𐃸 ᏝᏗᎴᏝᏋ 𐃸

To seek out your prey, you must be. You must be quick, you must be keen, and you must have eyes that watch, and see, and study. Oh, how she studied every soul that wandered into the embrace of the Entity. How she observed and watched each little rabbit with a feral hunger as they ran about like galloping critters in the underbrush, bloodied fingers tangling in the wires of generators in a desperate bid to survive.

It was all part of the hunt.

Axe clenched in hand, hatchets weighed down with an otherworldly energy, The Huntress stalked her prey with ruthless efficiency. Each target was the same as the last, each treated as the next deer to cut down, and each fell to her blade with terror flooding their blood; hands outstretched in a plea that went unheard, a prayer unanswered.

The fear made the meal sweeter.

She had been a hunter for a very long time; she had seen the deer and the bunnies, the foxes and the squirrels, and how they darted in the brush with shaking cries and harsh breathing. She had watched them flee and leave the others for dead, and she had seen them pull their friends from the brink of death and wrap wounds for one another. And even so, not a single one had drawn her attention more than the hunt had asked for.

Except you.

You had grown accustomed to this hellscape that fog had pulled you into. You had learned the rules, the game, and most importantly— you realized there was no true escape. And so, after the first few weeks of defeated helplessness, you scrub the sorrow from your face and replace it with determination. You could not leave this place, and you could not die, but you would not roll over and suffer.

You learned to move quiet and fast, and how to repair the generators with a speed that rivaled your more experienced companions. You learn which ones to depend on, and which to abandon. This was just a game after all; a game of cat and mouse, hunter and prey, killer and survivor. Two sides to this coin, and you were on the losing end. Unfavoured by the entity, and meant to be the duck in the field, at the mercy of the armed hunters and their dogs sniffing you out. For most of it, you can ignore the fear; you can swallow down the anxiety, keep your head down, and try your best to survive this time.

Either way, there was always another round in the Fog, and the Entity had no plans to release you just yet.

So you keep going. You keep learning. You keep doing better each time, and your movement becomes that much quicker, that much quieter. You are hunted by someone new almost every other time, but the times you get repeats, you also begin to learn their patterns, their styles of this game. A ghost is harder to evade than a man in a mask wielding a chainsaw, but surely you can definitely avoid the ire of the large man in the clown mask. The pain becomes second-nature, almost ignorable; and the anxiety for a new round lessens each time.

And then the Huntress encounters you.

Something about this hunt feels… different. Charged emotions in the air, like the energies have shifted entirely. The Huntress can feel it— of course she can. She has honed herself to rely on instinct, on the subtle changes of the wild; tasting the air, curling the barest tinge of blood on her tongue. Her prey seem the same at first, faces she barely recognizes, but ones she has seen before. All of them, except one.

You.

The Huntress has never seen you before. Has never seen any survivor like you before. Her eyes narrow, blackened behind her mask, as she stands a good distance away; just studying, just observing. It was always the thing to do, when a new animal entered the forest. To watch and memorize, to see the habits of this little fawn, fresh on legs too wobbly for running.

And you are cautious.

You have never faced anyone like her. You hear her, before you see her— her singsong lullaby sending a strange, new type of chill down your spine. Your fingers are tangled in the belly of the generator, bruised and shaking as you adjust wires and attempt to get this beast of a machine to work for you. But your mind is enraptured, enthralled, by her haunting song. It is sorrowful, it is pure, and it is filled with an emotional depth that has your attention captured more than you want to admit.

And when the hatchet flies past your face, nicking the skin of your cheek in a gash that has blood free-flowing— you learn quickly that she would use that lapse in judgement for her benefit.

And so the game begins.

Huntress and hunted, the predator and the prey, the stalker and the stalk. Feral and beastly, the Huntress makes each and every round with you her personal little game to play. One she sinks her teeth into eagerly; one that she looks forward to each and every time she picks up your scent in the Forest. Her weapons clutched in her bloodied paws, she works with a bloodlust that exudes from her, like the rivulets of blood that spill when she catches you.

You find that the emotions that had been brimming just beneath your skin this entire time were something more than just first-time nerves. No, you felt an odd thrill crawling along your spine when her song begins to roll through the underbrush and trees. You felt it deep inside, and surface-level all the same; a heat that spread across your face and left your mouth dry, and your hands trembling. The Huntress is her name, another survivor once tells you. Fitting, for someone so skilled in the art of it.

