New additions to the Entity’s murderous family quickly fell into the category of news he never liked to hear as a self-appointed leader and coordinator for his comrades-in-creeping. Perhaps he, in his haste to solidify his role among them as not completely useless, he’d shouldered the responsibility of their safety far too seriously after they’d all fine-tuned their timeless adventure through the fog, making escape an art form with their unapologetic expertise honed against each familiar, fog-bound nemesis. Lately, it seemed as though the members of his survival squad would exit each trial with minimal causalities, and while Dwight wouldn’t dream of failing to credit his cohorts for their quick wits, he considers the tactics they steadily employ against familiar foes to mirror the satisfying results of many unsatisfying ends in form of countless nights butchered alongside them. Pep talks pitched to doubtful faces by the fire seemed but a distant memory to him back when they had so much to learn about the realm that had swallowed them, hope and all. Once they’d all sidled back to the fire’s side, bloodied and tortured images of their former confident selves, Dwight cleared his throat as if he were close to catapulting into the peppiest talk he could provide, though all he manages is a deflated sound of defeat. He had already hollered himself hoarse when that unsettling shape of a man had materialized out of the fog without so much as a footstep to announce his arrival.
He’d almost forgotten what the sting of defeat felt like…or maybe that’s the muscle memory of nerve endings severed like fraying rope fibers against a blade far too long and far too wicked to slice one’s steak into bite sized pieces. Scratching at the latest bandage binding his elbow’s sliced flesh together in a modest effort illustrative of their collective fight against the flurry of bladed blows. By the time he spots Jake dozing off calm near the fire’s crackle, Dwight has already wrung his shirt’s hem round his knuckles, twisting anxiously. The last time he’d seen the saboteur, it had been under less…relaxing circumstances. In the harsher highlights of the campfire’s red roar, Dwight pictures every gash that had garnered his teammate’s hide despite the thick overcoat Jake’s parka provided. Even after their newest stalker had filleted flesh without a hair’s width of hesitation–even after Jake had suffered through his self-assigned role as a stoic shield for the rest of them without realizing the danger he put them in by feeding the evil within their assailant with each drop of blood spilled, even then–the saboteur was still here, washed clean of his wounds by some strange and sadistic force. Or maybe he was sadistic for thinking it kind enough to let him see his friends again even after he shouldn’t? Sucking in a sharp breath to banish the thought, he situates himself beside the boldest of the band.
With how easy it was for that Myers guy to sneak up on them, they’d all have to pitch in and pay attention to their surroundings now, and he doubts Jake can be very effective in that regard when the state of his wild hair suggests he hasn’t groomed himself in years, let alone taken into consideration the value of sight. “Strategically speaking, your hair’s not doing you any favors against Mr. No Noise.” Dwight informs him only after he’d begun to comb his fingers through the thick mess growing like an out of control chia pet on the saboteur’s head. Oddly enough, Jake’s hair feels a lot softer than its wild edges advertise, and without a drop of hair gel for miles–or perhaps even dimensions, Dwight feels intrigue stain his thoughts as he drags his fingers through the subtle waves collecting in kinks at the back of the saboteur’s scalp. “Lucky for you, I have four sisters and enough skill with a scrunchie to spruce up your FOV.” With plenty of hectic mornings spent fastening ponytails into place, he’s quite confident–if not a bit rough while scraping dark locks into a messy bun. The lazy remark has him smiling, if only by a quirk as he guides the saboteur’s head back enough to lock their muddy gazes. Gingerly, he picks at a stubborn strand and slides it in with the others in his palm as the rest of his fingers linger over the edge of Jake’s cheekbone. “Oh, you know…just mixing up the meta.” It’s definitely not because fluffy mammoths are a lot cuter than over-sized feet.
Repetition was soothing to Jake rather than monotonous. He'd sought solace in nature by removing himself from his family - searching for a life he could make his own. The repetition in living off the grid had been exactly what he was seeking. His life had no true purpose and he was eager to go from one day to the next, taking in his surroundings and living in that comfortable zone of the known. Wake up before sunrise, get the firewood into the fireplace if it was cold out and start up a fire. Make breakfast for himself, then go out and cut up some more firewood to last him for the next week or so. After that he would gather up his equipment to go fishing and hike down to the river to catch his dinner. While there he'd usually replenish whatever water he needed to and filter it back at his trailer. Check the solar panels and make sure everything was working before he then started cleaning the fish and preparing it to either be cooked or smoked and saved for later. He tried to keep enough food on hand to last him throughout the month. He'd check on his garden which was minimal but provided enough vegetables to supplement his diet with something aside from fish or the occasional venison during hunting season. Then he would go hike around and disarm any illegal traps he discovered and on occasion speak with the rare Park Ranger that had the poor luck of stumbling across Jake. They'd exchange information and Jake would let them know about any oddities or traps he'd encountered. Once that was said and done he'd go back to the trailer, clean up anything he needed to, do other miscellaneous chores and then cook dinner. Do the dishes, stock the fire for the night, double check his locks and turn in not long after the sun was setting.
It was the same schedule every single day and Jake had come to rely on that safety. Having Dwight run his fingers through the thick black hair was something akin to what he'd lost and his body subconsciously relaxes, mind drifting into a state it had nearly forgotten about in the length of time they'd been here. He closes his eyes, a long sigh escaping through his nostrils. If he ignored the coppery taste that clung to the roof of his mouth and how there was no one around to touch his hair before this mess then he could imagine he was back at his trailer, relaxing with a plate of fish and cooked potatoes. Distantly, he's listening to what Dwight says, but most of his focus is on the drag of fingernails over his scalp and gentle tug against roots as his hair is collected into the aforementioned scrunchie. "Four sisters?" Jake could barely get along with one brother.
When his head is tilted backwards he opens his eyes obediently, looking up at him with a heavy lidded gaze that hints at his relaxed state. "Hm." He doesn't have much to say on it. If anyone were to write a collection of stories about the horrors they'd seen and the poor souls enduring it - well, it would be Dwight. Out of their group only one ever seemed intrigued by the writings left behind or encouraged them to add important information to it. That someone was Dwight. He lifts a heavy hand, rubbing it across his jaw in a thoughtless manner. A shave was probably in order soon but with his beard he at least kept most of the chill at bay that was beginning to accumulate in the Entity's forest.
Another swipe of Dwight's hand through his hair to gather the hair up sends a shiver down his spine and a soft sound rolls through his chest.
