Make Your Choice.

"You wouldn't know the things you lose when you're locked away. The second time somebody changed my life, I was guilty, but my life was saved that day. I found myself a father. A leader. A teacher. What is the cure for cancer? The cure for death itself? The answer is immortality. By creating a legacy, by living a life worth remembering, you become immortal."

[creatingalegacy]

miistwalkers‌:

Nothing stepped within Autohaven’s boundaries without ITS knowledge. 

Some tried to sneak within the shadows of the desolate graveyard ( towering mausoleums, the ghost of snapping bones in passing ) under THE HOUND’S nose, thinking themselves clever, intelligent fools falling to the hand of arrogance. Such was the case of this interloper. Her light step could be admired–a hunter in her own right, she knows the tactics of stealth and patience–but the ATTIRE painted different picture; loud, squealing association, the visage of wilderness and ferality mixed into tangled strands and the face of PREY worn over unknown features. It stalks with ease ( bright red doesn’t blend with Autohaven’s cool tones ) and holds when need be, but it would not be long before the obstruction of a mask isn’t enough to conceal shifting form. Contemplation whether or not to hold and let paranoia pass.

No need. 

The coxcomb brings the bell’s ring into elevated realm, leaving the material to question whether it had phased back into this world or not, but there is no doubt as to what ignited rubber with a warm glow–the bright flash of orange as camouflage melted into the looming form of the Hound, a beast whose gaze settles knowingly. 

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

She had not imagined it, the fucking air moved in the shape of a person. No -- a thing. 

The sound of that bell dropped a weight into her squirming guts.

The Pig’s heart raced. It drummed so hard she feared that it would burst clear through her chest. The hot breath which reverberated inside that prey animal mask sounded like that of a howling, fearsome gale. There was no way that she was being as loud as her mind told her. She needed to get a grip. She needed to think. The Pig’s fingers flexed and brushed the grass, its green strands threaded between her digits as she sought to anchor herself to the ground. Her breathing slowed, but just barely, and the thought of finding springs and hinges dissipated from her mind.

The Pig steeled herself. She closed her eyes for just a second and was frightened to open them. She had to move. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, racing to each corner of her body within seconds. Escape.

Boots pressed softly into the grass and propelled her toward a desolate truck. The coarse rubber of the tires dragged beneath her fingertips. She listened for anything but could only hear her own heartbeat in her ears. Amanda’s mouth was dry, hanging agape beneath that mask. A quick glance as she reached the hood. The thing was tall and broad-shouldered and its face, she was unable to tell if it had one by the time she had turned away.

[creatingalegacy]

plaguepriestess‌:

Adiris had been a priestess in life, a guide to souls who became lost in their faith and their lives, and she adopted such behavior in this second life in the Fog. She’d mentored killers in how to counter their bloodlust in order to feed their Mistress the fear and hope of the survivors, counseled those that felt themselves start to be looked at with the cold hungry eyes of their Mistress when fear started to creep in their souls. She’d seen those she’d made friends with fall into fangs over the centuries, and promised herself ‘never another’.

Sometimes they’d wander into her temple like the little survivors would, lost and in awe, and sometimes they’d be summoned or dropped there to be given such a lesson. Adiris figured with this one, snout-bearing mask and more modern clothes, was one of the former.

“It was not so tall in life, this temple.“ The priestess smiled slightly as she approached the other woman but halted at the top of the stairs, the plague-ridden half of her face began to weep as pus-filled pores moved. Adiris smelled of sweet myrrh and frankincense though, from the incense burning inside the temple and in her personal burner. “I think She wanted it to be… intimidating, instead of welcoming.“ Her voice, accented by a language long dead, was soft and motherly. A lost sheep among the herd must be treated with kindness, no matter the red on it’s wool. “I am Adiris, high priestess to the Entity who culled us from our first lives. Most only arrive here when they have… questions. You may come in, if you wish.“

“Amanda.” A one word introduction. She had always been taught that her actions could always speak louder than her words, and with that thought in her head, the Pig made her way slowly up the steps and toward Adiris. Amanda did not yet know whether to trust her and yet she found herself continuing to ascend.

