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Dead By Dillight Global Moderator The Trapper I have made 22,646 posts Right now I'm Offline I joined September 2015 I've received 1 like	Dead By Daylight (The Series) May 14, 2020 11:38:12 GMT -6 Post by Dead By Dillight on May 14, 2020 11:38:12 GMT -6 (Since the thread idea kind of bombed, I'll just write my own stories . This is based off of Dead by Daylight, a multiplayer online game I play where one person is a killer against 4 survivors with two seperate goals. The Main Goal of a Survivor is to find the 5 (they upped it) Generators and activate all of them to power an exit gate, turn on the gate, then you survive the round. The Main Goal of a Killer is...well...kill everyone by sacrificing them on a hook. However, being me, what made me fall in love with this is the sick and twisted Lore of Dead by Daylight. The Premise is very simple: Death is not an escape, or an escape at all. The thing that we must call the Entity controls a basically purgatory that it uses for it's own sick amusement. It basically takes people and killers and just have them play this sick game and once it's done...bakc to the Bon Fire so you can play it again and again. You don't want to play? Well if your a killer you'll be tortured until you DO play his game. If you're survivor, tough shit. I love cracking the lore and learning backstories. So before I take any liberties, lets meet our players (As of current). Note: Post is going to be pretty long. Was going to just link to the images, but I honestly think that's a diservice as is cutting out ANY lore about the Killers or Survivors. The only thing I'm cutting out are the entries by Benedict Baker and the Archives, only because the backstories and pics are long enough as is. Also note, I'm using the official wiki, so there may be some inaccuracies.) Starting with my favorite: The Killers The Trapper: Evan MacMillan idolized his father. It wasn't just that he was heir to a great fortune, it was the way he ran the estate. Raised under his firm hand, Evan had taken to running the workforce with an iron hand. Production was always high and the MacMillan Estate prospered under father and son. As Archie MacMillan's mental health slowly disintegrated, Evan protected him from the herd who wanted a piece of the fortune. No matter what his father asked of him, Evan would do. When Archie MacMillan finally snapped, Evan became his enforcer in what would become known as the worst mass murder in modern history. They never proved that Evan lead over a hundred men into those dark tunnels before detonating the explosives and sealing them to their fate.The tale of the MacMillan Estate is a tale of wealth and power gone very wrong. How many victims fell to the hands of father and son is unknown. No record is ever made of what became of Evan MacMillan. His father is another unsolved puzzle, found trapped in the locked basement of his own warehouse - starved and abandoned. (* One of my Two Mains due to his very Jason esc backstory, look, and move set. What can I say, I'm a sucker for Friday the 13th) The Wraith: Philip Ojomo came to this country without anything than hope for a new beginning. He was happy as he got offered a job at Autohaven Wreckers. A small scrap yard where bribed cops turned a blind eye for the somewhat shady business that took place. Ojomo didn't care. He had seen criminal activity up close in his homeland and as long as he didn't get involved, he let things be. He just fixed cars and handled the crusher. Something he did really well. A car went in and a small, metallic cube came out. It was not until one gloomy day that he, just by accident, saw some blood coming from one of the un-crushed cars. As he opened the trunk he found a young man, gagged and with tied hands with panic filled eyes. Ojomo freed the man who managed to run ten feet before Ojomo's boss stopped him and slit his throat. As Ojomo demanded answers he got explained to him that he'd been nothing more than a simple executioner as more or less every car had a soul in them as this was a "service" the scrap yard provided to certain "clients". Ojomo snapped and went ballistic. He threw his boss in the crusher and let it slowly compress, as the head stuck out, Ojomo grabbed it and pulled head and spine out of the body. Then he left and was never seen again. The Hillbilly: The son of wealthy landowners Max Thompson Sr. and Evelyn Thompson, this unnamed boy was an unwanted child born to savage parents. Hideously disfigured, he was shut away from society. So ashamed of their son, they bricked him off into a room and fed him through a hole in the wall. When the boy escaped, he took his revenge savagely and terribly, slaughtering the parents that had tortured him instead of raising him. After the deed was done, he continued to live his life at the farm, taking out his deranged violence on the animals that were allowed to run free. As he finally broke free from his shackles he ran through the cornfields, chasing and slaughtering whatever he could find. They never found the bodies of Max and Evelyn, but they did find tortured and disemboweled animals all over the farm. Coldwind Farm was quickly settled and the land split up and sold off. There was never a buyer for the farmhouse. Perhaps it was the sound of the chainsaw you could hear throughout those hot summer nights. The Nurse: Sally Smithson came to town with dreams of children's feet and laughter in a wooden home built by her husband Andrew. But life came not with smiles but with plans of destruction. Andrew worked as a lumberjack - a job with its perils. One day, Andrew's foreman had to pay Sally a visit, forever changing her life. She was alone. Without food on the table and no other option, Sally had to find a way, but the only employment she could get was at the Crotus Prenn Asylum. Nobody sought employment there unless they were in dire need. Just like Sally. Without any education, she started at the bottom, doing the hard night shift. Over the years, her mind had reached its limits, two decades of seeing horrid things that violate the eyes. Memories that are re-played every night. Being abused verbally and physically, by people without limits. Sally saw insanity from the outside, just to catch it herself. Finally she could not take it any more and concepts of purification emerged inside her. She did what she felt was necessary. As the morning staff arrived one day in September - they found over fifty dead patients, lifeless, in their bed along four staff members, also dead. Only Sally had survived the night, but her mind was gone, rocking back and forth non-stop. Exactly what happened is only known by her, but it seems that some of them had been choked as they had marks around their necks. They got her into an ambulance, but that ambulance never reached the hospital. It was found crashed in a nearby wood, all the staff dead and Sally nowhere to be found. The Shape: Some humans are simply bad seeds. Seeds infused with a distilled and pure form of evil. Michael Myers is one of those seeds. He had no issues with causing the pain of others. Instead, it was exactly what he sought. But even life can be tough on those with minds filled with terror. The difference is just how one goes about to solve those problems. For Michael, he had to kill to find some inner peace. As he took his sister’s life, the police found a silent boy dressed as a clown at the scene. When one stumbles upon a growing fire, one does not pour gasoline on it. But this was an action taken by officials that had no idea how it would shape this demon in the boy's body. Sending Michael to a mental institution was a feeble attempt to save the child. Unsuccessful therapy and nightly screams just made him even more introverted and deranged. People hoped that Michael Myers would end up a parenthesis, soon to be forgotten and buried, a failure that soon were to rot away. But then...he escaped. ( Left out fun fact: He's the only Killer that came over willingly. The entity didn't have to bribe him, the entity didnt' have to torture him. This is basically paradise to him. As such, his add ones, can let him KILL SURVIVORS with out a specific charm) The Hag: Lisa Sherwood grew up in a quiet village, mainly isolated from the rest of civilization. The people of the hamlet were kind and the elders kept old traditions alive, often keeping the peace by personally settling the ever-rare disputes. Lisa was particularly fond of the charms they taught her to draw for safety and good fortune. One night, as she was walking home through the woods, a terrible storm struck without warning. Howling winds whipped at her hair as she stumbled through the swamp, her rain-drenched dress plastered to her skin. In the slick, wet mud she lost her footing, careening backwards and striking her head against rock. Slipping in and out of consciousness, she strained to identify the dark shapes approaching her from between the trees. That's the last thing she could remember. Her kidnappers kept her chained to the wall in a flooded cellar. Though dimly lit, she could see others whose large open wounds swarmed with flies. It took merely a day before they returned, carving chunks from the prisoners' bodies with rusted blades, consuming their very flesh down to the bone. Most she saw did not survive long once the cannibals targeted them but somehow, deep within, Lisa persisted. Starved, infected, and mutilated after several weeks of torture, her gaunt arms became loose in their shackles. She pulled hard, the metal tearing through skin and muscle until she was free. Her flesh oozed viscous yellow pus and bones were visible beneath gangrenous wounds. She could go no further. Delirious, she thought of home; she thought of the elders. With her dying breath, she etched the symbols they had taught her into the floor using what remained of her fingers. Almost in response, a dark hunger stirred inside her. It yearned for blood. In oath, she chose vengeance. The village's search party eventually brought them to an old shack in a swamp. Inside, its previous inhabitants had been viciously dismembered and devoured by an unidentifiable animal. In the cellar, amid rotting corpses and disconnected flesh, the elders’ charms were scrawled in blood on the floor. Lisa’s body was not among the bodies and was never found. The village was never the same again. The Doctor: From an early age, Herman Carter understood the human psyche. To analyse and de-construct something as powerful as the brain intrigued him. He was an apt pupil and gained the attention of his teachers. He excelled in high-school and was published in "Partisan" - a psychology gazette. Within a year, Carter was fast-tracked into Yale's advanced neuroscience programme, really a front for the CIA. Brainpower is a must if you're about to conquer the world and demolish foes across the pond. The CIA understood this, so interrogation and intelligence became their number one priority. All they needed were brilliant people - like Carter. Carter and other top-tier recruits were transferred off-campus and into a secret black site facility in Illinois known as the Léry's Memorial Institute. A protégé craves a mentor, and that's where Mr Stamper stepped in, who taught Carter that information is everything and knowledge is power. He was given all instruments needed, a guiding hand, and more or less everything he asked for. He never realised that sunlight had started to become so scarce, that he too was kept in the dark. Because knowledge doesn't only give you power, it also transforms you into a threat. To extract information was his mission. Mr. Stamper encouraged Carter to go further and not to consider this a normal medical facility - no eyes were watching them, there were no rules to abide. The agency just pointed Carter in the right direction, then he started to take a few steps back as he saw how Carter could walk on his own. Docile test subjects were exchanged for real, live spies. People that played a role in the troubles outside the facility. Carter shouldered this new role - Project Awakening took form, and on paper Carter described it as "experimental interrogation". It was approved and over a few months, nobody knocked on his door. Screams and moans filled the corridor outside his lab, but wars skew people and what they accept - as long as the enemy is kept at bay. The fluorescent lights flickered more and more often. Electro-convulsive Treatment became a standard dish on the menu. Prisoners held at the facility begged the guards to take them to any other lab but Carter's. Rumours were disregarded in the beginning. Over the years, Carter became known as The Doctor and no one ever questioned if he had even held a medical certificate or even what happened to the prisoners after they had given up their information. It was only after the Léry's Memorial Institute went silent for a week that they finally uncovered the true horror of what had happened there. Carter's experimental information extraction had turned to horrific and bizarre torture. Patients and prisoners were found dead or in vegetative states with all types of head trauma. In his office, they found the most terrible discovery of all. Mr Stamper himself, his head peeled open and an array of electrodes and sensors inserted into his still working, but annihilated brain. There was no sign of Herman "The Doctor" Carter, but his research papers suggested that he had been using the prisoners as part of awful ECT experiments as he searched for the panacea of mind control. The government didn't want to know. The black site was condemned and all knowledge of the Léry's Memorial Institute redacted forever. k ( I find him the most annoying killer to deal with as a survivor (his madness is SUPER over powered) and the creepiest design and back story.) * The Huntress: As soon as Anna was able to walk, her mother started teaching her how to survive a harsh, solitary life in the northern woods. Living in such an extremely remote and dangerous area required skill and resilience. When sunlight became too dim for productive activities, they would take refuge in their house, a sturdy old cabin constructed to resist the toughest winters. Close to the hearth’s warmth, Anna would rest in her mother's arms, surrounded by the few wooden toys and masks she had crafted for her. Drifting off to sleep with stories and lullabies, she dreamt happy dreams, ignorant of the events that would soon change everything. Anna and her mother were stalking a great elk through the woods. They knew it was dangerous prey, but it had been a particularly difficult winter and they were almost out of food. The spectre of starvation frightened them more than any forest creature. Without warning, the elk reared, bellowed and charged at Anna. She was paralysed with fear as the whole world seemed to shake under the immense beast’s pounding hooves. The elk was close enough for Anna to see the murderous fury in its eyes when her mother threw herself in its path, axe in hand. A blood-curdling scream escaped from her lips as the elk impaled her upon its antlers and hoisted her into the air. With all her strength, she brought her axe down on its head again and again while it tried to shake her loose. With a sickening crack, the antlers snapped and Anna’s mother was free. The beast collapsed. Anna was too small to move her mother’s broken body, so she sat with her in the clearing where she had fallen. To distract her from the dying elk’s cries, Anna’s mother held her and hummed her favourite lullaby. They stayed like that, the huntress and the elk getting quieter and colder, until Anna was alone in the silent forest. Eventually she stood up and started the long walk back home. Still a child, she knew just enough about life in the frozen forest to survive. She followed her instincts and became one with the wild. She got older and stronger and practised her hunt. As she grew into a dangerous predator, her humanity became a half-remembered dream. She widened her territory and lived off her hunts. She worked her way up through squirrels and hares and mink and foxes. Eventually she grew tired of them and hunted more dangerous animals like wolves and bears. When unsuspecting travellers came through her woods, she discovered her new favourite prey: humans. Unlucky souls who strayed into her territory were slaughtered like any other animal. She liked to collect their tools and colourful garments and especially toys when there were little ones. But she could never bring herself to kill the little girls. Girls she would take back to her house, deep in the woods. They were precious, and looking at them woke up something deep in her heart. She craved the closeness of a loved one, a child of her own. Among the pillaged wooden toys, dolls and story books she couldn't read, the girls would be tied by the neck with a rough and chafing rope fastened firmly to the wall. She couldn't let them wander off, or they would surely die outside. Every time, the girls would waste away and die of cold or starvation or sickness. Every time, it plunged Anna deeper into pain and sorrow and madness. She was compelled to try again, and started raiding the nearest villages to slaughter families and kidnap their daughters. She wore one of the animal masks her mother crafted for her so many years earlier to try to calm the frightened children. Villagers spread the legend of a half-beast lurking in Red Forest: The Huntress, who killed men and ate little girls. War eventually came to the forest. German soldiers began to pass through, on the march to attack the collapsing Russian Empire. During these dark times, there were no more travellers. The villagers had abandoned their homes, and no more little ones to be found; only soldiers. Many of them were found with violent axe wounds. Whole groups disappeared mysteriously. Once the war was over, the rumours of The Huntress disappeared with it, engulfed by the Red Forest. (* Anna is a fan favorite because of her backstory. Most people usually write her off as the least evil of the killers because she's like a kid...she doesn't know anything else. She's used a lot) The Cannibal: Whether killers perform their heinous acts by the compulsions of their diseased minds, or if they are forced into them by external pressures, has long been a matter of debate. But for one killer, nature and nurture are inextricably linked. Leatherface kills not from a desire to exert his will over others, to satisfy carnal urges, or even to quiet the voices in his head. He kills because he is scared. Scared that others will hurt him; scared that his family will be displeased with him, scared that their shared willingness to eat human flesh will be discovered. He does as he is told. His family loves him and that is all that matters. Outsiders are a threat, and threats need to be dealt with. Like those kids that came into the house, uninvited. Walked in like they owned the place. Looked around the house, trying to find out his family’s secrets, no doubt. But Leatherface deals with them, and protects his family just as he’s been taught. He is not just protector, he has many roles, and each role has its own face. He serves dinner, cares for the family, and dresses well when they eat. His Grandpa and Ma used to care for them all, but Grandpa, he is old now and Ma has been still for a while, so Leatherface and his brothers had to take over. Family is everything to him. Family is security and safety. But, even though he did his best, one of the kids got away. He tried to stop her, chasing after her as fast as he could, but she had help: another outsider, driving a truck. The evil trucker killed his brother, ran him over like he was a possum. In a fury, Leatherface leapt at him, the saw ready to avenge his family, but the trucker was too quick. He knocked Leatherface aside and turned his own saw against him. As he watched the outsiders driving away, the rage, grief and pain combined with the worry about what would happen to his family now. They would surely return with the police, and the police would take his brothers, his Grandpa. Without them, what would he do? Without their commands, he would wither and die. As his world collapsed, Leatherface spun in circles, swinging the saw all around, trying to fight off the myriad external threats that surrounded him. Then another feeling overtook him. It came from outside his vision, crawling over his skin with cold dread. He realised that no matter what outsiders could do to him, there was something worse, something bigger that lived in the shadows. He was filled with a terror unlike any he had ever felt before. But it was almost comforting, like the fear he'd felt with his family. The fear of disappointing them. He was brought to a place that was familiar but unknowable, and he instinctively knew what he had to do. He couldn't fail it, the way he had his family. Outsiders would come but he would use his skills to overcome any threats. There would be screaming, but he could make the world quiet again. Until the only sound remaining was the blessed howl of the saw. Let the outsiders come. * The Nightmare: Even while he lived, Freddy Krueger was a creature of nightmares for those who truly knew him. Hiding behind a mask of warmth and friendliness, Freddy's actual temperament was known only to his victims. When those victims were finally heard, the parents of Springwood tracked Freddy down and took the law into their own hands. They thought that fire had rid them of a monster that night, that their children were finally safe, but evil as strong as his has a way of surviving. Years passed, the horror was buried, the victims mercifully forgot. Then, somehow, Freddy returned, and dreams became nightmares once again. Freddy focused his anger on those he felt had wronged him, building up to his one true obsession, Nancy Holbrook. But he underestimated her strength and resourcefulness. Together with her friend Quentin Smith, she managed to weaken Freddy, mutilating him and leaving him for