You find that you liked being hunted, if it was her.

And the Huntress always enjoyed hunting, but especially if it was you.

How could she not? You were a challenge; you were not meek and simpering, nor did you give up so easily. You were light on your feet, you were quick in both mind and body, and you made each challenge, each moment in the Fog, something more than what the Entity had intended. No, you made her feel riled up, starved for something new, and by all the devils in this place, you were that something new.

Sometimes, she caught you. Maybe you stuck on the generator for too long, maybe you slipped into a locker too late, but she grabs you. Wraps her powerful fist around your neck, just tight enough to cut off the precious air, and she yanks you close to her, for just a dizzingly brief moment. Chest to chest, her blackened eyes studying her little rabbit, and your own staring up at her as darkness tinges the edges of your vision.

And when she throws you over her shoulder, carts you off to be hooked? You suppose the pain of it would be worth it if it meant her hands could touch you again.

You weren’t supposed to be thinking this way. No, you knew that her, and all of the other hunters and killers were just here to torture you and the others. Some eternal hell, some punishment for something you did when you were truly alive. Maybe; that part you don’t quite understand yet. Even still, you knew she was part of it all; the executioner for your crimes.

And still, each time her hatchet leaves a wound that scars over, your fingers linger along it in your brief moments of respite, and you press down on bruises she’s made on your body with shuddering gasps. And you think that maybe, this can be your own little personal secret; one kept tight to your chest, one that she didn’t need to see.

But what does she see?

The Huntress sees you; this beautiful, delicate thing that moves with a lightness in your step. A gorgeous rabbit, stained in blood, that she desires to not only hunt, but to hold. To run her fingers along your hair, to seek out the wounds she has given you, to wrap her fingers around you once more and pull you closer than anyone has ever been to her.

She hides it well; the gentleness that begins to form in her heart.

Time passes; a hellish nightmare can only remain such a way for so long. You begin to make jokes about the next hunt, the next death. You taunt and tease and team up with the other survivors in ways to infuriate the killers. You slam pallets on them, and blind them with a flashlight. The time that passes erases fear, and leaves behind someone more adjusted to this place.

You try to talk to some of them. The Killers, that is. Try to make them see reason, try to figure out what they get from this. But most of them don’t talk, or even take the time to listen. You get a nice conversation one time from a blond man with glasses, but other than that? You think maybe a majority of them are too far gone to see anything but the next kill.

The Huntress is… different.

She is quiet; the only time you ever hear her voice— a voice that is beautiful and angelic by all standards— is when she hums her lullaby. Yet, she pauses; when you surprise her from around a corner, and try to ask her, “What is your name?” Well, she stares at you for a long time, before her hatchet is raised, and she tosses it right at you.

You try again. Get behind a pallet, ask her why she’s here? She’ll smash it before closing her hands around your arm and knocking you to the ground. You hide in a locker, and shout at her, asking why she wants to do this? She opens it up, and throws you over a powerful shoulder. You stun her with a flashlight, and call out that she didn’t need to do this, and all that does is enrage her to the point of swiping with her axe.

The gash along your arm bleeds wildly when you narrowly escape, and you can’t help but press it just a bit more, hissing in pain.

Pain that just excites you.

The Huntress finds you puzzling. She doesn’t know what to think of the little rabbit that keeps trying to speak to her, ask her questions, or otherwise do anything other than the role they were both meant to place. Predator and prey, killer and survivor. What more could there be to this? She wonders about it; a little too much. She knows that something about you is different. She enjoys your screams, she enjoys the way you squirm when she knocks you down or hooks you, and she relishes in the chase— especially when she catches you.

What does it all mean?

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“Анна.”

“What?”

You feel the tension inside your body melt away, as you stand on the other side of the windowsill you just hopped over, breathing heavily. Your eyes dart between that mask, and to the side, debating whether or not to keep running. You’re not sure if you really heard that, but—

“Anna.” The Huntress speaks again. Her voice is low, and almost unsure; thick with an accent you vaguely recognize, but spoken in your own tongue. She adjusts the hatchet in her grip, loosening and tightening, like she was debating something. And then she repeats herself. “Anna. You… asked for… name. I give to you: Anna.”

Caught off guard, you can only stand there, staring at her with wide eyes. Slowly, your breathing comes back to normal, and the only sounds left are the shifting foliage of the Forest, and the wind circling around it. The others are dead; long dead, for you and the Huntress have been at this cat and mouse game for nearly fifteen minutes in your desperate attempt to survive. Was this meant to throw you off? Distract you, so you could succumb to her weapons as the others had?

