Post by THE GHOSTFACE on Dec 17, 2021 23:19:02 GMT -6
The realm was mostly empty now, and it sat in front of a campfire. Killers and survivors in such a close proximity to each other was unheard of, but it seemed the Entity had a bigger priority somewhere else. She'd drawn everyone back to their places; their homes for lack of a better term.
Everyone had turned in, back to their designated spots. Like pieces in chess.
The people left out here, were checkers pieces. Less dignified, but just as difficult to play around. Easily captured, not unlike a pawn.
It wasn't hard to take note of it's surroundings.
An old chainsmoking man; a man that reminded it of it's own father. But kinder, somehow. Maybe the war that he had been through hadn't changed him so much, hadn't distanced him so far from the world.
A teenager who was loud, and in-charge. Hidden behind the confidence was fear that seeped through his every action.
A man, probably close to Ghostface's own age. His expression unreadable, and his demeanour unconfident. Dirty blond, scruffy facial hair. He kept care of himself once upon a time. That could be said of most persons here, though. He was unremarkable for it.
A woman, confident and reading a map. It didn't seem to have anything on it, but in her lap was a journal where she scribbled. Smart, detail-oriented and determined to free herself from this eternal hell. The Ghostface didn't mind it much anymore; it seemed futile to leave didn't it?
Platinum hair, a steeled gaze. Confidence oozed from her, and Ghostface couldn't be less intimidated. Something haunted her deep down, but what was it? She hid it well.
And the last survivor in front of it; a red-head, eyes hidden by a dark brim. A tricky one, she knew magick and she knew it well.
Survivors were easier to get a read on than killers; you can assume that they have nothing going on in their mind other than surviving. What else was there in the fog? There was no more use of menial relationships, no point in trying.
So it thought. It was always something the Ghostface came back to — relationships, and what they meant to people.
"The Cannibal" once had a family; it had seen the film. It didn't dwell too much on it assuming that the thing before them had a different experience than a potentially coincidental film based on 'a real story'. Bull shit. It surely loved it's family, but it wouldn't put up with the things that he did.
"The Blight"... It didn't know, it couldn't tell. Maybe they were similar, too consumed into something to find meaning or purpose inside anything but that one thing they found; or...
Perhaps they both killed in cold blood for the enjoyment.
Who knew.
"The Twins". A prime example of a relationship, surely, love flowed from the older one into the younger. You had to love someone to allow them to live in your chest cavity for any amount of time, surely. Ghostface couldn't deny that. She fiercely protected the baby, too.
"The Trickster" ... What was there to say about him, he was flashy and not unlike a bird; what did he draw to him, the Ghostface wondered? What was it all for? You didn't have a good childhood and act like that.
The Ghostface hadn't much to say about the Cenobite; Pinhead seemed uninterested in anything but eternal hell and pain. That was a life that the Ghostface could come to understand.
It'd already gone through so much; it allowed themself a brief moment of grotesque fantasy to wonder what that may be like. To allow Pinhead it's own way with it.
Well. It didn't matter much, did it?
All that mattered was that the Ghostface was surrounded by people who meant nothing to them; and that they meant prescious little to as well.
Everyone had turned in, back to their designated spots. Like pieces in chess.
The people left out here, were checkers pieces. Less dignified, but just as difficult to play around. Easily captured, not unlike a pawn.
It wasn't hard to take note of it's surroundings.
An old chainsmoking man; a man that reminded it of it's own father. But kinder, somehow. Maybe the war that he had been through hadn't changed him so much, hadn't distanced him so far from the world.
A teenager who was loud, and in-charge. Hidden behind the confidence was fear that seeped through his every action.
A man, probably close to Ghostface's own age. His expression unreadable, and his demeanour unconfident. Dirty blond, scruffy facial hair. He kept care of himself once upon a time. That could be said of most persons here, though. He was unremarkable for it.
A woman, confident and reading a map. It didn't seem to have anything on it, but in her lap was a journal where she scribbled. Smart, detail-oriented and determined to free herself from this eternal hell. The Ghostface didn't mind it much anymore; it seemed futile to leave didn't it?
Platinum hair, a steeled gaze. Confidence oozed from her, and Ghostface couldn't be less intimidated. Something haunted her deep down, but what was it? She hid it well.
And the last survivor in front of it; a red-head, eyes hidden by a dark brim. A tricky one, she knew magick and she knew it well.
Survivors were easier to get a read on than killers; you can assume that they have nothing going on in their mind other than surviving. What else was there in the fog? There was no more use of menial relationships, no point in trying.
So it thought. It was always something the Ghostface came back to — relationships, and what they meant to people.
"The Cannibal" once had a family; it had seen the film. It didn't dwell too much on it assuming that the thing before them had a different experience than a potentially coincidental film based on 'a real story'. Bull shit. It surely loved it's family, but it wouldn't put up with the things that he did.
"The Blight"... It didn't know, it couldn't tell. Maybe they were similar, too consumed into something to find meaning or purpose inside anything but that one thing they found; or...
Perhaps they both killed in cold blood for the enjoyment.
Who knew.
"The Twins". A prime example of a relationship, surely, love flowed from the older one into the younger. You had to love someone to allow them to live in your chest cavity for any amount of time, surely. Ghostface couldn't deny that. She fiercely protected the baby, too.
"The Trickster" ... What was there to say about him, he was flashy and not unlike a bird; what did he draw to him, the Ghostface wondered? What was it all for? You didn't have a good childhood and act like that.
The Ghostface hadn't much to say about the Cenobite; Pinhead seemed uninterested in anything but eternal hell and pain. That was a life that the Ghostface could come to understand.
It'd already gone through so much; it allowed themself a brief moment of grotesque fantasy to wonder what that may be like. To allow Pinhead it's own way with it.
Well. It didn't matter much, did it?
All that mattered was that the Ghostface was surrounded by people who meant nothing to them; and that they meant prescious little to as well.