dead once more. Death didn't want Freddy the first time he encountered it, why did they think it would take him now? He emerged once more, consumed with vengeance. Then he turned his sights on the boy who had blocked his path to Nancy, his number one. Freddy invaded Quentin's dreams, terrorising him night after night, until his strength and defences would be at their lowest. When the time was right, he forced the boy to return to the dark reflection of Badham Preschool. Here he would have his final revenge. Freddy stalked the boy through the school's halls. He took his time, savouring every moment of the hunt. This was what he enjoyed the most, the smell of their sweat in the air, the ragged gasps of their terrified breath. They were his to toy with. There was the boy, at the end of a long corridor. Too tired and scared to run anymore? Resigned to his fate? Freddy closed in, arms wide, claws raking the wall. Their tips traced along a pipe, the metallic shrieking only adding to the boy’s apprehension. A shower of sparks rained on the ground, and into the liquid that covered the tiled floor. A blue flame blossomed and quickly engulfed the room. The boy took flight as Freddy burst from the flames in a fury. Rooms and walls raced past in a blur until they were in Freddy's basement. There would be no escape from here. Slowly Freddy closed in on the boy. His fear was so strong now that Freddy could almost taste it, but his eyes burned with a defiant hatred that was almost admirable. Freddy drew back his claws. Then Freddy felt another presence with him; something old, powerful and dark. A miasma enveloped him and the only sensation was a sound like wooden beams flexing and creaking in the distance. The echoing groan of metal crushed against metal. Something arcane and unknowable, half-way between language and pure terror. A moment of falling and spinning and then Freddy was back in the school. But not his school. It looked the same, but it felt different. His powers were tempered in some ways and focused in others. The boy had gone for now, but another prey walked the hallways. Some would be inconsequential; others would become his new favourites. All would fall before his claws. (* Two Fun Facts: 1, he's my main main, A Nightmare on Elm Street (Original) is my favorite movie and I don't dislike the remake like everyone else. 2. They actually had to redo his whole system because he was considered the worst but he's Freddy GOD DAMN Krueger so they felt the character needed respect) The Pig: When John Kramer, better known as Jigsaw, planned for his son to be born during the Chinese Zodiac's Year of the Pig, he wanted it to represent fertility and rebirth; a new beginning for him and his wife, and the start of a charmed life for his son. But that plan was shattered on the night that a junkie broke into his wife's clinic, hoping to score. After this event resulted in the death of his unborn son, John finally caught up with the junkie, making him his first test subject, and The Pig was changed forever too. It became a representation of the disease that was rotting John from the inside, a reminder that we are just meat unless we elevate ourselves by our actions, by grasping life from the jaws of death. The Pig became a vessel, an agent of Jigsaw, conveying the subjects to their test. For some of those who emerged victorious, The Pig could still be a rebirth, into their new lives as apprentices, even disciples, of Jigsaw. That was the case for Amanda Young, a troubled soul, whose life had been a catalogue of harm, both to herself and those around her. That changed when she faced, and bested, Jigsaw's test. Deciding her life was worth something, she became devoted to Jigsaw's cause, ready to take over when cancer consumed him. But she became more dependent on John, her anguish at his impending death combining with a belief that their test subjects weren't capable of saving themselves, of being reborn in the crucible of the games. Seeing this, John presented her with another game, another chance to save herself, but Amanda let her rage and jealousy rule her actions. She failed the test and took a bullet as a consequence. Bleeding out on the tiled floor, darkness engulfed Amanda's vision, accompanied by a sound like creaking wood. Then she was in a forest, once more viewing the world through the eyes of a Pig. Trees surrounded her, their branches clawing at her from all sides. Waves of panic washed over her and she could hear her breath reverberating inside the mask. Had she been damned, cursed to spend her days here, in this guise? Or maybe this was another test? Maybe she hadn't failed at all? John always thought one step ahead of everyone else, planned for every eventuality, and he would never give up on her, surely? Jigsaw may have gone but he had passed her onto another. A being for whom she would be The Pig again. Ultimately, she saw now that she had been right in the choices she had made. The time for games was over. There was no chance of redemption for any of them. They were meat, and meat was destined to die. The Clown: Kenneth Chase was born in 1932 by a difficult labour, which his mother wouldn't survive. This event drove a rift between him and his father that never closed. As the boy grew, so did his father's resentment, and his drinking habit. By the time Kenneth was at school, they lived mostly separate lives. Academically, he was unremarkable, coasting by on his significant athletic prowess. He grew tall and strong, excelling at track events, but shunned any attempts to coax him into team sports. On his walk home from school, he would often find feathers on the ground and he soon began a collection, keeping them in a cigar box under his bed. With his father either at work or in an alcohol-induced stupor, Kenneth had hours to spend alone, transfixed by the regularity of the feathers' barbs and the feeling of softness as he ran them over his lips. Watching the birds that came to the feeder in his garden, he imagined how soft they must be and resolved to catch one. He ingratiated himself with the local dentist, soon procuring some anaesthetic. Using this, he rigged up a trap on the feeder, that he hoped would knock out a bird long enough that he could touch it. After a few failed attempts, he managed to trap a robin. As it lay in his hand, he felt a sudden rush, of a life at his mercy. He had planned to release it once it recovered from the anaesthetic. Instead, as its eyes flickered back into consciousness and it began to struggle, his grip remained firm. His fingers slowly tightened around its throat, squeezing until its chest feathers were finally still. He disposed of the body, keeping just a feather, with which he started a new collection, discarding the others as "fake". By the late 1940s, Kenneth had left school and started working as a busboy at a local diner. He had also escalated to larger prey, like squirrels, raccoons and dogs, becoming skilled at customising the anaesthetic dosage for each. In early 1954, a young man went missing and the town was turned upside down in the search. A few months later, Kenneth's father, while doing some work in the crawlspace under the house, found a cigar box. He broke it open and saw, to his horror, that it contained feathers, animal paws, and a man's finger. Returning from work, Kenneth saw his father leaving the crawlspace with a cigar box in his hands. He turned on his heel and never went home again. After a few weeks of living rough, he encountered a travelling circus and, with his prodigious strength, was hired to work the ropes. He assumed a new name: Jeffrey Hawk. Suddenly surrounded by a close-knit community, "Jeffrey" had to learn to socialise. He donned a new personality like a disguise, quickly becoming known as charming and helpful, and was welcomed into his new family. Over the next decade, he stayed with the circus, travelling the length and breadth of the United States. But, with the itinerant life providing few repercussions, he fell into bad habits. Drinks, junk food, drugs, he indulged in all of them to excess. For a time, these vices were enough, but then his old urges returned and his nomadic existence became a cover for him to resume killing. He stole clothes and make-up from performers, fashioning a disguise that would let him get close to his victims before he anaesthetised them, bringing them back to his caravan, where they would awake to find themselves bound and at his mercy. He would finally get to have his fun, mentally and physically torturing them, their screams fuelling him, before being lost in the night. Once their strength was at its lowest, he would carefully examine their fingers, searching for the prettiest, running them over his tongue to find the tastiest. Once he found the best, he would cut it from their hand and proudly add it to his collection, disposing of the rest of the body as pointless waste. Men, women, young, old, he didn't care. The essence of a good collection is in the variety, in the memories and stories they evoke. He removed the costume less and less, shedding his old personality with it, fully embracing the clown, his true self. With time, he became complacent and sloppy. A victim managed to work free of her bindings while he was sleeping off the drink. She escaped, screaming for help, and he awoke to find the rest of the circus bearing down on him. He whipped his horse and the caravan disappeared into the night. Since then he has roamed the country, a parasite who could always be found at a carnival or circus, but who would never be seen on any playbill. He lured those brave, or foolish enough, to come near, trapped them and moved on before they could be found missing. Somewhere along the way, he left the ordinary roads of the United States behind him, travelling through a veil of mist and entering a new realm. It was a place of transience and impermanence, perfectly suiting the life he had chosen to lead. Feeling more at home than he had in his entire life, he set up camp and waited for his first visitor. The Spirit: Rin was the only child of the Yamaoka family. She was raised in the dusty halls of a traditional house in Kagawa. She studied Education at Takamatsu, a private university, which weighed heavily on her family's shaky finances. Her mother got ill that year and the bills started piling up. Rin worked part-time in a futile attempt to help lighten the load. Her father faced a debt that grew without end. He started working double-shifts in hopes of obtaining a promotion. That's when he started losing sleep. A dark whisper would keep him awake all night, reminding him of his hopeless situation. Exhausted, he started to lose grasp of reality. Fighting to deny what the voice whispered at night, Rin's father made a desperate move. He met with his superior and explained his situation. He begged for a bonus, an advance, time-off---anything. His request was denied. The company had launched a defective production line that was costing them dearly. Someone had to be held accountable and Rin's father fitted the bill perfectly. He was fired after twenty-two years of service. That evening, Rin came home from work. She'd stayed late to entertain customers that lingered at the restaurant. As she parked her bike in the shed, she heard her mother's scream come from the house. She rushed in, climbing up the stairs to her parents' room. There she found bits and pieces of her mother on the floor. Her limbs were clean-cut, tangled up in an unnatural position. Her breasts were sliced up, revealing her rib cage, which was cracked open. Rin gagged. A sharp Katana came crashing down. Rin blocked the blade, which bit into her bare forearm. The shock of recognition interrupted her pain: her father was wielding the Katana with a stoic expression. She cried out to make him stop, but he slashed her arm again. She rushed off and slid on the blood-smeared floor. Using the door frame as support, she raised herself up. The Katana ripped through the wall, cleaving her other arm. She screamed in pain as she limped into the hallway, only to be met by her father's blade. She stepped back, trembling, as she held together the soft loose flesh of her abdomen. Images of her mother's tangled limbs flashed before her eyes. Rin charged at her father, making him stumble back. He punched her torn abdomen and she recoiled in pain. As she struggled to get back up, he slashed her thigh, making her collapse on the floor. As she crawled towards the stairs, he grabbed her hair and yanked her against a partition. The glass shattered on impact and she fell through, landing one floor down. She heard footsteps somewhere above her. With effort, she moved, worming her way into a sea of broken glass. The shards gnawed at her, ripping her flesh. He had to be stopped. He would not get away with what he'd done to her--with what he'd done to her mother. Coughing up blood, her chin grazed the glass, adding to the bleeding. A low-pitched heartbeat started to ring in her ears. Her body felt so heavy she could no longer move. The ground shook with her father's footsteps. She knew she was not going to make it, but she no longer cared. She would make him pay, in this life or the next. A dark Fog slowly veiled her eyes, but it could not subdue her rage. She would not rest--not yet. The darkness whispered, promising blood and revenge. An oath was made and Rin closed her eyes. * The Legion: Frank Morrison was nineteen and had little to show for it. He'd stopped attending school after being kicked out of the basketball team for shoving a referee into the stands. Yet Frank was a man of potential, who could light up a room despite his bleak childhood. At six years old, he'd been taken away from Calgary to start a circuit of foster homes. No matter how many times he'd lashed out, threw tantrums and got into fights, they'd kept moving him to new, unfamiliar houses. His last move had been three years prior when his last foster dad, Clive Andrews, had picked him up from the adoption centre. They'd been on the road for seven hours before reaching a small bungalow in Ormond. It would be the longest time they'd spend together. Clive was too busy trading cheques from Family Services for drinks at the bar. Ormond was a small, stale place; a remote town of six thousand inhabitants where grey winters drag on for most of the year. Frank did everything he could to get into another adoptive family, but he changed his mind when he caught the attention of Julie, a beautiful girl who was convinced that she deserved better than a life in Ormond, and Frank, as an outsider, was her ticket out. Frank attended the parties she threw where everyone was younger than him and easily impressed, which he liked. He met the impulsive Joey, who liked to show off, and the shy, naïve Susie, who was Julie's best friend. They would hang out at an abandoned lodge up Mount Ormond. Their time together was the perfect break from the boring conformity of their small, insignificant everyday lives. Frank saw it as an opportunity to shape their lack of experience into something powerful. He lined up nights of debauchery and rampage, testing their limits. Bullying , vandalism, and theft were essentially their weekend plans. It came to a point where they would do anything he asked. Nothing was off-limits when they put their masks on. One evening, Frank dared Joey to vandalise the store that had recently fired him. They snuck inside easily enough, as the building was supposed to be empty after closing hours. But a cleaner who was still there grabbed Julie as soon as she came near. Hearing her stifled cries, a dark impulse took over Frank. He rushed to her aid, knife in hand, and without hesitating, planted the blade into the cleaner's back. As the group stared at Frank in shock, he ordered them to finish the job. Joey clenched his jaw, grabbed the knife, and stabbed the bleeding man in the ribs. Susie didn't want to do it. Frank shouted at her; they had to finish what they'd started. Julie closed her eyes and slid the knife into the man's chest. She handed the wet blade to Susie: they were all in this together now. Susie stared at Julie in disbelief as Frank grabbed her trembling hands and inserted the knife deep into the man's throat. Frank told them to move fast; they mopped the blood off the floor, stashed the body in the trunk of Joey's car, and drove up Mount Ormond. All four were digging in the muddy snow to dispose of the body when Frank spotted something moving through the woods. He grabbed his knife and broke from the group to check it out. The Fog thickened around Frank, becoming so dense that he soon could no longer see ahead. He retraced his steps and stumbled onto an ominous trail. He followed the eerie path, as if called by the darkness. Julie, Susie, and Joey finished digging, but Frank was nowhere to be seen. Julie spotted his muddy footsteps in the snow and the three of them followed the trail, which took them deeper into the woods. When Julie, Susie, and Joey did not return home that night, their parents thought they'd run away with Frank. Each family came up with a different theory. The mood in the town changed, however, when a body was found by an abandoned lodge up Mount Ormond. The Plague: When she was five years old, Adiris, the youngest of a family of seven, was left on the brick-red burning steps of the Temple of Purgation at the centre of Babylon. To process her shock and sorrow, she held onto the belief that the Gods had a plan for her. Her new life was one of quiet servitude. She would tend to the gardens, prepare ceremonial meals, and polish ceremonial incense burners. At night, she would pray for a sign that would reveal her purpose. When she came of age, she attended the high-ranking priests during the yearly worshipping of the sea-goat, the God of Water and Creation. Swinging a censer down the great hypo-style hall, she cast thick black fumes that reached the cold towering stone pillars before dissipating. Her worries lifted, and the resulting bliss made her feel closer to the Gods than ever. She worked herself to the bone each day that followed, fulfilling her duties while taking on new ones, as she aided the priests during purification rituals. The priests were more and more in need of assistance. Cleansings were being performed daily to answer the demand from outside the high temple walls, where a catastrophic plague had resurfaced. Within months, the priests contracted the disease. It did not take long before they became too weak to perform any kind of ritual. Adiris, having assisted many purification rituals, was the only one able to carry on. The swelling panic had to be contained, even if by a novice. Anxious before her first ceremony, Adiris visited the priests' sanctuary chamber. When she lit the candles, she noticed a narrow opening at the back. Sliding through the gap, she reached a crypt hidden under the sanctuary. The chamber was bare except for the golden statue of a woman, who stood with outstretched hands, her fingers covered in jewels. It was the sign Adiris had been waiting for. The great hall was packed with followers who bowed down as Adiris entered. She strode to the brick altar and grabbed a ceremonial dagger forged in silver, her ruby ringed fingers wrapping around the blade like claws. The sudden display of luxury intrigued the followers, who were struck already by her youth and beauty. As she began reciting the Epic of Creation, a woman at the back swooned and collapsed. Adiris rushed to her and noticed the black blisters covering her feet. Without hesitation, Adiris grabbed her sacred blade and swung it at her own foot, severing a toe. Then she offered the bloody part to the Gods, asking them to protect the woman. A silence fell over the followers, who revered Adiris as their new priestess. Tales of her wealth, beauty, and devotion began to spread across the city as quickly as the disease. Soon, Adiris' followers called her the High Priestess of Babylon. But her faith was tried when she showed the first signs of infection; her cough became a mix of phlegm and blood, her neck erupted in abscesses, and her four-toed foot darkened. Ashamed of her condition, she began wearing a veiled headpiece and carried a censer that masked the rancid smell of sick that clang to her skin. Hoping to be saved, she kept performing the rituals, offering blessed water and food to her followers. But no ritual could save her. In a desperate attempt to appease the Gods, Adiris banished herself from the city. She travelled north with a few followers, venturing through the cold woodlands of Urashtu, until it was no longer possible to walk. Plague Lore4.jpg They camped in a damp cave, where Adiris lay in a pool of vomit. Her foot, which had turned black, was so swollen she could not go any further. Her followers and she realised the truth in that cave: they were all infected with the plague. Kneeling among her retching followers, Adiris made one last prayer. The black fumes of incense rose into the damp air before being wiped off by a cold breeze. Neither the body of Adiris nor those of her followers were ever found. Many told tales of her return, but no one truly knew what fate had befallen the High Priestess of Babylon. The Ghost-face: Danny Johnson, known as Jed Olsen by some, grabbed the newspaper from the kitchen counter: it was a week old, but his face was on the front page, grainy and sunken. It was one of those muggy afternoons in Florida when heat and humidity permeated everything in the kitchen, making him sweat while standing still. He slouched in a damp chair to read. This article had better be good—his work in Roseville had been outstanding. GHOST FACE DISAPPEARS June 18, 1993 At first glance, Jed Olsen was a modest and enthusiastic freelancer with experience in a variety of small newspapers. The staff at the Roseville Gazette appreciated how easy-going and honest he seemed, and so he was treated as a stranger for no more than five minutes into his interview: "Jed quickly spotted the editor-in-chief in the room, gave him a