NOT DEAD YET.

As ever, Cladaí Folmh is quiet. The waves beat rhythmically on a rocky shore, the moon hangs full in the pitch-dark sky, and the houses on the hill flicker with faraway light, as if remembering a time when the living stoked their hearths.

Sighing, the girl sits down leaning back on a dry rock, staring to the sky and that lamplike moon.

“The dark?” She echoes, grinning, “Oh I’ve been to the dark. I looked the void in the face and told it No. I wasn’t done, not until I made you suffer. Not until I watched you burn.” She rises to her feet again, stepping to the stairs, which are practically all burnt, and tearing one of the steps off, tossing it at Ghost, “But now I think I have a better idea. Maybe I can give it an offering. Something to take, since I denied it my own soul.” She looks around at the burning room, smiling, beaming with joy, “Maybe we can go there together. So I can watch you burn for eternity. Only you get to bear the brunt of the monster you made, how poetic.” Her tone is a giddy hum, basking in the light, “No one will remember you. No one will stop and mourn you. You’ll be forgotten.” 

Brin doesn’t mind being forgotten. It’s probably better if she is.

As ever, Cladaí Folmh is quiet. The waves beat rhythmically on a rocky shore, the moon hangs full in the pitch-dark sky, and the houses on the hill flicker with faraway light, as if remembering a time when the living stoked their hearths.

But what he did is still written on her face. 

The beach is nice; Brin doesn’t immediately see the killer rowing in the air towards her, and when she does? She hardly bats an eye, her exhaustion already soul-deep. Nothing changes in her expression, other than a glimmer of hope in her dull eyes. Seeing someone new is good.

“... I burned him to death. I burned it all down.” Saying it out loud makes it feel real, and it brings so many emotions bubbling up to the kid’s head, “I’m out. For good.” Brin sighs, eyes falling to the ground, glossing over already, “... I guess I just needed to be somewhere calm for a bit.” 

The kid fidgets with her hands, despite how unpleasant it is- the scarred and rough texture always invades any sensation, even now, with bandages covering them. 

As ever, Cladaí Folmh is quiet. The waves beat rhythmically on a rocky shore, the moon hangs full in the pitch-dark sky, and the houses on the hill flicker with faraway light, as if remembering a time when the living stoked their hearths.

But what he did is still written on her face. 

The beach is nice; Brin doesn’t immediately see the killer rowing in the air towards her, and when she does? She hardly bats an eye, her exhaustion already soul-deep. Nothing changes in her expression, other than a glimmer of hope in her dull eyes. Seeing someone new is good.

“... I burned him to death. I burned it all down.” Saying it out loud makes it feel real, and it brings so many emotions bubbling up to the kid’s head, “I’m out. For good.” Brin sighs, eyes falling to the ground, glossing over already, “... I guess I just needed to be somewhere calm for a bit.” 

As ever, Cladaí Folmh is quiet. The waves beat rhythmically on a rocky shore, the moon hangs full in the pitch-dark sky, and the houses on the hill flicker with faraway light, as if remembering a time when the living stoked their hearths.

But what he did is still written on her face. 

The beach is nice; Brin doesn’t immediately see the killer rowing in the air towards her, and when she does? She hardly bats an eye, her exhaustion already soul-deep. Nothing changes in her expression, other than a glimmer of hope in her dull eyes. Seeing someone new is good.

Turning Brin into a killer was on his mind for a while now. Ghost wanted to see how far he could push her to remove the survivor’s whole personality. To change her into something she was not. To see how desperate she would be for escape. He was meant to provide her with a survivor to kill. But it seemed that he took that spot instead. Not only was Brin ready to kill, her anger and pain turned into need for torture. She became who she despised, but Ghost still had no way of knowing if she’d transfer that onto an innocent victim. After all, he was far from innocent. And her bubbling rage was something to be expected. But not something he wanted to experience.

Brin’s taunts managed.to wriggle beneath his thick skin. There was one statement that made Ghost worry. His ability to come back to life. He had no Entity. He felt his connection weakening for so long now. Would the gods gift him with another opportunity to live or would they take his life permanently? They had replacements far more willing to serve than he was… The fear was further triggered when he couldn’t call for his blade. It didn’t materialise with the shroud and it wasn’t appearing as he wished. Was he reduced to mere prey?

“Pathetic.” She grumbles again, taking in the scene of the gravely wounded killer before her. She holds the mask in her hand, looking at it with disgust, then grabbing it with both hands and bending it until it snapped, the melted plastic had hardened to a point that made it brittle under the pressure. What was left was tossed aside, Ghost’s one protection to his ego destroyed.

That moment when she focused on the chain was used to try and dislodge the weapon out of flesh. Each movement caused more and more white spots to dance in front of his eyes, but he tried to ignore his body’s plea to leave the axe where it was. The pain made him weak and even his kick at Brin brought no effect. She still managed to shackle him, and he was still not free of the thing in his arm. He could barely reach it properly.

There was a crack and a held back cry which came out in the form of a chocked moan. The kick had managed to break one of his already weakened ribs. The fall onto the stairs was surprisingly not enough to cause such harm, but Brin was. Oh, the irony of it all. It forced him to laugh out loud.

Brinley felt like a god. She is a god, down here. This is her personal hell, and she’s sitting on a throne of her own mangled bones. This is her glorious exit from the Fog, once and for all. A final, closing act. 

