#bittermurmurings

[itsdmod]

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[solitarysurvival-arch]

She told him not to, and he did it anyways! Anna, growling in frustration when the bird boy disobeyed her, she grabbed a fistful of his hair from where he was kneeling at the base of the hook, she pulled him flush against her chest to stare him in his wide eyes, slapping the side of her broad axe against the side of his face. "No. Sabo!" Then quite literally tossed him to the ground, bloodlust taking over and charging at her prey that she had tossed a good distance. bittermurmurings/ Huntress

The hook is nearly finished with, hanging on by a hair. The dull hum reaches him first, followed by the heavy footfalls, and she’s in his space in an instant, dragging him up with a yank at his hair. A sharp noise staggers out him, surprise and pain, heartbeat shattering the sound barrier. Now he does realize who’s trial he’s in, forced to stare up into the dark eyes of the Huntress. He winces slightly, the side of her axe swatting him, like a child being reprimanded. 

And then she releases him, or tosses him–like he weighs little more than a ragdoll. Winded, a gasp rakes from his lungs when his back impacts with the earth, and then he’s scrambling-staggering-stumbling to his feet.

“Sorry–” It stumbles out, the apology tight and odd, like a different language all-together. Why was he sorry? His mother, picking him up from the back of an ambulance at a house party: I’m sorry. Maybe it’s that the woman in the rabbit mask has been kind to him more than once. The clown’s caravan, his butterfly knife and ugly laugh, the old dwelling and the bitter herbal remedies. He raises his hands slowly, a surrender; “I’m sorry.”

[itsdmod]

@bittermurmurings || Continued from (x)

Ah, poor Dwight. A good kid with a good heart, but not a good brain sometimes. Maybe the Leader was the one who was snorting some of that stuff he was talking about. Though, even he, a relaxed old joker, would put that to better use than wasting a styptic agent on a chance to get high, he must congratulate Dwight on his creativity.

No, he was betting Dwight had someting more valuable.

“No, no, hijo, it’s something more rare than all the jewels of the Amazon- ya know what I mean.” He nudges Dwight playfully, grinning at him and giving him a squint from underneath his shades. “It comes from the ladies- something you have no need for, eh?”

“Uh... a bra? Panties? A vagina? Because I have none of those,” he said, giving Ace a weird look. He really didn’t know what he wanted, but if it was a rare thing it couldn’t be any of those, could it?

“A baby? Really Ace, what do you want?” Was this some kind of game for him to guess or did he just want to mess with him? Guess he’d have to find that out, too.

[solitarysurvival-arch]

💀 // kidnap my muse . bittermurmurings / huntress new son new son

The hatchet slides clean into his shoulder, and he drops like bricks into the cold grass, knowing he is the only one left, knowing it’s over. A weak noise as a heavy foot pins him in the dirt, the weapon pulled unceremoniously free. Fingers claw in the grass in a futile effort to make distance, trembling in the cold rainfall.

He’s barely conscious as the Huntress hauls him up and over her shoulder, dark frames closing around his vision. The only thing he’s aware of is the sharp, cold scatter of raindrops hitting his skin, peeling away at dirt and grime. The knowledge that the campfire is drawing further away wrings the struggle from his bones—he goes still in her grasp and hopes to make peace with the hook.

Mother’s Dwelling stands like an austere old tree on their approach— like a natural feature of the forest, rather than something that had been transplanted. And they pass the many gnarled hooks, some still gored from where his teammates had been left. The dull candlelight of the creaking shack paints the humming woman and her splintered rabbit mask in sharp red-orange. A frightening silhouette in the darkness of the woods to be sure, but an unknowable one in absence of bloodshed.

“I don’t understand,” he mutters quietly. He’s dead weight, dizzied vision watching the patterns of the wood, the way his blood lands in perfect spots below. “What do you…what do you want?” Every word is carefully spoken, tread on like old floorboards.