There were times when you had to ask yourself if what you were seeing was truly real. Amanda Young, a five-foot-two-inch woman wearing a pig mask, made her way into an ancient temple after being spoken to by an impossibly tall woman whose voice was as regal as her headdress. No matter how she tried to run this scenario through her head, Amanda could not fully comprehend it.

The Pig was used to grimy industrial sites with rusted metal screws and filthy bathroom tiles. She had been to scrapyards and killed at winter lodges and chased meat through farms. The other killers were largely foreign to her, she preferred to remain in her own realm, but none which she had encountered thus far seemed human, none seemed to be lucid like herself, not until now. 

“How long have you been here?”

[creatingalegacy]

cafeonthecorner‌:

 The Meat Plant was definitely not one of the favorite places of Penny to be in this awful world. It gave her a sense of dread, a sick twisting in her stomach, bile rising in the back of her throat the longer that she focussed on her surroundings and put more thought to the places name.

 But the pig was here.

 Fear flooded her veins and Penny’s instinctual reaction was to freeze like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming semi- knees aching with the barely restrained need to flee the scene, to just sprint for freedom and run from the nightmare. 

 The instincts were ignored and Penny sighed as she continued her journey towards the only spot to sit. It was best she was simply tunnel focussing on that one spot and ignoring the killer to her side the best she could. Truly she was exhausted and she was almost too tired to care about disturbing the other, and the fire pit was out of the question as a rare celebration was taking place over the results of the trial.

 It hurt her head.

She could not believe how poorly she had performed today. There was a shorter woman in the trial, one which Amanda had not had the benefit of meeting beforehand, and she was unprepared for the altruism and blatant disregard for personal safety she displayed. That woman had been the problem, Amanda should have killed her faster. Maybe then she wouldn’t have to see that black tin box sitting on her bunk across the room.

Free from the restrictive vision trapped under that mask, the movement to her left had Amanda immediately on edge. The hidden blade on her wrist had not yet been removed and the contraption sprung to life. The blade shot out to full length. Amanda span and raised her right arm ready to strike.

Just a moment after she was prepared to kill, Amanda froze.

The target of her ire had taken a seat at one of the work benches. Amanda had to consciously stop herself from plunging the sharp edge of her weapon into the woman’s belly out of blind rage. Confusion tied her brow into knots. The edge of her red lips curled into a snarl. She held the blade up, ready to strike at a moment’s notice, her fist clenched so tight that crescents bore into her palm.

“Why are you fucking here?” Amanda snapped. “You shouldn’t be here.”

[creatingalegacy]

voidvoyeur‌:

The first house she finds is not his own, yet he still watches her scuttle through the perpetually open door, her steps a swift passage – traced by his stare. She is alien to him, just as she is alien to this Haddonfield, traversing the singular, outstretched lane and the impeccably green gardens with an aimless anxiety. The Pig wary of domestication in a new pen. When her back faces his empty gaze, her red coat disappearing into the confining, wood-panelled structure, he emerges from behind a tall wall of shrubbery and mimics the path she has set for him.            She is an easy target. In rooms that are washed with mottled pastel paint, she sticks out like an open gash, yet her mask – a dead disguise – matches the house’s inner facade of abandoned decay. He doesn’t wonder why she chooses to assume the identity of an animal, not so much as he wonders whether she speaks or squeals.            Ceasing his striding tracks, he waits behind the white gated enclosure of the porch, the bricked foundation reaching his midriff. It is a self-imposed barrier while he measures his time. Drawing closer would only call her attention to his presence all too soon and she would no longer play, oblivious, to the natural order of hide and seek that dictated the function of his suburban habitat. Every placement of each structure, from the blinking police car to the trees lining this realm, were planted here for his advantage and her detriment – the cerebral routes of his mind embedded with a photographic, endemic blue-print of every pathway and point of entry, mapped for his whim and disposal. She is only a hapless intruder to the street he knows as well as the back of the blade in his grasp.