wide smile and a firm handshake, and talked about good old American values. And that was it, he was in." —Ex-Contributor at the Roseville Gazette Olsen never justified his erratic career path, which zigzagged between several small towns from Utah to Pennsylvania. There was no verification of his previous jobs. He had a decent portfolio plus a good attitude, and they needed a contributor right away. THE ROSEVILLE MURDERS Olsen had been working at the newspaper for five months when the Roseville Murders began: victims from young to old, stabbed to death in their homes. From the reports, the victims seemed chosen at random, yet the killer knew his way around in the houses. The multiple stab wounds indicated a personal motive. No traces of DNA were found. The local police were confounded: the murders were carried with fury akin to a crime of passion yet coldly premeditated. The murderer also liked to stalk his targets. Two victims had reported being followed on their way home by a dark figure, a few days prior their death. The killer would follow them from Walleyes, a small bar in Northern Roseville, and snap pictures of them at home, while looking for a way in. He could watch the same victim for weeks, meticulously registering their habits and routines. When he felt the urge to kill, he'd visit the most vulnerable victim on his list, and break inside the house quietly. The whole staff worked on the Roseville Murders story. Olsen was often sent to interview the family of victims and relay official statements from the police. Unknown to everyone at the time, his involvement added to the final body count. THE GHOST FACE Panic swelled in Roseville when Olsen produced footage of a hooded figure breaking into a house at night. The masked face, a white blur in the dark, stared at the camera for a second, before disappearing inside. “The Ghost Face Caught on Tape” was the resulting article, written by Olsen. He seemed proud of his work at the time, enjoying how the whole town feared his ghost stories. Weeks later, Olsen left a note on his work desk and disappeared: "I hope you liked my stories--I enjoyed bringing them to life. Don't worry, I'm not done." –Jed Olsen The Roseville law enforcement still refuses to comment as Jed Olsen remains at large. Danny smiled, ripping out the article from the newspaper. When the investigation had been pointing to him, he’d packed his bags and left Roseville swiftly. He got up, the clammy seat pulling his skin. An oppressive humidity engulfed him as he entered the bedroom. Condensation dribbled on a small misted-up window as bits of cracked wallpaper hung limply. Its floral pattern was covered with gruesome photos and newspaper headlines. Danny pinned the week-old article on top of a picture of lacerated scalps. A faint pang of hunger hit him, and he wondered when he had eaten last. Was it this morning, while washing his knife and clothes? Or was it last night, after following that girl down the street? He couldn't remember clearly. Taking a step back, he admired his work on the wall. His mind drifted, remembering all the articles he’d written, the stories he’d planned, and the scenes he’d brought to life. A shiver ran through him. A chilling breeze transformed the bedroom's humidity into an opaque, freezing Fog. A woman shrieked. Dead leaves crunched under his feet. He smiled in anticipation. The Demogorgon: A blooming mouth full of needle-like teeth for a face, large, curved, razor-sharp claws, and powerful legs to pounce on victims, make The Demogorgon a frightening monster to face in any dimension. It is a nightmare of unrestrained, feral rage as it hunts down its prey and rips it to pieces, devouring every last morsel of flesh and gore, leaving nothing for scavengers. The creature is untouched by any sense of compassion or restraint. Looming over its victim, it shows no doubt or mercy, just the pure instinct of its insatiable blood lust as it delivers the deathblow. A perfect hunter, The Demogorgon is a macabre testament to the horrors lurking in the Upside Down and why it was choice pickings for The Entity. The Oni: Honouring his family name was never enough for Kazan Yamaoka. He wanted to surpass his father's reputation and end what he saw as the thinning of samurai culture with farmers often posing as samurai. His father tried to turn Kazan's attention to more noble pursuits, but Kazan refused to heed his advice, and borrowing his father's Katana, he embarked on a dark pilgrimage to prove his worth and rid Japan of impostors. Ignoring the code that had been taught to him, Kazan killed impostors in the hills and the valleys, on the beaches and in the woodland. The killings were brutal, cruel and morbid. He humiliated farmers and warriors alike, yanking off their topknots and stripping them of their armour. His rage, bloodlust and perverse sense of honour knew no bounds. Monks believed he was possessed by something dark and otherworldly and cursed him while a noble lord began to call him 'Oni-Yamaoka,' the rageful Samurai, an insult both to Kazan and his family. Determined to redeem his family's name, Kazan now butchered anyone who dared call him Oni-Yamaoka. The insult confused him. He had defeated the best and he had purified the samurai class by ridding the land of impostors. How could anyone refer to him as an ogre? Had it been because he had marched onto a battlefield to cut down the fiercest warriors. Had it been because he had taken a Kanabo and dashed hundreds of skulls with it? Or had it been because of his need to secure a 'trophy' from his victims. It didn't matter. Being called an ogre was more than he could bear and an ominous voice in his head urged him to strike down the lord who had desecrated his name. As Kazan made for the lord's town, he suddenly found himself face to face with a samurai standing on a dirt road, blocking his way. Kazan readied his Kanabo. Without a word, the samurai attacked and quickly secured the upper hand. But he hesitated. With a devastating blow, Kazan crushed the samurai's head and cracked his helmet. As Kazan approached the fallen samurai, he saw his father's face and staggered back to his haunches. His father stared at Kazan with mingled shame and regret as he issued his last breath. Kazan closed his eyes and screamed in agony until he could scream no more. When he opened his eyes again... his father was gone. Not only had he killed his father, but he had allowed thieves to steal his body for armour. Bitter, lost and disillusioned, Kazan roamed the land aimlessly with his father's voice rattling in his head, taunting him, reminding him of his failures, sending him into fits of uncontrollable black rage. One day, walking in the woods, Kazan happened upon an Oni statue. He stopped and stood motionless for a long moment. The weathered and overgrown statue seemed to be ridiculing him, accusing him of being the impostor samurai he had so desperately sought to destroy. Kazan shook the laughing voice out of his head and half remembered the lord who had ridiculed him as 'Oni-Yamaoka. With renewed anger, Kazan journeyed to a town high up in the snowy mountains where the lord resided. A dozen samurai met Kazan at the gates of the town. A dozen samurai fell to his Kanabo. His speed and strength were unmatched. His rage was incomprehensible. Covered in blood and gore, Kazan battled through the town and soon found the lord hiding in a villa. He dragged him out of a cabinet, sliced his tendons to immobilise him and watched him beg and squirm like a dog. Without hesitation, he thrust his fist into the lord’s mouth and yanked out the wicked tongue that had desecrated his name. Satisfied, Kazan exited the villa to find himself surrounded by dozens of farmers wielding rusted scythes, sharp pitchforks, and heavy clubs. He survived the first few assaults, but there were too many attackers coming from every direction. Within moments Kazan was on the ground staring at a cold, indifferent, darkening sky as farmers took turns stabbing and torturing the 'Oni' who had butchered their beloved lord. The frenzied mob dragged Kazan into a small stone mill to continue the torture and finally left him to die a slow, agonising death. When they returned, the mill was filled with a strange black fog and Kazan’s body and the Kanabo were nowhere to be found. It was the beginning of a dark legend about a rageful Oni haunting the town. The Deathslinger: Born in the dust-ridden badlands of the American Midwest, Caleb Quinn was son to struggling Irish immigrants. On the edge of the frontier, sickness, famine, and death were common sights, and pioneers contended for whatever scraps they could claim while tycoons feasted. Caleb's father, once an engineer, had few options to ply his trade as businesses posted a common sign: No Irish Need Apply. His antiquated tools laid untouched for years until Caleb uncovered them. Noticing his son's interest in the trade, he gifted him his old wrench. The devices Caleb made under his father's guidance had quaint applications, but when his father was away, they took a grim turn. He hid plans for a mask that would gouge barbed needles into a human's eyes and rip them from their sockets, complete with sketches of it fitted on boys who bullied him. With age, Caleb's engineering abilities became marketable and employers put their discrimination aside. Henry Bayshore, the owner of United West Rail, hired him. Caleb first invented a gun that shot railroad spikes into the ground. Next, he made a steam-powered tunnelling drill. But as Bayshore feigned indifference, the devices began turning up at other companies, the patents stolen from Caleb and sold. A familiar sensation coursed through Caleb's blood, feeding the sharp pain in his heart. Rage overwhelming him, he burst into Bayshore's office and smashed his face into a bloody stew. As he was pulled away, he pushed his specialised gun to his boss' gut and squeezed the trigger. A railroad spike plowed through skin and viscera, nailing Bayshore to his desk. The only thing that saved Caleb from hanging was Bayshore's unlikely survival. For fifteen years, Caleb was confined to Hellshire Penitentiary, the nation's first private prison. In a fortress of illiterate convicts, he found an unlikely friend in the educated prison warden. He designed torture devices for him and in return received extra meals. After a time, the warden offered to commute his sentence. He spoke of something greater than monetary wealth — political capital — and that his connections could have Bayshore framed and rotting behind bars for life. He had only one request: make him rich. Fill the prison. Use ingenuity to bring outlaws in alive. Caleb returned to his workshop, and with a few modifications emerged with something new — the speargun. The first trial occurred when a thief robbed a Chinese laundry. Seizing on the opportunity, Caleb unleashed his prototype. Metal joints screeched as the spike shot forward, gouging into the target's abdomen. But as the spear tugged, it caught the thief's intestines, and, with an ungodly sound, yanked them onto the dusty road. After several iterations, the disembowelments dwindled, but Caleb had already earned his new nickname: The Deathslinger. Looking to protect his asset, the prison warden pulled strings and released Irish inmates to form Caleb's posse. The Hellshire Gang was born. For six years, they roamed the country collecting wanted outlaws for the prison, fulfilling their end of the bargain. After a bloody battle at Glenvale, Caleb caught notice of a newspaper headline: Henry Bayshore Purchases Hellshire Penitentiary. In the picture, a disfigured Bayshore proudly shook the warden's hand. Caleb's heart pounded with rage, blood swelling as if it would burst from his veins. He'd been sold out, a pawn in a rich man's game. The Hellshire Gang pledged their loyalty to Caleb and called for the warden's head. In a thundering gallop, they smashed through the prison entrance, shrieking like bloodthirsty marauders. A guard raised his pistol, but hesitated. A spear punctured his chest. Caleb grabbed the man's head and slammed it against a prison cell until it spilled through the bars. Reaching the warden's office, Caleb kicked the door and was met with a fortunate sight — it wasn't only the prison warden who cowered in a corner, but Henry Bayshore. Overpowered with rage, Caleb rushed to Bayshore, beating, bludgeoning, tearing at his flesh. The man's blood dripped from his face, crimson pooling at his feet. The Hellshire Gang swarmed the warden, snapping bones with each kick. With the two men broken and begging for death, the posse dragged them to the commons, where they were left to the growing crowd of prisoners. Soaked in blood and sweat, Caleb hobbled to his old cell, hardly paying notice to Bayshore's screams. He sat on the bed's edge as drops of blood ran from his fingertips. A thick, unnatural fog streamed through the barred window. He pulled out his old wrench, cracked and rusted, and ran a thumb along the metal, regarding it with faded eyes. He couldn't remember when it came into his possession. He didn't care to remember. At his feet, he saw a dusty path, and, at its end, silhouettes of all who had done him wrong: the boys who bullied him, the executives who took advantage of him, and, again... Henry Bayshore. Emerging from a fog were the tools to dispose of them — unforgiving steel hooks, brilliant and beautiful in their simplicity. Pain tore through his leg as he stood, but he endured, pushing onwards, walking the dusty path, leaving a trail of blood flowing behind him. Next Post the Survivors:
Death is not an escape Edited by Dead By Dillight [May 14, 2020 11:39:27 GMT -6] Reply Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top

Dead By Dillight Global Moderator The Trapper I have made 22,646 posts Right now I'm Offline I joined September 2015 I've received 1 like	Dead By Daylight (The Series) May 14, 2020 12:04:42 GMT -6 Post by Dead By Dillight on May 14, 2020 12:04:42 GMT -6 The Survivors: Dwight Fairfield: Dwight was geeky and scrawny through high school. He always wanted to be one of the cool kids, but somehow never had the charisma. He tried out for the football team but was cut, the basketball team didn't even take a look, and his grades were distinctly below average. One weekend, on a team-building exercise from his dead-end job, Dwight's boss led them deep into the woods before breaking out his family recipe moonshine. Dwight remembered taking the first sip before waking up late the next morning all alone. During the night, the others had abandoned him. Once again, the laughing stock of the community Dwight tried to hike his way out of the woods. That was the last anyone ever heard of Dwight Fairfield. Dwight isn't the typical guy you think of when someone says "Survivor". He lacks that certain pizzazz and without his glasses, he's more or less blind. But as the sun sets and the woods come alive, Dwight clasps to his rat race life, making sure that he'll live to see another day even though something unimaginable is after him. Dwight won't stop. He'll survive no matter what. As others spent hours being seen in high school. He spent hours becoming invisible and avoiding danger. And it doesn't matter if it's dangers in the hallway or dangers in the woods. Survival is key. As other employees panic when terror infects them, Dwight makes use of his disturbing teen experience. The tables have now turned and now others need to follow to Dwight's firm directions if they are to survive as he knows how to disappear. Meg Thomas: Perhaps it was her mother that had instilled the fierce streak in her or maybe it was her father that left them when she was a baby. Meg excelled at schoolwork but she was off the rails. Fortunately, an athletics coach encouraged her to channel her misspent energy on the track. She motivated herself into becoming a high school star and earned a scholarship to college. When her mother fell ill, Meg decided to give up her chance at college to care for the woman who had raised her. One summer’s day, on a long run deep in the woods, Meg vanished. Search as they did, they never found her body. Meg is one of those who is just simply filled with energy. Unfocused and uncontrollable energy that had to come out. As a kid it came through rowdiness and rebellion. Someone had to focus Meg before something went terribly wrong. Fortunately, someone did. She started to run. Maybe from something undefined that fueled her energy. So to run equaled life. But to run now might attract those beings that crave the pain of others. But as she runs from something, instead of towards it, she understands something. She understands that speed is not of the essence. It’s reaching that finish line. Rather last but still breathing. She deludes whatever is out there as she glides through obstacles and fear, thus managing to stay alive. Claudette Morel: From the day that her parents gave Claudette her first science kit, she loved experiments. Her single-minded pursuit lead to an early scholarship at a great college. It was a huge decision to leave Montreal, but the chance was too good to pass up. Her introverted nature means that chat rooms and forums are now her best source of social interaction. Her new favourite activity is to answer botany questions for others under her new moniker of Science Girl. One evening, during a long bus ride back from the city, Claudette took a stroll that would change her life. It only took a minute for her to get completely disoriented in the thick woods. She never found her way back. Her forum only started to wonder where she was a week after she stopped posting. Claudette is not the outgoing type. Her brilliance provided her with a social handicap and she has fled the real world for chat rooms and forums. Botany and studies fill her life and even though she yearns for something else - it won’t come via a modem. Being thrown into a real-life situation can feel awkward and forced. But as she is used to shutting out the world, she suddenly finds hope in this inexplicable darkness that is slowly devouring her. A plant. A tree. A bush. Simple greenery that might save a life. She hides within and amongst them. Her knowledge and skills flourish as gruesomeness roams free around her. Jake Park: Growing up the son of a wealthy CEO was always going to put pressure on Jake Park. When his brother graduated with honours from Yale, the pressure on Jake intensified. Jake just wasn't the academic type, but his father never really understood his refusal to embrace the expensive education he lavished upon him. Eventually, Jake rebelled by dropping out of school entirely. Now, Jake lives off the grid on the edge of the woods. It's been years since he spoke to his father but his mother checks in once in a while. It was she, who eventually called the police. The cops said he got lost in the woods and a search party looked for days, but gave up as bad weather rolled in. Despite passionate pleas from his mother, they never resumed the search and Jake went down in history as another casualty of the woods. Jake's destiny was set even inside his mother's womb. Heir to wealth, noble manners and caretaker of the family reputation and legacy. During torture it's not pain that breaks a man, it's immense pressure. And Jake couldn't handle any more pressure. Instead he sought the opposite of fine dining and maids. He left the grid and ended up with a forest as closest neighbour. A self made outsider, Jake understands nature. He's not there to tame something - rather him becoming feral. Remove the brutal Killers that seek out blood to drain and Jake would feel just at home. No Wi-Fi. No Fortune-500 companies. No father nor mother. Years away from modern life has given Jake a new feel for problems. Pain is just an obstacle that hinders you from getting fed. No matter what is hunting you, you need to stay one step ahead. Struggle, blend in, adapt. Just don’t make it easy for others to erase you from the Earth's surface. Nea Karlsson: Nea is of Swedish descent, a tagger and a bit of a troublemaker. She started rebelling when she was 16, she dyed her hair black and cut it in a way she liked it. In her early teens, her parents thought she lacked that thing that makes everyone else "normal". She may have gone too far when her friends, not thinking well, dared her to tag the old asylum. She was never seen again, and now tries her best to survive the Entity's dangers. Nea grew up in the small town of Hjo in Sweden. She had a happy childhood even though her mom and dad worked hard. As the opportunity to move to the US became a reality she started acting out. Her parents didn’t really pick up on this as a reaction to their move. Nea was forced to leave her friends and life behind. Nea shied away from what her parents considered “normal”. Instead she took refuge in skate parks, and her tag “Mashtyx” was seen more or less all over her new hometown, and Nea made a sport out of tagging government buildings. Finally Nea’s parents became used to Nea disappearing for a few days on end. As she’s nimble and almost catlike, she’s able to evade deadly dangers. Years on skateboards has proven worthy training. And keeping her head down, avoiding the fuzz can be applied to all dangers. The only question is whether she has some interest in not giving up. Laurie Strode: You never know what really matters in life until you've realised it might end soon. Laurie is one of those who just wants a quiet life in the suburbs, hanging out with friends, family and maybe go on a date or two. Laurie is a typical teenager. You could pass her on the street and not think twice. She does her homework and is liked by her friends, teachers and family. A simple night of babysitting turns into something that will forever change the course of her young life. A knife swooshing through the air. Screams from afar. Noises that plays tricks with her mind. But not Laurie, she’s made of something stronger. Something that won't give up. Ace Visconti: Ace Visconti is one charming guy. With