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@facelessfacadefairfield
The Entity wiped my fucking posts AND my blog theme. Great. Expected. Whatever, not like I had any posts I wanted to keep, especially here.
It's Dwight Fairfield. One of... however many there turn out to be. Been here for about a decade, felt every bit of it. Go ahead, shoot me a message. Shoot me. God knows I'm used to it.
(OOC Under cut.)
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this lamb keeps trying to sacrifice itself even though no one really needs or wants it to do that
⚙︎ // Starter for @facelessfacadefairfield. Divider by @/cursed-carmine
THE BLACK BANQUET
Evan had been angry lately.
Sure, he was always angry, when he felt much of anything at all, but he'd been especially angry these past few days, with this new event. It was meant to something grand and special to commemorate what was apparently ten years - felt like far more, if you'd've asked him - in The Fog.
But it was really just a load of horseshit. For him, anyway.
Trials were a load of horseshit for him normally, but this was particularly bad. Survivors could turn invisible, be invincible, sprint faster than he could ever hope of going...
Dwight has been saying he's been here a decade. He knew that, that it was a fact- but... it's different, to see it. To see IT, the Entity Itself, confirming it in the form of this massive, grand, faux formal event. It even dressed him up for the occasion- he'd come to in a trial wearing a suit It must have pulled from some unknowable corner of Its Self, because he'd never even seen one like it before. It wasn't the worst thing It had dressed him in, but... it still made a part of himself writhe in nauseated, helpless anger. It already took so much from him- but It went ahead and tried to take more, sometimes. It took choice. It took self. It took identity. It went further, hungered more- and It treated him like a doll. He bites the inside of his cheek bloody so his jaw doesn't tremble. He's used to it, he tells himself, trying to stifle that awful sense of violation so he doesn't just, absolutely break down in a fit of insensate rage. ...He can feel Its thought-like currents running through the fabric of Everything, of Itself- a riptide of self-satisfaction, sadism, coursing through that incomprehensible filter of what might count as Its mind. If he wanted to simplify It- It was enjoying Itself. Prideful that It had managed to keep this set of experiments, of livestock, un-voided for this long, this all had manifested from It in a blossoming of stored energy.
He's come to theorize that the banquet wasn't "for them"- and that's why it fucking sucked, and continued to fucking suck even once he got used to it. No, the real banquet... was them. All of them. Killer and survivor alike. That's why It's putting him through his paces so hard. he hasn't been in back-to-back-to-back trials like this in a hot second, but he certainly hasn't missed it. Ten hours of nothing but running and fighting, his watch says. Apparently, that had been enough for the moment, because the Entity finally dropped him in Its interstitial forest after It finished putting him back together from the last trial. He'd gotten everyone out but himself. Sacrificed on a basement hook. He breathes with a restored ribcage, feels his un-impaled abdominal muscles shivering and threatening to cramp around remembered intrusions before they notice he's not skewered anymore. Once his mind catches on to the fact he's not in a trial as well, and not by a campfire either... he starts to slink in a random direction, hoping to find a place to just. Lay down. Feel more like the corpse that he is where none of his survivors can see him looking like it. Ten hours, for ten years. Ten years since he was taken. ...Ten years since a group of people brought him into those woods on false pretenses. And though he'd been nervous, uncomfortable, paranoid- when hadn't he been? He saw yet more eyes viewing him as little more than a stepping stone on the way to their own greatness- but when hadn't he worried about that? When hadn't he been paranoid to the point of delusion? But he shouldn't have ignored it. He had recognized it. He shouldn't have shirked his instincts yet again. He- he saw he was nothing to them in that fateful moment, just flesh, to drug, to carve, to use- -but he'd dipped his head, curled in his shoulders, squeezed his knees together, then. Trying to ignore that fear gnawing at the bottom of his heart. ...Before he knew what happened, before he realized after Taurie had arrived that those people must have been some of the Entity's cultists sacrificing him, he'd tried to keep himself from going too far down the path of wondering what exactly they'd done to him. Fearing what he might theorize, or worse, possibly remember. Now, it just made him feel even more tired to think about than he already had been. And he'd been very, very tired, for a long, long time. He sees a decently thick tree eventually, one that'd easily swallow up the dark, small shadow that was his silhouette, and he pads up to it- but he freezes mid-stride as some instinct in him- even exhausted as it is- perks up. ...He's a little wary of checking- but he steps around the tree regardless, and sees- "Evan?" He winces a little behind the mask he'd been given at just how tired, and shredded out his voice is. Then, reminded he was wearing the thing, he takes it off, and replaces it with his glasses. As much as he liked covering up his face... something about seeing Evan makes him want to take it off. Put them back where they started, maybe, when it was just them, confused, wary, trying to figure out both what was going on... and who the other man was. He looks tired. They both look tired. ...He's so... "...Are you as exhausted as I am?" Asking, in that indirectly direct way, what they'll be doing this time. Dwight knows him well enough to read whatever response he's given in reply to that- be it a "fuck off", in a manner of speaking, or an agreement. An invitation to commiserate, be it in silence or otherwise. ...He's known him, long enough, to tell.
Evan couldn't help but startle a bit at the unexpected call of his name - yanked out of the peace and the silence by the presence of another. But it was Fairfield. Peaceful and silent enough. He could handle small talk with him, maybe.
Disgruntled, the Trapper dropped his hand from his chin and straightened his back, looking up (hardly) at Fairfield from his seat on the ground. The man held a mask at his side in one hand - not dissimilar to Evan's new one, just white and with a different face - and he was also in a similar outfit. Some of the survivors he'd seen had them too, but he'd yet to see Dwight's, 'til now.
He'd yet to see the man the whole event so far, actually. They'd been seeing less and less of one another over the years - he wasn't sure if it was because of the growing roster of people to face, or if The Entity was doing some kinda bullshit to make it that way for some reason.
He didn't know.
He didn't care.
He answered Evan's scoff with a humorless one of his own, and a short nod of agreement- yeah... "...Figures." His tone is dull, pained, practically a sigh. Commiseration it was. The Entity had tortured Dwight before too, in many ways- It just got finished wringing him out for all he was worth to It, in fact- but It didn't torture him like... like how It did Evan. The ever present shrapnel. The gradual destruction, the changing of the physical form it kept putting him back into.