Each creak of the floorboards underfoot caused her mind to race. Amanda had told herself that not knowing what kind of horror lingered within this suburban nightmare was worse than the truth of what lurked in the dark. She had once encountered the lumbering one that sprinted around the farmland with the howl of a chainsaw in his wake. Although she had remained hidden, she struggled with the idea that he would see her as just another piece of meat to carve. It was a unique feeling, the unease of being hunted whilst being one of the hunters, and that very same sensation trickled down her spine at that very moment.

The black and white tiled kitchen on her right was small and tucked behind a faded yellow couch. It was dated and old. Upon a close inspection, the countertop was solid with no sink. The cupboards beneath the sinkless-counter were deserted. The refrigerator was empty, which she should have guessed, and Amanda shut it quietly before the light alerted whatever hid within the inky night. Did the Entity not understand how kitchens worked, she wondered.

A few moments passed and the Pig had stopped moving to ensure that it was only her breathing she could hear. Her mind was playing tricks on her. A few paces took her to the living room where more empty frames hung on the wall going up the stairs. Fuck going up there, she decided, and instead she looked at the curious empty space in the living room adjacent to the kitchen. Why was the couch over there? The longer she spent in this house the more disturbed she felt. Everything was in place but everything was off. 

It was a soft Autumn breeze that greeted her when she stepped through the threshold and onto the porch. The paint was white but faded, peeled in places. It was lived in. Across the street, Amanda noticed a ‘Strode Realty’ sign. The name rang a bell. She approached one of the cars she intended to use for cover, cautiously stepping from the grass to the road. Why did the Pig cross the road? She mused, hoping not to be in line for a slaughter.

[creatingalegacy]

( OOC: once again if these starters do not work for you let me know! You will never be bothering me! I’ll rewrite starters 5 times if I have to, I just want to do good things with fun people! )

[creatingalegacy]

@terrorshe | starter call

One of her only nights off was a Thursday. Thursday was a limbo day, Amanda figured, because it was shittier than a Friday but close enough to the end of the week that its frustrations could be ignored. It had taken her a few moments to remind herself that she was no longer holding down dead-end jobs in retail hell working shifts she hated. She did not get home often. Amanda did not have a schedule or a working week, instead she was a constant assistant at John’s side. John was putting together some larger game plan with one of the others and, as a result, she was free to go home while they ironed out the kinks. The door clicked open and pushed aside a small mountain of mail. 

Amanda crossed the apartment in the dark. It was small and messy, unkempt and left vacant at a moment’s notice. A half-empty can of soda sat on the dresser. She puffed her cheeks out in a long exhale and sat on the edge of her bed. It did not take long for the room to feel too cramped. The hair on the back of Amanda’s neck stood tall. Her heart started to race and she stood slowly. Amanda was afraid to look. She looked anyway.

“Who’s there?” 

[creatingalegacy]

@sabotajuu | starter call

Frustration ebbed at the Pig’s mind. The trial had not been off to a good start. She had not realised until it was too late that the hook she carried her squirming prey toward had been sabotaged. The so-called survivor had escaped the Pig’s grasp just as the second generator sounded its alert, she would have admired the timing had she not been biting the inside of her cheeks in anger. The swift boot to her gut took her a moment to recover from. It was equally unpleasant to feel the survivor slide from her shoulder and off into the corn. 

The Pig looked up at the damage to the Entity’s hook. Its intricate knots and tendrils had been severed delicately, this simply allowed the hook itself to crash to the ground where it lay embedded in the soft dirt. This farm was rich with stalks of corn and it was hard enough to find any sort of momentum when a chase was lost and so it did not fill the Pig’s heart with joy to know that one of her victims was fucking with her. 

With knees bent into a crouch, the red coat cloaked her legs and the killer crept softly through the stalks of corn. A rustle to her left caught her attention and her wild eyes darted to the tips of the produce to determine exactly where they were. The blade on her wrist extended. She charged forth toward the disruption.

