User:Diano/Voudan Curn

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Voudan Curn -- Voudan Curn, the serial killer in red, founder of the Sons of Wendigo.

Cemetery stones 2.jpg PK Count
Voudan Curn has PKed 43 people.

Level: 34

Group: Sons of Wendigo

Home Turf: None; Voudan Curn is currently on the move in the midwest of Malton.

Wanted Poster: View It Here

Killer.jpg Player Killer
"One kills a man, one is an assassin; one kills millions, one is a conqueror; one kills everybody, one is a god."

This user is a PKer and supports the act of Player Killing.



A tall, slender man possessed of a wiry, rawboned strength and a cold-burning intensity that bleeds through every action. Cerulean eyes smolder with an icy hunger, the only part of his face visible behind his scowling Wendigo mask. It sits over his face as if it was made for him, all black jags and worls over a blood red base, noseless and furious like a Native American demon. Behind it are his sharp nose and a curly auburn beard framing the thin lips of his somber mouth and curving up under angular cheekbones to meet his wavy, shaggy mane under a peaked crimson cap. His carmine topcoat is worn over a red leather vest and scarlet silk shirt perversely encircled by a blood-spattered clerical collar. His hands are encased in thick vermilion leather gloves, clutching the cherry haft of a Viking axe in one hand and a black doctor's bag in the other, both speckled with flecks of bodily humors. His legs are encased in brick red leather motorcycle pants and heavy steel-toed boots, and he moves with nimble, predatory celerity. A bandoleer holding a worn double-barrel shotgun is slung around his shoulders and strung with spare shells, and a Luger revolver is tucked into his belt.


This tall, wiry zombie sways like a stalk of red wheat when not shambling about, the dark red of its clothing masking the myriad bloodstains splattered over its body. The scowling Wendigo mask over its face seems to cover the worst of its decay, the black jags and worls over a blood red base making the walking corpse seem noseless and furious like a Native American demon. Torrents of blood pour freely from the base of the masque, rolling over the perverse clerical collar at its throat and down across the leather vest at his chest. The dark crimson topcoat it wears flares out each time it waves its long, jerky arms. The zombie's bandoleer holds a worn double-barrel shotgun and a cherry-hafted Viking axe, and one undead hand maintains a death grip on the handle of a black doctor's bag.


Bloodyknife.jpg PKer
This user is a PKer and is probably off killing some poor defenseless survivor.

May 27, 2008

I have begun to wander, but my path is not random; Wendigo's voice leads me on, and so I follow it, knowing he will guide me where I need to be. He made certain my path crossed with Suburban Ed's, and so I greeted the man as a peer and wished him well. Soon after I found prey, and took down a tall, weapon-bearing man who nevertheless fell like a deer and tasted like prey. I then came across a man bleeding of his wounds, and I finished him off in order to sate my own appetite. It was a good day for a hunt.

May 26, 2008

Again I came across a man who smelled overpoweringly of death, and again I heard Wendigo howl for his return into the ranks of revenants whose hunger is his own. I killed this man before his peers, and in a bout of euphoria, turned my guns on two other bystanders to sate my own hunger. My blood rose to the hunt, and I know now that Wendigo guides my hand and mind alike in my kills, making my aim true and ensuring my strikes find home. Three deaths this day, and now he is sated.

May 23, 2008

I came across an Arab man in a junkyard, and he shared with me a bottle of wine he had procured. I was grateful, and when Wendigo's howl tore through the rusted metal and scrap in our shelter, I joyously brought the man to my master, cutting free his heart and tasting generously of his strength. Walking away, I felt my hunt had been successful, but then I was accosted by a nervous young man nearby. I slew him, and his blood was thick with pride, swelling my belly. I grow ever stronger in this place, and more implacable.

May 21, 2008

I felt the wind blowing me east like a leaf, cutting through my skin and chilling my bones until I heeded its call and set my feet to the path. As the winds picked up, so did my fleet footsteps, and I left the dubious security of the indoor world to run the streets among the zombies. I came across many of the dead and a surprising number of the dying. One of these dying souls was a grizzled veteran, bruised and battered and clutching his fire axe as he held off two those claimed by Wendigo. I slipped my blade through his ribs and bid him join them, sending him to my master.