It left scars on Dwight- the paired starbursts of knotted tissue below his collarbone, his shoulder, the clustering of slashes overlaying each other on his back and chest, like ghost images, and... He shifts his ankle a touch- the ring of scar tissue around his leg.
He didn't step in Evan's traps nearly as much as he was hooked, or struck- but the Entity seemed to think he should bear the mark of them regardless.
...It did these things to him, yes. But of course- of course Evan would be tired. Worn in, worn out. He's physically got it worse.
Dwight asked more just... to voice it, he supposes. To reach out. He blinks at the compliment, genuinely surprised- then smiles. It's just as thin and tired as he still sounded, but... more fragile, somehow. A gossamer, delicate, fleeting touch of relief. "Thanks. Yours is pretty nice too." He means it as well, stated it in a sort of similarly blunt way- a compliment made statement of fact by how at ease he sounded saying it. Less like he thought of something polite to say in response, and more like he was just noting the obvious. It's the truth to him. Evan looks nice... besides the injuries that make his own fingers twitch with the want to tend them. ...If he was still living a lie- still thought he was alive- he'd then sit by Evan at a carefully measured distance out of wariness, perched on his feet tucked underneath him, like he was ready to spring away into a sprint at any second. Still so vehemently resistant to death, as if it might matter somehow. He'd learned how he ticked quickly, adapted as they both changed bit by bit, and now… he knew how far the man could lunge like he knew the taste of his own blood. Something so innate, he wouldn't be surprised to hear it was etched into him, somewhere. Maybe the lining of the inside of his ribs, where it could make his breath catch as muscles surged to life in response. Maybe, if he reached inside himself next time he was torn open, he could run his fingers over it. ...But, right now he doesn't really care. He'd feared dying once, feared pain- now it was just annoying. Upsetting, at the absolute worst, and maybe inconvenient. Besides that, he just came off a death. Not only is Evan randomly deciding to snatch him up and kill him unlikely, the idea of it just… doesn’t register as something he’d rather avoid. Instead, he sits down neatly at a respectful distance- but not a "safe" one. Rather than keeping his gaze locked on Evan keenly like he used to years ago, like a dog staring down a wolf on the edges of the pasture, he looks up into the vast, maddening abyss above... And he shuts his eyes, with his head tilted back. His throat is vulnerable and bare, and as he sighs, nearly silent, in some relief- the tremor in his muscles becomes a little more pronounced. He was just remade, but that didn’t mean he was remade all fresh and perfect. He’s exhausted, his body and mind overworked. He wants to lay down. Sprawl out like a dead thing. But, for a moment, he moreso wants to bask in the quiet, and the breeze that stirs up the humid air into something fresher, cleaner. Just a bit longer.
Evan blinked dumbly at the actually genuine compliment. And the little smile. Soft and weary as it was, it was real.
"... It's alright, I guess," he returned as he averted his gaze, turning it down to his hands, which he'd dropped into his lap. In his peripheral vision, he could see Dwight sit down, back against another tree, at a notable but not wary distance.
Dwight’s eyes drift back open at the sound of Evan’s voice, deep brown irises turned black by the reflection of the darkness above. As if a shard of It had replaced the color.
The movement is slow- unsurprised. He doesn’t look back at Evan immediately after he speaks, instead briefly searching the sky above, as if he’s looking for something. For any of It manifesting. Then, not seeing anything but stillness in the familiar dark sky, his head tilts, listing so he can make sort-of eye contact while still leaning back.
Evan sat there and stared as Dwight went on a little spiel about The Entity. Not a single detail of it was wrong. Presumably. They still knew fuck all about the damned thing, but Dwight's guess was as good as Evan's. Even better, actually.
Evan had just been... going with the flow. Against it, sometimes, when he had the energy to fight back, but that was always beat back out of him for a while afterwards. It was Fairfield that was sort of... studying the thing. Making notes. He'd heard of the man's books, filled to the brim with mad scribbles of him trying to make sense of the nonsensical thing lording over them.
He didn’t jump in response to the sound of Evan shifting, coming closer, but his eyes did drift open to watch him get up and step over- flicking to the cleaver left behind for a moment before returning to him. He didn’t move besides that, either. Didn’t seem to react much, besides the subtle movements of his near-black irises. Even though he knew damn well that Evan could kill him armed or not, he accepted his proximity without flinching. The action of leaving his weapon behind came across as intended- as the message that it was. He’s… almost surprised by it, though, that Evan actually approached him with such an intent. God, he really must look like hell, huh?
Then Evan lifted his hand, and… his eyes did widen a little as he realized what he was going to go through with, but they still softened dramatically as he watched Evan set his hand on his shoulder. He blinks slowly as he feels it settle, heavy, and...
Evan, for a long while, couldn't think of any words to throw up in response to that, so he merely grunted in agreement with a short nod.
Unfortunate that there weren't even crickets to fill the silence between the two. He'd kill for a loon, even. Or maybe a canary - he'd love it if he could have his own canary. Sing him its pretty little tunes.
He'd keep it alive even in this hell. He knew how.
He’s an awful, awful man, for the feeling of his heart twisting at that. For the sensation of loneliness. He wouldn’t be alone, he wouldn’t, but… they were the first, and part of him… part of him sort of hoped they’d be the last. That as the Entity died, they’d be there. No longer so confused. Not infuriated, or panicked, or facing down eternity as It swallowed them whole.
