Not once had he ever even for a moment dared consider the possibility that the survivors would do anything but despise him. The fact that he was doing just as they did – what he had to in order to ease his own suffering – was entirely irrelevant when what he had to do brought them such immeasurable pain; and the most awful part of his servitude was the fact that he enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. Each sound that surrounded them was heard from miles away by finely tuned ears, the stench of blood and oil like a path that led him to them and when they ran it triggered the most primal urge to chase and kill, chase and kill, the words hammered in his brain by The Entity’s winding tongue. In the moment, he hadn’t the time to process any degree of guilt. Even so, he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let them survive. There were things far worse than death, he had discovered, after a succession of several failures, and with every bitter bone in his body he urged to avoid ever angering The Entity again.
He didn’t even expect that this interaction would change Dwight’s opinion of him. The Wraith was a ferocious predator, but even so, he wasn’t a fool. He knew what this was. It was a distraction, an attempt to keep his attention long enough that the others could escape with their temporary lives and go on to repeat the same sequence of events all over again. But, by grace, he was curious. They were both curious. He had fed The Entity so well that he supposed he was owed one disaster, one crushing defeat in the name of enquiry. With the flat of a palm he traced a slow, shoulder-length line in the air, then repeated the motion and pointed one long finger at the fool before him. At himself, then. Two fingers.
❛ Long, long time. Longer than you. I was his second.❜
He daren’t think how many decades he had been trapped in this unchangeable nightmare. Though the stagnant nature of time was enough to drive him to madness, he supposed it was preferable to the alternative of knowing. Survivors had come and gone but while new killers were occasionally dragged into the fog, he had yet to see one leave. One day, this one would disappear, too. Nobody could maintain hope forever, after all, but he would leave having outlived all who came before him. None had ever lasted so long until him and his, and if nothing else, that was a point of contention. A shitty one, but a point none the less. One must take their victories where they could, here, even if the victory was death.
But then came Dwight’s second question. A name. The Wraith had one of those. A soft, snarling trill fluttered in the space between them as he considered precisely how he could give such an answer without a voice.
Overhead, the unwavering moon cast its eerie silver glow across all that lay beneath it, painting the ground a sickly grey. The ground.
The Wraith reached down and in the shifting dirt traced out the familiar letters one by one until they formed a word.
His name was Philip, and that was something that him up above couldn’t take away. No face, but a name. No voice, but a name. One must take their victories.
▪ ▪ ▪ ⋭ It was strange. He should be running. ( He should be running! ) But, here he stood, staring forward at the killer hound that had so often dogged his steps. He could still hear his heart beating in his chest, but the urgency to leave was.... fleeting, floating away. He settled back on his heels, watching attentively, ignoring the golden glows in the background that were trying to get his attention. This was a rare occurrence. A chance at information. A chance to understand.
And that was something they all were denied. That the spider fucking demon in the sky denied them. UNDERSTANDING. It may be easier to bear if he knew the why or the how. It may be easier to get through the endless trials if he knew why or what. What was the point of this endless game? One side wins, one side loses; who won? It wasn't the survivors, and he doubted it was the killers. What was the Entity's goal at the end of the day?
He often felt like an ant under a magnifying glass, tortured for someone else's amusement. It was an empty sort of feeling. The kind that you couldn't fill up, no matter how hard you tried.
Dwight nodded at the Wraith, understanding (he thought) what was being said. The second? The second to come here, so longer than he'd been here. By the time he first came, there were already three killers. And more continued to be added to the fray. More survivors, too, he acknowledged.
Dark eyes flickered down and he adjusted grease and blood splattered glasses to see what the other was doing. Writing. Writing on the ground. P... H... Ah! He was writing his name! This gave him a sort of primal delight, deep in his chest. Communication. It was working.
❛ Philip? ❜ he echoed, softly, looking back up. ❛ Nice to meet you. Formally at least. ❜ He thought about extending a hand, trying to make some sort of peace, but... while his fingers twitched, he didn't move. They were both trapped here in this stupid game. A game that didn't matter. (A game that made him realize what a sham his former life had been.)
❛ I... I, uh, wanna say I'm sorry for all the times I've dropped a pallet on your head. I hope it doesn't hurt too bad. ❜ It was paired with an apologetic smile, and he shrugged a shoulder upwards. He was sorry. He didn't like doing it, but he had to escape. Such a deep urge, he couldn't deny. No matter how much he wanted to, sometimes.
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