May 20, 2008

I could hear Wendigo chivvying me toward life after the random gun blast sent me once again into his hand, and so I rose as one of the living, and my hunger was great. It seems that fate smiled on me then, for I entered a warehouse and found three unwary souls waiting to be devoured. Their deaths were quick -- the quickest kills yet, done with an efficiency that impressed even me -- and their souls were rich, tasting of fear and the heady aura of mortis.

May 18, 2008

I find that revival from death leaves me with a certain euphoria -- a lightheadedness and joie de vivre that I do not otherwise experience. Occasionally I act without wisdom, but often it makes a kill sweeter, and I enjoy the savor. I slayed a hard-bitten woman in khaki fatigues and cut her heart out with my knife, tasting the heady copper of her blood. I confessed this act to a man with a badge before I split his skull with a pistol shot, sticking my hand into the wounds of his chest to pull his heart free. Fresh kills, and the drive for more.

May 16, 2008

Wendigo was quiescent within me, so I chose to restock my munitions and avail myself of some food at Caiger Mall. While there, one of the denizens accosted me, shouting out that I was a murderer before attacking me with his knife. I had no wish to attack him, as he seemed weak and ill-suited as a kill, but I was forced to defend myself, so I put my axe between his eyes. The cannibal spirit rose within me then, and I made short work of his heart, feasting ravenously before I left.


It is true that a hunter cannot rest. After my last kill -- my thirtieth kill -- another stepped forward to accost me, and he was more successful. My infamy grows, and I find it harder to seek safe ground.

May 14, 2008

One of Malton's dubious "bounty hunters" came upon me yesterday night, speaking of my "crimes" and shooting me down in the name of "justice", as if such terms even held meaning in the gods-damned Tartarus we call home. My reverie in death was cut short by the fortuitous attentions of the Crimson Clan, who brought me back quickly enough that I was able to track this vigilante down. As he had offered me the respite of death, I returned the favor with aplomb, opening his throat with my axe and eating his still-beating heart. Revenge tastes sweet to my tongue, and the meat has a savor that will keep me warm all the way to Chudleyton.

May 13, 2008

I saw a man today, hiding amongst survivors in a ruined nightclub, and I could smell death on him. It clung to his skin like oil... like clotted blood and rot. I looked into his eyes and knew Wendigo called for him. When I killed him, I felt the release given to his true self, and devouring his strength sent the cold chill of death through my bones.

May 12, 2008

I have been dead nearly a month now, having been swallowed by the tidal wave of the Dead and caught up in their cadaverous bacchanal. So sweet was the siren song of Wendigo in undeath that its absence was a shock to me, and I awoke in a graveyard to find I was once again breathing.

Starving as I was, I fell upon a police officer who was beset by a zombie. It did not seem to mind that I had stolen its kill, and was content to eat my leavings. Unsatisfied with a single heart, I took the life of a doctor nearby before retiring. Resurrection is very tiring.

April 19, 2008

It is a novelty, being killed by your own murder victim. The solider I slayed yesterday returned today, threatening the weight of his entire army before gunning me down. I died with a smile on my face, as it is rare that I am so thoroughly threatened. Even death was fleeting, and the threat likely carries as much weight as my own conscience, but even so... it's lovely to be feared.

I feasted on the flesh of a walking survivor along my way, only to hear him scream that he was one of the Dead, the horde that rolls across this city like a physical plague. In that case, I am certain he will appreciate being brought back to his natural state.

April 18, 2008

I met a soldier today who claimed to be from America, sent here to help us. I laughed, knowing his army had abandoned him as much as it had the rest of us, and I snapped his neck before cutting out his heart and eating it. It had the heady boldness I have come to expect from Americans, though the taste was bitter in my mouth.

