#wraithfulintent

SEND ME A ♠ AND ILL DRAW YOUR MUSE AS CARTER SEES THEM

@wraithfulintent

She considered it. She considered leaving him where he was, laying on the ground in what she assumed was vasts amount of pain, but it felt increadably wrong. Just leaving when he was clearly not alright. Of course she also considered Myers who would most likely be sent after her if she stuck around for too long, and the entity whispering in her ears, telling her to  return to the campfire. Her eyesocket would most likely start to burn and bleed as the entities consistent warning that she would regret defying it. 

She could just leave. She should just leave, but Taro was stubborn. 

She sighed standing up and looking around her making sure Myers wasn’t nearby. Shaking her head she spoke.

“I’m going to be the cause of my own death, I swear.” Taro mumbled to herself, struggling to pull her mahogany coloured hoodie off, still faintly scented with the lilac perfume but now also blood and dirt. She countinued her pattern of neatly folding it up, like she would if she were with one of her fellow survivors. 

With ease she began to slowly walk over to him. Raising from her empty hand defenselessly.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Cross my heart and hope to die. I’m just trying to help.” She spoke calmly inching her way next to him, where she gently set the hoodie down next to his head. “Lay on this. It’s much more comfortable than the ground, trust me.” 

Her hands shook viciously and she had to keep telling herself to calm down.

Taro crawled back over to the medkit and dragged it over next to him. 

She worked fast. Very fast. She wasn’t sure if it was just because of her time working in the ER or the fact that her anxiety was through the roof. Taking a deep breath she quickly pulled out the stitching tape, rubbing alcohol, and bandages while looking over all of his wounds to get an idea of what he would need.

Out of habit she reached out to turn him, in order to better see his wounds, only before flinching away when he stirred. 

“Sorry! I’m sorry... I’m not going to touch you... I need you to turn just a bit, Philip...”

3. ...goodbye.

 Though he’d peppered the evening with small affections hardly discernible to the naked, wandering eye, but neatly noticeable to the spire of a killer whose hand he’d gently palmed more than once already—splitting long fingers until he could really feel the softer wood between them against his callouses, any signs their parting might be at all gentle as he’d been so far were quickly eroding. When the Wraith’s pale eyes began to emit Ma’s Red Stain, Billy knew their time together would have to resume to, as Phil would often say while disappearing into the fog, “some other time”. This was easier to accept when it was he who bore the Red Stain and hobbled off, happy for the chance to provide for his Shadow Ma. But the Wraith never looked happy about hunting arrangements involving him, and to see his face tighten before he marched off to a newly-spun trial always managed to leave the Hillbilly with a dry and empty feeling in his gut, as if the tender shoots of their time spent together were shriveling up inside him. This time, he wouldn’t let their vibrant leaves curl so easily. The softer thumping of his terror radius, tamed to a calm pace with the Wraith’s company, burst into an agitated thrum as Phil began to turn and disappear in patches of molten gold, signalling yet another hasty depature. “Wait—“

 The Red Stain wasn’t the most pleasant of lights to have roasting one’s eyes, but his lightborn gaze didn’t falter. For a brief moment, he felt as stunned as a survivor caught within its glow like deer mesmerized by an oncoming headlight. Not minding the angry contrast of color if only because it must have helped hide the oncoming flush of a similar shade in his cheeks, he let his hand fall more urgently upon the Wraith’s chest, entangling his knuckles within the tattered folds of poncho as if he believed the harder he grasped it, the slower it would disappear. With a soft sound not unlike the Wraith’s anxious tittering, he rocked from the balls of his heels to his tippy-toes to mash his wet wound of a mouth against what he could reach of the Wraith’s clenched jaw before most of it had joined the fog and left him anxiously clenching his hands as he searched the tree line for signs of the Wraith’s cloaked departure. “G’luck…” Even if he didn’t want it.

   Even if it was over before it began.

@wraithfulintent* prompt! * “ 33...violence “ * notes: survivor!phillip

𝐇er hands were shaking, the TELLTALE SIGN that it was time for the others to either tip-toe around Laurie’s serraded edges, or face something that her usual caring self wouldn’t want to happen. The trial was gruesome, but it could get a lot worse if someone decided to come across Laurie without thinking it over.

     The blonde’s emerald eyes were set upon the flickering flames of the campfire, narrowed DANGEROUSLY in unconscious aggression. God bless no one seemed to be around, or she probably would already be having to keep her hands from punching anyone right in the jaw. Anger was something Lauie felt, & bottled, often, & she became a ticking time-bomb as soon as a small lick of fury-flames were lit in her chest.

