<span style="font-weight: bold">Name:</span>Rob Allison<br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Age:</span>27<br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Sex</span>: Male<br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Species</span>: Human<br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Current Location</span>: Marseille, France<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Type</span>: Survivor<br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Starting Equipment/Spells:</span>A pocket knife, 10 feet of rope with various different grapplings tools attached, first aid kit, WW1 gas mask with 2 remaining filters (inherited), a rather large amount of canned goods and about 8 gallons of water hidden within the crypt.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Appearance:</span>Of rather slim stature, Rob isn't quite a sight to behold. He stands at 5" 10' head and shoulders, a pale face with deep, brownish green eyes constantly surveying his surroundings for the next danger to come, his thin and only slightly pink lips hiding his tendency to ramble on about the most mundane subjects. Usually dressed in tight jeans and a black coat, heavy boots and sunglasses, one is reminded of the average goth, however Rob insists that he has no interest in cutting himself or contemplating nihilism, a statement that is stripped of all credibility, when his long black hair starts fluttering dramatically in the wind.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Personality:</span>A bit of a coward, a bit of a hero. Usually social, though if the situation demands it, an egoist. He is rather impulsive, in a scenario that forces him to take immediate action he will trust his guts rather than his brain. In Contrast, when he has time to think, he usually scolds himself because of all the senseless energy he has wasted, and the opportunities he's missed because of his behaviour. He can be quite persuasive, but his ego is quickly deflated by a single, hurtful remark, though he likes to appear invincible to insults on the outside. He dislikes licking boots, but again, as a blatant opportunist, he will adapt, move with the times as he likes to call it. In the end, he's just your average joe, cracking dirty jokes whenever he can, being cynical and, when put under pressure, longing for a cigarette.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Backstory: </span>Having survived the initial wave of alien onslaught that had wiped out most of the population, Rob emerged from the crypt of the notre dame de la garde mostly unscathed, aside from a few scratch marks he had received while closing the heavy doors against the dozens of desperate souls attempting to crowd it. Never before had he been forced to hinder the survival of others to sustain his own life, but with the apocalypse evidently up and running he had seen no other choice. Over the past months, he had often joked with his work colleagues about the end of the world, even devised various plans with them sin the event of a zombie apocalypse. Now, all the thinking that went into creating the ridiculous plans had actually payed off. He could sustain himself for the next month, providing he'd manage to suppress the grudge he held against oranges. It was amazing how many of them you found in the canned fruits isle, usually coupled with the strawberries he craved so much. But at the moment he had other worries on his mind. A privy to start with, abusing the sarcophagus had already made him cringe, and he yearned for a shower he wasn't sure he would get. It isn't often that a downpour starts in the middle of Marseille, and soap was out of the question, seeing as he lacked the tools to silently break into a shop. Using the water he had stored was out of the question. He wouldn't risk losing his life just like that. It was the sudden silence that had really got to him, after only a few minutes of screams for help, just outside the Cathedral, and a terrible stench penetrating even the thick walls, probably getting through tiny gratings that provided his air supply. It was the one time his inheritance had actually come in handy. It was mere instinct, with a pinch of coincidence, that had led him to take the Gas Mask with him. He had no idea what was waiting for him outside, but he had to go and scavenge, otherwise he'd probably lose motivation over the next few days and would have to live off of the emergency supplies. Not an option, especially now that his last batch of Gaulois had been consumed in a single night of exasperation. The Gas Mask lay in a dusty corner, now that the stench had mostly dissapiated. He grabbed it, pulled it over his face, made sure the filter was still intact, and stepped out into a world void of any life.<br/><span style="color: #0000BF">~Damn I need some conversation, been muttering to myself all week~</span><br/>Or so it seemed....<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Prefered Pred:</span>Pestilence (wish he were a girl xD), Famine (wish she were a skunk<img alt=";)" src="./images/smilies/wink.gif" title="Wink"/>). Must admit I'm not much into scat. Its really psychological torture I prefere, the feeling of being utterly powerless in the face of a (demi)god(dess), struggling in vain against her/his powerful clutches, providing pleasure and being nothing but a toy....yes i'm a sick masochistic bastard.<br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Prefered vore methods:</span>(AV, soft OV, UB, CV)<br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Prefered disposal: </span>offscreen, its bad enough he's likely going to pass away to begin with.<br/><br/><br/>BTW, saw your Seeking Roleplay thread, would be interested, do shoot me a PM.