He doesn’t have hope he’s alive outside of the Fog, and Evan- he doesn’t… even if he could adjust to the world outside, would he want to? Would it fit him? Would the world they land in be harmed by him? Would they be, when they were no longer immortal, no longer held in these claws that cradled them for so long? He doesn’t think so, not at this point, but… He can’t abide the idea. He can’t stand the idea of his survivors being hunted when it’s all supposed to be over. It- he can't, can’t, he can’t. He shakes, for just a moment, eyes going distant and haunted. Because if Evan shouldn’t, wouldn’t leave, then what reason was there to ask for him to persist? Is he really so selfish? So horrifically cruel? God, is he any different from the Entity Itself, feeding off the other man for as long as he stayed here? He tries to blink it off, tries to shift his mindset back to answering. “I’m…” …But he finds himself wanting to say something he can’t. He’s not sure… why. He was so good at keeping quiet, never saying a word, hiding the truth behind his teeth though it begged him, over and over, to cry out. “I thought I would too. A while ago. I just… I didn’t.” And that is the truth. It is. …It is. ‘...I’m dead I’m Its doll to play with to toy with to change how It wills and I’m never going to be free of It I’ll never be anything but a-’ “...It’s not done with me yet.” And though that was sometimes a point that gave him strength, it feels so shameful now, sounds ashamed on his tongue. He is ashamed. He makes it so easy for It to use him. He cries for Its aid when he’s backed into a corner that frightens him, that he doesn’t understand, that seems like it’d be a mutual issue. He pushes into Its grasp as It takes him through Itself, through memories of places long gone and long lost- because of It. He offers It his rage and his service in exchange for the same strength that took him, even, when he thinks he must. He breathes out, shakily. Looks up at Evan, eyes wide, emphatic... and, almost, hazed over with some kind of mania. “If you do go,” he etches a contract into his own soul, fervent, and feels it dig in with each word, “-I’ll give It whatever It wants from me, so I can make sure I last long enough to make It pay.”
Dead By Daylight Danny "The Ghost Face" Johnson roleplay blog. Created Oct. 25th, 2026.
Hello hello! Funny seeing you here... 💕
Name's Ghost Face. The one and only (though... not anymore, it seems). But you might have heard of me, haha - my name's a pretty big one.
... Though it's you that truly needs no introduction; I already know you. Very well. Honestly, you should get some better locks, even a novice could pick those...
But no matter! I'm here on Tumblr now, speaking from The Fog - so don't be shy, come say hi! I don't bite.
Unless you want me to.
⚙︎ // Starter for @facelessfacadefairfield. Divider by @/cursed-carmine
THE BLACK BANQUET
Evan had been angry lately.
Sure, he was always angry, when he felt much of anything at all, but he'd been especially angry these past few days, with this new event. It was meant to something grand and special to commemorate what was apparently ten years - felt like far more, if you'd've asked him - in The Fog.
But it was really just a load of horseshit. For him, anyway.
Trials were a load of horseshit for him normally, but this was particularly bad. Survivors could turn invisible, be invincible, sprint faster than he could ever hope of going...
Dwight has been saying he's been here a decade. He knew that, that it was a fact- but... it's different, to see it. To see IT, the Entity Itself, confirming it in the form of this massive, grand, faux formal event. It even dressed him up for the occasion- he'd come to in a trial wearing a suit It must have pulled from some unknowable corner of Its Self, because he'd never even seen one like it before. It wasn't the worst thing It had dressed him in, but... it still made a part of himself writhe in nauseated, helpless anger. It already took so much from him- but It went ahead and tried to take more, sometimes. It took choice. It took self. It took identity. It went further, hungered more- and It treated him like a doll. He bites the inside of his cheek bloody so his jaw doesn't tremble. He's used to it, he tells himself, trying to stifle that awful sense of violation so he doesn't just, absolutely break down in a fit of insensate rage. ...He can feel Its thought-like currents running through the fabric of Everything, of Itself- a riptide of self-satisfaction, sadism, coursing through that incomprehensible filter of what might count as Its mind. If he wanted to simplify It- It was enjoying Itself. Prideful that It had managed to keep this set of experiments, of livestock, un-voided for this long, this all had manifested from It in a blossoming of stored energy.
He's come to theorize that the banquet wasn't "for them"- and that's why it fucking sucked, and continued to fucking suck even once he got used to it. No, the real banquet... was them. All of them. Killer and survivor alike. That's why It's putting him through his paces so hard. he hasn't been in back-to-back-to-back trials like this in a hot second, but he certainly hasn't missed it. Ten hours of nothing but running and fighting, his watch says. Apparently, that had been enough for the moment, because the Entity finally dropped him in Its interstitial forest after It finished putting him back together from the last trial. He'd gotten everyone out but himself. Sacrificed on a basement hook. He breathes with a restored ribcage, feels his un-impaled abdominal muscles shivering and threatening to cramp around remembered intrusions before they notice he's not skewered anymore. Once his mind catches on to the fact he's not in a trial as well, and not by a campfire either... he starts to slink in a random direction, hoping to find a place to just. Lay down. Feel more like the corpse that he is where none of his survivors can see him looking like it. Ten hours, for ten years. Ten years since he was taken. ...Ten years since a group of people brought him into those woods on false pretenses. And though he'd been nervous, uncomfortable, paranoid- when hadn't he been? He saw yet more eyes viewing him as little more than a stepping stone on the way to their own greatness- but when hadn't he worried about that? When hadn't he been paranoid to the point of delusion? But he shouldn't have ignored it. He had recognized it. He shouldn't have shirked his instincts yet again. He- he saw he was nothing to them in that fateful moment, just flesh, to drug, to carve, to use- -but he'd dipped his head, curled in his shoulders, squeezed his knees together, then. Trying to ignore that fear gnawing at the bottom of his heart. ...Before he knew what happened, before he realized after Taurie had arrived that those people must have been some of the Entity's cultists sacrificing him, he'd tried to keep himself from going too far down the path of wondering what exactly they'd done to him. Fearing what he might theorize, or worse, possibly remember. Now, it just made him feel even more tired to think about than he already had been. And he'd been very, very tired, for a long, long time. He sees a decently thick tree eventually, one that'd easily swallow up the dark, small shadow that was his silhouette, and he pads up to it- but he freezes mid-stride as some instinct in him- even exhausted as it is- perks up. ...He's a little wary of checking- but he steps around the tree regardless, and sees- "Evan?" He winces a little behind the mask he'd been given at just how tired, and shredded out his voice is. Then, reminded he was wearing the thing, he takes it off, and replaces it with his glasses. As much as he liked covering up his face... something about seeing Evan makes him want to take it off. Put them back where they started, maybe, when it was just them, confused, wary, trying to figure out both what was going on... and who the other man was. He looks tired. They both look tired. ...He's so... "...Are you as exhausted as I am?" Asking, in that indirectly direct way, what they'll be doing this time. Dwight knows him well enough to read whatever response he's given in reply to that- be it a "fuck off", in a manner of speaking, or an agreement. An invitation to commiserate, be it in silence or otherwise. ...He's known him, long enough, to tell.
