#chalnsawed

Landing ass up in a dark, foggy, unrecognizable place was not at the top of Hal’s to-do list today. Actually, it was kind of near the bottom, right under falling off a thirteen story building, but before swallowing a whole pack of thumbtacks. In simpler terms, he was more than a little frustrated with this turn of events. The sight of the Signal Lost, Searching... screen on his call-back device compounded this frustration.

He grit his teeth while he whipped his head around, searching stalks of corn for any sign of life. The darkness was a small mercy, as he didn’t have his shades to protect his sensitive eyes. He tucked his wings right against his back and hunched down a bit as he heard footsteps coming steadily closer. A woman burst out from the rotting plant life, standing in front of him, panting and looking him over.

“The hell are you supposed to be?” She stammered between breaths, in a tone straddling both fear and disgust. That earned a glare from the pale Strider.

“A person? Thanks.” Hal growls back at her, already frustrated, and getting to annoyed. He drew his hand up to his hip, to the pocketknife hanging off one of his belt loops. He made idle conversation with the woman, who gave him short, clipped answers. A deranged killer with a chainsaw. The entity. A game. Generators. 

Eventually she shouldered past him and he, fed up with this woman and her annoying voice and his infuriating situation, lashed out with that short little blade, sticking it in her neck with a movement so quick she couldn’t even have moved to defend herself. Blood splatters on the side of his face, and she screams when she falls, before he pins her down and drags his blade through her throat. He stands over the body, wiping his blade on his jeans while he looks around.

He can hear the sound of a chainsaw getting closer. The sound isn’t as scary as it should be. What if he was angry that Hal had stolen his kill?

“You know what they say, once a killer, always a killer.”

@chalnsawed Continued from here!

       The Gideon Meat plant. 

As strange as it may have sounded to some, this place was a place of COMFORT for the woman. A place to confide in. The plant itself held so many secrets... So many memories. She only grew EAGER to make more. 

How the entity shifted the realm around them was honestly beyond her; and she tried not to pay much attention to it. The FIEND and her had an agreement... So long as the agreement was kept, they wouldn't have any problems. Nevertheless; she would be lying if she said she didn't miss being mortal... Being OUTSIDE. 

Watching him from around the corner, the petite woman observed the new mans stature. At times the entity would send new people to HER, allowing her to play- or break them in, if you will. Big men wasn't anything foreign to Amanda, in many ways more than one. But mainly, fighting. 

Ever since she became a part of that new world, she became... Different. Stronger. Her strength was that of a dozen men, and her senses like hawks. She enjoyed it for moments like these, but later she knew she would HATE it. 

Stepping out from behind a cracked wall in the plant, she stood before him. He nearly towered the five foot- two woman, but it didn't frighten her; and you could see it in her face. She was determined. More than that- she was... WRATHFUL. She could never tell why exactly, but ever since she had been there she was overcome with anger, and hatred.

 Blinking in silence she kept her crystal blue gaze on him. He was scared. Or nervous at least. Every small tremble in his hand- his face, they were like QUAKES to her.

 Leaning against the concrete wall, her arms crossed and she smiled at him. A warm smile, yet one touched with POISON. “Are you a southern boy?” She questioned going based off of the very obvious accent. She hummed, “i’m going to guess... Texan? Perhaps it was a little... TOO obvious,” she smirked, looking him up and down before finally answering his question. “Me?... I’m known as a lot of things... Most frequently a BITCH, other times THE PIG... But my name is Amanda,” she cooed, pushing herself from the wall to inspect him closer. 

She walked closer to him, a walk of confidence, because truly she had NOTHING to fear. As she approached him her body was only a few inches away from him; her gaze on his face. 

@chalnsawed

It had been an instinctive, almost an accident. Most killers didn’t take kindly to words like “please” and other polite mannerisms used in begging. Some enjoyed them, found them funny, others acted like they didn’t hear a thing. Vulgar expletives rarely differed either.

Death wasn’t feared here, not as much as it should be, as it used to be. It happens so often that the fear had shifted from that of death and to that of pain, of humiliation. The chainsaws were the most terrifying monsters in that regard. The creatures wielding them--a pulsating extension of that fear.

So Quentin feared it. The hungry roar of the teeth, cycling and gnashing and spraying blood. It mowed down his friends with ease, tearing them open and devouring their guts. The screaming was painful to listen to, even when he was on the other side of the map. The fear made him desperate. That was usually never a good thing.

