B L O O D L U S T

   “Been a while since I’ve seen you around.”

Quentin had resumed is natural sleepless daze of wandering the outskirts of the fire. His plans this time were to head out to the lake, maybe to try and swim and see if there was a bottom he could reach. Quentin’s still yet to touch a grain of sand beyond the lake’s sandbar, and his paranoia told him that it was bottomless, truly, filled with nothing but water and maybe something else if he’d ever managed to dive deep enough. He’s yet to reach the point of drowning for curiosity. But the cold slap of water, the familiar turn of his joints and gliding through still black water, flying past where the moon struggled to find its own reflection. It was a comfort to him.

Running into other survivors wasn’t uncommon in a world with such a sparse population and even sparser landmarks to visit. He saw the back of a jacket, a dim hood pulled up, and in the context of the quiet, dehydrated woods, thought it was–

Well, he didn’t know anyone with that specific frame, with that specific clothing, so in his mind it was just a faceless survivor whose name he’ll figure out once he got close enough.

Legion had been gone for so long, he didn’t believe it at first. 

The lake was in sight. Peeking between grey tree trunks, the water so flat and dark that from this distance one could mistake it for being solid ground; no grass, just scarless black dirt.

Quentin kept his distance from Legion. Arms crossed, fleet planted firmly, mouth grim. His memories with Legion were muddled with intimacy and bursts of sobriety that brought about a sort of sympathy from them, but infected with a blur of blood and teeth and insane mutterings in his ears. Quentin’s trust had been running thin.

But not his curiosity.

   “Where’ve you been?” he asked, voice level. “I thought you might’ve just…disappeared.”

Granted, Quentin had been avoiding Ormond religiously, providing orisons of avoiding trials there silently in the back of his mind at every call. But, even then, Legion was a wanderer, like a stray cat, and in the past, Ormond had never been enough to contain them from finding him.

Quentin couldn’t stop himself. “If you’re here to eat me again, I’ll drown you first.” His head inclined in the direction of the lake. Boundaries were important to him, after all.

It was not the campfire which they had stumbled upon after all, rather another landmark entirely. The lake was still, missing the wind which had followed them for so long after leaving the mountain. The darkness left it difficult to make out much else around it, but it wouldn't be needed after all since a voice calls out to them from some distance away.

They recognize the voice. Their breath hitches in their throat, heart rate spiking for a quick second as they turn to pinpoint where it came from. They spot Quentin not too long after, taking a step forward as if to approach him before they stop and still themselves.

Quentin. The same survivor which they obsessed over for so long, crawling out from the depths of their misery to attempt at being intimate with another person in this forsaken realm. Their attempts always ended in horror; they can still recall the tang of blood on their tongue and the sick churning of their stomach after the fact. It's one memory that has lasted through the countless days, buried amongst their senses even if they don't recall the situation itself in its entirety anymore.

Their jacket is still wet from the melting snow, their body temperature not having returned yet from their wandering through the empty woods. A frown settles beneath the mask they wear, that crudely painted smile a poor reflection of how they feel upon seeing Quentin.

"We are always here," they finally say. Not here in particular, at the lake, but surely the survivor knows what they mean. They've held onto that necklace of his for some time now. It's a copy of the original but they still wear it as a reminder that they could call upon the Entity at any time if they really wanted to see Quentin. They always favored the meetings outside of trials more, however, so they haven't used it.

"No. Not this time." Not that it was ever their direct objective in the past since their views of intimacy always blurred with the morbid nature of their perceived hunger. Hunger for attention and touch met with a primal hunger that tears apart their reality. The times they've come back to full consciousness with their hands in Quen's gut and flesh in their mouth were too many to hope for a happy reunion with him.

Staring out into the indeterminable darkness of the woods, the snow eventually grows thick enough they can not see the treeline anymore. Their clothes are covered in snow, their mask the only thing warm enough to keep it from sticking for long. Bones chilled to the core, they fiddle with their bandaged hands in sheer boredom. Nothing seems to pull them from their thoughts despite their usual need for basic comforts.

Everything is quieted by the snowfall except for the wind. The old hum of electricity that usually powers generators during trials, the cawing of crows that are long gone with the storms coming, and their own ragged breath is covered.

Aside from the swinging of their legs off the side of the balcony, it would probably be difficult to see them with all of the snow piling up around them. Every now and then they clear it off by swiping a hand over their hood and around the wooden planks beneath them.

Boredom is the killer of minds. At some point they hop off the balcony and stretch out their tired and achy limbs. A pat to their pants pocket reassures them they have their trusty knife on hand as they set off into the snow-capped trees.

* hold my muse’s hand!

It has been ages since a new face arrived at the Lodge, so when the soft sound of groans and shuffling snow reach their ears Legion is hurrying down the stairs to meet their new guest.

Another Killer–they know just by looking at her. The wispy hair, the broken frame, and the shimmer of glass tell them all. The only question left unanswered was why she was here.

Something stops them from going right up to her, though, and there’s an internal moment of bickering between the lot of them to decide who gets to greet her. Ultimately, it is decided that Susie’s appearance will be the least confrontational and so they duck behind a doorway before popping out behind her from another.

“It’s so cold out here, why don’t you sit by the fire?” Their voices still mingle, but the soft rasp of Susie’s is projected over the rest. “Unless… you can’t really feel it like us.” 