Despite the fact that logic tells you to run, to find a place to hide so you could finish that last damn generator— you cannot move from your spot. You repeat after her: “Anna.”

The Huntress nods once. Her dark eyes blink slowly, as if she was examining you fully now. You feel like something on display almost, and it makes you twitch, squirm a little beneath the intensity of it. And then, the Huntress speaks again; “You. Name?”

You tell her. She repeats it; something foreign to her, a word she has never said before. And she finds that she likes the way it feels, rolling it around on her tongue like she was savouring a meal. Something new, something strange, and something good.

You step a little closer to the window, and she does too. The months of training you have had in this hellscape scream at you to run, but you swallow it down as morbid curiosity takes the lead. You want to know more, you want to hear more, you want to learn more about her: about the Huntress, about Anna.

“You’ve uh… really given me a run for my money,” You joke, and she tilts her head in confusion. Perhaps sayings like that might not catch, given that English doesn’t appear to be her first language. Still, you can’t help but slip into them when you feel this nervous. Given that she doesn’t immediately seem like she’s gonna kill you, you try to relax more. You even lean against the windowsill and flash her a bright smile. “Sooo… Anna… tell me, what do you like to do for fun?”

The Huntress tilts her head at you again, and her dark eyes flare in interest.

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You learn pretty quickly what she likes to do for fun.

Breath escapes your lungs as you are shoved against the shack walls; the rotting wood feels cold against your back, even through your clothes. But you have little time to focus on it; not when the Huntress has her attention on you.

She is large and imposing— all strength and muscle, evident by how easily she holds you up without even a hint of strain. Her blackened eyes behind her mask are intense; focused entirely on you in this moment. Hands pressed atop your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise. And you admit to yourself that you don’t mind a bit of the pain so long as it was her hurting you. Your breath catches, your eyes widen, pupils flaring, and you are almost dizzy with the rush of arousal that floods your frame.

She is danger, she is violence, she is death and everything deliciously wrong with this hellscape, but you couldn’t really care anymore at this rate. Because she leans in close enough that you can almost taste the blood on her lips, and it shouldn’t set a fire inside you, but it does.

Your voice quivers when you say, “Anna…” But nothing else escapes. How could you say anything more?

How could the Huntress resist any further? How long had the beast been forced to watch the rabbit hop away without a taste? How long has the predator been teased by the prey? Her fingers dig into your hips a little harder, and she is overwhelmed by how light and fragile you feel in her grasp. How unique and intoxicating you smell to her.

She is hungry.

Hoisting you up higher against the wall makes you yelp in surprise, but that’s nothing compared to what she does next: she balances you on one hand, cupping underneath your ass in a strong grasp. Then, she takes her hatchet and slices at your clothes, cutting your pants and undergarments off in one motion. The sharp edge of the blade nicks your inner thigh, and this time a whimper spills from your lips. The pain blooming along the flesh is mind-numbing, and if you weren’t so worried about falling out of her hand, you might have just succumbed to that alone. But your hands go behind you, and try to grip the wall, as your voice stutters out, “W-wait, careful—!”

The Huntress says nothing in response. Her dark eyes have caught sight of it all; the blood that flows down your leg. The exposed flush of your sex, swollen in arousal, slickened. And the scent is just mesmerizing; it makes desire flare along her spine. She wants it, she wants you, she wants to devour all of you. So the hatchet clatters to the floor, noisy metal, forgotten— and then she shifts so both hands keep you hoisted upwards enough, bringing your pussy level to her face.

Her tongue— rough, thick and hot— flicks out, swiping over the cut on your thigh. This makes you jolt, and a sharp gasp escapes you. But before you can say a word, she licks over it again, gathering all the weeping blood on her tongue and swallowing it down like a fine wine.

Sampling the hunt, before the real feast begins.

Dark eyes close in reverence, and she slowly lathes over it once more, until the cut is just flushed red and stinging faintly. Then, she shifts her head, and she presses her face between your thighs, tongue now dragging along your slit in one, slow motion. Your head slams backwards against the cold wood beneath your back, and you let out a high-pitched noise that was pathetically helpless. The Huntress does not give you time to be embarrassed though.