[bloodtokens]

@bittermurmurings-a asked . . . < always accepting random asks >

Dwight Fairfield was scared shitless, as usual, but he wasn't about to let it stop him from leading his team to victory, especially not when the exit gates were powered! He made a dash to the form of the saboteur, pitifully groaning on the manicured lawn of Lampkin Lane, knocked nearly unconscious by Leatherface's hammer and barely clinging on to life. But Dwight wasn't about to let him die on his watch, not if he could help it. "Jake! Come on, show me what you can do! Get up!" bittermurmurings              

None of the killers were particularly enjoyable to go against, but some were worse than others. The Nightmare was his own brand of awful, as was the Clown and the Doctor, but the Cannibal was one of Jake’s least favorite killers. Everything about Leatherface unsettled him to the core. The dried faces stretched across his own, the sounds he made after smacking someone in the head with his mallet before running them through with the chainsaw . .  . everything about Leatherface made his skin crawl. He doesn’t let that nervousness show while in a trial, and he never would, but sometimes it gets to be too much.

Right away he had the misfortune of somehow starting right beside the killer. Jake had slowly looked over his shoulder to see a yellow apron and a somewhat perplexed Leatherface staring right at him. The confusion didn’t last long for either of them. Jake took off in a sprint –– nothing compared to Meg’s speed, but a fast dash for the nearest area he could lose the killer in and Leatherface was quick to follow. He managed to run him around for a few minutes, precious time given to his team before the cannibal got tired of trying to saw him down and resorted to hitting him with the mallet. The impact dislodged his shoulder and sent him careening forward. It didn’t take long for another swing to finish the job and up on a hook he went.

There had been two generators done in that time, and when Dwight unhooked him he gave their de-facto leader a grateful nod. Before he could patch Jake up, Leatherface rounded the corner, with his chainsaw already trilling a high pitched grinding sound and so they bolted in opposite directions. Staying grouped up was a sure way to get die when facing the cannibal.

Thankfully he happened across Claudette who patched him up and they got to work on the generator together. One popped off just before theirs, but they were the unlucky duo that happened to have a visitor. Leatherface swung at Claudette and she took the hit with a shout. Jake launched himself forward, blocking the cannibal’s path from following his wounded friend. He blinks down at him through the face he was wearing and Jake tried not to get sick. It looked familiar. The stare down lasted seconds before he raised the chainsaw, and Jake took off into a nearby house. He heard the final generator go off followed by the sound of an exit gate nearby being opened, the warning bells loud enough to be heard through the beat of his heart.

Before he could reach a window to vault over it, the mallet clipped his hip and he tumbled forward and into the grass below. It took a moment for him to recover and by the time he got to the front of the house, Leatherface was there, waiting to strike him. This time he hits him across the side of the head and Jake goes down –– hard.

As soon as he does, the ground gives a shake, patches of glowing embers beginning to crack through the surface. A gate was opened, and Leatherface turns towards the nearest one. Maybe he saw something Jake didn’t because he leaves the downed survivor. One hand strays to his head, trying to stop the bleeding while the other drags himself forward towards where he thought the gate was, but he was all turned around. Disoriented and at a huge disadvantage. He hears someone cry out, but the cry is short-lived. Claudette maybe at the gate? She must have gotten out since there wasn’t a follow-up scream.

“Jake! Come on, show me what you can do! Get up!”

Dwight?

Jake blinks a few times, clearing some of the blood out of his vision that’s been steadily running down his forehead. He tilts his head and sure enough there’s Dwight, kneeling down beside him and helping him up. Jake stumbles over his own feet, struggling to maintain his balance, but Dwight is there to help him as they limp their way towards the opposite exit gate. He follows Dwight’s lead, letting him guide him out. It used to be a bitter pill for him to swallow –– relying on other people for help, but he’s mostly gotten over that by now. Years in the Entity’s realm introduced a bit of humility into his life. They’re just passing the threshold of where the trial ends and safety begins when Leatherface lets out an angry cry from somewhere behind them.

The injury to his head mends itself and his mental clarity returns full force.

“Thanks Dwight.” He claps a hand on Dwight’s shoulder. One of the most expressive ways of showing gratitude that he can manage. It’s a lot for those who know the solitary saboteur.