While walking on, I met a man who claimed to be a hunter of hunters -- one who kills those who prey on others. The irony of the situation was not lost upon me, and I opened his throat with my axe, hacking his chest open and letting the blood coat the floor before making a meal of his heart. It tasted sweet, like the irony, and I know he will not forget me when he rises again. I truly hope he hunts me; I will certainly be leaving a long trail of bodies in my wake. He was the 25th, after all, and my hunger is not nearly sated.

April 17, 2008

My reverie was brief this time, as some Samaritan brought me back amongst the living. While searching for prey I found an addled, bleeding man near a hospital, begging for help. I had considered ending his misery, but realized it was beneath me; this was no offering to be made to Wendigo, no proud buck to be struck down in the herd. I am not a wolf pack, feeding my young from the slowest and weakest; I am the son of the Wendigo, and I strike down the strongest and the best, bringing them into his cold grasp. I tended the man's wounds, and bade him remember me, for I will not forget him.

While loading my weapons at Pole Mall, overlooking Clapton Stadium, I saw a lost young woman with haunted eyes. I felt the cold wind rise up, and at first I thought Wendigo was beckoning, insisting I take her life. Instead, I felt that I should warn her against the coming storm, and so I made a point of speaking with her, informing her of where she was and who she spoke with. It seemed to sober her, and she shook herself from her daze and grew more serious in the task of her own survival. Perhaps our paths will cross again, and perhaps Wendigo will speak to her, as well.

I could do with a family.

April 14, 2008

Death is like a dream.

When dead, the world seems to lose color; hues fade into grays and browns, blurring at the edges so that everything loses focus and perspective. Time seems to speed up, turning night and day into vague impressions of bright and dark, warm and cold. The survival concerns of life seem trivial and inconsequential, if they are considered at all; at most times, they are transient will-o-the-wisps, like shapes in the clouds.

Through it all is the siren song of Wendigo, crooning to me of ravenous hunger and the warmth of flesh. I lost track of all time in his fugue, and woke from my furor in the grass of a cemetery to find that weeks had passed. Weeks.

But blood will out.

I fell upon a nun in a church, asking if she heard her God in death, and asking her to listen for Wendigo. The reverend was next, falling harder but still falling. Their blood carried the rich nectar of faith, and I could taste in their hearts the steel that had hardened these long months in our Hell. It was not long before their companions found me, adrift in my reverie, awash in Wendigo's glory. By then, death was a welcome slumber, and I embraced it as a familiar lover.

March 3, 2008

As I was hunting today, I ran into Mr. Jem of the Philosophe Knights. I made time for pleasantries and courtesy for a fellow hunter, and still found time in my day for two kills. For now, life is good in the south.

February 28, 2008

Today I killed my first Malton Marshal, and his blood was rich and full. The heart of his companion was likewise fulfilling, and I left the scene of my kill feeling potent. I am certain they will take notice of me now, but they are welcome to hunt me wherever they like -- I can hunt back.

February 23, 2008

Now that I am alive again, Wendigo drives me on. I fell upon two easy targets today, one of whom was a part of Rotter's Relief. It pained me to take down someone doing such noble work, but considering his allies, I doubt he will stay dead long. Meanwhile, the power gained from such an individual is... considerable.

February 22, 2008

The horde overtook the mall today. It was glorious. A wave of animated dead flooding in and devouring everything in sight. I stood and waited for them, and let it carry me to my inevitable little death.

As I walked away from that death a shambling thing, I fell upon a survivor caught outdoors and ate through his flesh using only my teeth and hands as weapons. He was the first I had ever killed in undeath, and the hunger was unimaginably sharp.

February 17, 2008

I prepared for days, gathering ammunition and following targets. I waited until they converged, and I slayed four at once, before their fellows.

It was less rewarding than I had thought. Waiting those days made my hunger grow, and I found I needed more. Not more at once, but more over time... more death. More life.

I will not be doing it again for some time. For now, I prefer to hunt more personally.

February 12, 2008

"Choose your targets well, Voudan."