Evan couldn't help but startle a bit at the unexpected call of his name - yanked out of the peace and the silence by the presence of another. But it was Fairfield. Peaceful and silent enough. He could handle small talk with him, maybe.
Disgruntled, the Trapper dropped his hand from his chin and straightened his back, looking up (hardly) at Fairfield from his seat on the ground. The man held a mask at his side in one hand - not dissimilar to Evan's new one, just white and with a different face - and he was also in a similar outfit. Some of the survivors he'd seen had them too, but he'd yet to see Dwight's, 'til now.
He'd yet to see the man the whole event so far, actually. They'd been seeing less and less of one another over the years - he wasn't sure if it was because of the growing roster of people to face, or if The Entity was doing some kinda bullshit to make it that way for some reason.
He didn't know.
He didn't care.
He answered Evan's scoff with a humorless one of his own, and a short nod of agreement- yeah... "...Figures." His tone is dull, pained, practically a sigh. Commiseration it was. The Entity had tortured Dwight before too, in many ways- It just got finished wringing him out for all he was worth to It, in fact- but It didn't torture him like... like how It did Evan. The ever present shrapnel. The gradual destruction, the changing of the physical form it kept putting him back into.
It left scars on Dwight- the paired starbursts of knotted tissue below his collarbone, his shoulder, the clustering of slashes overlaying each other on his back and chest, like ghost images, and... He shifts his ankle a touch- the ring of scar tissue around his leg.
He didn't step in Evan's traps nearly as much as he was hooked, or struck- but the Entity seemed to think he should bear the mark of them regardless.
...It did these things to him, yes. But of course- of course Evan would be tired. Worn in, worn out. He's physically got it worse.
Dwight asked more just... to voice it, he supposes. To reach out. He blinks at the compliment, genuinely surprised- then smiles. It's just as thin and tired as he still sounded, but... more fragile, somehow. A gossamer, delicate, fleeting touch of relief. "Thanks. Yours is pretty nice too." He means it as well, stated it in a sort of similarly blunt way- a compliment made statement of fact by how at ease he sounded saying it. Less like he thought of something polite to say in response, and more like he was just noting the obvious. It's the truth to him. Evan looks nice... besides the injuries that make his own fingers twitch with the want to tend them. ...If he was still living a lie- still thought he was alive- he'd then sit by Evan at a carefully measured distance out of wariness, perched on his feet tucked underneath him, like he was ready to spring away into a sprint at any second. Still so vehemently resistant to death, as if it might matter somehow. He'd learned how he ticked quickly, adapted as they both changed bit by bit, and now… he knew how far the man could lunge like he knew the taste of his own blood. Something so innate, he wouldn't be surprised to hear it was etched into him, somewhere. Maybe the lining of the inside of his ribs, where it could make his breath catch as muscles surged to life in response. Maybe, if he reached inside himself next time he was torn open, he could run his fingers over it. ...But, right now he doesn't really care. He'd feared dying once, feared pain- now it was just annoying. Upsetting, at the absolute worst, and maybe inconvenient. Besides that, he just came off a death. Not only is Evan randomly deciding to snatch him up and kill him unlikely, the idea of it just… doesn’t register as something he’d rather avoid. Instead, he sits down neatly at a respectful distance- but not a "safe" one. Rather than keeping his gaze locked on Evan keenly like he used to years ago, like a dog staring down a wolf on the edges of the pasture, he looks up into the vast, maddening abyss above... And he shuts his eyes, with his head tilted back. His throat is vulnerable and bare, and as he sighs, nearly silent, in some relief- the tremor in his muscles becomes a little more pronounced. He was just remade, but that didn’t mean he was remade all fresh and perfect. He’s exhausted, his body and mind overworked. He wants to lay down. Sprawl out like a dead thing. But, for a moment, he moreso wants to bask in the quiet, and the breeze that stirs up the humid air into something fresher, cleaner. Just a bit longer.
Evan blinked dumbly at the actually genuine compliment. And the little smile. Soft and weary as it was, it was real.
"... It's alright, I guess," he returned as he averted his gaze, turning it down to his hands, which he'd dropped into his lap. In his peripheral vision, he could see Dwight sit down, back against another tree, at a notable but not wary distance.
Dwight’s eyes drift back open at the sound of Evan’s voice, deep brown irises turned black by the reflection of the darkness above. As if a shard of It had replaced the color.
The movement is slow- unsurprised. He doesn’t look back at Evan immediately after he speaks, instead briefly searching the sky above, as if he’s looking for something. For any of It manifesting. Then, not seeing anything but stillness in the familiar dark sky, his head tilts, listing so he can make sort-of eye contact while still leaning back.
Evan sat there and stared as Dwight went on a little spiel about The Entity. Not a single detail of it was wrong. Presumably. They still knew fuck all about the damned thing, but Dwight's guess was as good as Evan's. Even better, actually.
Evan had just been... going with the flow. Against it, sometimes, when he had the energy to fight back, but that was always beat back out of him for a while afterwards. It was Fairfield that was sort of... studying the thing. Making notes. He'd heard of the man's books, filled to the brim with mad scribbles of him trying to make sense of the nonsensical thing lording over them.
He didn’t jump in response to the sound of Evan shifting, coming closer, but his eyes did drift open to watch him get up and step over- flicking to the cleaver left behind for a moment before returning to him. He didn’t move besides that, either. Didn’t seem to react much, besides the subtle movements of his near-black irises. Even though he knew damn well that Evan could kill him armed or not, he accepted his proximity without flinching. The action of leaving his weapon behind came across as intended- as the message that it was. He’s… almost surprised by it, though, that Evan actually approached him with such an intent. God, he really must look like hell, huh?
Then Evan lifted his hand, and… his eyes did widen a little as he realized what he was going to go through with, but they still softened dramatically as he watched Evan set his hand on his shoulder. He blinks slowly as he feels it settle, heavy, and...
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⚙︎ // Starter for @facelessfacadefairfield. Divider by @/cursed-carmine
THE BLACK BANQUET
Evan had been angry lately.
Sure, he was always angry, when he felt much of anything at all, but he'd been especially angry these past few days, with this new event. It was meant to something grand and special to commemorate what was apparently ten years - felt like far more, if you'd've asked him - in The Fog.
