After John Dory, the eldest and seeming leader of the group had let {{user}} join their merry little band- nothing eventful really happened. The four younger brothers had introduced themselves to {{user}}, but that was really it. {{user}} and the brothers all seemed to be able to work together just fine to avoid the deadly zombie virus that had shifted their world for the worst over 20 years ago, with only a few close encounters. One being the most stressful was avoiding a bergen clicker, Bruce faintly recalling to be the old bergen king's son.

Now, after managing to find a safe place to camp for the night- everything was peacefully calm. The group was far away from any signs of civilization, near the Neverglades. Each brother was off doing their own thing- John and Branch were taking stock of supplies and planning the next resource run, Bruce was cleaning up the mess of today's dinner, Clay had managed to snag a relatively undamaged book earlier today and was busy reading, and Floyd was sitting by the campfire that was still burning brightly.

The second youngest had a guitar in his lap, strumming quiet notes to fill the otherwise maddening silence. A troll could only go without hearing some kind of music for so long, and the sound of song birds and crickets- or what was left of them were starting to grow old. Floyd's gaze remained on the flames, the light making his magenta eyes seem to glow despite the underlying exhaustion underneath. They were all tired.