ꨄ︎Wᴏʟғɪᴇ-Bᴀʀᴋsꨄ︎ART BLOG :P

27(?) Year old transfemme Grey Wolf, and Phychpal Of C.K.

Alice B. Dahlia.

Is unfortunately confined to a cursed predicament. After thinking too hard on a terrifyingly haunting idea... "what if something's shadow.... possessed it's rotting skin... and it walked up behind- " step. step. Step. Step.

She sees it.... right out of the corner of her eye.. it's shadow cast upon her. Will it be there when she turns around? And what if... there's more?.....?

Alice won't know for certain, if she simply thought too hard or of this thing actually manifested itself from her thoughts into physical reality... What's worse? The demonic entity that could possibly be standing just around her side, or the realization she's had that now, another, different demon has returned to haunt her blood, one she's starting to feel in every vein as they stiffen simultaneously with the rapid increase of her blood pressure..

Regardless, it seems she has bigger issues that occupy her mind already...

Alice is a... unlikely yet somewhat kindred freind of CK's. Meeting in a psychiatric hospital after she was admitted for untreated mania, Alice was the only one who could give less of a FUCK who was or wasn't around when she spoke her mind or painted freely. CK asked her for a cigarette and she just handed the newly lit one to him from jer mouth and pulled out another, in true manic Alice fashion, lit the cigarette by pushing it against the one already lit in CK's mouth. Without touching him and in such a completely fluid motion, wordlessly Alice just walked away, sincerely not giving a fuck. Oddly enough, C.K. would stick around slowly easing his way closer to Alice, she would often talk to herself out loud and even louder if she knew ears were listening.

Eventually, CK started responding back, and thus: these two actually had a function conversation, one that never really started, nor really ended. Alice would always see him as some pent-up freak (true), but.. what the fuck ever really, atleast some loser had the audacity to fluctuate freely between topics. Topics that Alice was just glad she could fucking explore freely without consequences. Finally, someone could keep up with Alice's frequently macabre discussions AND THEN SOME. But.. that was years ago... though they still remain friends, in touch at random hours and sometimes months without contact and no introductions, Alice will hit that loser up with "dude... some cunt down lmfaoooooo." And you could probably guess why.

I can again ramble the fuck on, and maybe I will. Please welcome;

There's a believed to be cryptic in town, and no one has ever seen his face. He wears a low brimmed hat and most days, a face mask. Out of respect, the towns people down question it, only those who've seen his I.D. when he's purchases his cigarettes or booze have ever been so lucky. But even them most have done their efforts to brush off the look of his face.

He dines in town occasionally, maybe three times a month, his nails, or claws? Are black, either painted or.. otherwise.. theres been glimpses caught of his jawline, sharp as an ice shelf, with stubble that perfectly catches the October frost, and teeth, fangs, sharp as they are seemingly jagged. A few scars mark his cheeks and jaw. They say he's well mannered, his voice low with a timbre, it almost purrs with a baritone hum. He's never been seen in direct sunlight. He wears a black fur coat that's shredded at the ends near his calves. Black leather gloves, he's very tall.. and wide.. as wide as most doorframes. Large, black leather boots adorn his feet up to his knees. A black tatted billiard cap on his head.

His hair is black and jagged, shaggy and fringed. The tips of his hair is silver in some places, which indicates maybe his hair was once silver and perhaps grew out? The waitress has only seen his eyes once.. icy blues but, there were flecks of darkness scattered around, like rocks frozen in an icy blizzard pond. Somehow with just a glance, her breath felt cold under his gaze. And when he smiled, his teeth were ever sharp, a toothy grin, stained from coffee. Maybe they always look that way.

Somebody was once tasked to find him, do some sort of amature detective work. The guy put up to the task was then overheard at the bar about how je followed footsteps in the snow that gradually just vanished, out in the middle of the woods after midnigh while the cryptid man had no light source of his own. Just.. vanished.. into the foggy treeline..

Another person once recounted how one January evening her car got a flat tire while driving on the highway, no one else and no other veichles in sight. And the tow service told her it would be three hours before any help arrived, when ot of the fog a large dark figure manifested into view, that same man, face covered, hat and all, offered to help. With no other options, and the weather guaranteeing frostbite after just minutes of exposure, she accepted, and in what felt like less than a minute, the cryptic man changed the flat.

After graciously thanking him, she said she looked away for one second, and he was gone.. same thing, a trail of shoe prints that faded into the fog, this time, out in the open, no tree line in sight to dissappear into. Although many have attempted to Crack this case, where his dissapears to, where he's from etcetera, etcetera.. Suffice to say, no one really knows. And he's not a saint either.

Once he stumbled into the market, the side of his head was bashed, blood streaked down the sides of his face and neck. The stores open all night, and this was right around the witching hour. He reeked of booze, traipsed down the isles, mumbling something along the lines of "𝑰𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒔, 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅." And freaked the clerks the hell out. He only bought some meats and left, but the news next day was that the mayors son got in a scuffle. Frankly the little shit deserved it. The manchild stole a farmers tractor last summer and nearly totaled it, all the boy got was a slap on the wrist, who knows that that kid gets up to.

There was also the incident were some outta town fellows made some crude jokes about the cryptid man, slashed the hell out of those boys tires, and the unnerving part was no knives were involved, sheriff said it was animal claws, wrote it off as such too in his report, not much he coukd do about it. The security cameras also malfunction everytime he's somewhere on screen, its strange, the screan becomes static like its losing connection, and this happens with every camera no matter the quality. Even on cellphones the photos and film are blurry and unfocused, like he brings some sort of fog with him.

They say he's not human, but that doesn't mean he should be treated less than such. He's apparently got money, and he tips pretty well, he's also got quite the appetite. Another thing though, people who've interacted with him have said he's doesnt like being referred to as a man, that they never felt too close to that. Alotta townsfolk call em he regardless.

A soft bell rang from the door to the right, around a shelf of books. A dark tall figure shadowed through the space, no lights were on. His frame only illuminated by the six a.m. sunrise through thin clouded windows just below the ceiling. The floors created and echoed his boots as he stepped further into the shop. The cashier watched as this intense shadow followed the walls to the furthest corner, followed by the sound of fingers gliding over a row of books. The footsteps continued towards the other corner, then more muffled rummaging before quickly speeding towards the cleric. Heavy steps rang out and a massive shadowy figure hulked over the counter as they came into sight.

"𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔.. 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒊𝒈𝒔.. 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒗𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒕.. 𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒎𝒆."... this character loomed over everything, their eyes, soul peircing. A bit intimidated the cashier slid the doors of the back counter hutch open, revealing a decent array of tobacco products. Wordlessly the figure pointed, and the cashier grabbed what he thought were the correct pack. "These are fine?" The figure nodded, placing two 20s on the desk. "C-can I see some I.D. please?"

Wordlessly, the figure slowly fished out a tattered, worn leather wallet, sliding out a very faded card with it.

Taking the card in hand, the cashier silently examined it, skimming the Information for the birth year when his thumb brushed up against brown stain near the name: "𝙶𝚁𝙸𝙴𝚅𝙾𝚄𝚂. 𝚂𝙴𝙵𝙵𝙱𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚆."

He lingered on it for a second before handing back the card to who he assumed was Seffbarrow. "Here you go." Handing over the cigarettes, and totaling the cost of a magazine and bag of jerky. "38. Fifty is your total- 2.fifty is your change have a nice day-" as soon as the change was in hand the large character had dissipated, the bell of the door rang before the clerk even finished his sentence. "What a weirdo..."