For she has tasted heaven, and she didn’t intend to stop. Gripping you tighter, she dives in further. She does not give shy, bashful kisses or little pecks along your flesh. No, her tongue moves in broad stripes over your vulva, dipping between the sensitive lips of your cunt to taste you more, to press that appendage further within you. Her nose bumps against your clit, and when you jerk again and let out a strangled moan, her attention shifts there.

Moving up to press a rough, sloppy kiss against the apex of your sex, she then seals her lips around your clit, suckling lightly on it. Your hands come down to grip at her hair, and you dig your nails faintly in her scalp as you cry out in bliss, squirming beneath her ministrations. But she holds you tight, with no intentions of letting go, and you are caught at the mercy of this killer. No, her hands grip your thighs tighter, hard enough to set fresh bruises into the flesh, and pain makes you dizzy with heat. Arousal pulses inside you along with your heartbeat, and a fresh rush of slick coats her tongue and chin as she moves back into lapping at you, clit to your achingly empty entrance.

You want her, you want more.

“Anna, please—!” You babble, almost incoherent already with how much need coils inside your gut. But The Huntress does not reply; no, she is savoring your taste, relishing in how your need drips down her jaw as she presses herself deeper between your folds. Dipping her tongue inside you for a blindingly pleasurable moment that has your hips humping forward, your voice breaking in need. And then she pulls away, swirling the tip of her broad tongue around your clit. It’s agonizing pleasure, and you can’t tell if you want to move away, or fuck against her face more.

You’re still precariously balanced against the wall, so when she pulls back to move you, you let out a nervous gasp, fingers still tangled in her hair. But she lays you against the wooden floor that feels frigid and prickly, and a discomforted noise escapes you before you can stop it. But then the Huntress is kneeling down between your thighs, and she is diving back in— her tongue swirling around your clit again as one of her thick fingers trails along your cunt.

The feeling has you squirming in anticipation, and you let out a gasp, legs falling open wider. You never wanted anything so badly before in your entire life— and you let out a whine as you beg her, “Please, yes, I need—”

But you don’t need to say much more. She presses one finger inside you with ease, and the faint burn is a pleasurable pain that has your back aching, and an almost feral cry spilling from your lips. Hips twitching, grinding down against that digit pressing you open, and the Huntress responds to your movements with her own. She seals her lips around your clit again, and you sob, hands flying up to tangle in her long hair once more. Panting harshly, moans fall easily from your lips as you begins to fuck her finger into you.

Stretching you open, sinking deep inside and rubbing against your inner walls in ways that make you see stars. You can’t help but whine, shake, thrash beneath her, and the Huntress keeps you pinned, so all you can do is take it. When one finger becomes two, and she curls them against your throbbing insides, you feel your cunt spasm around her as the telltale signs of your climax begins approaching.

You’re gasping, twitching beneath her, and you try to say something, try to warn her. But all that escapes your mouth are pleasured cries, and she’s sucking on your clit with such eagerness that you can’t do anything but lay there and squirm and let her fuck you into mindless pleasure. And the Huntress speeds up, pressing her fingers deeper inside you, growling faintly around your clit, and the vibrations send shocks up your body and— and—

You cum with a broken cry; hips arching up and grinding against her face, and she fucks you through your orgasm, hungrily sucking on your clit, drawing out the rolling pleasure as your slick spills down her chin. Her name is on your tongue, and she keeps lapping at you, keeps devouring, more and more, and you can only feel the pleasure grow and build and it’s toomuchtoomuch—

You didn’t realize when you blacked out, but when you come to, you are laying against something soft, something warm. Blinking the bleariness from your eyes, you lift your head a bit, but something strong comes up to press your head back down against the softness. You slowly register that the Huntress has collected you against her chest, and your head is pressed just above her heart. You can hear the steady thumping of it beneath her breast, and it is… comforting.

To hear her as something alive, something soft beneath the surface of a killer. The way she avoids your gaze, almost shy when you glance upwards at her… you can see that beneath her exterior, there is something gentle there.

You find that you want to know more.

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Perhaps the Entity is kinder than one might think.

For your days between trials are no longer just spent at a campfire with other survivors. You sometimes find yourself curled inside an old rickety bed, with barely enough space for two, but somehow you and Anna fit just fine in it. She’s gentle, you know now, beneath all that hardness. But that gentleness is reserved only for you, and you alone. And as you lay curled against her chest, you just sit and listen to the beat of her heart, and know that this place might be a hellish punishment, but you wouldn’t be anywhere else but here.

Here, with your Huntress.