They feel watched as they circle around Rin, half-wondering if she speaks at all or if she will attack them if they get too close. 

Danger is pushed aside–they’ll just get fixed up by the Entity anyway!–as they reach out with a confident hand to grasp one of the Spirit’s disembodied hands. Without questioning if they can run off with her arm without the rest of her, they lead her over to the crackling firepit and let the heat do its work. Her body seemed pretty stiff from walking through the snow! They assume.

* hold my muse’s hand!

Occasionally, there were lapses of time between trials in the fog. Legion rarely ventured out much anymore--not keen on seeing other Killers or trying to spook the survivors in their camp. They preferred to be by themselves these days, lost in their own minds and furtively skirting the edge of the endless woods around the mountain property.

Were they waiting for something? Someone?

In a way, they’ve forgotten. Trials and killing bleed together until solemn freedom is too buried to notice. They still relish in their murderous ways--a trait they wonder is ingrained or learned at this point.

They track their feet through the snow, sludging it into mud the more they pace through a particular area. Someone was coming, right? They can almost feel it: the excitement of a familiar face, skin to touch, words to speak. A glimmer of recognition comes to mind. The soft pants of jogging through woods, the feeling of fingers threading through auburn hair, the thin strap of a bracelet being left in their wanting hand--

Quentin’s voice breaks them from their reverie. A cold knot hardens in their chest, losing sight of the image they had and wondering what it had been. Their confusion prompts the dreamer to speak up again.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here...”

---

A bit of awkward chatting back and forth led them to the roof of the lodge. It was difficult to get up there, but Legion insisted they go. A pile of boxes was haphazardly stacked together by one of the outer walls, the killer lending a hand with pulling Quentin up onto the snow-covered roof.

Legion kicks off mounds of snow, watching it flurry to the ground before taking a seat next to the ledge. They offer the spot next to them and Quentin sits as well, albeit uncomfortably cold with the wispy wind. Silence falls between them for some time.

A hand covers another, bandaged and dirtier, one. There’s a start from Legion as they turn their head to let the mask stare forward. Unseen through a bloody smile, lips part in anticipation of what to say. Uncertainty washes over them, and for the first time in a while, they all disagree on what’s the right course of action to take, and so nothing happens at all.

Fingers nudge to lace with Quentin’s and it takes a moment, but he allows it. Cautious glances go unheeded by them, legs kicking back and forth over the edge eagerly as their mask is focused elsewhere. 

In a moment of clarity, they scoot closer to the survivor until their sides touch. They leave everything as it is--fingers gently entwined and words unspoken. 

For the longest time, Legion had the idea that there were more things at play within the Fog than just the Entity’s wishes. At times they felt watched and others they could swear there was movement within the vast expanse of trees outside of the lodge. Not many survivors wandered to the mountain outside of trials. Not anymore. They were as alone as ever–the way things were meant to be.

Something had stirred them from their rest within bleak walls when they ventured out into the bitter cold. Snow flurried forth and covered old trial marks. No one should be here, they think, but the air feels stiff and they have a sense of paranoia that gnaws within their skin.

The killer had been skulking about the outskirts of the lodge when they heard something fall within the trees. It must have been a distraction, however, as they reach past the growing brush and a sharp pain causes them to reel back. Steps falter and sweltering heat envelopes their right arm. Whoever did this escaped with relative ease, as they don’t have time to chase when their whole body is boiling from the inside.

A large needle full of bright orange serum is gouged into their forearm. The skin around it swells and partially encapsulates the needle, making it near impossible to remove without causing indescribable damage. As Legion steps side to side in an attempt to orient themselves, the burning liquid spreads further through their system and begins to deteriorate everything it comes into contact with.

“No…” A weak, raspy tune of voices call out. There is no one to hear, to help. Their blood turns luminescent with the serum, glowing through translucent patches of flesh. Some skin had already started sloughing off as they made their way back to the lodge. Flesh melts from muscle; a small trail of sticky, organic mess follows their tracks in the snow.

The immense pain has them struggling to get up a flight of stairs, footsteps heavy on creaking boards and has them pausing to catch their breath every couple of steps up. Their body leans against the wall and blight seeps into the wood. Streaks of orange follow them up the staircase, splotches scattering across the floor as they begin to cough and heave. The chill of the mountain means nothing to them when they are burning up from within.

Whatever this infection was, it was changing them. The affected arm was charred black while holes seeped glowing blight. Their mask became fused to their face, unable to truly assume any sort of identity in appearance. The eyeholes leaked this viscous serum infinitely, as well as strands dripping from their chin, in a poor excuse of showcasing their emotional turmoil. Lungs burned like a fire had taken root–holes punctured near their collar exuding acrid smoke with each exhale. Their whole body was burned and caked with decay. Tacky, oily, and malodorous.

Legion didn’t look like they belonged in the snow-capped mountain anymore. They looked more at home within a volcano at this point, and they try without success to remove the tar-like substance that coated their skin. The blight illuminated them from the inside, but only the cavities where their insides are exposed have the brightness of the infection.

They make their way down to the basement, knowing it’s the closest thing to the Entity that they have in their lodge. The whistling winds die down and the ever-present creaks and moans of the Realm echo within the room. They stand in the middle where hooks should be (gone without survivors to sacrifice upon them,) the gaps in the floorboards glowing a visceral red beneath their feet.

There goes my peace ��

and here i was thinking you were dead :/

YEAH?