    She didn’t know him, this guy who seemed to come out of nowhere, tall, thin, looking almost like a ghost in the eerie green fog, though it didn’t matter who he was right now to Laurie. All that mattered to her was that this man wasn’t fitting to the survivor standard (at least to her thoughts of what that meant.) Two others HUNG & a chainsaw being revved inches from her skull, she watched in bewilderment as the stranger kept to working on a generator until she dug her knife defiantly into the monster’s shoulders, giving the hunter a serious shock with her escape.

  You can’t do this all on your own. Maybe he didn’t know, maybe he hasn’t been doing this for too long, maybe he hasn’t done this at all. No, no no no, he almost left us all for dead, that is unacceptable. Laurie’s mind was waging a civil war of trying to decide how to feel. The rational, calm girl knew that anyone would be unsure of what to do being thrown into this sort of hell for the first time, but, an angered Laurie is not one to have rationality be her best suit.

Feeling her hands almost burn to hit something, the small blonde’s focus snapped up when she heard the sound.

 the unmistakable sound of SOMEONE approaching the common.

       The woman’s vision locked into the opening, eyes searching with the precision of a hawk for who was coming to her place. She hated the thought of almost anyone approaching her like this, because she knew she may not be able to retract her claws, but a sickening realization made her feel that it maybe wasn’t that bad to have them out.

Carter had felt like it was time to take a break from everyone. It wasn’t that he’d gotten annoyed or angry at any of them-- he just wanted some space. To gather his thoughts and recharge a little and to do that he had gone for a walk into the woods. 

If it wasn’t for the fact that they were trapped there (probably permanently, too) the woods might have been nice. There was a cool breeze and contrasted the warmth of the campfire nicely and the moon was ever shining above them. It was a bit odd, however, to be in a forest and not hear the sounds of any animals except the occasional crow cawing in in the trees above him. Easily the most ominous part of this otherwise pleasant walk. 

He managed to stumble across a small clearing, parking his backside onto a fallen log and just staring into the forest. It didn’t even seem like he’d been there for that long before he noticed... something. He squinted a little. It seemed like some sort of shadow or something and when he heard no noise coming from over there he just shook his head. 

On the husk of an old car sat the Wraith, the not-so-lonely spectre of Autohaven. Sitting, he was for once smaller than his company, who had joined him no less than two ticks of forever ago. His bumbling conversation had by this point died and though he was not familiar enough with the majority of his fellows to find any comfort in their quiet, with this one, the old ghost felt at ease.

But The Hillbilly’s restless hands had to wander.

The journey began at he frayed edge of his poncho, picking and pulling at whatever would give and then journeyed to the rusted car, then back to the poncho. One went for his shoulder, but the other, more curious hand sought the forbidden fruit, old, mudded bandages upon his forearm that were never removed. He lifted that one to his lips and pressed a kiss to its back, the bump of a knuckle, the tip of one thick finger and then the heel of the palm, the taste of oil and grease lingering in the aftermath of each delicate caress. These hands, he mused, tracing with his unoccupied fingers soft patterns in the mangled flesh of the Hillbilly’s arm, have known so much bloodshed.

And yet, when upon his skin, they were always so very gentle.

  Blanketed by its usual layer of gloom, Autohavens evoked a sense of security in him that most of the cornless territories lacked. The unfamiliar and sterilized halls of Lery’s were too narrow and structured for a wild beast like him to dash freely as he did around Coldwind unhindered, and the fenced in backyards of the Shape’s neighborhood weren’t much better as far as steering went. Despite the occasional mazes of compacted cars littering the land with their steel skeletons, the Wrecker’s yard at least had many open areas where the dew-drenched grass could kiss the dark canvas of sky above it. It was here, he could see the hints of blackened tendrils writhing like storm clouds and take comfort in knowing that his Ma was but a lightning bolt’s distance away from assuring him that he was not alone. Of course, with the Wraith roosting nearby, it was harder to feel as though he’d been swallowed by the world, a feeling that he was prone to having given the impossibly tight quarters in which he was begrudgingly reared.