[bloodtokens]

It was odd to Anna how some skills were taught among Killers, but she wasn't one to complain, not when that Man's Trick (Hangman's Trick) alerted her to one pesky saboteur starting to pick apart the base of a hook from across the cornfield. Corn stalks tickling her face, Huntress unsheathed her last hatchet from her belt and reared it back, lining up the shot that would bring grievous injury to the saboteur. If she missed, she would easy lose her prey. Let's hope she didn't. (bittermurmurings)

@bittermurmurings // ( always accepting asks )

The farm was differentthan he remembered it being. The lighting felt more washed out, the colors asickly hue of yellow that made him stand out all the more amidst the cornfields and bays of hale. Maybe he should consider trying to find a change ofclothing in the way the others had. Jake picks at his scarf as he walks his wayover towards one of the nearby generators and gets to working. The toolbox he’dbrought was better suited for dismantling hooks. If he could get them mostly taken apart and paid attention tothe others, he should be able to destroy them before the killer was able to getanyone hooked.

Or, that was the idea. He finishes the generator, justin time to hear someone go down, their cry ringing out through the field ofcorn. Jake turns and rushes towards a nearby hook. It’s nowhere near where theperson was downed and then subsequently hooked, but he’ll get this side readyfor whenever they come this way. Whoever theywere. He had yet to hear a heartbeat and that left his chest cold with anticipation.Very few killers were able to mask the terror that made his heart race. Thenightmare, the huntress, the Shape . .  . That new killer he’d yet to meetin a trial called the Pig. There’d been no ringing of a bell which ruled outthe Wraith so then who?

His fingers start to slow, the hook’s screws and wiresare loosened or cut to the point where if he goes any further it will fallapart. If he does that it’ll just come back, so he’ll leave it here for now.Jake straightens up from his crouched position just in time for something tohit him square between his shoulder blades. With a ragged gasp, the impactsends him forward, the hook’s base catching his weight and keeping him upright.He grits his teeth through the pain and reaches behind, fingers brushing acrossworn wood. He grabs the handle and yanks it out, the hatchet dropping to theground beside the steadily growing pool of blood.

Huntress.

How did she know – ?

It doesn’t matter he has to get moving. Jake sets outat a run, through the field and towards the house where he may be able to finda medkit if he’s lucky. His legs aren’t moving as fast as he’d like and he’sbleeding more than he should be. What wasthat hatchet coated in? The sound of her humming is getting louder and heducks beside a couple of hay bales, sounds of pain muffled behind an iron will.

[discordantmadness]

⊗ bittermurmurings

23. My muse: having strangle marks@bittermurmuringsIt was not so uncommon for survivors to run into each other out in the midst of the Fog. The campfire was simply a safe place for them, but anywhere outside of it was a free game otherwise. While not always instigating a trial, especially when solo survivors wander, it was also not uncommon for them to run into Killers outside of their games.Sometimes it was a rare occasion for Killers to run into each other outside of the trials. This was not always a good thing, as some Killers were solitary or simply violent in general when it came to others. The Legion was not the favorite of anyone, what with their incessant pestering methods of getting attention when they wanted it.It had come to that point with another Killer they had run into. Another masked one–they thought they could relate in some way but it was far from the truth. They ended up getting manhandled and choked out during the course of their… “conversation” with Michael.Since they did not die, they were left with the side effects of running into the Shape. Odd bruises that wrapped their discolored throat. Hard to see unless one was watchful and observant, or unless Legion was actively touching at it. (Something they like to do in some masochistic way to feel the tinge of pain.)Sitting out in the middle of the woods, they didn’t really notice Claudette walking by–giving them a wide berth just to be safe.

[solitarysurvival-arch]

"You... you broke the hook? That's... very brave and smart of you." bittermurmurings / Claudette oh look the gays

He tilts his head from where he’s crouched at the base of the hook. “Meg says it’s dumb, so that’s news to me.” The barest upturn of his lips as he looks over his shoulder. “You might not have to unhook so many of us if I can get these rigged during the trials, though, right?”