[thedamnedcampfire]

The Damned Campfire is a Dead by Daylight roleplay blog masterlist for active roleplayers that is managed by friendly-psychiatrist, anoldsoldier and notthebasement.

If you want to be added to the list of roleplay blogs, you have to follow the instructions. Reblog and add in the tags:

Your url

If your character is a canon survivor, a canon killer, a Lore Character (characters that don’t appear in game but are part of the lore), a survivor OC or a killer OC. If your character is from another horror franchise or has a DBD verse, you can reblog too.

The name of your character

A subtitle (a nickname, what they do… -if it’s a canon character, you can’t choose)

If your blog is a main blog, a side blog or a multimuse blog (or more than one of these)

If you’re an OC or a Lore Character blog, we will message you to give us an image of your character if you want them to have an image next to their name.

An example of the tags for a canon character, like Dwight: #anervousleader #canon survivor #Dwight Fairfield #a nervous leader #main blog

We will make sure that you’re an active roleplay blog, which means that you have to roleplay. If you haven’t replied to any threads in a month or you haven’t posted anything in two months, both without a hiatus notice, we will delete you from the masterlist. If you message one of the admins or the blog itself, you can be added again.

Edit: if there’s no way to see when you made your posts, we can’t add you to the list because we don’t want to add people that aren’t active.

[creatingalegacy]

@plasticslasher | starter call

Copper hair caught the corner of Amanda’s eye. She sighed and turned her chair to avoid the distraction. The doll had been delivered to the wrong address, that she was certain, because its garish aesthetic did not fit John’s designs. She had removed the ‘Good Guy’ from the bright yellow box, which in itself was at odds with the earthy colour palette of the workshop, and she had sat it next to one of the Billy puppets. Amanda’s digits pressed swiftly at her laptop’s keyboard, she had better things to do than worry about a shitty looking doll.

[creatingalegacy]

@buckandwild | starter call

Behind her lay the entirety of the Gideon Meat Plant, a sprawling maze of rooms which contained numerous devices intended to slaughter and torture. In the world beyond this one, it had been a place of death and misery orchestrated with assistance from the woman stood mere feet from its doors. Amanda Young had ventured beyond the main gates to see what she could scavenge in the fog today. She did not expect to see another soul, if she had, she would have worn the mask of the Pig.

“What’s with the guitar?” Amanda gestured vaguely toward the other woman, the instrument seemed cumbersome and inconvenient. “You think this place appreciates music or somethin’?” Amanda and the crowd she had been lumped in with, the killers, were forbidden from venturing to certain pockets within the fog. There had been times when the sound of a guitar had carried on the deathly still air. No matter how far she had tried to follow it, Amanda had always ended up in the opposite direction. Was that how her test subjects spent their time? Listening to songs?

[creatingalegacy]

@nomither | starter call

David King stood over a full foot taller than Amanda Young, his broad frame and height were a direct contrast to her smaller stature. She was certain that he could knock her flat on her ass if he wanted to, she was also convinced that he had done exactly that to many deserving people in his time. The Pig was somebody who many would say deserved it. Here outside of the trials, Amanda was unsure whether she had the strength required to hoist him over her shoulder and carry him. Part of her wanted to try, another part told her how foolish that would be. 

She was working on modifying one of her traps, which was the activity that occupied most of her time here. “If you’re looking for a fight, David, I’m not interested.” She had already experienced her face splitting open on the brickwork when she was in her old existence, Amanda did not want to go through it again. “Tell me what you want and then go.”

[creatingalegacy]

@miistwalkers | starter call for the Wraith.