his sharp Italian looks, grey-streaked hair and silver tongue, he could pass for an ageing 50's movies star. His heart has always belonged to the cards. From his roots as a poor boy in Argentina, he gambled, scammed, seduced and smooth-talked his way to a life of luxury as a high roller in the land of opportunity. Despite money always having a way of slipping through his fingers, Ace always figured he could win more. He never fulfilled that ambition; eventually he racked up too many debts with the wrong kind of people. And when they finally came to collect, Ace was nowhere to be found. No one knew who tipped him off or where he fled to, but anyone who knew Ace Visconti can agree on one thing. He will survive: against all odds. William "Bill" Overbeck: It took two tours in Vietnam, a handful of medals, a knee full of shrapnel, and an honourable discharge to get William "Bill" Overbeck to stop fighting and try to live a peaceful life. He hated it. After decades spent drifting aimlessly through dead end jobs, Bill went in for a routine surgery and woke up to find the world he knew was gone. A plague was turning normal people into mindless killing machines. Naturally, the first thing he did was fight his way home and put on his uniform. Making his way through rural ghost towns and pitch-black forests, he found other Survivors, and together they fled from the infected hordes. In the end, Bill sacrificed himself to ensure their safety. His body was never found. Bill was left for dead. No one knows that he still has the only thing he ever wanted: an enemy to fight. Feng Min: Feng Min was a young girl when she first picked up computer games, and she was instantly hooked. The brand new worlds enchanted her with colours, sounds and explosions – a chance to be somewhere else, or someone else. Her parents saw no wrong with a few minutes in front of the screen, but as minutes turned into hours and sometimes days, they finally decided to pull the plug and force Feng Min to put more efforts into her studies. She felt smothered by her parents who refused to see the potential of a future in games, so she left home and spent her time in internet cafes and LAN parties where the old rules didn't apply. She spent hours playing, streaming, competing to rise to the top. Her parents became what she called "holiday parents" as she never saw them outside the holidays, and she became the black sheep of a one-child-family. In the gaming world, however, she finally found respect. Nicknamed the "Shining Lion," she was invited to join a prestigious e-sports team and to live in their dorms, where she found a sanctuary free of the misconceptions and prejudice she had felt from her parents and the non-gaming world. Feng Min pushed her limits to prove she was the best. Sleep was less important to her than training. At the top of her game, she filled stadiums with fans who adored her. But it couldn't last forever; The pressure to be the best grew stronger and stronger. She pushed herself too far, slept too little, and her performance began to slip. She started to lose. At night, she would stay up, tormented by the thought of disappointing her parents… and her fans. She spiralled out of control and fell into a pattern of self-destruction. She started wandering the streets and visiting bars, where no one knew of e-sports, waking up in places she didn't remember. One day she woke up somewhere completely different… in a never-ending nightmare. Feng Min did not despair – as she learned more about the challenge she was up against, she realised this was what she had been training for her entire life. Now, she was going to win. David King: The single child of a wealthy family, David King seemed destined for greatness. While growing up in Manchester, he demonstrated serious potential in both sports and academics, and with his family connections, all doors were open to him. He could have succeeded at anything, if it weren't for his combative nature. David lived for the adrenaline rush of a good fight and would go out of his way to get into one. His robustness and athletic abilities led him to rugby, where he could cut loose and really cause a ruckus. King excelled and gained a reputation as a promising, if somewhat reckless, rookie. His meteoric rise came to an abrupt end when he lost his temper and assaulted a referee, earning himself a lifetime ban from the league and cutting short what most people assumed was going to be a long, successful career. King was unconcerned; money was no issue, so he took it as an early retirement and focused on other fun things to do. Free from the constraints of a career and enabled by the wealth of his family, David King spent most of his time at the pub, drinking, watching games, and getting into fights. Some might say he was wasting his life away. Not many people knew that he was an occasional "debt collector" or that he fought in clandestine bare-knuckle fight clubs. When David King stopped showing up at the pub, the few friends he still had were not surprised. They figured he had finally picked a fight with someone stronger than he was. In a way, they were right. Quentin Smith: When he heard that Nancy's mother had disappeared, Quentin Smith knew instantly that their success had been short-lived. Although their plan had seemed to work flawlessly, Freddy Krueger had beaten death yet again. But Quentin wasn't about to give up. It may take many attempts, but he vowed that somehow they would find a way to beat Freddy, once and for all. If he didn't, it would only be a matter of time before Freddy would win and Nancy was lost. Someone like Quentin never attracted attention in a library, no matter how strange the texts he requested. He devoured all the information he could find, on shared dream worlds, lucid dreaming, and the methods to control the dream space. Forcing himself to stay awake, via a steady diet of pills and energy drinks, he searched through dusty volumes, finding myths about the demons that live in dreams, trapping their victims in limbo and feeding off their terror. He worked quickly as he knew that Freddy would soon be coming for him. It wasn't long before that moment arrived and Freddy began appearing in his dreams. He stayed at the periphery at first, taunting Quentin, seemingly hoping to tire him out. Using all that he had learned, Quentin was able to see flaws in the dream; cracks where escape routes could be formed. He tested this skill carefully, not wanting to show his hand, hoping that it would give him some kind of advantage that he could use to defeat Freddy. Then, one night, he found himself in the familiar environment of Badham Preschool. Freddy had tired of the taunting and had finally decided to gut him. Quentin ran through the school, his quick eyes scanning for something useful in the maze of rooms. He found a can of paint thinner and quickly formulated a plan. Once the trap was set, he waited, acting as the lure to draw Freddy into the right position. And there he was, claws scraping on metal as he closed in for the kill. Quentin allowed himself time to enjoy the surprise on Freddy’s face as the corridor ignited and then he was away, running through the building, heading for the exit that he knew existed. If he harried Freddy, weakening him and then escaping the dream, surely that would defeat him over time? Before his eyes, the cracks in the dream closed and his escape route was blocked. He was in Freddy’s secret room again, and there was nowhere to run. As Freddy closed in, a broad grin spreading across his ruined face, Quentin was consumed with a need to see this man finally obliterated. He wished it had been him, not his father, who threw the gas can that ended Krueger’s life, that it had been him who cut Freddy’s throat. Perhaps that desire would be enough? This was a realm of the mind after all. He let it consume him, concentrating all his thoughts on wishing Freddy gone. His vision was obscured with roiling tendrils of fog and, when it cleared, he was somewhere else. In another dream? If so, it wasn't his; it felt cold and unfamiliar. A flickering drew his attention and he realised he was by a campfire, and he wasn't alone. Other people were trapped here too, and they needed his help. Detective David Tapp: Detective David Tapp was one of the good guys. His determination to see Killers brought to justice and their victims avenged had led him through a long and respected career. When he first saw the details of the Jigsaw case, it seemed like many others. More grisly and macabre, sure, but just another lunatic with a penchant for the over-dramatic, who would soon be behind bars. A stroke of insight brought Tapp, and his partner Detective Stephen Sing, to an abandoned mannequin factory, where they discovered Jigsaw’s lair. They apprehended the man but he managed to escape before being unmasked, slashing Tapp's throat as he did so. Leaving his partner, Sing went in pursuit but fell victim to a booby trap. Tapp had failed to go by the book on this one occasion, entering the lair without a warrant, and it had resulted in a Detective's death. He was discharged from the force and left with a ruined throat and crippling guilt. He channelled that guilt into an obsession: he would find the killer, stop the murders, vindicate himself, and avenge his friend and colleague. Following the evidence trail brought him to Dr Lawrence Gordon and he staked out the doctor’s apartment, sure that he would find some evidence of guilt. Then he saw a stranger at Gordon's window and heard gunshots. Tapp confronted him and the man fled, with the pursuit leading to an industrial building. Tapp's age caught up with him, a fight that he would easily have won in his younger days ended with Tapp taking a bullet to the chest. Slumping to the floor, he saw only failure. He had failed his partner and the other victims. Whoever the killer was, Tapp had been unable to stop him. More would die and it would be his fault. He let the rage and guilt consume him and closed his eyes for the final time. Beneath him, the concrete floor softened. He dug his fingers into the ground, feeling dirt and leaves. Where his chest had been wet with blood, the shirt was now dry and the pain had gone. His eyes opened onto a darkened sky and the jagged, searching fingers of branches. Screams echoed through the forest and a new determination filled him. His mind was clear for the first time in months. Victims needed to be avenged, killers thwarted. He didn’t know what this place was, but he was still a cop, and he always would be. He had a job to do. Kate Denson: One of Kate Denson's earliest memories was standing in front of her family, singing a song that she'd learned that morning at school, and watching smiles spread across their faces. Seeing how something as simple as a song could make people so happy was the moment when she knew what she wanted to do with her life. She practised, learned the guitar as soon as she was big enough to reach over it, and was performing in front of crowds by the time she was eight years old. Her mother did everything she could to fulfil Kate's dreams, taking her all over their home state of Pennsylvania, then across the South, and even to Nashville itself. Kate won folk music competitions and talent shows whenever she participated, but for her to win others had to lose, and that wasn't in her nature. She only wanted an outlet, a way to touch people's lives. To make them forget the worries of the world and just enjoy themselves, if only for a while. With age came a new-found freedom. She bought a battered old Chevy truck and was able to travel around by herself, meeting fans and making new friends wherever she stopped. Hers wasn't a story of rock excess though: just the road, her guitar and maybe a good bourbon to end the day. From sun-baked festivals to dark and cosy bars, people flocked to her voice and her self-penned songs of friendship, family, love and home. These sentiments weren't just lip-service: she made sure to return home as often as she could, to help out in her community and entertain the local children with her tales of the wider world. She saw it as a way of giving back, of supporting others in the same way she had been. It was home where she found most of her inspiration as well. She had always loved to take long walks in the woods around her town, exploring off the beaten track, finding a quiet spot to play and write her songs. She had a favourite location she returned to time and time again, a natural hollow, encircled by trees, that looked almost as if it had been blasted out of the rocks thousands of years ago. Here she felt a strong connection to nature, and to the Earth itself. She let her mind be enveloped by the forest and it rewarded her with constant inspiration. She picked up her guitar and played, her fingers dancing across the fretboard. The music that she made this time was unlike her usual uplifting tunes, being much more melancholy, even dark. Still, something compelled her to continue, to finish the song. Around her, the leaves vibrated in unison with the guitar strings and the boughs of the trees lengthened, coalescing into a living form. Spider-like legs descended from the canopy above, grasping for her. Regaining her senses, she grabbed a rock and tried to beat them back, but their skin was hard as iron and the rock simply bounced off and skittered away. The legs coiled like tendrils around her limbs and lifted her towards the darkness overhead. Fog rolled across the clearing, obscuring both Kate and the creature of nightmares that drew her up towards itself. When the fog cleared, there was no sign of any struggle, or of life. Just an acoustic guitar, the scratch plate engraved with flowers; as well as the initials KD, inlaid in mother of pearl. Adam Francis: Adam was born in Rollington Town in Kingston, Jamaica. His father died in a car accident when he was two, and his uncle took him in. His uncle was a strict, but fair man, who raised him to value education. At Kingston College, Adam discovered his father's published works, which triggered his passion for literature. His campus, however, was known for its focus on athletics. As a shy teenager with his nose stuck in books, he was the perfect prey for bullies. What he lacked in sports, he made up in grit. He learned to defend himself in the thick of it. It's during his years in college that he started to imagine his life elsewhere. While his close friends orbited the music industry, he followed a surer path. His grades granted him admission to higher education, and there was a demand for teachers abroad. After graduating university, he taught extra classes to afford applying fees overseas. He had a steady diet of long commutes, grading piles, nightly lesson plans, and early classes. After a year, he managed to apply for a position abroad. His first plane ride took him to Southern Japan for a new start. His life in Kagoshima was hectic. There was little time to do everything he took for granted back home. His Japanese was elementary at best, which slowed him down. Buying groceries took hours, long commutes had to be planned, and lesson plans relied on Japanese notions, which he had to learn. But after a few months, he found his rhythm. He reflected on it one morning while riding the train to work. He no longer had to study the Kanji characters filling the map. He knew his way. His language skills had improved, he felt connected to his students, and he'd treat himself to luxurious restaurants on weekends. He even had his first vacation planned. Within seconds, Adam's world was brought down to a slow motion. Rails hissed, bags came pouring down, and the floor trembled before the hit: Adam crashed forward as the train flipped upside down. He landed on a window pane as an unhinged door came flying at a passenger. He rolled over so that the door would hit him instead of the girl. He shut his eyes as he braced for impact, but nothing happened. He squinted one eye open and he saw nothing but darkness. A heavy Fog had taken over the train. Ice seemed to flow through his body, reaching his lips first, then the tip of his fingers before spreading to his legs. Lulled by the warm hum of the dark whisper, he closed his eyes, drifting. No one truly knows what happened to Adam Francis. The school teachers imagined the worst when they watched the train derailment on the news and saw he was missing. Their fears seemed to be confirmed when Adam's bag was recovered from the crash site, but his body was never found. To this day, his uncle believes that Adam took off after the train crash, alive still, somewhere out there. Jeffrey "Jeff" Johansen: Jeff Johansen was born and raised in Ormond, Alberta. He grew up as a quiet, only child with an aversion for large crowds. During High School, his anxious nature was mislabelled as shyness, which he covered up with a tough, stoic persona that intimidated bullies and teachers alike. At home, he discovered an interest for heavy metal and started a vinyl collection. The evocative symbolism on the covers inspired him to make some art of his own, which helped him cope with his parents' constant fighting. To escape his parent's increasingly recurrent blow-ups, Jeff started working at a video store. Few customers passed by, so he had a lot of free time to draw. A late-night regular noticed his sketches and asked him to do some artwork for his gang at the abandoned lodge up Mount Ormond. Jeff accepted the challenge and painted a large mural depicting "The Legion" in runny, bloody letters. He was given a fifty-dollar bill and a 12-pack for his hard work. It was his first paid commission, a milestone to be proud of. After his parents' divorce, Jeff was forced to move with his mother to Winkler, Manitoba, which was miles away from his home town—and his dad. In Winkler, Jeff was more isolated than ever, expect for art and music. His solace came shortly after graduating High School when he started working at a local bar with live music performances. He found a roadie gig shortly after, leaving Winkler behind. A few years later, Jeff got injured after getting involved in a fight during a concert. He was told he could lose part of his eyesight, so his doctor asked him to stay in town in order to monitor him. It was a difficult time during which Jeff re-assessed his life choices. He went back to school—art school. His eyesight slowly returned, but he had to be careful. He took a few courses, experimenting with a wide range of mediums, ultimately choosing oil painting and digital art, the latter of which offered paid intern-ships. He took up a desk job and found his calling in designing labels for microbreweries. He led a quiet, simple life: he brewed beer, took-in a rescue dog, designed tattoos, and freelanced album covers for bands he liked. All until one morning, when he got a phone call from Ormond saying that his father had passed, leaving a few things to sort out. Jeff drove all the way back to Ormond. He felt a pang of nostalgia when he reached his late father's house. Inside, there was an old guitar case sitting in against the wall. It held a black, vintage model with a sticky note that said, "for my boy." He stayed in town longer than he planned to, reminiscing about his childhood. Driving by his former High School, he remembered the mural he painted up Mount Ormond. He bought a 12-pack and headed to the lodge. After weeks of not hearing back from Jeff, his colleagues assumed that grief had gotten the better of him. His neighbour got tired of sitting his dog, which became more and more agitated as days went by. The dog became a stray again, erring while seeking the familiar trail of Jeff's malty scent. Jane Romero: Jane Romero was the daughter of famous actress, Loretta Lawrence, of whom she had no memory. Her parents had separated when she was still a baby, mainly since her mother was often away filming. Jane was raised by her father, a struggling visual artist. She grew up torn between resenting her mother's absence from her life and admiring her presence on screen. As a teenager, Jane secretly wished to emulate her mother's talent. She would direct and perform in plays, audition for TV commercials and help her father at his studio. During her senior year, she entered a national oratory contest and won first prize. Her performance attracted the attention of a radio station that contacted her for an interview. During the live show, her natural charm and repartee impressed the staff, who offered her a part-time job at the station. After graduating college in Communication, she quit her job at the station to work for a trendy variety show. But her frank delivery and ad-libs were not appreciated by the show's executives, who fired her after five months. Desperate for another opportunity, Jane pitched a show at the radio station she used to work at, only to be turned down, her proposal being too risky. Four months later, she received a phone call from a producer who had seen reruns of the show. He was looking for a co-host to spark up the failing show Quick Talk. Live television meant long hours, a low salary, and no stability, but it also offered a platform to broadcast her views. She disputed the crude inflammatory tone of Quick Talk and pushed for a relate-able coverage of personal issues. Her honest delivery resonated with her audience and within weeks, the show's viewer-ship was steadily growing. After two years, she launched a full-hour segment called The Jane Romero Show, which was broadcast nationally and covered tabooed topics, including her personal struggle with abandonment. Her show broke records and her initials J. R. became synonymous with products ranging from beauty creams to fashion accessories. But Jane needed more; she wanted others to follow her in her footsteps. She published a memoir that covered her childhood with an absent mother. Her book was an instant best seller, but was reviewed harshly. Critics called it "a serving of sad anecdotes seasoned with bland, generic self-help tips." Jane took this criticism to heart, since despite