Ghost’s words make her snicker even more, a scarred hand grabbing the long handle of the axe, yanking it roughly to the side, “What was that? Threatening me when I’ve got you chained up?” She asks, tilting her head, “Do you wanna know what I did, when you weren’t here?” She doesn’t let him speak, “I got stronger. Every day, every waking minute I had a chance, I prepared for this day. From the very start.” She yanks again, “Your fate was sealed the moment you dragged me here.” Brinley grins, manic and wicked, “You have no Entity to bring you back. No one to resurrect you from the ashes of my fire. You’re all alone, stuck with the very monster you created.” 

His focus was taken away by the sudden swing. He could only tell the movement, not what was in her hands or how she used the weapon. Ghost could only guess that it was the axe, and he had managed to jump out of the way. One more dodge had him feeling the sharp metal barely scrape against the material stretched over his ribs. And then he was on the other side, ready to dash for the burning stairs.

She roars, swinging the axe wildly in attempts to hit him after he dodges that first attack, the survivor feeling nothing but rage when she misses again. It’s remedied quickly, as the feeling of the axehead hitting flesh and breaking bone- the sound of it- was immensely satisfying. 

Brinley quickly changes her hold on the weapon, pressing down on Ghost’s shoulder like the axe is a lever, forcing him down as much as she can, “Tch, look at you. How did I not cut you down sooner? So many times I could have taken your blade and slit your throat like that. Bled you out like the useless fucking thing you are.” She spits her words at him, tone acidic, “Didn’t you hear me? You’re not getting out. Ever. You’re weak, you’re pathetic. All of you cowards in cloaks are the same. Just vile men.” She chuckles darkly, “I’m god down here, you understand? You’re fucking nothing. I’ll burn you to death a thousand times over.” 

Brin suddenly gets an idea, blue eyes scanning the fire-lit room for- aha. Such a familiar thing, this heavy metal chain and shackle. Brin grabs it, dragging it over to where her tormenter lies on the ground, clamping the thing around one of his ankles, yanking the key out of the lock and tossing it into the fire across the room.

For a while, only white chalked faces observed him from each wall around, before their artist slowly made their way down into the basement. He couldn’t see anything other than the darkness, tongues of flame, and Brin’s shape between the two. Old wood made for an easy meal for the fire, the flames slowly consuming their only way of escape and blinding him in their brightness.

The walls are decorated with white faces, crude images of chalk that mirror and mock the pathetic killer, and his attempts to cut Brin down with words.

“Ah, but you’re exactly right.” She says, holding her hands out to gesture at the space, “This is my place. And soon it’ll be your tomb.” She laughs, cackling as she hoists the axe up, holding it with both hands like the Huntress, “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this moment. How much I’ve endured at the hands of your kind just to finally be able to kill you.” The fire crackles and blazes behind her, embers already beginning to float around the room, “Mercy won’t find you here. And no one will come to save you.”

“Does it hurt?” She mocks the killer, freed from her warped perception of Ghost and Matt being two people. This man is just a single, stupid coward, “I bet it hurts. But you don’t know pain.” Each step on the wooden stairs causes a loud thud, “Not yet, anyway.” 

A glance is given outside, waiting for him to return. The survivor wraps her hand around the handle of the pan, waiting. The peace turns to a giddy and sadistic excitement. Revenge tastes so sweet.

She stands still, hiding her expression with a mask of placid compliance, for ‘Matt’ to walk in front of the open hole down to the basement. Then, without warning, she yanks the pan of oil off the stove, throwing it at the man. A line of liquid fire follows as the stuff spills everywhere. 

But he didn’t budge from his spot just focusing on the oil and waiting for it to heat up. That didn’t take too long, but it dragged out as Matt didn’t give her much of a break asking if she’d like to play chess after they’ve eaten. He knew that Brinley hates chess. Ghost was the reason for that hate.

“Ah, sorry. You said last time you don’t like to play that game. My bad.” He pretended to be apologetic whilst he threw the first fry into the oil. Noticing that it was hissing and bubbling, he added the whole batch.

As if that wasn’t what he constantly did. Stir in people’s lives, observe what was private, and abuse his victims weaknesses. It was the only thing that gave him the thrill in this boring mundane life. If the Entity didn’t want him torturing others, it would’ve never sent him into the fog in the first place. And there was nothing else he could do with his free time.

She’s getting tired of waiting. Playing the long con isn’t helping, it isn’t cathartic anymore. The longer she goes without kicking his ribs in the more her anger grows. There’s a fire burning in her eyes and it’s directed outward to everything in this house. Everything in this god-forsaken shack of misery.

“It’s fine, we’ll just have eggs later.” She somewhat flatly brushes off the comment, looking at the peeler. 

I wonder if it could peel his skin off…

With a sigh, he pushed off the counter and proceeded to pour oil into a deep pan. Then, he set it on the cooker’s flames allowing it to gain the right temperature. He didn’t have on of those special pans that had a…sieve? Was that what it was called? It didn’t matter. He always just used a mix of a wooden spoon and a fork to pick the chips out.

As if that wasn’t what he constantly did. Stir in people’s lives, observe what was private, and abuse his victims weaknesses. It was the only thing that gave him the thrill in this boring mundane life. If the Entity didn’t want him torturing others, it would’ve never sent him into the fog in the first place. And there was nothing else he could do with his free time.

She’s getting tired of waiting. Playing the long con isn’t helping, it isn’t cathartic anymore. The longer she goes without kicking his ribs in the more her anger grows. There’s a fire burning in her eyes and it’s directed outward to everything in this house. Everything in this god-forsaken shack of misery.

“It’s fine, we’ll just have eggs later.” She somewhat flatly brushes off the comment, looking at the peeler. 

I wonder if it could peel his skin off...

She’s not planning to live after today. She’s tired. If she’s going, she might as well go in a blaze of glory. It’s what she deserves, after all this time.