That is what he said to me after he shot me from behind. It was very clever of him, really; he turned my own tricks on me, stalking me well and bringing me down like a deer. It's my own fault for not leaving Havercroft sooner. I had a taste of death, for a while, and it was enlightening.

I will move on. I am too easily remembered here.

February 10, 2008

It was three this time, for certain. I was on them faster than they could react, and I killed them mercilessly but humanely, as a hunter should. I can still taste their flesh, and the fear in it. I feel more powerful by the minute.

February 06, 2008

For three days, Wendigo was quiescent within me, and I began to wonder if I had lost him entirely. Today, however, he roared to life with a vengeance, and within the packed walls of Ackland Mall I rose against my prey like the Devil and took down two before the shocked eyes of the herd. I set my sights on a third, but I was unable to fell him before the eyes of the sheep turned violent, and I knew that to continue would mean my own death.

I am not ready to die -- not yet. I am not fool enough to be felled taking down a buck. What would be the point of making the kill if I do not consume the flesh? The power is in the devouring, not in the slaying.

February 03, 2008

The last death only proved that worthy prey make for better feeding. I strike, I consume, I move on. It is the way of the shark; the way of the Wendigo.


Six. My blood rises to think of it. This cannot end -- it will not end -- and I am growing the stronger for it. I crave more.

February 02, 2008

Two. Three. Four.

Death is delivered easily, and the unwary make for simple prey. The inexperienced, however, sit in my belly like weak ale, taking up room that could be filled by something more... robust. From now on, my eyes see only those with strength. Strength I can take.

Even so, my hunter's edge grows keener, and I continue moving.

February 01, 2008

I am hungry, and there is viand aplenty in this concrete jungle. I will no longer ignore the beating of my own heart.

Now is the time to reap what Death has sown.


The sun is at its highest, and I can still taste his blood on my tongue. His heart beats in my belly. His strength is mine, and I feel... alive. So simple the act, so thrilling the victory.

It is as the Clown once said. I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go that the Devil drives.

All's well that ends well.

January 24, 2008

I can taste metal in the back of my throat. I can feel fire between every knuckle in my fingers. I ache.

Winter in Malton is colder than I remember. Stalking through the empty buildings where even weak light is just a beacon calling for death, it's hard to even recall a time where this was a thriving, living city. People once flowed through the streets like blood cells, cars and children and citizens as the lifeblood of a living, breathing place. And then death grew like a cancer in its lungs before spreading everywhere and wrapping Malton in a cold, hungry tangle of spiderlike limbs.

Wendigo awoke here like a brumal phoenix, with every cutting Chinook breeze as his arctic exhalation. His heart beats, but coldly; it draws the heat from everything it touches. Including me.

I will not freeze to death here in the bones of this dead city. I will feast on flesh steaming in the icy air, and I will grow powerful. This is what Wendigo wants of me.

January 12, 2008

I can feel it inside of me. It's pulling, like a ball of iron in my belly trying to find a magnet in the distance. It isn't hunger; I don't crave the taste, I don't feel empty. I feel... drawn.

When I was a boy, my mother used to tell me stories about the great manitou. She was half Cree, and she studied all of the great mythology, moving here to Malton to teach it at the university. She used to talk about the wendigo, the cannibal spirit, and how he hungered for the flesh of man. How sometimes he put the hunger into people, and they ate their friends, and were evil. And she told me sometimes warriors would give him offerings anyway, and they would kill their enemies and eat their heart, and take their power. They often became outcasts if it got the better of them, but they were great warriors. They were as gods among men.

My father used to take me hunting. He used to say that if you respected what you killed, the gods looked down on you favorably, and allowed you to grow strong from your meal. This is how mankind grew to stand above the animals -- we learned how to gain the favor of the gods through the death of our prey.

I cannot ignore the driving need inside of me to be more. The power is out there. It resides in the heart of every fearful survivor I see. The zombies know -- they eat what they kill, and it makes them strong.

I will be strong, too.

No one can stop me.

Fire.jpg Hell
This user is going to Hell.