But it was really just a load of horseshit. For him, anyway.
Trials were a load of horseshit for him normally, but this was particularly bad. Survivors could turn invisible, be invincible, sprint faster than he could ever hope of going...
Dwight has been saying he's been here a decade. He knew that, that it was a fact- but... it's different, to see it. To see IT, the Entity Itself, confirming it in the form of this massive, grand, faux formal event. It even dressed him up for the occasion- he'd come to in a trial wearing a suit It must have pulled from some unknowable corner of Its Self, because he'd never even seen one like it before. It wasn't the worst thing It had dressed him in, but... it still made a part of himself writhe in nauseated, helpless anger. It already took so much from him- but It went ahead and tried to take more, sometimes. It took choice. It took self. It took identity. It went further, hungered more- and It treated him like a doll. He bites the inside of his cheek bloody so his jaw doesn't tremble. He's used to it, he tells himself, trying to stifle that awful sense of violation so he doesn't just, absolutely break down in a fit of insensate rage. ...He can feel Its thought-like currents running through the fabric of Everything, of Itself- a riptide of self-satisfaction, sadism, coursing through that incomprehensible filter of what might count as Its mind. If he wanted to simplify It- It was enjoying Itself. Prideful that It had managed to keep this set of experiments, of livestock, un-voided for this long, this all had manifested from It in a blossoming of stored energy.
He's come to theorize that the banquet wasn't "for them"- and that's why it fucking sucked, and continued to fucking suck even once he got used to it. No, the real banquet... was them. All of them. Killer and survivor alike. That's why It's putting him through his paces so hard. he hasn't been in back-to-back-to-back trials like this in a hot second, but he certainly hasn't missed it. Ten hours of nothing but running and fighting, his watch says. Apparently, that had been enough for the moment, because the Entity finally dropped him in Its interstitial forest after It finished putting him back together from the last trial. He'd gotten everyone out but himself. Sacrificed on a basement hook. He breathes with a restored ribcage, feels his un-impaled abdominal muscles shivering and threatening to cramp around remembered intrusions before they notice he's not skewered anymore. Once his mind catches on to the fact he's not in a trial as well, and not by a campfire either... he starts to slink in a random direction, hoping to find a place to just. Lay down. Feel more like the corpse that he is where none of his survivors can see him looking like it. Ten hours, for ten years. Ten years since he was taken. ...Ten years since a group of people brought him into those woods on false pretenses. And though he'd been nervous, uncomfortable, paranoid- when hadn't he been? He saw yet more eyes viewing him as little more than a stepping stone on the way to their own greatness- but when hadn't he worried about that? When hadn't he been paranoid to the point of delusion? But he shouldn't have ignored it. He had recognized it. He shouldn't have shirked his instincts yet again. He- he saw he was nothing to them in that fateful moment, just flesh, to drug, to carve, to use- -but he'd dipped his head, curled in his shoulders, squeezed his knees together, then. Trying to ignore that fear gnawing at the bottom of his heart. ...Before he knew what happened, before he realized after Taurie had arrived that those people must have been some of the Entity's cultists sacrificing him, he'd tried to keep himself from going too far down the path of wondering what exactly they'd done to him. Fearing what he might theorize, or worse, possibly remember. Now, it just made him feel even more tired to think about than he already had been. And he'd been very, very tired, for a long, long time. He sees a decently thick tree eventually, one that'd easily swallow up the dark, small shadow that was his silhouette, and he pads up to it- but he freezes mid-stride as some instinct in him- even exhausted as it is- perks up. ...He's a little wary of checking- but he steps around the tree regardless, and sees- "Evan?" He winces a little behind the mask he'd been given at just how tired, and shredded out his voice is. Then, reminded he was wearing the thing, he takes it off, and replaces it with his glasses. As much as he liked covering up his face... something about seeing Evan makes him want to take it off. Put them back where they started, maybe, when it was just them, confused, wary, trying to figure out both what was going on... and who the other man was. He looks tired. They both look tired. ...He's so... "...Are you as exhausted as I am?" Asking, in that indirectly direct way, what they'll be doing this time. Dwight knows him well enough to read whatever response he's given in reply to that- be it a "fuck off", in a manner of speaking, or an agreement. An invitation to commiserate, be it in silence or otherwise. ...He's known him, long enough, to tell.
Evan couldn't help but startle a bit at the unexpected call of his name - yanked out of the peace and the silence by the presence of another. But it was Fairfield. Peaceful and silent enough. He could handle small talk with him, maybe.
Disgruntled, the Trapper dropped his hand from his chin and straightened his back, looking up (hardly) at Fairfield from his seat on the ground. The man held a mask at his side in one hand - not dissimilar to Evan's new one, just white and with a different face - and he was also in a similar outfit. Some of the survivors he'd seen had them too, but he'd yet to see Dwight's, 'til now.
He'd yet to see the man the whole event so far, actually. They'd been seeing less and less of one another over the years - he wasn't sure if it was because of the growing roster of people to face, or if The Entity was doing some kinda bullshit to make it that way for some reason.
He didn't know.
He didn't care.
He answered Evan's scoff with a humorless one of his own, and a short nod of agreement- yeah... "...Figures." His tone is dull, pained, practically a sigh. Commiseration it was. The Entity had tortured Dwight before too, in many ways- It just got finished wringing him out for all he was worth to It, in fact- but It didn't torture him like... like how It did Evan. The ever present shrapnel. The gradual destruction, the changing of the physical form it kept putting him back into.
It left scars on Dwight- the paired starbursts of knotted tissue below his collarbone, his shoulder, the clustering of slashes overlaying each other on his back and chest, like ghost images, and... He shifts his ankle a touch- the ring of scar tissue around his leg.
He didn't step in Evan's traps nearly as much as he was hooked, or struck- but the Entity seemed to think he should bear the mark of them regardless.
...It did these things to him, yes. But of course- of course Evan would be tired. Worn in, worn out. He's physically got it worse.
