood him, both of whom lived in Italy. He missed his nagging, spoiled little sister, who never worked a day in her life and always needed help with her English homework. He missed the days before this hellish Infection took hold. The days when people smiled instead of frowning. When people were kind-hearted, warm, and loving...not cold, bitter, and inherently selfish. He missed being able to live in comfort, instead of living in fear.

But most of all...he missed music. With art running as a close second, music was Berilo's one true love. After the Infection took hold of this world, Berilo had been forced to leave home with few supplies, including the only firearm he'd ever owned (a small-caliber pistol), a couple cans of beans, three bottles of water, and his most prized possession of all. His acoustic guitar. Though it was heavy and weighed him down, he just couldn't bring himself to leave it behind. It was the only reminder of home that he had left, and he had vowed never to abandon it. Not even if it was a matter of life or death!

If he was being completely honest with himself...Berilo didn't know how he'd managed to last this long being all by himself. He was never all that comfortable handling guns. They unnerved him, actually--he was a lover, not a fighter! He was an awful shot, to boot. Even though he'd managed to acquire a hunting rifle as well as his trusty pistol, he was still by no means safe due to his lack of skill. He only had the misfortune to run into a Special Infected once. A Charger. It sounded so much like a human being when it babbled those unintelligible words, and (stupid him!) Berilo automatically went to investigate. It nearly killed him when it charged. Luckily enough, it missed, and it went careening over the steep ledge behind him.

Silly thing. They obviously weren't that bright.

By this point, Berilo had assumed that he was just one lucky bastard. All this time, and only one real run-in with a Special Infected? By god, he had to be blessed! Someone was watching out for him! He wasn't a religious man, but no one could possibly be this lucky.

Just then, as he emerged from a deserted side street, Berilo damn near jumped right out of his skin as gunshots pierced the air. At first, he made to flee...but he hadn't even finished turning when he whipped back around, a hopeful expression dawning on his face. Gunshots...gunshots meant other people! Survivors, like him! Maybe...he'd be able to join a proper group and improve his chances! He had to hurry! Rapidly, Berilo turned on his heel and began sprinting toward the direction of the noise. He was afraid of dying, and anything he could do to improve his chances was a welcome option! Just to be on the safe side, he kept his pistol ready and at hand.

There were no more gunshots, though he kept his ears strained for any additional sounds. Just as he was about to round the corner onto the main street (something that he was admittedly nervous about), he ground to an abrupt halt, listening closely. Was that...what he thought it was? It sounded like crying. Red flags began dancing about in his mind. He could clearly remember reading some messages on the wall about crying. Stay away from the crying! The crying ones are dangerous! Don't be fooled! Some things along those lines. Slowly, finger on the trigger, Berilo peeked around the corner of the building.

The blood was the first thing he saw. Bright, vibrant red. Still fresh. His eyes followed the glowing blood pool to a body sprawled out in the middle of the street. For one brief, horrifying moment, he thought for sure that it was a dying human. Then he took a closer look, shuffling a little ways onto the sidewalk. Oh, no. This was no human. It was one of those crying things the others warned him about. What were they called again? Witches? Huh. They didn't look very threatening, save for those wicked claws--man, they were huge! The thing wasn't moving, but he still heard crying...squinting, Berilo stood on his tip-toes and tried to get a good look at the downed Infected's face. It had to be alive. That crying wasn't coming from anything else. But that was a lot of blood. It wouldn't be alive for too much longer.

...Aw, shit. There went his conscience again. Berilo was a soft-hearted man. Kind and gentle, though he did like to taunt and tease people he liked. For a few long, tense moments, he just stood there, wringing his fingers together. After a bit of deliberation, he sighed heavily, and then he cautiously began to approach.

"Hello, there." Could those things even understand English? Or was it all just gobbledygook to them? Berilo stopped a respectable few feet from his quarry, eyeing the creature up. It must have been shot. Those gunshots from earlier...some people must have come across this creature and shot it. But didn't these creatures hide themselves away, and not attack unless provoked? So...they provoked it. Berilo frowned. Well, that wasn't nice of them. These creatures just wanted to be left alone, didn't they?

"You're hurt," he piped up, tapping his shoulder and then one of his legs to indicate the location of the wounds he could see. He cleared his throat, then, and slowly outstretched his unarmed hand. "I can help you. Help. You," he emphasized, nodding. "Will you let me help?"


(( That's okay! Sleep well! :3 ))

The Witch was fairly certain he was going to die. Any moment now. His consciousness would fade away into a blissful rest, and he'd finally be free from this awful existence… But he'd been shot before. He'd been beaten before. By the humans that came passing through on occasion; the lucky shits that hadn't been cursed with the infection in the outbreak.They just had to rub it in, that they were alright while he wasn't. He'd sit there by himself, wallowing in his misery, and out of nowhere, he'd be attacked. Didn't they know he wouldn't touch them if they left him alone? But once they got too close or upset him, he couldn't be accountable for his actions. It wasn't that he liked ripping people apart with his claws, it just happened. It was part of his curse.