Voudan Curn was an ecological anthropologist working with the sociology department of the University of Manchester in a study on the effects of urban environments on tribal social groups such as street gangs. He was known as a competent and brilliant researcher on the subject of urban sociology, considered eccentric and oddly neo-primitive in his theories but wildly accurate in his understanding of the human condition.

He is the son of two well-respected researchers, on whose theories many of his studies are based. His is mother Shannon Crowfoot Curn, a professor of sociology at Oxford, renowned for her studies on Native American mythology and culture. His father is Dusan Curn, a Czech archeologist whose work on Pictish society has shed a great deal of light on their history. His parents were deeply spiritual, animistic people, and raised Voudan with a respect for the mythology and religion of many world cultures, as well as a respect for the land and its bounty.

Voudan was an avid reader and writer, but was also very physical, playing rugby throughout college and engaging in demanding activities such as parkour running, judo, fencing, hiking, and rock climbing.

When Z-Day occurred, he was trapped in his apartment in Isgar Towers in the South Blytheville suburb, eventually having to climb down the outside of the building to get to the street. His skill at hunting and his ability as a traceur kept him alive, but he began to believe that the zombie plague was brought about by the Cree Manitou Wendigo, the cannibal spirit of winter. He heard the howl of Wendigo in his mind, and began to feel a driving hunger. Recalling his mother’s tales of Wendigo driving others to kill and devour their enemies for power, he began to hunt other survivors, drawing their strength and their soul from the flesh of their hearts.


Voudan Curn will...

  1. Kill You. He is a murderer, and that is what he does.
  2. Take Your Power. Voudan kills because he believes it gives him the power of his victims. If he kills you, you will forever be a part of him.
  3. Leave If Injured. If you hunt Voudan down and kill him, he will leave your suburb as a zombie. He may not leave forever, but killing him is an effective way of getting rid of him, for a time.
  4. Defend Himself. Even if you would not normally qualify as prey, expect Voudan Curn to defend his life with lethal force. Former prey, newbies, and even people who Voudan owes his life to are not immune from this; a hunter defends himself from all comers.
  5. Follow the Sacred Ground Policy. Voudan Curn does not attack zombies in cemeteries, and does his best to recognize revive points. Reviving zombies gives him more potential victims.
  6. Immortalize You. If you are killed by Voudan Curn, your name will appear here. You will never be forgotten.
  7. Take His Medicine Like a Man. If you kill him in retaliation, he will accept that. If you are a Bounty Hunter and you stalk him, you are no different from him -- he stalks and hunts survivors, too. Respect to the predators.
  8. Remember Kindness. If you revive him or heal his infection, Voudan Curn will not forget that you did him a favor, and will not harm you.

Voudan Curn will not...

  1. Grief You. If Voudan kills you once, that's the end of it. He's already taken your power. Any further attacks will be predicated on some other reasoning, and are unlikely to be initiated by him.
  2. Stop Killing. Nothing is going to stop him. He is invincible, inexorable, and indomitable. He will just keep coming.
  3. Mess With Your Tags. If you have easily-identifiable group tags up, Voudan will not touch them. He will only spray over tags that are unaligned graffiti.
  4. Hurt Your Barricades. Voudan Curn is interested in killing you personally, not letting zombies kill you. He does not break down barricades.
  5. Touch Your Belongings. Voudan Curn is against GKing and RKing tactics, and does not vandalize buildings. He is a predator, not a thug.
  6. Spy On You. If you are being stalked by him, you are being stalked by him; he does not use intermediaries to act in his stead.
  7. Pick on Newbies. After a few early kills, it was discovered that there is no point taking down weak prey, as the hunt is about devouring the strength of others. Characters at Level 5 or below are beneath the notice of Voudan Curn.


Voudan Curn has killed the following people as a human.

Voudan Curn has killed the following people as a zombie (which does not go toward his PK count).

Voudan Curn has been bested by the following people. They should watch their backs.

Hub.JPG Player Killer Hub Member
This User/ Group is a member of the Player Killer Hub, and has devious plans on larger Malton...