Dwight asked more just... to voice it, he supposes. To reach out. He blinks at the compliment, genuinely surprised- then smiles. It's just as thin and tired as he still sounded, but... more fragile, somehow. A gossamer, delicate, fleeting touch of relief. "Thanks. Yours is pretty nice too." He means it as well, stated it in a sort of similarly blunt way- a compliment made statement of fact by how at ease he sounded saying it. Less like he thought of something polite to say in response, and more like he was just noting the obvious. It's the truth to him. Evan looks nice... besides the injuries that make his own fingers twitch with the want to tend them. ...If he was still living a lie- still thought he was alive- he'd then sit by Evan at a carefully measured distance out of wariness, perched on his feet tucked underneath him, like he was ready to spring away into a sprint at any second. Still so vehemently resistant to death, as if it might matter somehow. He'd learned how he ticked quickly, adapted as they both changed bit by bit, and now… he knew how far the man could lunge like he knew the taste of his own blood. Something so innate, he wouldn't be surprised to hear it was etched into him, somewhere. Maybe the lining of the inside of his ribs, where it could make his breath catch as muscles surged to life in response. Maybe, if he reached inside himself next time he was torn open, he could run his fingers over it. ...But, right now he doesn't really care. He'd feared dying once, feared pain- now it was just annoying. Upsetting, at the absolute worst, and maybe inconvenient. Besides that, he just came off a death. Not only is Evan randomly deciding to snatch him up and kill him unlikely, the idea of it just… doesn’t register as something he’d rather avoid. Instead, he sits down neatly at a respectful distance- but not a "safe" one. Rather than keeping his gaze locked on Evan keenly like he used to years ago, like a dog staring down a wolf on the edges of the pasture, he looks up into the vast, maddening abyss above... And he shuts his eyes, with his head tilted back. His throat is vulnerable and bare, and as he sighs, nearly silent, in some relief- the tremor in his muscles becomes a little more pronounced. He was just remade, but that didn’t mean he was remade all fresh and perfect. He’s exhausted, his body and mind overworked. He wants to lay down. Sprawl out like a dead thing. But, for a moment, he moreso wants to bask in the quiet, and the breeze that stirs up the humid air into something fresher, cleaner. Just a bit longer.
Evan blinked dumbly at the actually genuine compliment. And the little smile. Soft and weary as it was, it was real.
"... It's alright, I guess," he returned as he averted his gaze, turning it down to his hands, which he'd dropped into his lap. In his peripheral vision, he could see Dwight sit down, back against another tree, at a notable but not wary distance.
Dwight’s eyes drift back open at the sound of Evan’s voice, deep brown irises turned black by the reflection of the darkness above. As if a shard of It had replaced the color.
The movement is slow- unsurprised. He doesn’t look back at Evan immediately after he speaks, instead briefly searching the sky above, as if he’s looking for something. For any of It manifesting. Then, not seeing anything but stillness in the familiar dark sky, his head tilts, listing so he can make sort-of eye contact while still leaning back.
⚙︎ // Starter for @facelessfacadefairfield. Divider by @/cursed-carmine
THE BLACK BANQUET
Evan had been angry lately.
Sure, he was always angry, when he felt much of anything at all, but he'd been especially angry these past few days, with this new event. It was meant to something grand and special to commemorate what was apparently ten years - felt like far more, if you'd've asked him - in The Fog.
But it was really just a load of horseshit. For him, anyway.
Trials were a load of horseshit for him normally, but this was particularly bad. Survivors could turn invisible, be invincible, sprint faster than he could ever hope of going...
Dwight has been saying he's been here a decade. He knew that, that it was a fact- but... it's different, to see it. To see IT, the Entity Itself, confirming it in the form of this massive, grand, faux formal event. It even dressed him up for the occasion- he'd come to in a trial wearing a suit It must have pulled from some unknowable corner of Its Self, because he'd never even seen one like it before. It wasn't the worst thing It had dressed him in, but... it still made a part of himself writhe in nauseated, helpless anger. It already took so much from him- but It went ahead and tried to take more, sometimes. It took choice. It took self. It took identity. It went further, hungered more- and It treated him like a doll. He bites the inside of his cheek bloody so his jaw doesn't tremble. He's used to it, he tells himself, trying to stifle that awful sense of violation so he doesn't just, absolutely break down in a fit of insensate rage. ...He can feel Its thought-like currents running through the fabric of Everything, of Itself- a riptide of self-satisfaction, sadism, coursing through that incomprehensible filter of what might count as Its mind. If he wanted to simplify It- It was enjoying Itself. Prideful that It had managed to keep this set of experiments, of livestock, un-voided for this long, this all had manifested from It in a blossoming of stored energy.
He's come to theorize that the banquet wasn't "for them"- and that's why it fucking sucked, and continued to fucking suck even once he got used to it. No, the real banquet... was them. All of them. Killer and survivor alike. That's why It's putting him through his paces so hard. he hasn't been in back-to-back-to-back trials like this in a hot second, but he certainly hasn't missed it. Ten hours of nothing but running and fighting, his watch says. Apparently, that had been enough for the moment, because the Entity finally dropped him in Its interstitial forest after It finished putting him back together from the last trial. He'd gotten everyone out but himself. Sacrificed on a basement hook. He breathes with a restored ribcage, feels his un-impaled abdominal muscles shivering and threatening to cramp around remembered intrusions before they notice he's not skewered anymore. Once his mind catches on to the fact he's not in a trial as well, and not by a campfire either... he starts to slink in a random direction, hoping to find a place to just. Lay down. Feel more like the corpse that he is where none of his survivors can see him looking like it. Ten hours, for ten years. Ten years since he was taken. ...Ten years since a group of people brought him into those woods on false pretenses. And though he'd been nervous, uncomfortable, paranoid- when hadn't he been? He saw yet more eyes viewing him as little more than a stepping stone on the way to their own greatness- but when hadn't he worried about that? When hadn't he been paranoid to the point of delusion? But he shouldn't have ignored it. He had recognized it. He shouldn't have shirked his instincts yet again. He- he saw he was nothing to them in that fateful moment, just flesh, to drug, to carve, to use- -but he'd dipped his head, curled in his shoulders, squeezed his knees together, then. Trying to ignore that fear gnawing at the bottom of his heart. ...Before he knew what happened, before he realized after Taurie had arrived that those people must have been some of the Entity's cultists sacrificing him, he'd tried to keep himself from going too far down the path of wondering what exactly they'd done to him. Fearing what he might theorize, or worse, possibly remember. Now, it just made him feel even more tired to think about than he already had been. And he'd been very, very tired, for a long, long time. He sees a decently thick tree eventually, one that'd easily swallow up the dark, small shadow that was his silhouette, and he pads up to it- but he freezes mid-stride as some instinct in him- even exhausted as it is- perks up. ...He's a little wary of checking- but he steps around the tree regardless, and sees- "Evan?" He winces a little behind the mask he'd been given at just how tired, and shredded out his voice is. Then, reminded he was wearing the thing, he takes it off, and replaces it with his glasses. As much as he liked covering up his face... something about seeing Evan makes him want to take it off. Put them back where they started, maybe, when it was just them, confused, wary, trying to figure out both what was going on... and who the other man was. He looks tired. They both look tired. ...He's so... "...Are you as exhausted as I am?" Asking, in that indirectly direct way, what they'll be doing this time. Dwight knows him well enough to read whatever response he's given in reply to that- be it a "fuck off", in a manner of speaking, or an agreement. An invitation to commiserate, be it in silence or otherwise. ...He's known him, long enough, to tell.
