#VaultMasterMyers

"Something, or rather someone, is here now. I've never seen this... Shape before." - Benedict Baker Private, Canon Divergent,Mature"The Shape" 🔪 Dead by Daylight. penned by: a skeutie

[17177r5-deactivated20200216]

kissy kissy

[mortulo-a]

Those feathers looked nice. He raises his knife over his head in case one flutters close enough to his false face. They'd look much nicer plucked.

     The angel’s wings beat steadily, the eyes upon them, as well as the ones on his chest, open from their closed state. They stared straight into ( and through ) the man’s soul. His head cants to the side, and Azrael’s maw curves into a smile.

     “ A cursed one, are you? How quaint. How… endearing. ”

[fooledthemtwice-blog]

The Shape cants his head to the side with about as much personality in the gesture as a clockwork soldier. Given his contract with the Spider that he fails to recall having signed, it would be safe to assume he was little more than a puppet led by spider-silk strings, but there were times he’d roll the idea of his assumed servitude around that blackened space festering behind his mask and wonder if so-called “puppets” were capable of such insidious shows of forethought. As the wings seemed to welcome him with a wider span, he followed a feather drifting by with his blank gaze, and in one swift motion, snatched it out of the air—crushed it, really. The condition of the prize mattered little to him so long as he had it in his unforgiving grasp. Though he couldn’t say the feather was as grand of a prize as the pressure of a windpipe collapsing in a futile effort to remain open. Drawing his fist in, he opens his vice grip slowly to study the crushed feather intently. It had been part of the creature before him, and yet now here it sat—a frazzled ball of its former glory upon the palm of his pale glove. He doubted anyone who saw it in this state would conclude its origin so easily. Perhaps he was cursed. The being clearly saw him for the discarded, crumpled feather he was. With a harsh exhale, he moves to tuck the defect into the front pocket of his jumpsuit. Fragments of memory like them should stick together.

[arachnideity-a-blog]

Don't mind him and his #EXCESSIVEBREATHING.

The Entity folds their arms, looking disappointedly at the masked stalker. This can only mean he wants something.

“Stab me again and no Laurie next trial.”

[fooledthemtwice-blog]

   None of her next trial? If the Shape felt so emboldened to point out to the Spider that denying him of her essence for so long would only cause the realm’s ruler to suffer when absorbing those of the other survivors failed to nourish him into proper, fighting shape, then he would have done more than point the tip of the kitchen knife towards the talons that threatened to return each of the jabs he’d thus sent them. Granted, they were never his target though–mere briers in the way of the black rose that lie in their center was what he sought. He imagined the Spider’s true form tucked away behind those talons was where the core of the world lie, and what would eventually release its hold on him should he hack it free. So far, he’d had little luck in the endeavor. But he was the stubborn type for sure. Surely the Spider knew of this unfortunate mutation best of all? A warning swipe is about as close of a scoff as he can manage, and the sound of the kitchen knife slicing through fog is a fair substitute for the sound of his muted contempt. If the Spider simply wanted him to suffer the disadvantage of holding on to his collected evil just to teach him some humility, then it was as as mindless as those he hunted and drained of less palatable sins. 

[fooledthemtwice-blog]

   @0vercharged

 The Shape was a notorious drifter. Without a heartbeat to announce his presence, nor a warm body outside the trials to awaken one, he often skirted through the territories of the other killers undetected. Sometimes he would even get a show out of his aimless slinking, often happening upon the inhabitants of the spider’s realm mid-way through toiling over their lands by busting leftover pallets left overturned by an ungrateful guest. Typically that guest was him, but he would never admit it aloud, though not because he particularly feared an altercation, no. He simply wasn’t the talky type, and would sooner breathe a little more pugnaciously and nod if directly asked if all this clutter was his doing. Not that his hosts would be able to actively seeking him out unless he drew too near to them for them to catch a glimpse of his pale face peeking out.

  Lery’s was not a typical stop in his drifting itinerary, but the spider had ways of luring him to it’s designated arenas for the evening-namely by pinning a tuft of corn colored hair to the facility’s entrance far enough in to lock him inside with a wall of talons that seemed to block his way out until he’d spilled the blood of the spider’s quarry scurrying about inside their enclosure. Though there was little question as to why he succeeded on many surprise attacks against them in the tight and twisting corridors of the treatment center, the all white surrounding were a less than pleasant reminder of an unusual quality that burdened his chest for reasons he’d yet to identify. At times he would stop mid-patrol to glance over his shoulder and almost as if he recognized this place and its innumerable paths as one he had trodden before. Yet whatever had invoked the unusually nostalgic twinge was always quick enough to evade him so that he might return to his rounds sooner, unperturbed in his lack of understanding of what could give him pause aside from its subtle weight contributing to only a gut feeling that perhaps this medical facility held more power over his fate than even the spider that shut him in with its frail collection of flies. 

  Ruthless as a wolfspider, he hunted them down until there was nothing left for him to toy with except an occasional pile of bloody clothes left under broken meat hooks, and these he kicked on his way down the halls and to the exit gate. He found the last one clutching the handle to the final hurdle so hard, her frail arm seemed ready to snap in half as she quivered. She didn’t even look back as he slowly waltzed over, each step soundless over the broken gravel as if he were wearing nothing more than a pair of socks. As the gate began to slide open painfully slow, and the beat of her frantic heart began to level, he seized the red head’s throat before she could squeeze through and wrings it as he lifts her feet off the ground. She’s a runner, so he takes the extra precaution to discourage any wild kicks by holding her out at a distance…at first. He decides it’s best to let her thrash out all her strength first before proceeding, and so he walks back into the facility with his prize, taking corners aimlessly until he ends up in a warmly lit office area. It wasn’t the longest of trips, but she’s barely lashed out at him, so he finally takes his chance once they’re alone and draws her in close to him, though he can hardly contest with how close his knife gets as he pierces her side with it and slides her down its shimmering length. 

 Breathing harder than her dwindling coughs now, he eagerly chucks the runner onto the desk, not all that concerned with the scattered papers left out in the open. Admiring the red-tip of his blade, he doesn’t seem to notice the overwhelming presence in the doorway eyeing him up; or he did and just didn’t care. He didn’t particularly care for this owner of this particular corner of the realm to consider simple house-keeping courtesies guests sent to murder other guests needed to keep in mind on their visit. When he finally does take notice of his grinning audience over his shoulder, he turns slowly and lifts his head at a contemptuous angle. It seemed he was finally caught in the act of leaving one of his usual messes, but from how he flares his shoulders and continues admiring the knife, it’s clear he could care less about the helter-skelter state of affairs.

[kawarayane]

Paramedic costume in Resurrection. (There is no mask in that scene)