her success, a voice in the back of her mind was starting to doubt her achievements. Her success also generated an increasingly demanding schedule and a growing pressure to entertain constantly. During a particularly tense week, she canned an episode and instead launched a two-hour-long special on divorce. Her stress peaked when she learnt that her mother had agreed to star in her show. Jane put on a brave face and began the show. Most of it went without a hitch, but her mother walked on set, smiling warmly at the audience, Jane's stomach lurched unpleasantly. She was consumed by a violent envy that had been festering. Yet she carried on with a strained smile, until Loretta interrupted her, saying that they were not actually related. The interview went haywire after that. After the show, Jane was driving to her father's house in New Jersey. She needed to talk things over with him; she had not been feeling like herself lately. She turned on a free-way along the coast to avoid major congestion and popped some painkillers to numb the throbbing pain in her temples, which had been nagging her all day. Then she started to relax and turned on the radio; classical music was playing. The drive was slow. Black ice covered the highway, which was packed with cars on their way back home. Night fell. A darkness began to blur the corners of her vision and turned the headlights into swirls of red. Jane blinked to sharpen their outlines, but each time she closed her eyes, her eyelids became heavier and heavier, until they remained shut for a moment too long. The following morning, authorities were fishing out Jane's car from the water. Despite leading a meticulous search for weeks, they were unable to retrieve her body. The airing and production of The Jane Romero Show was suspended until after her funeral, which both her father and mother attended. As the public grieved for Jane, there was a surge of orders for J. R. products and all her episodes were re-released a month later, with an opening credit that wished her eternal peace. Ashley "Ash" Joanna Williams: During a weekend at a cabin with friends, Ash Williams uncovered the Necronomicon Ex-Mortis (The Book of the Dead) and awoke something dark in the woods. Evil possessed his friends, whom he was forced to kill, and his right hand, which he sawed off. For the next thirty years, Ash ran from his past, working at a Value Stop department store and seducing women in dive bars. But he screwed up one night while being high, when he read from the Necronomicon to impress a woman. Evil found him once more, wrecking the life of those around him. But his co-workers, Pablo who was raised by a shaman and Kelly who was orphaned by the Deadites, helped him put up a fight. While battling Evil, Ash was reunited with his long-lost daughter Brandy, who encouraged him to embrace his role as saviour of humanity. After a terrible fight with a fully formed demon, Ash, drawing his last breath, was taken by the Knights of Sumeria and transported into the future. Ash wakened to a voice, his head throbbing. Since defeating a gang of Deadites a weak ago, he had been in a perpetual state of hangover. He heard the voice once more; a woman singing, sensual and inviting. Stepping into the corridor in his boxers, he strode towards the voice, which lead to the public locker room. As Ash pushed open the door, the singing stopped. There was a rustling of curtains. He called out, entering the change room. His voice reverberated on the mouldy tile walls. He pressed on, reaching a shower that was still dripping wet. Cold, humid fingers ran down his bare back. He turned around. A woman stood naked, her skin glistening in the morning light that streamed in from high windows. Ash recognised her instantly: Linda Emery, one of his former high school flings. They had gotten back together years later, while saving their home town from Evil. He had ended their relationship soon afterwards, preferring to indulge freely in his new-found popularity. Linda winked at Ash, who closed the distance between them. He caressed her cheek wistfully: What was she doing here? Did she know anything about the whereabouts of her daughter? And Pablo and Kelly? A sharp blade dug into his hand, making him jump back. Linda slid a finger across the edge of her blade, collecting Ash's blood on her fingertip. She smiled, and her skin shrivelled, her hair faded, her shoulders stopped, and her curves sagged, ageing decades older in a matter of seconds. She attacked Ash, who poorly managed to block, being half-naked. Every blow she delivered earned him a new wound. She slashed his bad knee and he fell to the floor. As she jumped on top of him, Ash shrieked in disgust, knocking the knife out of her grasp. Her varicose hands wrapped around his neck, strangling him. Gasping, he outstretched his arm, hand landing on a soap dispenser. He spurted out some liquid on his fingers and poked her in the eyes. The elderly woman winced, weakening her hold, and Ash elbowed her in the face, knocking her back. He rolled over and grabbed the knife on the floor. Just as he was about to plant it in her chest, he stopped. There was something else he wanted more. He pressed the blade against her throat. Let's make a deal, demon. In exchange for not killing you, you portal me back to my friends. The demon agreed. She began reciting the incantation, instructing Ash to repeat after her, which he failed to manage. When nothing happened, Ash threatened the demon, who argued back, blaming his poor pronunciation. Their combined exchange of Sumerian words triggered a hiss from the shower behind them. The wet tiled floor darkened, and the pipes burst. A whirlpool of dirty water, shower curtains, and used toilet paper swallowed the demon, while Ash held onto a locker door, which slowly slipped from his fingers. FFFUUUC- Ash landed flat on his chest in the Realm of The Entity, sputtering grass. He got up, brushing off the dry clothes he suddenly had on. Then he looked around and his grin fell. It was the kind of place that made two things obvious: one, there wasn't any bar for miles, and two, he was going to need his shotgun and chainsaw, both of which he lacked. As he started to walk towards a glinting light ahead, a scream rippled through the trees. Groovy. Nancy Wheeler: Studious and rebellious, Nancy Wheeler is a stubborn investigator with an instinct for a good story. When her closest friend, Barb went missing, she did everything she could to unravel the truth and secure justice. A brilliant journalist, she chases stories and follows leads despite the inequality and chauvinism she encounters at the workplace. Pursuing a lead one evening, she fearlessly approaches the Hawkins National Laboratory before suddenly losing consciousness. A moment later she awakens in a strange misty realm with the sound of a familiar roar echoing through the air. Steve Harrington: Popular and arrogant, yet compassionate, Steve Harrington is an unlikely mentor and leader. He often acts as a surrogate big brother to a younger boy named Dustin. He even helped him find his slimy inter-dimensional pet Demogorgon, D'Artagnan. His reputation as a protector grew and he soon became a sort of "babysitter" for a group of kids in Hawkins with a knack for messing around with strange and dangerous things. His courage is unmatched so that he was even able to fend off a Demogorgon when it threatened his friends. One evening he received a call for assistance from his friend Nancy Wheeler. He drove all the way to the Hawkins National Laboratory to see if she was okay. He searched the area but only found her notebook. Before he realised what was happening the ground opened up and a swirl of black mist filled his eyes. When he awakened he was in a strange place that seemed familiar but unfamiliar at the same time. Yui Kimura: Despite her traditional upbringing, Yui Kimura raced scooters in her hometown of Hida where she earned the reputation of being able to do the impossible with very little. Her father did his best to steer her away from what he believed to be masculine pursuits, but her grandmother secretly shared her grandfather's engineer manuals and notes on car and motorcycle engines. Yui read her grandfather's manuals and learned fast. She was able to not only maintain her scooter, but she modified the engine so that she could compete with older boys on motor crosses. With her grandfathers 'good luck hachimaki' wrapped around her arm, she raced local boys who, unable to keep up with her, worked together to orchestrate her defeat. No luck for them. Yui outmanoeuvred them at every turn and became a sensation to all her friends. When it came time to apply for school, Yui gathered her courage and confessed her ambition to race motorcycles to her father. An altercation ensued and when Yui refused to apply for a proper education, her father felt a great shame and told her she was no longer welcome in their home. With a heavy heart, Yui left for Nagoya with the blessings and savings of her grandmother. Nagoya was not what Yui expected. She could only find low grade clerical work or minor jobs as a hostess. With the last of the money her grandmother gave her, she purchased a racing bike and entered illegal street races where she won more money than she had ever seen. Rumours of her courage and quick reflexes spread like wildfire. Soon she had an unofficial retinue of women motorcyclists wearing Yui's signature pink. Along with a gang following her, Yui realised she had a stalker following her in the shadows. When Yui realised her lucky handkerchief had been stolen from her apartment, she took her concerns to the police who laughed and dismissed her, saying her stalker was probably a nice guy and that she would probably marry him in the near future. One evening Yui returned home to find the stalker in her apartment going through her things. He hadn't seen her, and she wasn't sure what she should do. But the sight of him going through her clothes was too much to bear. She yelled for him to leave. The stalker turned to her with a knife. He lunged at her. She evaded his attack, and he hit the wall and dropped his knife. Without hesitation, Yui tackled him. They rolled over the ground exchanging desperate blows. Yui took more blows than she had ever experienced racing scooters in Shirakawa. With a surge of adrenaline, she managed to overpower her stalker, snatching the knife from the floor and holding the razor-sharp blade to his neck. When the police reached her apartment, they took him away and rushed Yui to the hospital for trauma. X-rays revealed she had broken her arm and foot in several places. It wasn’t long before her gang showed up one by one and together they helped her pay her medical bills. Rehabilitation was difficult but Yui never gave up and with the support of her gang she was ready for the races. Yui's first race after the attack her gang presented her with a new pink hachimaki with their signatures and good luck messages written all over it. Yui vowed she would help other women with her winnings and influence. True to her word, her gang became known as the Sakura 7 Gang and they wore pink hachimakis as a symbol of unity and support for women needing help from stalkers and abusers. The Sakura 7 grew beyond the 7 members and Yui's signature pink became synonymous with women’s empowerment. At street races women would line up in droves to support her. After winning seven straight races in a row, she attracted the attention of a sponsor. She not only earned a spot at the All-Japan Moto Championship but was the youngest woman to race and win in the prestigious event. Her sponsorship soon tripled. So, too, did her gang. But everything came to a staggering halt at the illegal TK3 (Tokyo Kick 3000) street races. Yui was leading the race until she entered an unnatural fog that seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Baffled and confused, she stopped her bike and dismounted. It wasn’t long before she realised she wasn’t in Tokyo anymore. Zarina Kassir: Growing up in a Lebanese household in Brooklyn, Zarina struggled with two unique cultural identities. She felt that this cultural difference painted a target on her back. To avoid ridicule and bullies, she observed what popular kids liked and learnt to project the image they preferred. At school, she would go by the name "Karina", dye her hair lighter, and trash her "foreign" lunches. At home, the news channel was always on. Urgent reports of injustice captivated Zarina, inspiring her to produce her own stories. When she was a teenager, she embraced her real name and roots, and borrowed her father's digital camera to interview members of her community in Bay Ridge. By posting her content online, she slowly built a loyal following. Each week, she picked a new issue and challenged people to speak their mind on camera. When she heard a rumour that a fast-food restaurant owner was exploiting workers, she decided to go undercover and produce a hard-hitting film. She modified her look, faked an accent, and secured a waitress position at the restaurant. After three weeks of unpaid work, she was fired for demanding her paycheck. To retaliate, she posted clips of the restaurant owner's abusive behaviour and within hours, the news had picked up her story, but somehow spun it to create sympathy for the restaurant. Embittered by the experience, Zarina, committed to become an independent producer and filmmaker. Her first feature film was for a competition at school inspired by an English class poem about Sacco and Vanzetti, two Italian migrants controversially executed for murder. Her film won first prize and launched her as an uncompromising documentary filmmaker. Months later, her world turned upside down. A public video surveillance camera filmed her father carrying two coffees at a street corner a few blocks from home. A tall, hooded man stood behind him. The man shouted something at her father, who took a step back, startled. Suddenly and unexpectedly, the man pushed him in the street as a car sped by. His death caused a shock-wave of anger and pain, that left Zarina in pieces. The perpetrator — Clark Stevenson — was soon arrested and incarcerated for manslaughter. Zarina became obsessed with Clark — his gang "IR-28", his short prison sentence, his apparent lack of remorse. A year went by and she had uncovered enough about Clark to shed more light on his crime. With the last of her inheritance, she bought a new camera and a plane ticket to Nebraska, and bribed the warden at Hellshire Penitentiary to let her interview Clark. She filmed their first meeting and asked him about her father, and his gang, and his violent tendencies. Clark refused to talk; but, in the weeks that followed, she used her research to push his buttons and finally got a confession of a pre-meditated crime. Zarina's film became a tribute to her father and the trail of blood left by gang violence. When the news finally picked up the story, it was because the film had gained international acclaim. Some inmates contacted her when they heard about her documentary. Most of them shared eccentric anecdotes in hopes of being filmed, but one story stood out from the rest: an entire wing in Hellshire Penitentiary was sealed off because of the "Mad Mick Massacre." The official story was that an Irish outlaw had heartlessly slaughtered the warden and his guards. From working on her Sacco and Vanzetti film, Zarina knew that the 'official' story wasn't always the 'true' story. She investigated Hellshire's records and found an Irish-born inmate sentenced to fifteen years for assault in 1860. According to the penitentiary's blueprint, the sealed off wing was part of Hellshire's original infrastructure. If she reached that sealed off section, she could shed some light on the Mad Mick story. All she needed was a way in. The next morning, she was joining the Hellshire Penitentiary walking tour. She blended into the crowd of jet-lagged tourists, and veered off when they headed towards the kitchen. She had memorised the blueprint and knew exactly where to go and how to avoid surveillance cameras. An unexpected security detail nearly cut her investigation short, but she was able to hide under an old, dusty prison bed. When the guards disappeared, she continued her search and finally found Mick's cell. Entering the dark, dilapidated cell, Zarina ran her hand across the old brick wall. Her fingers felt a marking and traced the letters: DEATH TO BAYSHORE. A loose brick fell, revealing a gap. She inserted her hand. Fingers landed on a piece of cold, cracked metal. She fished it out... an old, rusty wrench. A damp chill ran down her spine and she looked down; a man lay at her feet, bleeding, his limbs contorted and his eyes, dark and terrified — her father's eyes. A pool of crimson blood on black pavement. Paralysed, black fog filled the cell and she shut her eyes to push these nightmarish visions out of her mind. (NOTE: If new survivors or killers get added I'll make their BIO the same way)
Death is not an escape Edited by Dead By Dillight [May 14, 2020 12:05:53 GMT -6] Reply Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top

Dead By Dillight Global Moderator The Trapper I have made 22,646 posts Right now I'm Offline I joined September 2015 I've received 1 like	Dead By Daylight (The Series) May 14, 2020 12:38:31 GMT -6 Post by Dead By Dillight on May 14, 2020 12:38:31 GMT -6 CUSTOM KILLER: The Death Curse or The Slasher: "Did you hear the story of a young boy who drowned here at Crystal Lake? The councilor's weren't paying attention, they were making love when that young boy drowned! His name was Jason...and today...is his birthday:" - Pamela Voorhees. Jason Voorhees never had an easy life, born deformed with severe mental issues, Jason was often the subject of ridicule and bullying. His Mother, was the camp cook so sadly Jason had to be there. His mother gave a strict instruction, watch her son at all times! However, the councilor's were not paying attention on day, more concerned with having sex then watching. Being chased by bullies, Jason supposedly drowned in Camp Crystal Lake, causing the camp to be shut down for a year. The next year, that's when tragedy struck again...two teenagers were found murdered. This covinced the town of Greenvale, New Jersey that Camp Crystal Lake was jinxed. Cursed to bring death to those who stepped towards it. However, they didn't listen, and in the late 80's the biggest mass murder occured there, but there was one survivor who brought down the killer, Jason's mother...Pamela Voorhees. Unbeknownst to Pamela, Jason survived his ordeal but due to his conditions was taking a while adapting to the woods, trying to find his mother...yet witnessed her death. After that three words filled his head, as he took his mother's place. During that time, countless fell to the fiend from Crystal Lake. Despite how many supposedly kill him, he just keeps coming back, seemingly more unstoppable then ever. One day during a chase of another would be victim, suddenly his territory started to twist and turn morphing into a distubing design. With a dense fog, and not knowing what was going on at first Jason was confused...then he saw others in his territory, and remembered those three words. "Kill for Mother" CUSTOM SURVIVORS: Tommy Jarvis: Tommy Jarvis has had a claim for years that he killed Jason Voorhees. As a child he lured Jason into a cabin and finally ended the nightmare, it was supposed to just end there. However, Tommy couldn't let it go. He always had a feeling that Jason would come back, always had a feeling that Jason would just rise and kill again. It drove him to madness, making him have several stints in Mental Hospitals. Eventually he managed to get out, but that memory tortured him and taunted him. Deciding to make sure that this time the murder would stay dead he came to Jason's grave and dug up the corpse on a dark and stormy night. After hesitating piercing Jason he did so, but only for a bolt of lightning to strike...reborning the monster, and unleashing a new nightmare across Greenvale and the world. While Tommy thought he sealed Jason off for good by burying him in the lake, he knew Jason wouldn't stay dead and it was all his fault. He lived near by trying to figure out how to kill Jason, and researching others like him. However, that obession costed him, a voice told him that he knew how to destroy Jason forever. Tommy was desperate, his mind going after his relentless hunt. Not knowing what he did, he accepted whatever bargain he could to save the world from Jason. The voice, the Entity, struck. True to it's word Jason was away from the world at large forever...however so was Tommy...and he was defenseless. Surrounded by others in a bonfire...and hearing voices that didn't belong to the beast he knew. Now trapped he works to at least make sure his fellow survivors always win. Death may not be an escape...but denying killers their kill...is the ultimate victory. Devon Cassidy: Devon has always had a fascination with serial killers and how they operate. Looking into many books and history about what makes them tick, wondering how one can stoop to such depravity. He had a special facination with the Killers that murdered like it was a sick game. This obsession lead him to the books of Benidict Baker. Studying them like crazy, Devon wondered about how the Entity operated, why did it do the things it did, why did the killers do what they do? So many questions filled the curious boy's head. However, over curiosity...can be a death sentence. Curious, he looked at Benidict's way to enter his realm and Devon...got his wish. However, he didn't know that once you got in, you couldn't get out. He was reminded VERY quickly that this was the Entities realm, under HIS control Devon tried to figure out what to do when...quickly he was killed by one of the Killer's he obsessed over. Now trapped, he finds himself living a never ending nightmare with his fellow survivors. One he hopes his relenteless study will help him succeed in.