Evan couldn't help but startle a bit at the unexpected call of his name - yanked out of the peace and the silence by the presence of another. But it was Fairfield. Peaceful and silent enough. He could handle small talk with him, maybe.
Disgruntled, the Trapper dropped his hand from his chin and straightened his back, looking up (hardly) at Fairfield from his seat on the ground. The man held a mask at his side in one hand - not dissimilar to Evan's new one, just white and with a different face - and he was also in a similar outfit. Some of the survivors he'd seen had them too, but he'd yet to see Dwight's, 'til now.
He'd yet to see the man the whole event so far, actually. They'd been seeing less and less of one another over the years - he wasn't sure if it was because of the growing roster of people to face, or if The Entity was doing some kinda bullshit to make it that way for some reason.
He didn't know.
He didn't care.
He answered Evan's scoff with a humorless one of his own, and a short nod of agreement- yeah... "...Figures." His tone is dull, pained, practically a sigh. Commiseration it was. The Entity had tortured Dwight before too, in many ways- It just got finished wringing him out for all he was worth to It, in fact- but It didn't torture him like... like how It did Evan. The ever present shrapnel. The gradual destruction, the changing of the physical form it kept putting him back into.
It left scars on Dwight- the paired starbursts of knotted tissue below his collarbone, his shoulder, the clustering of slashes overlaying each other on his back and chest, like ghost images, and... He shifts his ankle a touch- the ring of scar tissue around his leg.
He didn't step in Evan's traps nearly as much as he was hooked, or struck- but the Entity seemed to think he should bear the mark of them regardless.
...It did these things to him, yes. But of course- of course Evan would be tired. Worn in, worn out. He's physically got it worse.
Dwight asked more just... to voice it, he supposes. To reach out. He blinks at the compliment, genuinely surprised- then smiles. It's just as thin and tired as he still sounded, but... more fragile, somehow. A gossamer, delicate, fleeting touch of relief. "Thanks. Yours is pretty nice too." He means it as well, stated it in a sort of similarly blunt way- a compliment made statement of fact by how at ease he sounded saying it. Less like he thought of something polite to say in response, and more like he was just noting the obvious. It's the truth to him. Evan looks nice... besides the injuries that make his own fingers twitch with the want to tend them. ...If he was still living a lie- still thought he was alive- he'd then sit by Evan at a carefully measured distance out of wariness, perched on his feet tucked underneath him, like he was ready to spring away into a sprint at any second. Still so vehemently resistant to death, as if it might matter somehow. He'd learned how he ticked quickly, adapted as they both changed bit by bit, and now… he knew how far the man could lunge like he knew the taste of his own blood. Something so innate, he wouldn't be surprised to hear it was etched into him, somewhere. Maybe the lining of the inside of his ribs, where it could make his breath catch as muscles surged to life in response. Maybe, if he reached inside himself next time he was torn open, he could run his fingers over it. ...But, right now he doesn't really care. He'd feared dying once, feared pain- now it was just annoying. Upsetting, at the absolute worst, and maybe inconvenient. Besides that, he just came off a death. Not only is Evan randomly deciding to snatch him up and kill him unlikely, the idea of it just… doesn’t register as something he’d rather avoid. Instead, he sits down neatly at a respectful distance- but not a "safe" one. Rather than keeping his gaze locked on Evan keenly like he used to years ago, like a dog staring down a wolf on the edges of the pasture, he looks up into the vast, maddening abyss above... And he shuts his eyes, with his head tilted back. His throat is vulnerable and bare, and as he sighs, nearly silent, in some relief- the tremor in his muscles becomes a little more pronounced. He was just remade, but that didn’t mean he was remade all fresh and perfect. He’s exhausted, his body and mind overworked. He wants to lay down. Sprawl out like a dead thing. But, for a moment, he moreso wants to bask in the quiet, and the breeze that stirs up the humid air into something fresher, cleaner. Just a bit longer.
⚙︎ // Starter for @facelessfacadefairfield. Divider by @/cursed-carmine
THE BLACK BANQUET
Evan had been angry lately.
Sure, he was always angry, when he felt much of anything at all, but he'd been especially angry these past few days, with this new event. It was meant to something grand and special to commemorate what was apparently ten years - felt like far more, if you'd've asked him - in The Fog.
But it was really just a load of horseshit. For him, anyway.
Trials were a load of horseshit for him normally, but this was particularly bad. Survivors could turn invisible, be invincible, sprint faster than he could ever hope of going...
Dwight has been saying he's been here a decade. He knew that, that it was a fact- but... it's different, to see it. To see IT, the Entity Itself, confirming it in the form of this massive, grand, faux formal event. It even dressed him up for the occasion- he'd come to in a trial wearing a suit It must have pulled from some unknowable corner of Its Self, because he'd never even seen one like it before. It wasn't the worst thing It had dressed him in, but... it still made a part of himself writhe in nauseated, helpless anger. It already took so much from him- but It went ahead and tried to take more, sometimes. It took choice. It took self. It took identity. It went further, hungered more- and It treated him like a doll. He bites the inside of his cheek bloody so his jaw doesn't tremble. He's used to it, he tells himself, trying to stifle that awful sense of violation so he doesn't just, absolutely break down in a fit of insensate rage. ...He can feel Its thought-like currents running through the fabric of Everything, of Itself- a riptide of self-satisfaction, sadism, coursing through that incomprehensible filter of what might count as Its mind. If he wanted to simplify It- It was enjoying Itself. Prideful that It had managed to keep this set of experiments, of livestock, un-voided for this long, this all had manifested from It in a blossoming of stored energy.