Her boots flattened the grass as she stepped quietly through it. Each one of her footfalls felt dangerous, Amanda’s eyes darted across the scenery, wary of the things she could disturb. It was alien to her, this place. She only left the sanctity of Gideon’s if she truly needed something, unfortunately, the Entity had once again shifted the path and it had spat her out elsewhere. All she could hear up to that point was the sound of her own breath within that mask, a mask she was again thankful to have. Amanda was surrounded by towers of rotting cars, their engines long cold. Perhaps she could find useful pieces within them, if only they were not piled so high. A shimmer of the air stopped her dead in her tracks. It was there, she had seen it, hadn’t she? The Pig dropped to a crouch, her back pressed flat against a row of tires. 

[creatingalegacy]

@cafeonthecorner plotted a starter.

The trial ended with three of them escaping.

One sacrifice. The Pig swore under her breath as the Gideon Meat Plant materialised around her. The Entity would be displeased with her work, she was likely to be punished. It was a small comfort that the Pig was free to remove the mask now. The strands of black hair running down from the swine’s scalp brushed against her jaw, it was irritating. Everything was irritating. Amanda tossed the disguise into the corner where it knocked down a mannequin, the sound crashed throughout the open work space.

Frustration ached within Amanda’s bones, it radiated outwards from her until it could not be contained any longer, transforming into a deep sigh. Her booted foot kicked at a table and everything on it shook. “Fuck.” She leaned a palm flat against the wood of another workbench and propped herself up. Her fingers ran a trail through her hair and she allowed her shoulders to slump. A moment to relax, to ponder her mistakes. 

In her current state, Amanda had not noticed the other person who had ended up not at the campfire, but in the Meat Plant with her.

[creatingalegacy]

@quietstepped | starter call

These young survivors were far too young to be tested. The Pig could not think of anything a child could have done that would earn them a place in her games. Her tests were designed to be survivable, designed to be of a high enough risk that their participants would be forced to consider their actions. Whether they could change, the Pig was not so sure. John, her mentor and teacher, he believed the tests would allow people to become reborn, should they survive.

The Pig had survived. She only fell into different habits. 

What secrets could a child hold? What reason could there be for them to have their will be tested? Perhaps, the killer mused, they were her test. Was she devoted enough that she could go through with a compromise of her soul and pierce the body of a child with a sacrificial hook? Time would tell.

“You’re the second kid I’ve seen runnin’ around here.” 

[creatingalegacy]

@alertech | starter call

The Pig had observed Feng Min through several trials. The young woman was as determined as anyone here, perhaps more-so than the others. There was a spark in her that John would have liked. In another existence, perhaps she was the focus of one of their games. Perhaps she was one of those like Amanda, somebody who triumphed and overcame the odds. Yes, the Pig saw a truly worthy test subject in Feng Min.

There was something about the young woman that seemed lost, the killer thought. What she saw could have been imagined, a narrative she tricked herself into believing, but why else was she here if not to continue on her mentor’s legacy? Those who do not appreciate life, do not deserve life.

The Entity did not like it when the Pig spoke during the trials, there would be a punishment waiting for her beyond this, but some results were worth the pain. “Do you believe you have what it takes to survive?” She asked, standing and allowing her retractable blade to reveal itself. “What good are the victories if they leave you feeling hollow? I want to play a game.”

[creatingalegacy]

dreadsleep‌:

BETWEEN TRIALS time is a blur, not sure how long he’s been around, not sure how long he’ll be around, so much death followed him wherever he went, wreathed old buildings standing layouts ever changing as he struggles to remind himself, he’s in hell. punished for something he didn’t do, pushed to his limit and plunged into the darkened void of the entities realm  

brows scrunch together hearing the other’s voice, he didn’t expect to see anyone, much less the familiar visage of one Pig, terrifyingly stalking through the fog usually,  now just seemingly standing, almost normal in appearance, unlike when she’s wearing her mask, thoughts run through his mind before lips part slightly, forcing words out of tired mind, and into the open air,  

❛i– I’m just…trying to find a way out. ❜ out of the world, into reality, somewhere normal to leave his own respective killer behind, and if he can- save the other survivors that seemingly have been trapped here for longer than he has, no far there’s been no luck, day by day the trials start and after they carry out, he has time to search for anything that could help him, hands instinctively clutch coin and cross hanging loosly around neck, an attempt to stabilize heartbeat faced with one of the many who had been the end of him,  ❛..what about you? ❜ surely, he isn’t the only one looking, searching for any clues, any ideas of what might this place be, but others seem to have given up long ago,  ❛ are you looking for a way back? ❜ back to life, somewhere where time flows naturally, instead of the stagnant water seemingly holding him day by day, there has to be something here, and he’s determined to find it.  