On his back, kicking at the loose soil, trying to pull himself away, he’d choked them out: “Please don’t.” Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t, I’m sorry, please don’t.

And it’d worked.

The Cannibal was in pain, he thinks. No, maybe not in pain, just aching. Sore? It was something. Quentin almost wanted to ask him about it, but he remembered their circumstance, and so he didn’t. His arms were still braced, shoulders tensed, he was half-expecting the chainsaw to be picked back up and for the work to be continued. Quentin flinched at the Cannibal’s movement.

A hand, held out, dirty, bloody, big. Quentin doesn’t understand its purpose at first, and just stares at it for a few seconds. They felt too long to be just seconds.

He makes a decision. He accepts the hand.

True courage is the willingness to go on fighting despite your fear. In the absence of courage, desperation can be substituted, as Hal found out when he contacted that unholy being- the Entity- to ask to make a deal. In exchange, he would do whatever it wished of him.

He spent two whole nights away, preforming for the demon and pulling screams slowly from the humans it set him upon, a bloody show for it’s personal amusement. When it was over, however, Hal returns from it’s realm triumphant, if disheveled, shouldering a backpack full of his ill-gotten prizes. He wanders back through the realms, along winding paths, until he reaches Jedidiah’s familiar farmland.

He pauses near the porch, looking for his- friend? Protector? He didn’t know what to make of him, really. The milk, cocoa, sugar, and other ingredients in his bag were just starting to make his shoulders ache.

But in those forests, if one knew just the right turns to take, touch the right rock three times and knock on the right tree twice (the numbers changing, sometimes no rock and sometimes no tree) they could make it to the little pocket spaces the entity had carved out -- placed built perhaps not out of brick and mortar but out of the memories of the entity’s butchers, some things just out of place. Maybe these were all real places that had, at one time, existed.

Kate wasn’t sure she wanted to find out, but she knew -- bare minimum, that Badham Preschool HAD to exist somewhere on the planet Earth, because unless Quentin Smith was just a collective hallucination, everyone’s imaginary friend that could pull you them off a hook or blow up a generator, he was definitely real. It didn’t make the place feel any less like a nightmare, however, especially not while she was scratching around in dirt and grass trying to find her pendant after a trial had already ended.

A square, plain silver pendant on a black cord necklace and a lobster claw clasp that loved to come undone in the most inopportune moments. In some places, like meat plant, there were spotlights that would cause the light to reflect off the necklace -- but in Badham Preschool (or the memory of it) there was no such luck.

So on hands and knees Kate searched for a little piece of her old life, her teeth gnashing from nerves and hyper-focused on this one task. Find the necklace. Get outta dodge. She had just managed to escape and returning was a bad idea, but leaving this necklace behind felt like a worse idea and she’d always been chock full of bad ideas, anyway -- so what was one more to the pile? They had all managed to escape, so it felt like the place would be empty, anyway.

She continued to search -- the sound of a chainsaw rumbling still in her ears from the past trial. Like the sound of the generators would sometimes stick around, or the Huntress’s lullaby. Or the heartbeat.

Kate lifted herself off the ground. Huh. She didn’t usually hear the heartbeat with chainsaw sounds at the same time. Kate’s fixation on finding her pendant eased and she finally paid attention to her surroundings. Slowly, she turned around.

Startled from seeing The Cannibal, Kate fell gracelessly onto her ass and back on the dirt with a yelp.

“Oh, shit --”

interview with the mun [X]

Everything, in a way. I like having the opportunity to keep my writing in practice and active (not sure how successful that’s been, though.) It’s…nice, especially when I’m in the mood to write but can’t find the time or inspiration to do my original stuff or fic requests. Roleplaying in general is short and sweet in comparison, small bursts I can handle easily.

Now about Quentin himself…I want to say being able to relate to him, but, honestly, I’m worried that I do it too much. As of right now, I’m pretty unsatisfied with how I’m writing him, even if I am enjoying it. I’ll enjoy it more once I figure out what, in my mind, I’m doing wrong.

OH THATS………SO SWEET. AAAA?

i honestly didnt think anyone paid attention to the pinterest board or my stuff about his friends i thought i was just yelling into the void………………