 It was easy to forget about the trials to come (indicative of Ma’s restless writhing overhead), and of the growing gloom that seemed to peel around the heat pooled in his pores from the sprint he’d used to close the distance between the overgrown outskirts that spanned the short distance where Ma had stitched farm to junkyard. His favorite part of crossing over into Phil’s territory was hopping over the scar between the terrain. If he stopped to give it a proper examination, he’d see black silk struggling to hold gray clay to red earth and a familiar orange glow rising between the cracks as if something or other was living below them and using the dead flesh of their fractured lands as its roof. But usually, he just hopped the hump at full speed, preferring only to slow when he could skid to a stop beside Phil’s seat of choice. Although, it was mostly the thud of his body crashing into the car’s side that stopped him rather than the brakes in his heels. Even having the wind knocked out of him didn’t seem to phase how much he could blabber to his bemused audience who waited patiently for him to finish, which was usually when he ran out of things to report from harrowing experiences on his last hunt to simple observations such as the fog’s consistency, or how the paint splattered along Phil’s bared legs looked like tears shed from the silver moon. Once he’d exhausted all his immediate thoughts, there was little for him to do but shift restlessly and ring his hands. The tinkerer in him could hardly help reaching out to rustle the frayed edges of the Wraith’s poncho with his knuckles. He thinks he’s being subtle and clever enough to avoid detection, but his confidence in the covert matter is shattered once Phil grasps his arm as if it were a bone for the bloodhound to bury, hauling it over for an inspection of his own.

  The sudden action gives rise to an uncertain growl; though he’d trust the Wraith with more than just his arm, it’s the immediacy of the contact so close to old wounds that briefly worries him enough to stiffen up. Thankfully, the Wraith is just as savvy at slipping past them just as he was at circling survivors undetected until his excited growls got the better of him. Soon his stiff shoulders melt against his misshapen frame as wooden lips sample the scarred sections of what little jaundiced muscle he’d developed from swinging his hammer hard enough to splinter bone. As the gentle nature of his company’s inspection became apparent, he allowed the light in his eyes to dim out until his world turned black and each soft adoration—into moths landing along his gnarled dimensions. Purring lowly from the unwarranted praise, he sags into the junker’s side until it hisses and begins to sink to one side. Tires and rogue nails were no more compatible than their stitched together lands, but Phil’s touch tinkered with his flesh as if he were aware of what the Hillbilly was made of and how he should handle it. Maybe, Billy thought while flexing his fingers to cup the Wraith’s chin, maybe they were made of the same thing? “Tickles.” He huffs, pinching a corner of Phil’s mouth fondly. “This arm was real first.” The Thompson’s son admits, eyeing the tight tourniquet of belts still cutting off the circulation around his elbow. “There was a hole where the food came. And when it wasn’t comin’ ah’d reach out t’feel the otherside. And it felt dif’rent. Like everything outside of where ah was…was real. Maybe ‘cause ah wanted it to be.” Snorting as if it were a stupid thing to recall, he leans over to bump the wet wound of his mouth against the Wraith’s cheekbone since it was now low enough for him to stamp in slobber.

   Usually, he didn’t gawk up at any structure that required him to rock back onto his heels just to gain a better look at them. Used to scouring the grounds ahead of him for movements that did not match the subtle sway of the corn, or—peculiarly enough, the immediate area around his feet where survivors sometimes crouched unnoticed by the lumbering beast, the Hillbilly did not expect the simple act of stopping to peer up at the Thompson house to halt him in the act of hobbling home to the dense clearing where Evan’s fire awaited a firm prodding with his hammer. That place in the woods was home to him now, and yet the house before him still carried the name forced upon him the moment he dropped into the world louder than the ruckus he caused with his chainsaw. Under its paint-peeled gaze, he felt small enough to smother before he’d grown gaunt and crooked. Or maybe he was always crooked? He couldn’t remember that far. 

  Nostrils flaring as if in defiance of the abandoned house and the secrets buried beneath its floors, his fur prickled upon his shoulder, though he was soon very much aware of why when the feeling of the home’s gaze materialized before him in an entrance that burned away the air with the same countenance that warmed the ashes in their fireplace. Before he could offer up a startled snarl, the Thompson home’s eyes became that of the Wraith’s. Swallowed whole by the sudden reappearance of the other killer’s heartbeat that swelled so suddenly around him that his own skipped a thundering clap or two, Billy steels himself for a teasing remark as his company rolls the warm wood of his forehead against the stitches that held his own together. “Ya don’t gots t’foller me. Ah knows the way back.” With his protest issued, he leans up on his toes to lightly bump the space between his eyes against the highest ridge of the Wraith’s cheekbone.