Amanda rolls her eyes, she doesn’t even try to hide it. The wrench feels good in her palm and she allows it to swing back and forth like a pendulum when she takes a couple of steps toward Quentin. The idea of intimidation excites her, it draws her lips out into a smirk. He looks tired and she wonders to herself whether he has become worn down by the trials, whether he really isn’t fit to survive after all. She makes a mental note to keep a close eye on him during his next test. It would be ideal for him to try out one of her adjusted timers and see whether he panics until his face splits open once the beeping of the clock becomes too frequent too fast. 

“A way back?” She repeats with deliberately widened eyes, a mockery of naivety. They quickly return to their resting state. Amanda is closer now, her boots have stopped mere steps away from him. The weight of the wrench pulls her arm loosely back and forth. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Think you can keep it?” There’s a sinister smile on Amanda’s red lips, the type that should tell him to run. She leans forth, holding the tool in both hands behind her back while she does so. “I kinda like it here.” Her smile cracks into a full-on grin. Once she’s stood up straight, Amanda slaps the body of the wrench into her left hand. 

Her feet carry her past Quentin as if he isn’t even there. The wrench is set down on a rickety metal table, the kind on wheels you see in hospitals. Amanda extends her palm and rocks it back and forth, the wheels are in need of oiling and they screech. It sets her teeth on edge but she does it twice more anyway. “You know, there aren’t any doors here.” The generators were not present in the Meat Plant when the trial was inactive, the heavy sliding doors were all pulled back to leave gaping maws in the walls. “I think you could find your way out anytime, if you wanted to.” Amanda’s fingers brush over one of the styrofoam dummy heads propped up on one of the numerous work benches. “So.” She turns back to face Quentin, her head cocks to the left. “Maybe that’s your overall goal. To escape, to live, whatever.” She jabs a finger in his direction. “My question is, if you’re so dead set on survival, why’d you come here?” 

[creatingalegacy]

wholeads‌:

@creatingalegacy   /   sc.

                              ❝       can     you     please     work     with     me   ,     amanda   ?       we’re     in     the     fog      —     it’s     not     like     i     can     just     go     down     the     street     to     the     fareway     to     get     what     you     want   .       ❞

                 survivor     leans     back     against     steel     wall   ,     exasperation     clear     in     rolling     green     gaze     &&     huffy     tone   .       right     hand     fidgets     with     lit     cigarette     as     dominant     left     flips     through     tiny   ,     ratty     notebook   .       decades     of     information     contained     within     stained     pages   .       whatever     strain     that     may     exist     between     pair     is     completely     one - sided     now     as     fearless     leader     lives     up     to     his     title   ,     enough     confidence     in     himself     to     dare     back - talking     young     killer     before     him   .

Jesus wept. Dwight knows her name and that very fact pisses her off, it’s not that he knows it, it’s more than he believes that they are on first name terms. She tries not to show that it gets to her, but Amanda is a volatile creature and she’s working that one nut and bolt so aggressively with the wrench she wonders whether her temper or the metal will break first. The information must have come from David Tapp, that bastard. 

The smell of the cigarette infiltrates her nostrils and they flare. She wishes that this place still had the smoke detectors installed, if only to ruin Dwight’s day. He’s talking some shit about them working together, it’s an interesting proposal but she’s yet to even give him the consideration of turning to face him. “What makes you think I want to help you?” A moment passes, her eyes flick to her left shoulder in approximation of where he stands. She thinks on it for just a beat too long and sighs at herself. “What can you offer me?”