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Dead By Dillight Global Moderator The Trapper I have made 22,646 posts Right now I'm Offline I joined September 2015 I've received 1 like	Dead By Daylight (The Series) May 14, 2020 12:44:22 GMT -6 Post by Dead By Dillight on May 14, 2020 12:44:22 GMT -6 So, you know that Episodic Formula I've been trying to push? I think this might be the time for it to actually work. This won't be a traditional thread, per say. This thread is a horror based thread where people can tell various short stories about what goes on in the Bon-Fire. This is how it's going to work: 1-2 Five sentence paragraph minimum. Episodes Must have a title Episodes must feature a round. You are allowed to make ONE Custom Killer (either from a Movie or one in your own mind) and two custom survivors (Again either your own head or from a movie or a game) Survivors are pretty powerless and very human. Killers are monsterous. No one can use another custom survivor or killer (Unless they are from a movie like Jason or Tommy) The story's tone can be any way you want it to be. Just try to remember this is supposed to be a horror series. These are all seperate short stories that have VERY loose continuity. EXAMPLE: Episode Title: Story So what do you think?
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Dead By Dillight Global Moderator The Trapper I have made 22,646 posts Right now I'm Offline I joined September 2015 I've received 1 like	Dead By Daylight (The Series) May 14, 2020 14:14:34 GMT -6 Post by Dead By Dillight on May 14, 2020 14:14:34 GMT -6 Episode: Trapped The fog rose around a dilapidated hall of forest of brick , the choking beast that signified the end of many, light foot steps echoed in the dark, as each step was meant to hide from the beast that lurked in the fog. The slow movement creeped and creeped as a young many with a hooded jacket hid behind a barrier, heavy breathing echoed across his breath. He heard ahead the sound of far heavier boot steps with song of crows signalling the arrival of their master. There was a silence, just heavier breathing from the beast ahead of him, with it's sickening mask. The hooded young man stayed low as it kept moving on, hunting for the most dangerous game there is. The young man crawled over a missing window, moving quietly to not alert the leaving beast of a man, as he began his work on his only sanctuary, a metalic object shining in the light, the humming generator, one of many, but one that was needed for the path ahead. The young man began the process of starting it up, so many wires to go through to reconnect, and without the proper tools he could not simply charge the gears. One by one, he connected wire after wire, going slow but steady. That thing could be out there...it could be anywhere. As he connected, a loud clang rang out across the broken down forest. The boy moved quickly, trying to get out dodge as fast as possible, ducking under a corner of a shattered building near by, the beast of a man came into full view. A grey mask, bits of metal sticking out of it's flesh oozing in pain, the overalls, and that cleaver...rusted...hungry for blood. The man knew from his research what this was, this was the Trapper, Evan MacMillan. The Trapper looked around, the young man practically feeling his breath despite being so far away. It moved away, looking for something else. Moving once more, this young man spoke to himself "Come on Devon, keep it together." Young Devon had to echo those words in his head as he kept moving, fumbling in the fog. The researcher started to feel his heart racing, terror filling his core, without thinking, he darted off in a reckless blaze. He had to find more, he heard another loud clang in the distance, followed by two more, his partners...friends...though far away were saving graces. He began to slow down, he started to move slower, calm beginning to fill his being. With the Trapper being the killer, Declan started to watch the ground carefully. The Trapper's namesake was due to his pension for bear-traps, he always seemed to know...if a fool stepped in them. He kept moving slowly and slower until he found another, with the one he did, plus the three, this was the last one. They were going to live! They were going to win this round. Devon began to start on his project, start of the hope for freedom...when he heard it. He shook from the all to familar noise, the wail he himself had made countless time before. However there was a distinct lack of heavy footsteps, as he peeked over. His ears didn't hear it, the Trapper must have moved on. His other companions would surely save this person...right? All he had to do was finish this...all her had to do...was...ignore. That's all he had to do was ignore, then he could power up the gates...he could help others escape...the greater good. Ignore the groaning, someone will come after the victim, clearly female due to her cries. He bit his lip though, when he heard a hellish clicking, an aspect of the Entity is trying to reap it's reward. Again, ignore, ignore and finish...ignore and finish. Ignore...himself. The once light footsteps became heavy and loud, as Devon moved towards the scene, he kept moving and moving, heart bursting out of his chest, legs feeling the weight of his run, inches away from the girl in danger. Devon was inches away, when... *CLANG* A searing sharp pain penetrated his skin as Devon cried out in utter agony, he looked ahead as the aspect pierced the girl's body dragging her away. It was to late...she lost. Devon, had to pry the jaws open before it came back, he had to hurry. He kept moving the jaws of metalic pain around his ankle as he slowly opened it. Limping away with one good leg, in more pain than he think he's ever been in...at least...this time... The Entity doesn't make you get used to the pain... He struggled, seeing his salvation ahead, when suddenly...another searing pain came from his back. The heavy breathing of the Trapper from it's mask caused him to look up at the beast as it revealed a charm...that vanished into a shadowy ash. Without any sense of pity..remorse...or logic...The Trapper slashed his terrible weapon down. The next thing Devon knew...he was by the Bon-Fire...alone, unharmed, frightened...knowing that this was just...another day. A day he can't get used to...a day...of pain.
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Dead By Dillight Global Moderator The Trapper I have made 22,646 posts Right now I'm Offline I joined September 2015 I've received 1 like	Dead By Daylight (The Series) Aug 5, 2021 22:31:07 GMT -6 Post by Dead By Dillight on Aug 5, 2021 22:31:07 GMT -6 (Update: Yes I am going to be doing more stories and episodes on this series but first...Dead By has had some new killers and survivors so... I gotta update.)
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Dead By Dillight Global Moderator The Trapper I have made 22,646 posts Right now I'm Offline I joined September 2015 I've received 1 like	Dead By Daylight (The Series) Aug 5, 2021 22:55:59 GMT -6 Post by Dead By Dillight on Aug 5, 2021 22:55:59 GMT -6 NEW KILLERS: The Executioner (Pyramid Head): A sadistic and merciless executioner, Pyramid Head is fixated on dispensing punishment through pain. Encumbered by the steel frame upon his head and with a hulking great blade in tow, he stalked the hellish corridors of Silent Hill, committed to a duty that no one truly understood. Where he trod, even monsters fled for the shadows, and those who crossed his path fell victim to unrestrained acts of aggression. When his duty was complete and his presence no longer needed, he prepared for the long rest — and yet, his skills were required elsewhere. The Fog that streamed over him was somehow different than that he was accustomed to in Silent Hill, as if each wisp contained the nerves of a creature, writhing, seeking him out. There was an unspoken agreement in that moment. The billowing cloud was an invitation to duty and sadism, and Pyramid Head, taking a step into The Fog, accepted his obligation once more. The Blight: To understand the human condition, one must rise above it. This was the credo of Talbot Grimes, a Scottish chemist whose unrestrained ambition took him to towering heights. As a boy, he was a popular child—bright, charismatic, and unafraid to challenge authority—yet despite his social graces he was fiercely independent, spending much of his time exploring the sprawling fields near his town alone. What began as a child's curiosity nearly turned deadly after experimenting with a patch of poisonous foxglove. For days, he laid in bed dripping with sweat, purging any food that touched his stomach. When he recovered, it wasn't fear that gripped him, but fascination. There was something magical in how a single flower could so drastically affect him. Into his adult years, his ambition developed as quickly as his questionable methods. He attended the London School of Medicine and excelled despite several reprimands. His willingness to push the limits secured him a position with the British East India Company, and within seven years he was made head chemist. In time, he completed one of his greatest achievements: a chemical that could increase a worker's productivity while reducing their need for rest. He was rewarded with a secret laboratory beneath a prison camp on Dyer Island. There, off the coast of India, prisoners from the Opium War became his unwilling subjects, leading to a drug that allowed soldiers to withstand incredible amounts of pain. Though most side effects were minor, there were rumours that a small number of soldiers went mad. In feral states, they massacred villages, impaling the populace on bayonets, leaving them hanging from trees. There were no official reports on the subject, and Talbot refused to blame himself for what could only be exaggerated war stories. Though his callous brilliance seemed unflappable, he was ignorant to the enemies his questionable work had amassed. The realisation struck him quite literally—with a steel pipe to the back of his head during a trip to Mangalore. He was bound and loaded into a wagon. When his blindfold was removed, a sickly man showed him a mass grave filled with hundreds of bodies. Unbeknownst to Talbot, his productivity-increasing drug had killed nearly an entire factory's worth of workers. He knew he couldn't defend himself against the anger and accusations of his abductor—all he could do was curl up as the blows from the steel pipe rained down. His body was thrown into the grave and left for dead. Shifting between consciousness and the darkest black, he crawled for an escape, fingers sinking into rotting flesh. Black flies feasted on his uncovered skin, the sensation of a hundred pin pricks stabbing into him. As he collapsed, he came face to face with a dead woman's dazzling hazel eyes. Too weak to pull away, he could do nothing but witness his life's work. Then, from the edge of death, he was brought back. He found himself on a small bed as a kindly, wrinkled face looked over him. With each pained breath, he was nursed back to health in an ancient mystery school posing as a monastery. In verdant gardens behind tall, unassuming walls, monks studied forbidden texts, striving to expand the human mind in the search for other dimensions—believing one to be connected to the other. Talbot's knowledge proved indispensable, his mind-altering chemicals integrating seamlessly with theories of neural expansion. He realised then that his salvation was no coincidence—he was plucked from the pit specifically to advance the school's knowledge. He agreed to help until his recovery was complete, being tasked with researching what the monks called the soul chemical, a compound derived from the pineal gland that could open the mind's eye. What began as a favour to his saviours, soon became an obsession. Poring over the school's archives of lost texts, he uncovered scientific formulas that confirmed previously unthinkable ideas. He dreamt of ushering humankind into a new period of enlightenment. Perhaps then, the nightmares of hundreds of dead factory workers—and of those two hazel eyes—would fade from his mind. As he came closer to a breakthrough, the demeanor of the monks shifted. The gentle smiles they offered were paired with uneasy eyes that quickly darted away when spotted. The polite conversations he was once privy to turned to hushed murmurs. The last thing he would see of the school was the cracked ceiling above his bed, branching like a dendrite through plaster. His next memories were a shattered mosaic of images and sensations. Smearing lights, horse hoofs on cobblestone, coarse burlap scratching at his cheeks, and sharp bites into his arm. He awoke ragged and unwashed, splayed on the straw mattress of an opium den. Mind in a dense fog, his first thought was of his notes, the only record of his groundbreaking revelations. He searched frantically, scrambling through the dingy basement, pleading aloud for help. The few other denizens looked up from their hammocks, offering nothing but drug-soaked eyes and apathetic gazes that soon fell into half-slumber. Before he noticed the robed figure appear behind him, a needle plunged into his arm and the world disappeared once more. Awoken. Again. Each time, hazier than the last. He tongued at hollow gaps between his teeth. How long, he wondered. A faint memory returned. The soul chemical. His notes. The verge of a breakthrough. A faraway whisper entered his mind. He fumbled with a stone, sharpening it with shaking hands. In the dim light of the den, amongst the catatonic occupants, he carved his research from memory into the walls. He wrote for hours until his fingers bled, moving to the floor, taking in everything the voice whispered despite his inability to comprehend it. When there was nowhere left to write, he gripped the stone and carved the message into his chest. Stained with blood, he witnessed a miracle appear before him—a magnificent field of lush, orange flowers. The whispered voice beckoned to him, urging him to enter the field and discover worlds and dimensions beyond human comprehension. For a moment, Talbot felt the sense of wonder he possessed as a child. The denizens of the opium den awoke to silence, the dry scent of smoke still lingering in the air. Shambling out of their drug-hazed fog, they found the stone floor wet with blood, tiny rivulets coursing through the cracks. As eyes adjusted to the darkened room, the jagged lettering scrawled along its length began to appear. Written over and over without end, there was but one single line: Death is only the beginning. The Twins: A pair of conjoined twins, Charlotte and Victor Deshayes formed an emotional bond like none other. The unlikeliness of their successful birth in the 17th century could be described as miraculous, yet it immediately brought about their life of persecution. The twins emerged with Victor's lower body affixed into the chest of his sister, legs twisted around her muscles and organs. He was smaller than Charlotte, grown as if he were an appendage of her body rather than a fully formed boy. As the newborns screeched, so too did the midwife who delivered them, running from the home, yelling of a demon birthed by a witch. So began the hunting of Charlotte, Victor, and their mother Madeleine. The coming years were fleeting memories for the twins, yet they were the closest thing to a normal life they would know. The journey with their mother was what they believed all children underwent, the games of running and hiding through France's countryside being an ordinary occurrence. At the age of five, a new challenge to the game was presented as their mother fell ill. Pale and exhausted, Madeleine had no choice, but to pass responsibility of collecting food onto Charlotte. The girl, burdened under extra clothing that concealed Victor's protruding body, set out from their forest tent and marched to the nearby town. Though a peculiar sight, she did what she had been trained for, waiting for an opening at the market and swiping whatever food she could. It was a victory in the game, but one short-lived. After midnight, glowing flames surrounded the family's encampment, bobbing through the darkness. A single commanding shout broke the night's silence and a mob of witch hunters streamed in. Grubby hands tore the twins from their bed, Charlotte frantically kicking all who approached. Madeleine cried for her children, her voice abruptly silenced by a club to her skull. Victor shrieked, the wailing of a trapped rat. The hunters coordinated quickly. A judge on-hand declared Madeleine guilty of witchcraft, evidenced by her demon spawn. Within minutes, they shackled her unconscious body to a tree, surrounding her feet with dry twigs and moss. As she awoke, she did not struggle, only begged her children to turn away. They would be given no choice. The twins were forced to watch as the torch was lit, and they watched as flames leapt up their mother's skirt, charring and sizzling her flesh. They watched as fat dripped from her body, and her face bubbled and twisted. They watched until the screams that tore her vocal cords were no more, and all that was left was the crackling of embers and a nauseating stench. Whatever joy and goodness were in them died with their mother. Caged and transported to an old wooden temple, they were sold to a secretive group clad in dark cloaks. Victor reacted with the ferocity of a rabid beast at any who approached, clawing and biting. The only solace that could calm him was the embrace of his sister. Charlotte, bitter and hateful to all but her brother, found purpose in being his protector. Within the temple, they were exposed to unusual experiments — some cruel, many simply baffling. One day they would be made to break the neck of a small grey bird. The next, they would bleed their fingers into a vase of roses. Every seventh day, they would sleep with the branch of a damp oak beneath their pillow. Then there was the chanting: a never-ending chorus from cloaked figures on scheduled intervals. In time, a final experiment was planned. Two robed figures herded the twins to the centre of the temple, holding Charlotte upon an altar in a room lit with candelabras. The wrinkled face of a man peered from under his hood, placing a hand on the forehead of each twin, making careful examination of their skulls. Memento mori, he uttered, as he withdrew a shining blade. Charlotte rolled to her side, shifting her brother off the altar. With a screech, he stretched his arm as far as he could, knocking a candelabra to the ground. The flames took to the dry wood immediately. They swept over the floor, igniting the black robes that brushed against it. Screams of agony pierced the chaos, invigorating Charlotte. She dashed through the inferno, vision concealed with nothing, but black smoke and blazing flame. A painful heaviness filled her lungs. No exit could be found, every step leading to overwhelming heat. She fell to her knees, suffocating, and then saw it — sunlight, trees. She stumbled from the fire into dewy grass. Without looking back, she ran into the forest until she collapsed. When Charlotte opened her eyes, she reached for Victor's hand. He made no attempt to budge. His body hung helplessly from her torso. She clasped his face, stared into his sad, still eyes. The movements she was accustomed to — his body pulling at her skin, his legs prodding at the cavity in her chest — were no more. Victor was dead. Charlotte had no choice, but to continue moving as she mourned, fearing black cloaks and witch hunters were prowling. She concealed her brother's corpse under her clothing and marched for the sewers of a nearby city. There, she set up camp, emerging often to steal whatever food she could, resorting to raiding barns for pig slop when desperation set in. Throughout the years, Victor's corpse rotted as his limbs oozed and blackened, yet his body demonstrated resistance to complete decomposition, as if his sister's blood still coursed through him. Protecting his lifeless body became Charlotte's sole reason for being, refusing to ever be separated from the only family she had left. Life into her teenage years was a game of survival. Her hatred for humanity grew each day under the realisation they would never leave her be. No matter how many died during her botched robberies and desperate attempts to escape, there would always be more to pursue and sling words of