#thewraithwithin

//Imagine Wraith like “I am sorry my bell is broken, I have to announce it manually that I’m around until Entity fixes it. Ding-Dong!”

   @thewraithwithin

"Look, I don't mean to be rude, but this? S'not as easy as it looks." Gesturing to the bear-trap between his boots--the one in pieces thanks entirely to that hook fucking hippie, he tediously lines up the screws. "So I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't distract me. Don't care how you manage it. Shove that bell up your haunted ass for all I know. Just stop with the dinging already."

The man’s voice echoed along the fields as he spoke, and Wraith’s gaze moved down to the trap as soon as the killer gestured towards it, then back up to that mask. He tilted his head to the left as he listened, arms hanging down his sides uselessly, fingers wrapped around Azarov’s skull.

If there was a possibility for him to smirk, he would have done it at this very moment. But thanks to his skin covered in thick layers, the only thing he could do was to offer the Trapper an innocent look, breathing even as he let a few seconds go to waste, not caring about that. Time was not important, they both had plenty of it.

Should he apologize now? Maybe that was what the other expected, wanted him to do, but Wraith wasn’t really feeling the need to do so. Actually, he felt way differently, and so he moved his bells once again, letting the sound fill the air, stopping right before he became invisible - just to do it again, and then a third time - ding dong, ding dong, ding dong.

Oh, he could do this all night!

   Great. This is exactly what he needs in order to finish fine-tuning his rusty arts and crafts project. Not. Instead of some solitude to set his handful of screws back into their proper place, the Trapper has apparently acquired a single-digit audience entirely too focused on watching him frustrate his fingers along the most recent casualty of a hunting trip gone sour. Of all the post-sacrificial drudgery he could have completed to warrant those glowing peepers attempting to pierce his iron hide with their glacial fire, setting his dismantled toy’s shattered jaw back into place had to be the part of his night this wrangling and dangling shit-stain stopped by to gawk at? Trapper can’t say he’s surprised. The bell ringer had a look about him that suggested he got his jollies from watching paint dry. Honestly, he didn’t care what the Wraith did to get himself off just so long as he kept quiet during the more tedious of chores filling Trapper’s night. It was one he’d really begun to detest above all else, especially when he lacked even a taste of blood from the offender who’d thought it cute to box-cut through his bear-traps.

  Hunkered over the iron surgery, he clasps the handle of his setting tool, but not before  maneuvering the wide span of his welt-ridden shoulders in front of his disruptive onlooker’s field of vision. With enough bulk to block even the sharpest of shadow-born vision, Trapper moves slower and more deliberate in his mission as it merges into less of a fix-it-fast solution, and more into a game of how he could body-block the Wraith from watching his progress. For a moment, the new game distracts him from the bells starting up again, but there’s only so much dinging he can deal with before the same frustrations from first happening across his torn toy start up again. Rising to his full height of 8′intimidation, he turns to stalk one slow step by another towards the noisy nuisance no one outside ear-shot of a churchyard needed. “Fucking with me? C’mere. I’ll shove it up there for you.”

God, that young man was wiggling like a champion. But Wraith’s grip was strong, fingers digging into the guy’s back, holding him on his shoulder as he moved along, towards the close by hook.

“I will.”, he finally replied after a while. Just to give this guy an answer to his objection.

Not often was Jake driven to mindless chatter. Typically he was of the sort to grit his teeth and bear whatever mishaps he suffered in silence. Typically. Tonight wasn't a typical night it seemed because Jake had run his mouth off without a second thought and even stranger still was that the Wraith replied.

His wiggling stops, he goes entirely still only to renew his struggles tenfold after.

Looks like Meg won that bet. Not that he had partaken in it but he would be sure to let the others know that yes, in fact, these murderers could talk they just chose not to. Or maybe he wouldn't. That would open him up to all kinds of scrutiny since he typically said nothing.

             @thewraithwithin​

❝ I’m not supposed to talk to strangers. ❞ He doesn't seem to have a problem with sprinting away from them, though.

Why was he talking, then?

Even now, where he ran across the field, no way to hide, no way to get rid of the Wraith, he still chose to say something instead of accepting his faith quietly.

Well, actually… maybe they even weren’t strangers to each other anymore. So many times they’ve already met… and seen each other go… come back… it felt a bit like something familiar. In anodd way.

“For that, you talk much.”

A sharp turn, but Wraith followed. He could see the other rushing along the rock formations, could hear the crows cawing - there was no chance for the man to escape. Sooner or later, the sharp blades would hit him.

“Stranger.”

  It’s not like he wanted to vault directly into the patrolling path of a monster who sported a face only a mutated Deku scrub could love, but that’s exactly what Dwight Fairfield does. He clambers right through the window of the barn’s skeletal remains only to be met with a chorus of jingle bells that made him want to get all the way across the galaxy from those haunted hints of burning, autumn leaves that brand the hay-scented air with the gaunt silhouette of the Wraith. To be fair, it’s not his fault he just happened to bump into this Dorito on stilts who’s still glowing that distinctive tinge of nacho cheese orange. And no, the frightful encounter is not because he wasn’t careful to avoid catapulting quickly enough to catch his shoes on the wooden frame and disrupt his balance enough that he ended up headbutting the hay-bale in front of him either, even if the strands of yellow sticking out like ombre split-ends says otherwise. Really, the only reason the Wraith had managed to surprise him so soon is actually quite simply and as a whole, unsurprising. The Wraith  is invisible.

  Or he was invisible, anyway. With a frantic look tossed over his shoulder Dwight can already make out the bark-skinned creature from across the distance his measly head-start had earned him. With stork legs like those, the monster of a man would have no problems catching up to him in four strides or less, but Dwight’s not about to stick around and count to see if his estimate is in the correct range. Call him old-fashioned, but he prefers living to getting off on being right. It seems the crows get off on him plodding past their perches, and for a moment, a sea of black feathers overwhelms his view of the nearest pallet. When the taunt practically grazes his ear, Dwight shrieks and streaks left, slamming the pallet down behind him as he doubles over to catch his breath. Or at least, he would have  if he hadn’t ended up on the same side as his pursuer. Oh. “I WAS JUST KIDDING!” The grown man yelps, twisting around  awkwardly to try and clamber over the wooden barrier as fast as his Pillsbury doughboy physique could deliver him. “IwaskiddingIwaskiddingIwaskidding--!”

                    ( cont. )

       Dwight isn’t CRYING.  He’s simply hissing in pain.  No salty liquid is swelling in his eyes nor dripping down his face.  He’s just groaning…  I mean,  at first,  the first few times of this vicious cycle of impending doom and despair,  he in fact did cry.  Several times.  But for once in his life he feels like he’s toughening up.  MAYBE HIS MUTANT POWERS ARE FINALLY COMING IN.  Maybe one day he’ll develop thick skin,  that way nothing could pierce his flesh.  But let’s be real here,  Dwight:  that’ll never happen.  And he knows it -- he just wants to  b e l i e v e .         The wound did hurt.  Believe me,  it stings like no other and well,  he’s losing quite a bit of blood,  too.  But Dwight does his best to endure the pain..  sometimes.  He tries too,  at least,  however it proves to be insanely difficult. He’s starting to feel somewhat woozy,  though.  Very slightly.

                           ❛ Wh-- What? ❜  Dwight frowns,  flinching some,  but for no reason just yet.  He’s just.. actively anticipating that final swing the Wraith will end up taking sooner or later;  however,  he still manages to tilt his head in confusion just a bit.