Tamsin was still crying. He'd only managed to drag himself so far before he was back in front of the car with the fucking mirror. Why didn't he ever learn? He should just stay in one spot. One dark spot where no one would see him and he'd never have to see himself again. He could stay there and wait it out until he either died or his curse was lifted. But he couldn't. He was looking for something. What exactly that something was, he couldn't remember. But he'd know when he found it. Until then, he just had to avoid mirrors, people, and the light and he'd be fine. He'd find it someday.

Lying on the side of his body that hadn't been shot at, the Witch raked his claws against the ground. Ugly. So ugly. His body become emaciated too, since he didn't eat. The mindless ones, that ran after anything that moved got to eat, but Tamsin couldn't. He was always too upset to eat. Maybe he'd eat the next human he killed. Just to see what they tasted like. Everyone else seemed to like them. And they were such assholes…

He heard the shuffling of feet behind him. Hopefully it was another infected, they left each other alone - the special ones like him anyway. The mindless ones wouldn't attack him, but they traveled in herds. Mindlessly following each other, as if they had a plan and knew what they were doing. He wished he had a herd. But Witches didn't travel together. They were usually too busy crying or running away from people to stay together. He was better off without a group though. It made him more vulnerable, he thought. It was just asking for a group of humans to come execute them all together. And their crying would just draw the people out.

There was no groaning. The mindless ones always groaned. Whatever was near him didn't smell dead. A person. Maybe one coming to deliver one last blow to his head. The final headshot that would send everything into the black… But none came. Instead, the person just got closer and closer. No, go away. He thought bitterly. If it wasn't going to kill him, then it had to go away. Tamsin stopped crying and let out loud, warning growls, eyes flashing red. Don't look at me. Leave me alone.

He would have swiped at the man, would have ripped him apart if he could muster the energy. Plus all his weight was crushing down on the limbs that weren't killing him. Fuck off. He wanted to say, but he couldn't really talk. He could growl and cry and scream, but words… Words didn't work. He could understand sometimes, but sometimes they were jumbled. Being alone for a long time had that sort of affect. The infection had also taken a toll on his brain to mouth coordination.

Trying again, he growled. But the man didn't seem to be getting the message. He screamed, loudly as he could, but he was a wounded animal. A weak, wounded animal that didn't exactly have the strength to fight back. He growled once more before giving up. The man was speaking to him. The words sounded like another language. He could hear them, but deciphering them was a chore. His eyes had faded back to yellow, very little fight left in him.Those yellow eyes followed the man's hand motion. One tap on his arm and one on his leg. Like Tamsin's wounds.

No weapon was visible, and the man wasn't hurting him… What was happening? Help… Help. Help.. The word rung in his ears, echoing until he understood. The man was going to help him? He parted his lips, opening his mouth to try to say yes, but all that came out was a squeaky cry. He hadn't used words since he'd turned. He tried to meet the man's eyes, looking searchingly into them. Why was this man trying to help him? Acting like he was a wounded puppy, not a monster that could destroy him in one swipe of his claws.

He pulled himself closer, nudging his head against the man's knee. He didn't want to be looked at though. If he kept his head down… Wasn't the man repulsed though?

Berilo tried his best to remain as still as he possibly could. Making sudden sounds or movements could easily startle this creature. He couldn't remember ever coming across one of these particular sorts of Infected before, but he knew plenty about them. The huge number of scattered messages, scrawled out on any available surface that traveling Survivors could find, certainly helped to rectify his previous lack of knowledge. That was how he acquired most of his information about the Infected and the disease that ravaged their bodies, nowadays. People talked about Witches often on these makeshift message boards, warning people about how very dangerous they were. Apparently, they could take a man down with one swipe of their deadly claws, and once their victim was down, they savagely ripped them apart! They wandered about during the daytime hours, but returned to a sedentary position in a dark, quiet place once night fell. They cried constantly, but those cries turned to growls once they grew irritated, and shrieks once they lost their tempers.

Oh, and...apparently, they also had a thing for sweet stuff. He'd read that some people had taken to making what they called 'Sticky Bombs' (consisting of a sweet pastry, any kind of sweet syrup, and as much candy as one could stuff into the pastry) to throw off into the distance, and they would instantly distract Witches! They really loved sugar that much, huh? That was...oddly adorable to think about. Almost like a bratty child with light sensitivity and horrendously deformed fingers.

The second those pitiful wailing sounds morphed into low, threatening growls, Berilo's hands shot up into the air in a sign of clear surrender. "Hey, now." He was hoping that his voice, a low, smooth baritone, would be enough to assuage the creature's anger. That's right...gravely injured or not, these Witches didn't like being approached. Just approaching them could provoke them. But why? Was it because they saw other creatures as threats to them? Or was it something else entirely? The sudden color change, from mellow yellow to violent red, made the little hairs on the back of Berilo's neck stand up. Oh, no. He had to think quickly! "I mean you no harm." His second attempt at reassurance, if the thing could even understand him. "I just want to help you!" He cringed after those words, eyes squeezing shut. So, this was it. This was the end. He was going to die here, ripped apart by a creature he only wanted to help! This was it for him!