condemnation at her — monster, demon, witch. And it was the black cloaks who were the worst of them. Their hunt for her was unending, forcing her to constantly abandon shelter and run. For years, Charlotte fled, drawing blood out of necessity, cradling her long-dead brother in the night. During a frigid winter, her body began to break down. Food was scarce and the refuge of rickety shacks were no use against freezing temperatures. Sickle in hand, she sheltered near her campfire in the woods, not knowing if the black cloaks would take her before the cold did. As frost crystallised around her nostrils and her lips took on a gentle blue hue, Charlotte felt something she had never experienced: acceptance. She closed her eyes, opening herself to the serenity of death when — a shriek, shrill and vicious pierced her ears. Victor spasmed and flailed from her chest, a cloud of fog encompassing him. Before she could react, he spilled from her in a bloody puddle, landing on the snow and running. Pulling herself from the edge of death, she gave chase. Calling his name, she ran through the forest until her legs could hardly carry her, until finally, within her view, was Victor, sitting at the edge of a thick fog. His face, twisted and feral, screamed as a dark hooded figure emerged from the fog, grabbed his arm, and seized him. The serenity that had crept into Charlotte was extinguished, replaced with the seething hatred and rage she had depended on for so long. With a tight grip on her sickle, she charged into the fog, prepared to eviscerate any who set foot near her brother. The Trickster: Ji-Woon Hak thrived under the attention of others, energized by every eye that watched him and every tongue that spoke his name. Amidst the prestige, he had only one desire: more. Even as a child he found ways to draw crowds. Working at his family's restaurant, he attracted business with spectacles he performed using throwing knives. Gullible tourists believed this was a traditional South Korean experience, gladly parting with their money to witness it. Ji-Woon's father spent the restaurant's earnings on dancing and vocal lessons for his son, pushing him to attain the fame he never could. Ji-Woon did not disappoint. After years showcasing his abilities to nobodies at talent shows, he hit the track to stardom. Yun-Jin Lee, a producer at Mightee One Entertainment, recruited Ji-Woon into her training program. He transferred to a dormitory in Seoul where, for fourteen hours a day, he was crafted into a star, taught how to move and sing, how to carry himself with the right balance of confidence and modesty. Draining as the process was, it worked. Yun-Jin selected Ji-Woon to join the band NO SPIN, bringing a raw energy to their tracks. Fame was almost immediate. Ji-Woon lived in a daze of interviews and adoration, and though the frenzied schedule exhausted his bandmates, he was invigorated. Each day was an affirmation that he was greater than the mediocrity society spewed out. But over time, the champagne grew stale. When he looked at his fans, he saw their joy and envy split five ways, thinned out between each band member. The validation that had surged through him left a desperate yearning for more. Ji-Woon kept up impressions, mimicking a charm long buried under loathing. He recorded the latest NO SPIN album with his bandmates, never missing a beat. After a lengthy lunch break, he returned to the studio to discover fate had granted him a gift. The scent of burning wires was unmistakable. He rushed to the control room, finding the door blocked by fallen speakers. On the other side, his bandmates pounded on the door, their cries accompanied by the crackling of flames. Ji-Woon called to them, dashing to the speakers, grabbing one and—stopping. He froze. Each breath was a conscious, deliberate process requiring all his attention, the nearby cries hardly audible until, slowly, he backed away. And then he heard it. They were screaming his name as they burnt. Screaming for him to save them. Ji-Woon! Ji-Woon! Ji-Woon Hak! It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. When the fire crew arrived, his tears were genuine. Ji-Woon was celebrated as a tragic figure, a hero who did all he could in a futile attempt to save his friends. Yun-Jin paraded him through interviews until it was time to rebrand. He was reborn as The Trickster, a solo artist who produced his own songs, sporting a soft heart beneath a wild exterior. But, away from concert set-ups and television stages, something darker grew. He targeted those who lived alone, coming to them in the night. The first was a college music student with a captivating voice. Ji-Woon woke him with a baseball bat to the skull, binding his arms and legs, gagging him with a rag duct taped into his mouth. He tortured him for hours, dissecting him alive. Yet there was something missing—a sound, a connection. He wanted to hear the victim's wonderous voice pleading as he cut his belly open, but all he received was muffled cries through a rag. He learned and adjusted. Victims had to be abducted, driven to an abandoned building where he could let their voices carry unrestrained emotion. He made music from them, prodding in the right places to evoke different types of shrieks and howls. Stabbing the quadratus lumborum elicited a long, guttural wail, while slashing the carotid artery created a sound like a cat being strangled. There was honesty in their suffering. Ji-Woon recorded each session, synthesizing and working them into his songs, hiding them behind layers of melodies. He was elated with his work. He left hints for police, arranging a mink boa from a recent photoshoot around a victim's slashed throat. For his next killing, he removed the teeth from a man that a boxer in one of his music videos was without. During a particularly audacious plea for attention, he killed a fan he had met during a VIP meet-up, replacing her eyes with his diamond cufflinks and writing I HAVE SEEN GOD in blood across her chest. Each scene was a dazzling spectacle. Between music and murder, Ji-Woon's work was discussed globally. However, as violence became his preferred art style, his music career took a hit. Revenue was down and Mightee One executives pointed their fingers at him. Yun-Jin, with professional fury, came to his defence, but she was outnumbered. It was decided that Ji-Woon could no longer self-produce his songs. The decision was devastating. His tracks fused genuine humanity into music, yet executives rejected anything that wasn't generic and expected. And so be it. If they couldn't understand his art, he would incorporate them into it until they did. He had three months until he was to perform a private show for Mightee One's board members; three months to plan his magnum opus. He transferred obscene amounts of money to a veterinarian in exchange for cannisters of nitrous oxide, then bribed the stage technician of Mightee One's private theatre for access to the room. His celebrity granted him a benefit of the doubt no regular person could conceive. When the show was ready, gas seeped into the room as executives and stagehands awaited Ji-Woon, conveniently running behind schedule. When he arrived, half-conscious bodies were splayed in their seats and crawling across the floor. He worked quickly, binding everyone, pausing only when he came to Yun-Jin—the woman who had plucked him from a mudhole and set him on the path he deserved. She would be rewarded, granted special access to the coming display of wonder. Even under sedation, she fought, a raging storm within her, far stronger than the others. He propped her up as the lone audience member, prying her eyes open. The others, snivelling and sobbing, were brought on stage to perform their final act. With a contemptable sneer, he slapped makeup onto their faces and shone stage lights upon them. They became his instruments. To the sound of self-produced melodies, he tortured them, gracefully dashing from one body to another, conducting an operatic crescendo from their wailings. They shouted, whimpered, screamed, cried for their loved ones, cried for their mothers. It was a magnificent outpouring of emotion, of what it meant to be human, and they did it with eyes fixed on Ji-Woon. Viscera drained from the stage until, with the toss of his throwing knife, the final human instrument fell silent and the music stopped. Covered in sweat and blood, an exhausted Ji-Woon looked to Yun-Jin and bowed. Curtain call. He had attained perfection. With blade in hand, he made his way to Yun-Jin, prepared to tie up loose ends before the credits rolled. But as he reached her— The Fog. From where, he didn’t know, but it billowed around them, damp, cool... comfortable. He saw the grand stage: hospitals and temples, forests and slaughterhouses—an eternal plane adorned with rusted hooks, sustained by the million eyes that would watch him, run from him, experience him. All he had to do was accept, become an implement of The Fog and, most importantly, make them scream. Encore! (This guy has one of the best Killer Trailers out there. Seriously...IT"S AMAZING The Nemesis (Nemesis T-Type be be specific): Designed by Umbrella Corporation, The Nemesis is a nearly unstoppable bio-organic weapon fixated on pursuing and eliminating its targets. Part of the Tyrant T-103 series, this specimen has increased intelligence and awareness due to the NE-α Parasite implanted within it. Its first mission unleashed it upon Racoon City, where it had a singular objective: exterminate S.T.A.R.S. members.Rampaging through the city, The Nemesis faced off against Jill Valentine multiple times, and though she managed to escape, he was never far behind. He nearly had his target, when a strange fog descended upon them, mixing with the smoke of a city in chaos. The phenomenon meant nothing to him—the frigid cold and decreased oxygen never posing a threat. All that mattered was soldiering on into The Fog, continuing the mission: find S.T.A.R.S., exterminate S.T.A.R.S., and kill anyone who gets in the way. (Forgive the lack of picture) New Survivors: Cheryl Mason: Caring and impulsive, Cheryl Mason, previously known as Heather, attempted to rebuild her life after the tragic death of her adoptive father, Harry Mason. While she had freed herself from the religious cult that pursued her since birth, she was shackled by the guilt of her father's death. A darkness punished her every night under the guise of abominable nightmares. To ease her conscience, she volunteered at a crisis intervention centre for troubled youth. Three months later, she aced training and could answer the crisis line without supervision. Yet little could have prepared her for the first call. All she heard was static. The air thickened as black fumes rose from the ground and suddenly she heard the voice of a woman — someone she thought she'd never hear from again Why do you cling to this corrupt world? You know that only God can save us. It couldn't be her — Claudia was dead. Suddenly, the world spun and she dropped to her knees, nauseous. Hot bile travelled up her throat and she retched warm blood on the floor. Then the spinning stopped as swiftly as it began. Cheryl looked up and saw she was somewhere else. A cold, hopeless place. Felix Richter: Felix Richter was born to Janos and Ursula Richter in Coburg, Germany, where the Richter family had deep connections and were among the most respected of its physicians. His parents, both members of an ancient society, were always out of the Richter manor at medical conferences or providing humanitarian aid around the world. Travelling exposed young Felix to new cultures, languages, and architecture unlike anything he had ever seen before. He wasn't sure when the architectural bug bit, but when it did, it bit hard, and he knew that despite his family's legacy, he would one day design buildings that would inspire the world. By 23, he was considered an architectural prodigy having won the Swiss Architect Medal and the German National Design Award. Yet despite his success, Felix couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that his success had more to do with luck and connections than talent and hard work. Growing up, Felix was socially awkward and introverted, preferring his imagination to the company of others. He had few friends so when he wasn't travelling with his parents, Felix was in his father's library devouring rare books, studying history and architecture, soaking up anything and everything he could on architectural movements throughout the centuries. His father hoped young Felix would learn to be more outgoing and hired every possible specialist to help improve his social skills. When these efforts failed, he threw in the proverbial towel and figured his son would learn when he was ready. He then joined young Felix in the library, where he helped him build elaborate wooden models of buildings while telling him wild stories about his secret club and their ancient battle against a dark and ominous force. Stories, Felix was sure, his father had made up to make his 'Imperiatti' group sound cooler than it actually was. Felix sometimes wondered if his design sensibilities came from his summer trips to Dyer Island, a private island that boasted some of the world's finest homes and designs. Every summer, Felix would accompany his parents to the island, where members of The Imperiatti would encourage their children to network and forge lifelong connections. Felix didn't mingle well with the other teenagers, but he did make four friends who like himself didn't quite fit the 'high-society' mould. They were often ridiculed by other teens and disparagingly called 'The Pariahs', a name they liked and gladly adopted. Instead of practising public speaking and engaging in endless debates, The Pariahs spent most of their time exploring the ruins and mysteries of the island until one of their adventures took a turn for the worse. Exploring an abandoned internment camp, they descended into what seemed to be an underground laboratory where they uncovered old, leather journals with illustrations and notes of inhumane experiments conducted on prisoners of the First Opium War held by the British East India Company. As they pushed through a locked door, they found a chamber scattered with human skeletons and dusty vials filled with an unknown serum. Before they could examine the contents, the ground seemed to shake beneath their feet and a hissing sound filled their ears. A strange fog suddenly appeared and giant claws seemed to burst from the ground as dark imagination mingled with reality to terrorise them. Before they understood what was happening, Felix's father and several other parents came to their rescue, using strange tools and objects to protect them. Felix stared at the scene in shock and disbelief. He wasn't sure if he was dreaming or living one of his father's ridiculous, supernatural stories. By the time he realised it wasn't a dream, it was all over. The Pariahs were safe, but their parents had mysteriously disappeared without a trace. After the shock of his father's disappearance, Felix searched for any theory that could help him understand the phenomena he had encountered on the island. He exchanged notes with The Pariahs and other people he had met online who had also lost loved ones in a similar way. The tragedy had fostered a strong relationship between The Pariahs and for years they worked together to unravel the mystery of what had happened to their parents. But nothing made sense, and every lead they pursued hit a dead end. With time their efforts dwindled, and the five friends slowly grew apart, each going their separate ways, hoping to forget the nameless darkness that had robbed them of their parents. Over the years, Felix proved to be an exceptional architect, though he found little inspiration working for others. He realised his father was right. His lack of social skills was holding him back. With dedication and purpose, he improved his diction and decorum and learned how to network or 'play-act' as he liked to call it. He created the perfect façade to make himself more likeable and popular with potential clients. After working for several architectural firms, he established his firm with his colleague Lauren Golder. Both shared a similar vision and were philosophically opposed to formulaic modernist buildings, often experimenting with unusual materials, shapes and structures. Felix continued to undermine traditional expectations in favour of the edgy and unconventional devices that set the architectural world abuzz. But even with all the accolades, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was a phony, like an actor who had learned a part instead of a true architect who had inspired the world with an impeccable design. During these moments of insecurity and self-doubt, he would distract himself with endless parties and drown his anxieties in alcohol, wishing his father was still around for some harsh advice and tempered wisdom. Eventually, Felix's girlfriend announced that he was going to be a father. The news shook him to the core and, wanting to inspire his unborn child as much as his father inspired him, he quickly pulled his life together. What he needed was a project that would challenge him and cement his worth as an architect. As fate would have it, the perfect opportunity presented itself when old friends of his father commissioned his firm 'Richter and Golder' to build something new and unconventional on Dyer Island. The challenge excited and terrified Felix, who now drowned his anxieties with articles and books on parenting. Within six months, the Dyer Restoration Project was underway, and as Felix surveyed the island, he suddenly heard a familiar voice calling out to him from beyond the shattered Victorian buildings and the crumbling ruins hiding dark stories long hidden and forgotten. Through a strange, gathering fog, he saw a form slowly take shape. His eyes widened, and his lips parted, but no words issued forth. Could it be? Was it possible? No... it couldn't be... it was... impossible... and yet... With dawning realisation, Felix staggered back as he watched his father emerge from the fog. His legs felt weak, and his rising heartbeat thrashed in his ears. It was him. It was really him. His unborn child would know his grandfather, and he could finally show him how much he had accomplished since he disappeared. They stared at one another for a long moment. Then his father gave him a look of disappointment, turned his back on him, and proceeded to walk away. Over his pounding heart, Felix chased after him and was never seen again. Elodie Rakoto: Born into a lush Parisian household, Élodie Rakoto grew up in a comfortable home miles away from the verdant island of Madagascar, her parents' birthplace. Her backpack was always heavy and usually contained no schoolwork. She carried the essentials: a few history books, some printed maps, and a compact shovel. Instead of wasting away with regurgitated facts from her classes, she explored the city to discover the stories behind each statue, neighbourhood, and street sign. She collected bits and pieces of Paris, making it her own. When she was fourteen, her parents took her to Dyer Island for a 'business trip.' To her grand disappointment, the island was a private site for exclusive members of the Imperiatti. She was forced to attend pretentious and awkward social mixers daily. After a few weeks on the island, she met the Pariahs, like-minded teenagers who had no interest in being pawns for their parents' political chessboard. On dull, rainy nights she would convince them to sneak out and explore the island unsupervised. One foggy evening, they stumbled upon an abandoned internment camp. Felix, one of the Pariahs, didn’t want to go in, but Élodie insisted. Inside, they found a strange underground laboratory in ruins. The Pariahs grew excited, browsing through the strange apparatuses for trophies and mementos. But Élodie noticed something in the far-left corner of the wall: odd scratches in the shape of a circle. She ran her fingernails against the cool concrete—the marks were deep and narrow. A warm whisper suddenly sent her mind adrift— —Deep, rumbling thunder. Black, glistening waves. An ashen sanded beach. Incomplete. She was compelled to touch the ice-cold sand and draw a circle with a line in the middle. A sharp thunderclap and lightning whipped the sky. The ground shook as sleek, obsidian claws tore through the