I've kept it away from you.
Oh yes, you heard me.
I should have known better than to try and protect you worthless lot of venison. I should have known that I would be the one to be killed first.
Not yet, though. Not yet. I still have time to make a final explanation.
Due to my own self-preservation, I have neglected in logging into this account to keep in touch. I am living back at home, a quarter mile from the tree line that connects our worlds together.
I'm too close, I know that, but I'm too terrified to leave, like that will attract his attention.
After all...
It herded me here. A pig to a slaughter pen. If I attempt to leave, my life will be curtailed.
And so I sit here, waiting to die, drawing pictures to calm myself...
...Going mad with the thought of my impending death...
I realize now, with my walls smothered in the chalky white marks of Der Ritter, that I can no longer wallow in my own self-pity and grief.
I must tell you all who I am.
Oh, believe you me, I know that most of you couldn't even care less of my fate. I know that many of you may not even know who I am.
I don't care. I'm beyond caring. I know that I have acted terribly towards many of you, that I've been condenscending and rude.
I'm sorry.
...
I cry and laugh at the same time now. Everytime the sun comes down. The dark, despite my numerous lamps and video cameras, cannot be penetrated. When the last of the light trickles away, I laugh and I laugh and tears dribble down my sunken-in cheeks.
I'm sorry.
First of all, my name isn't Douglas. Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to use my real name to attract it's attention? No...
Douglas was my son. As few of you may remember, he was taken away by it many many months ago.
I'm his mother. My name is Advra. I'm thirty-eight years old and no longer counting.
It's been following me since I was little, all because I was foolish enough to follow it.
As I grew, and as I married and had children...
It followed them too...
And so... one by one...
...
I'm going mad. Why am I showing you these scribbles? I can't explain myself in words...
When I discovered that Jacob had been taken to your world, and when I found that Douglas was probably taken there as well, I searched for an opening in the long line of trees that suited me.
Eventually, I found one. It was well-wron, with antler scrapings against the bark... it seems as if some of you have come over into our territory as well.
And so, I would search your world, careful not to be spotted.
I would follow it, well knowing that it wanted me to, hence why it never teleported while I observed... it wanted me to follow it.
And every night... I would leave your world and record my findings on here. Sometimes I would bring my laptop with me and record my observations while it stalked others, but never too often.
I did extensive research. I delved into books on German mythology, it's origin roots, but found nothing.
It was when Tim came into the picture that I started to observe less and less. I knew that there had to be reason for his arrival. At first, I assumed the whole thing to be a silly hoax.
It wasn't.
I fled not too long after. It chased me out.
In other words, I've failed you all, and have in turn passed on a deadly pandemic with the mere existance of me and my flesh and blood.
In the Core Theory, it is stated that there are three roles that need to be filled in order to kill the monster.
The Hero, the guardian and the warrior.
The hero is the one that must die for the cause.
Needless to say, I'm not the hero. I did nothing but warn you all and hide behind your backs.
I'm sorry.
All I have now are my drawings, crude as they are. They help calm me down. They help to make the transition to death easier for me.
I hear a creaking floorboard from behind.
It's here.
It's letting me tell you goodbye.
How merciful.
Goodbye then, deer.
(No subject)
Hmm, don't quite know what to
Saying much else would seem inappropriate.
This is just a pitch, I
I hate to say I told you so.
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It is a remarkably even playing field.
They don't know that, though. More accurately, they don't get that, don't understand that. It's not their fault, of course. They are humans and for as dangerously intelligent as the human race is? They often can't see beyond what they believe. It's very hard to accept certain facts.
For example: they are under the distinct impression that It's stupid. It isn't. Not one bit. However, It is slow. Deliberate. Why rush, after all? When you've got nothing - have had nothing - but time? You learn to be patient. You learn to slow down, watch how things play out. Killing prey, only to find out that it tastes foul?
Well. No one likes that.
Not even Him.
Ah, and that's another thing. They are under the impression that It is a He - to the point that even It is starting to think It's a He. It wasn't entirely sure when It started to appear this way...though It does remember why. Killing? It's just another fad. Whether you do it with your bare hands, an icepick to the eye, even with a gun...killing changes with the times.
Hunting humans became so much easier when It looked human. If a human saw a tall, impeccably dressed man approaching them, they didn't worry, they didn't panic. There are animals that disguised themselves - and while It was not an animal? It certainly wasn't human, either.
Let us not digress; sometimes, when the world became black and dark, and there was nothing but the sound of small scurrying things in the forest, It was sure It was a He. Perhaps had always been a He, but after so long, had forgotten as such.
As He crouched over the body He had caught in his vast web of endless arms and long, tombstone white fingers, that knowledge stirred in Him again - that almost knowing what He was, but not quite remembering. It did not stop Him, though: fingers as long and thin as dead twigs slithered into the hair of the somnolent form, sleeping the sleep of the unconscious, to dig past skin, past bone, into the soft pink of brain.
At that moment, what He was did not matter. All that mattered was the thoughts He fed her, the little bits and pieces of rot and offal, the dire poison that would drive her mad.
The sort of thoughts that just made them keep coming back to Him. Whether they liked it or not.
________________________________
Over and under and through and through
This is what we've made of you.
Oh my... he's back?
Signature by Roo ♥
Wonderfully executed. Gave
Gave me chills.