He's come to theorize that the banquet wasn't "for them"- and that's why it fucking sucked, and continued to fucking suck even once he got used to it. No, the real banquet... was them. All of them. Killer and survivor alike. That's why It's putting him through his paces so hard. he hasn't been in back-to-back-to-back trials like this in a hot second, but he certainly hasn't missed it. Ten hours of nothing but running and fighting, his watch says. Apparently, that had been enough for the moment, because the Entity finally dropped him in Its interstitial forest after It finished putting him back together from the last trial. He'd gotten everyone out but himself. Sacrificed on a basement hook. He breathes with a restored ribcage, feels his un-impaled abdominal muscles shivering and threatening to cramp around remembered intrusions before they notice he's not skewered anymore. Once his mind catches on to the fact he's not in a trial as well, and not by a campfire either... he starts to slink in a random direction, hoping to find a place to just. Lay down. Feel more like the corpse that he is where none of his survivors can see him looking like it. Ten hours, for ten years. Ten years since he was taken. ...Ten years since a group of people brought him into those woods on false pretenses. And though he'd been nervous, uncomfortable, paranoid- when hadn't he been? He saw yet more eyes viewing him as little more than a stepping stone on the way to their own greatness- but when hadn't he worried about that? When hadn't he been paranoid to the point of delusion? But he shouldn't have ignored it. He had recognized it. He shouldn't have shirked his instincts yet again. He- he saw he was nothing to them in that fateful moment, just flesh, to drug, to carve, to use- -but he'd dipped his head, curled in his shoulders, squeezed his knees together, then. Trying to ignore that fear gnawing at the bottom of his heart. ...Before he knew what happened, before he realized after Taurie had arrived that those people must have been some of the Entity's cultists sacrificing him, he'd tried to keep himself from going too far down the path of wondering what exactly they'd done to him. Fearing what he might theorize, or worse, possibly remember. Now, it just made him feel even more tired to think about than he already had been. And he'd been very, very tired, for a long, long time. He sees a decently thick tree eventually, one that'd easily swallow up the dark, small shadow that was his silhouette, and he pads up to it- but he freezes mid-stride as some instinct in him- even exhausted as it is- perks up. ...He's a little wary of checking- but he steps around the tree regardless, and sees- "Evan?" He winces a little behind the mask he'd been given at just how tired, and shredded out his voice is. Then, reminded he was wearing the thing, he takes it off, and replaces it with his glasses. As much as he liked covering up his face... something about seeing Evan makes him want to take it off. Put them back where they started, maybe, when it was just them, confused, wary, trying to figure out both what was going on... and who the other man was. He looks tired. They both look tired. ...He's so... "...Are you as exhausted as I am?" Asking, in that indirectly direct way, what they'll be doing this time. Dwight knows him well enough to read whatever response he's given in reply to that- be it a "fuck off", in a manner of speaking, or an agreement. An invitation to commiserate, be it in silence or otherwise. ...He's known him, long enough, to tell.
Dead By Daylight Evan "The Trapper" MacMillan roleplay blog. Created Oct. 25th, 2025.
"... H'roo. This is Evan MacMillan speaking, from within The Fog.
I've been here a long... long time. Longer'n any of the others you're more used to seein'. Long enough to be unrecognizable to myself, long enough to memorize the sound of everyone's screams, and long enough to never be able to get the red stain of blood off my hands.
But that's enough of that - that's all y'really need to know, kid.
Just stay outta my way, you hear? You may be faster'n me, but I don't need to be fast with what you'll run yourself into. Hapless maggot."
I MISS THE MASQUERADE I MISS TRYKS THIS NEW EVENT IS SO BADDDDDDDD AUUUGGHHHH
Unknown came back the first day completely covered in mashed potatoes and frosting. When I asked it what happened, it told me the other survivors threw food at it.
This isn’t even accounting for everything my murder hobo boyfriends have been ranting about. Sure, going invisible is fun and novel the first couple of times, but now, I can’t believe I’m admitting this, I feel bad every time like, Susie from the Legion or the poor Demogorgon lose track of me just because I decided to stuff my face with food of questionable quality and unsatisfying flavor. Demo makes the saddest dog noises ever, it’s not fair.
Apparently the pallets sometimes go unbreakable too, and I only learned about this because the Wraith was chasing me at one point, I drop the pallet that’s upstairs in Crotus Prenn, and he let out the longest most disappointed sigh as he stared at it and then walked away.
And I know damn well how mean some of us survivors can be :( all my Dannys have ranted enough, and watching Unknown slink away to the theater rafters still dripping with food gunk is really starting to make me hate this stupid fucking banquet.
The food tastes bad anyways, and the new masks are ugly as fuck.
Tryks come home I miss you :(
Honestly... as much as some of the killers deserve it (and worse), I do agree with you in general. I even stopped making flashbangs during this whole mess. Granted, as a result of dropping that, I've been responsible for multiple instances of two to three generators finishing within two minutes of the trials starting, but. Well. Killers gotta pick their poison in that respect, because I certainly don't want to be stuck in these trials any longer than I have to. ...Speaking of poison actually, the stuff the Entity gave them is so. Lame. Why do we get better Fog manipulation and they get "green shit what makes survivors a little tired"? I literally learned how to weaponize cyanide here. I feel like, personally offended on behalf of poison's perceived effectiveness. That's practically my thing they've been given but the Entity made it suck. What the hell.
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you literally have to unironically listen to some shit like party rock anthem so you don’t kill yourself
btw it's so fucking stupid you can be anxious physically in your body even after you've decided mentally you don't care. I'm supposed to be in charge here
i got that dog in me but it's poorly socialized and i don't take it on as many walks as i should
top 3 hobbies for young adults:
1. borrowing misery from future
2. carrying grief of the past
3. agonizing over the present
"it's just stress" oh thank god, it's just the silent killer that slowly kills you, perfectly harmless, no need to worry
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they should invent a body that feels normal to be inside of
[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