concrete floor, ripping the earth open. The building began to collapse and Élodie spotted her mother wielding a bizarre instrument while her father told her to run. Then-- Complete darkness. Élodie never saw her parents again. For years, this nightmare woke her in the middle of the night, cold, sweating, shaking like a leaf. As a child she suffered from night terrors and often resisted going to bed. To soothe her mind, her grandma would light a tea candle and tell her stories until the wick extinguished in a hot pool of liquefied wax. The perfume of the warm vanilla-scented wax would lull Élodie to sleep as she envisioned stories of legendary heroes defeating fear and foes. Élodie had forgotten the stories, but she still remembered her longing for the verdant Malagasy rain forests and colossal mountains that her grandmother described. When Élodie felt cold and numb with grief, she would light a vanilla-scented candle and summon her childhood memories of this distant, idyllic place, raising her spirits to rise above her crippling depression. Fourteen years later, Élodie still searched for the missing pieces of the puzzle. No rational explanation could explain her parents' disappearance, so she had been looking elsewhere. She researched any and all legends that mentioned a dark force that snatched people at night without a trace. From there, she translated old tales and built a tapestry of narratives from around the world that corroborated the uncanny way her parents had vanished on Dyer's island. She also gathered artefacts made by ancient civilisations who sought to destroy or resurrect the incomprehensible and indescribable Thing that took her parents. There were various names for it, differing from one language to the next: The Abyss, The Infinite, The Hole. Her findings pushed her further into the dark field of occultism. The Pariahs were long gone. She'd alienated them with her theories. But she refused to give up on her parents. Élodie had to set out into the cold, misty evening. She turned a corner, leaving Paris' 13th Arrondissement, an eccentric neighbourhood with a substantial library dating from the middle ages. She had pressing work to do for Hazra Shah, the Collector, an occult specialist who archived rare artefacts. He’d recruited her after she’d salvaged a rare stolen Maori statue of spidery fangs like the claws she'd seen on Dyer's island. For the next five years, Élodie had been procuring occult relics for the Collector. In exchange, he provided large sums of money, equipment, and precise information about obscure manuscripts. n Just as the Collector requested, she had secured the annals of a witch trial convicting a mother birthing conjoined twins in the 17th century. According to legend, an occult incantation was engraved on a set of skulls, all of which the Collector possessed except one—the witch's skull. There were no traces of where the skull was now, but Élodie had found a newspaper article dating back to the same year, mentioning that most remains had been relocated to the catacombs to avoid a pandemic. Élodie was acting on a hunch. Breaking into the catacombs to retrieve a lost skull involved certain risks, but no more than the previous work she'd done for the Collector. With a flashlight, she followed the ancient layout of the catacombs and spotted a collapsed wall. A few large stones blocked the way in. She grabbed her portable XRF-analyser and scanned the materials of the wall. Working for the Collector had its perks. The brick mortar had been poorly mixed, showing high traces of sand. The whole thing was brittle, and the ground was moist from the damp evening air. This was her way in. The journey beneath was long and treacherous. The air was heavy and mouldy. She gasped when her key-chain flashlight hit an endless wall of bleached-white skulls. Something cracked behind her. She spun around and collided headfirst with a baseball bat. Pain exploded in her skull and darkness filled her view. When she came to, a man was carrying her over his shoulder, venturing deeper inside the catacombs. He was wearing a dark robe. The Black Vale. She'd managed to elude them until now. Ruthless and lethal, they went by many names. She'd figured out that they ultimately all worked for the same group, a ring of occult fanatics rumoured to perform human sacrifices for what they called The Old One. She had to get out of here fast. Élodie spotted a loose skull on the wall, grabbed it and smashed it on her assaulter's head. Stunned, the man lost his balance and Élodie hit the ground running. As she turned a corner, she suddenly felt a sharp pain to her side. She looked down and saw a large blade planted there. Shocked, she removed the knife and warm blood spurted out. Her heartbeat rang in her ears as her vision blurred. She fell to her knees. Summoning all her strength, she drew a circle on the ground with a shaking, blood-red finger and traced a line in the middle. An opaque heaviness fell over her shoulders. A familiar scent of vanilla-spiked fruits and lychee nuts coated the air. Thin, tropical rain drizzled down leafy vines. Warmth. Madagascar. A ghostly cry erupted from the thick foliage. Élodie looked up and the vines turned into hissing snakes. The soft canopy soil suddenly turned ashen and collapsed under her feet. She sank into something dense and cold that swallowed her like quicksand. She screamed, before being smothered by... the abyss...the infinite... the hole... She found what she had been searching for. Yun Jin-Lee: Resilient and ambitious, Yun-Jin was born into a life of hardship finding success in the music industry after years of effort and self-sacrifice. As a child Yun-Jin was fascinated by sound, mimicking drums, and hitting keys on the piano. When she turned ten, however, she lost her instruments. Her family was heavily in debt and did not make the payments in time. The creditors took everything they owned, including the house. Yun-Jin held her four-year-old sister tightly as she cried. They moved into a windowless, two-bedroom basement. Since her parents worked day and night to pay their debt, Yun-Jin became her sister's caretaker. Every night she sang until they both fell asleep. At seventeen, the renowned record label Mightee One Entertainment came to her high school to audition talent. She was rejected as an idol trainee but obtained an unpaid internship at the studio. For the following years, she created some of the studio's biggest hits, without any credit or recognition. To get her dues, she emerged in the public eye wearing flamboyant fashion and put soundbites into her songs that looped her artist name, Magnum Opus. Fans began to recognize her songs and she became the producer of NO SPIN, a poorly performing boy band who needed her special touch. Dissatisfied with NO SPIN's commercial sound, she sought a rogue element to make the band stand out. Through her contacts in talent shows she found the edgy, raw sound of Ji-Woon Hak. She re-launched NO SPIN with Ji-Woon as its newest member. Within hours their first video was a viral sensation. Their success cemented Yun-Jin’s reputation as a shrewd producer. Adorned in high fashion to attend luxurious events, Yun-Jin's harsh, impoverished childhood seemed far behind her. She moved into a penthouse and dined with socialites in skyline restaurants with breathtaking views of Seoul. The success of the first album broke records, setting the bar high for NO SPIN's second. As they were recording new tracks, the fire alarm suddenly blared. Concerned for her safety, Yun-Jin hurried to evacuate the building and left the dallying staff behind. Only when she bolted out into the street that she realized NO SPIN was nowhere amongst the coughing crowd. A goliath of flames engulfed the building, slowly tamed by the steady streams of fire hoses. All members of NO SPIN perished in the fire except one: Ji-Woon. The album was ruined. The band was over. She would be shelved while Ji-Woon would rot away as an instructor for idol trainees. But she refused to be a victim who watched helplessly as vultures swooped in to take what was hers. Unknown to Mightee One Entertainment, she created new tracks to re-launch Ji-Woon's career. She pushed him to tap into his grief and create a song exploring the pangs of sudden loss. The music video showed Ji-Woon saying goodbye to each member of NO SPIN. Yun-Jin cleverly launched the song under Ji-Woon's newly adopted stage name: The Trickster. He would embody both fear and awe like the legendary dokkaebi spirits. Ji-Woon's song was a global phenomenon, its universal themes of grief and guilt resonating internationally. Together, Yun-Jin and The Trickster toured the world. Success greeted them on every shore. Yet disturbingly, so did a series of eccentric murders. This connection unsettled Yun-Jin as she noticed that the tour dates coincided with the victims' time of death. She was weary after the loss of NO SPIN and anxious to preserve her artist, so she increased the Trickster's security detail. What if the serial killer was an unhinged fan fixated on the Trickster, inspired by the artist's morbid songs? Returning to Seoul, Yun-Jin worked with Ji-Woon on his new material. When she entered the studio at the brink of dawn, she was surprised to see Ji-Woon already there. He seemed exhausted, like he had worked all night. When she listened to his track, she discovered a bizarre intro filled with shrieks and snares. It was too experimental for her taste. A week later, another death was reported. The body showed traces of torture and was arranged in the same flamboyant style as previous murders, this time diamond Cufflinks gouged into the eyes victim's eyes. The following day, the victim was on every television channel. A video from the victim's social media showed her squealing, surprised when her boyfriend handed her a heart-shaped, birthday cake. Yun-Jin's stomach churned. That voice. So familiar. And yet, she had never met the victim. The next morning, her heart froze when she listened to the Trickster's opening track. The shrieks in his song matched the victim's squeal. Did he sample the victim's birthday video? No, that was impossible: he had recorded this song before the murder was reported. She stared at Ji-Woon on the other side of the booth's glass window. He was NO SPIN's only survivor. Everyone else was dead. Not to mention the eccentric murders that matched his tour dates. Death trails that seemed to converge… to him. If he caused… this, no artist would survive the scandal. Yun-Jin's career, no, her life would be over. All she had would be destroyed. A wave of nausea surged over her. Heart racing, she rushed to the restroom. Wild thoughts blazed through her mind as she splashed icy water over her face. There had to be a simpler explanation. Perhaps she was overworked. Or maybe, she did not trust her success. Her mind was fabricating this suspicion because disaster was easier to trust than success. It was all in her head. She returned to the recording booth, eager to put her worries behind her. Months later, pressure came from Mightee One Entertainment executives. Revenue was down and they blamed the Trickster since they disapproved the violent themes in his music and the knife tricks he pulled during performances. While Yun-Jin was furious they scapegoated her artist, she agreed that Ji-Woon's sound was too niche to generate profit. She told Ji-Woon she fought them off but was ultimately outnumbered. Because of her initial fury, he believed her to be on his side. They were given three months to create and perform the next hit for Mightee One. Months flew by and the time came for Yun-Jin to take a seat at the executives' private show. She was confident about her song but as soon as the music started, she knew something was amiss. Dense, foul smoke permeated the room. Yun-Jin coughed and gasped for air. But the more she coughed, the more she inhaled. Her body sank in the chair, her limbs heavy and numb, and her eyes widened as she watched, terrified, a nightmare come to life. The Trickster was a whirlwind of blood, slashing, stabbing, and chopping limbs. The executives were carved up like meat. They could not run. They were stuck, like Yun-Jin, paralyzed. A boiling rage swelled in her gut. How could she have denied her instincts? The fire. The murders on tour. It was him. It had always been him. And she had known from the start. Now her career was over, and so was Mightee One. Everyone she had worked with, her colleagues, her friends, dying before her eyes. Everything she had, taken from her once more. No, she would not let him. He would pay. He would know her suffering. Suddenly, dark coils of black fog rose from the ground and she was... somewhere else. Bright lights flashed and blinded her. A spotlight found her in the darkness. Then a crowd erupted, chanting her name. "Magnus Opus! Magnus Opus!" She smiled and welcomed the darkness within. (No pic for the rest of the survivors until further posting, sadly) Jill Valentine: Excelling at lock picking and bomb disposal, Jill Valentine was a brilliant Special Tactics and Rescue Service (S.T.A.R.S.) agent. After bravely rescuing her team members from a devastating biohazard, she returned to Racoon City to save any survivors left behind. But a lethal and ruthless super soldier labelled Nemesis was on her trail. After dealing The Nemesis a few blows, Jill rushed to the basement and picked the lock of a cold room. Once inside, her body turned numb as a black fog engulfed her. Leon Scott Kennedy: Having faced hordes of zombies on his first day as a police officer, Leon S. Kennedy had to learn the job quickly. Investigating the biohazard that had ravaged Racoon City, Leon infiltrated an abandoned Umbrella Corporation laboratory where a sudden and unexpected black fog led him astray.
Death is not an escape Edited by Dead By Dillight [Aug 5, 2021 23:00:57 GMT -6] Reply Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top

Dead By Dillight Global Moderator The Trapper I have made 22,646 posts Right now I'm Offline I joined September 2015 I've received 1 like	Dead By Daylight (The Series) Aug 6, 2021 20:13:33 GMT -6 Post by Dead By Dillight on Aug 6, 2021 20:13:33 GMT -6 Episode 2: The Bonfire The waiting, the insufferable waiting. That's the thing that Devon hated most of all. Days, weeks, months, time had no meaning here since you never aged. He took a deep breath and looked at everyone's cliches of sorts, while he stood before he made his way around. He was sort of the loner since he wanted to see what was going on, but everyone accepted him into their respective cliches anyways. They're all in this together after all. First was the original four: Dwight, Megan, Jake, and Claudette. These were the four original survivors, the four to be first tested by the Entity as some kind of cruel ginny pig. They tend to keep to themselves, and the Entity rarely puts them all in the same trial group. Apparently they've grown to good leading to fewer sacrifices. Second: The Survivors, Leon, Jill, Bill, Cheyl, Quinton, Tommy, Detective Trapp, Ash, Laurie, Steve, and Nancy. These people have already survived monsters like this before, in fact some of them survived the same killers that are in their own private lair...sitting, waiting. They decide that if they're stuck there they would use their expertise to make sure that everyone else here would be able to survive as well. Devon kind of tended to gravitate to them, enthralled by their tales. Third: The Novices, Jeff, Kate, Adam, and Jane. By no means weak, they didn't have that much experience dealing with this sort of things as the others have. They often end up back at the bon-fire pretty scared until they are comforted by one another or by someone from the Survivors. Fourth, The Genius, Feng, Yui, Zarina, Felix, and Elodine. Super Smart, they often can fix generators pretty quickly, though Devon has noticed that sometimes they get wrapped up in their own work that they don't see a Killer coming. Finally, The Rough Crowd, Yun, David King, Nea, and Ace. They were the usual, look out for themselves type of crowd. Devon often hated being in a trial with them, Yun especially. She always just leaves others to die...except her own group. That's the only one she doesn't care about. Devon looked around for a seat to take, noting that it was Jill's, Dwight, Jeff, and Adam's turn, as he sat next to the survivors who were doing their usual, sharing old stories with each other not related to the Fog, or the Trials. Apparently, they have a lot of them, Tommy smiled waving at him a bit, as he motioned to Bill who was telling another story. "So there we were, down by the farm. The zombies were crawling all over the place, like usual. We were on guard the entire time, when suddenly we heard it...the crying." "A witch?" Leon speculated as Bill nodded. Bill stated "Yeah, but not just one, there were 15 of them, all in the corner, all crying, all trying to bait us into their deadly snare. We had to move quickly, and quietly, one wrong move and all four of us were dead. That was the easy part though, Francis got cocky when we were nearly at a place we could hold up for a second...he shouted and I quote 'TAKE THAT YOU UGLY BITCHES" !" which caused the other survivors and even Devan to laugh. "They didn't like that and Francis could not close that door fast enough as they pounded for like an hour the rest of us just looking at him like he's nuts." Bill sighed "I miss those three, hope they're doing well back home." Tommy said "Well it's sad to say they're better off there than here" "Isn't that the truth," Bill said lighting up a cigar. "Who wants to go next?" Leon said "Well there was the time I saved the President's daught..." the group all groaned at once. "What?" Ash sighed "Get a new book! We get it, you went to some crazy village, some wack jobs tried to brainwash you, then you saved yourself and the President's daughter. Yada yada, get something new." Leon rolled his eyes as Tommy looked to Devon "You got one?" Devon sighed "None that aren't from here" Ash said "As long as it's not Leon's, I'll take it" Devon leaned back a little, not so much that he would fall off the log. "Okay, it was me, Yun, Zarine, and Mr. King," Laurie flinched saying "You poor soul." "We were up against the Wraith," Devon stated as he looked at them. "In the Entiy's version of Haddenfield," which caused Laurie to pay attention more as he continued "It went as usual when you were with them, they went and did their own thing and left me to die. I approached a generator, and one by one started to install all the parts, make sure things were fixed up, make sure things worked properly, and then attaching the wires slowly and in order. That's when I heard it, the toll of the bell." He continued saying "I hid behind a counter as the Wraith appeared and looked around. I felt his stare at my direction. I kept myself down, and didn't move as my heart was practically leaping out of my chest. He then walked out, and I heard the bell again." Cheryl said "Talk about cutting it close." "No kidding, so I fixed it up...then heard the sign that it was the last one." Devon stated as he moved on. "I then heard screaming, near me, it was Yun and she was in trouble." Again, I clung to the shadows, somehow lucky enough that the Wraith didn't see me. I debated it...just letting the Entity get her after all the times she let me die" Devon sighed "But I didn't want to go down that road. I gently pulled her off and watched her bolt for it." Quinton sighed "Not even a thank you, why am I not surprised?" "Well I had to hall it too, the Wraith was still nearby," as the curious researcher continued on. "We ran for it, and ran for it hard, hearing the slam of the gate opening. When I saw it open, I didn't think I just ran and then...bolted out of the gate into the bon-fire." Devon sighed "But you're right, I never did get that Thank you" Mr. Trapp said "Well, hey, at least..." Jill made her way over as Leon looked at her and she sighed. Trapp asked "Which one?" Jill sighed "Death Curse" which caused Tommy to glare a bit. "I was the only one left, and I almost made it to the hatch...but he got me." She sighed "And I felt the damn machete through my splein." Tommy sighed "Fucking Jason" Devon sighed looking at the other ones who went through the trial shaking, he went to say something. Then he vanished... Another Trial was about to begin...
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