...But...the strike he was expecting...it never did come.

Berilo cracked one eye open, the peppermint color of his irises quite striking against his tanned skin, and fixed it upon the incapacitated Witch. It was still growling, but...it didn't seem to have much strength. Otherwise, it surely would have leaped up and attacked him, turning into a viciously-clawed, long-haired death sentence for him. Ah-ha. So he wasn't in any real danger, then...as long as he didn't get too comfortable and venture a tad bit too close to the Infected. The tiny smirk growing on Berilo's face vanished in an instant, replaced with a brief flash of fear when the Witch suddenly let loose that piercing, trademark scream. He jumped, scuttling backwards a couple of steps.

It was a comical sight, really. He was a tall man. Decently toned, but not heavily-muscled. Pretty strong, too...and yet...he reacted like a frightened schoolgirl sometimes. He just...he didn't want his face or his body or his clothes or his precious guitar being torn to shreds by some...some...crying thing!

Berilo easily deduced that he had to have been in the clear once those threatening crimson eyes dimmed back down to a much duller yellow color. Yellow meant calm, red meant threatening. Yet another thing he'd picked up from reading all of those scribbled messages on the walls. His own eyes, the cool shade of peppermint, observed the now calmer Infected as it watched him. He wasn't expecting that oddly mouse-like cry--he stood up a little straighter, staring profusely at the creature before him like it had suddenly grown a second head. As the Witch met his eyes, Berilo flashed him--it had to be a him...it was completely flat-chested...--a typically charming smile. It had a pretty face. Those claws were nothing short of horrifying, but at least it had a pretty face. "Do you even understand any of the things I'm saying?" he queried, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "It would be fascinating if you could, but...judging by the way you're looking at me, I highly doubt that is the case."

Blinking, the Italy native shook his head back and forth, muttering to himself in low, hurried Italian. What was he doing, trying to hold a proper conversation with this Infected--this creature who probably just wanted him to go away and never come back? Perhaps it was the nearly-complete lack of social interaction getting to him, though he had always been a person who appreciated his own company.

"Eh...?" Berilo stared down at the creature as it pulled itself closer to him and then...nudged his knee? "...What in the world are you trying to do?" He cleared his throat, seeming quite puzzled, but then took a step backwards and knelt down, swinging his knapsack off of his back. "No, you stay put. Moving might aggravate your injuries..." There was a first-aid kit buried somewhere in this knapsack...ah! Berilo tugged a bright red pack out of his knapsack, setting it on the ground and undoing the clasps. "I assume that nudging manuever you pulled there means you're going to let me help you, sì?" he piped up, briefly glancing at the Witch. "You aren't going to rip my face off if I get closer to you, right?"

In his hands, Berilo clutched a pair of medical tongs, a sewing kit, a tiny bag of cotton balls, and what looked like a small bottle of disinfectant. He had to dig the bullets out, if they were still in...and then sew the wounds shut.

Watching the man jump back gave the Witch a sense of power. The human in front of him was smart enough to know to be afraid. Good. He should have been. Once the Witch regained his strength, if the man was around, he'd tear him to bits! The non-infected may not have been a threat, but he was upsetting the Witch with his presence. Why wasn't he moving on? Words just kept coming from his mouth and Tamsin couldn't keep up with them enough to process anything. Those green hues just kept staring into him, words coming out of the poorly equipped mouth; those pearly whites were not fearsome at all.

The other's words became a little hushed, making it harder for the Witch to understand what he was trying to communicate. Why was he trying to understand the uninfected at all, anyway? Maybe he didn't want to die after all. For the moment, the Witch's anger subsided, into that empty feeling that reigned in between sessions or crying or attacking. But he wasn't off-guard. If this uninfected tried anything… Well he'd be powerless to stop him. Powerless….

The man kept using words that the Witch didn't understand, but they were a little soothing. Tamsin just cocked his head to the side, looking curiously at him. Was the man going to help him or what? He could have sworn he understood the word 'help', but maybe he was wrong. If that were the case… Then they were going to have a problem, because he didn't trust this creature to leave without coming back with more to hurt him.

He nudged the man's knee again, trying to encourage him to help. If he didn't threaten the man, then the man wouldn't threaten him, right? He pulled his head away to look wearily up at him. Tamsin was nervous. This situation made him nervous. But if the man helped him, then he could continue on and find what he'd been looking for. Hopefully he'd recognize it when he found it…

The sudden movement when the man pulled his napsack off of his shoulder startled him. Immediately, he gave another warning growl, but his eyes stayed their mellow-yellow color. What was he doing? What was that? When the man reached in, Tamsin was sure he'd pull out a weapon. He screamed. Loudly, but his eyes were fixated on the man's hands. He stopped when he saw what the man had actually pulled out and realized that it wasn't a weapon. It was one of those boxes. He saw other uninfected with those. After being attacked by something they'd pull them out and -- oh! Help! Would it work on him, though?

His interest was peaked when more items were retrieved from the little red box. What were those? He wanted to touch them, see what they were. The witch was curious.

[blehh sorry it's short]