The Hallowed Blight — DBD A.U.


The aroma of pestilence and death lingers in the air as the twilight sky occluded in a lavender tinge blankets the night. There's much to appreciate within the dreary Neolithic infrastructure that towers over the Realm. Its denizens weren't aware of the peculiar intricacies that laced their beloved setting, but the days of a lone campfire were long gone. The mysterious means that established each person, indiscriminate to the rules—both survivor and killer harkoned a new era of mortifying prosperity among 'em.

There were no known records of the anomaly, nor a change in scenery. It's as if the Entity acted out of impulse; a change of pace, or the forgetfulness that came with an interdimensional paradigm. The others knew nothing of what laid about, but acted as if nothing had changed. Perhaps he underestimated the gravity of the Entity's influence, as it seemed to act independently of the killers that once were. They've certainly taken a different form coming through the mysterious rift.

Dr. Herman Mac Artair, an infamous quack doctor known for his neurological blunders found the changes to be delightful, citing his experiments with a wretched passion that shook the hearts of his once opposing victims. That wasn't to say he wouldn't ascertain their assistance when called upon—there's no rules to muster within the decree of the Hallowed Blight. It's the wild, wild west amidst the town, and everyone's looking to score. To say he's quite eccentric is an understatement. His electrodes possess a different kind of power, fueled by the Doctor's morbid curiosity for the macabre, his interests have always remained high. With no way to express his gratitude beyond the blood-curdling cries of his test subjects, he ensured with the utmost haste that the laboratory results would get the job done.

It wasn't hard to tell when a finding was discovered; the violent crackling among the dusty atmosphere rippled with a menacing luminescence that paled in comparison to conventional electricity. The sparks rummaged throughout the lightning conduction, spelling another poor soul for the taking. He was never the type to limit himself to a fair practice. Exceed expectations—go beyond the scope of brevity!

In other cases, however, they weren't so fortunate. Amelia Jung sought a perilous path of salvation through the Entity's praise, knowing little of what it was actually capable of. While she reigned as a harbinger of death—an executioner in her own right, her frail, unhinged mind slipped through the cracks into a miserable mess. The devout mindset; an entitlement best described as atrociously forthcoming became a devious mark across her terror.

It always struck him that she was more human than the others appeared to be, but she gave in so easily to the plight, there's nothing left. Was it a call of loneliness? The dissatisfaction of Johnathan Kramer was to blame? Hidden truths seemed to elude the others, and it was never questioned whether or not the vitriolic application was a product of the Entity. Scorn burned deep, and those roots were far entrenched beyond the Entity's comprehension. It didn't factor emotional turmoil, nor the implication of a sleight she may have up her sleeve. Disguised as a merchant, her wares were of the exotic brand. An eye-for-an-eye; a dagger unsightly, but ornate in design. In other cases, the occasional ailment was necessary. She was no apothecary, but kept a keen hand on difficult-to-get materials. With some knowledge on synthesis, there's quite a lot she could do with the right ingredients, even if the cost came hefty.

While she had a home, much of her fate has forced a nomadic lifestyle. Braving the barrier beyond the busted cobblestone road, she broods her way across, leaving llittle but the faint wisp of Jigsaw's Baptism for the others to see. Mechanical etchings; an ironwork that rusted beyond neglect. Its dilapidated aesthetic left much to be desired, though she promised to leave behind the contraption. As a memoir, and perhaps a final note. Gone were the days of the burden she hoped for—but that didn't stop her from cleansing the streets among the Hallowed Blight.

With the killers, a new set of doctrines were instituted through the elaborate effort of the whispering voices that compelled them as a collective. The beckoning was an underlying eldritch knowledge, esoteric by nature but unable to be deciphered. Its cypher remained a privacy even the greatest of minds like Vigo couldn't decode.

For the Survivors, their stories seemed to stem from a collective rite. Many appeared to take up the apprenticeship of a false belief. Vigo, as it seems, hadn't manifested within the Realm despite their ploys of traversing the Void. A true survivor in his own right, he's also something of a craftsman. Through smarts and ingenuity, his tinkerer's nature enabled a practical application for the blighted mess that plagued a horrid atrocity among the alumni pantheon. Blisters and boils, their clothing has been soiled. Perforated, they wander; in a daze that pops the moment a step is taken forward. They too, have become their own brand of survivor, and braved the malformed modifications until the Entity's intervention.

The research involved was carefully picked from the archaic notes left strewn throughout Vigo's choice of housing—where the survivors lingered. Their residence wasn't anything of particular interest; books upon books in a dust, decrepit home that a few of 'em did their best to make hospitable. The young maid, astute in every sense but also a fine caretaker, Lauletta Moore sought to rectify the abode with a restoration in order. She beckoned the others to pitch in and do the same, much to the others' dismay. Throughout their cleaning, the crew rummaged around, finding bits and pieces of an overlapping facet of knowledge depicting the Realm's deepest secrets, though much of its context was indiscernible Latin. Even with their collective minds, it'd take a little more than a translator to decipher the pictographs and other encrypted messages Vigo chose to meticulously add as a failsafe. What the Entity couldn't gather, the Entity couldn't rid someone of, no matter what.

Despite this, however, the others hadn't known such a fact. It's deeply embedded within a scripture only the dangerously curious could hope to uncover, for its knowledge within could drive a person asunder. Benedict Baker, the open-book survivalist briefly spoke in a note lifted from the carefully laid totem just beyond the graveyard, housing a suggestive nature that could bring much insight to the apt pupils 'round town.

“I swear I've seen it all—it behooves me that no such thing exists elsewhere! I once read of Vigo's theory behind the Void; what an accursed mess that Realm has become by the sounds of it. I cannot delve into much detail, but I shall leave whoever stumbles upon this letter something of value.

The symbols depict something ancient, deep across the recreated territories those damned killers protect. It's almost as if they're prisoners of something bigger—larger than the ducts themselves. Take note of any suspicious, sentient markings. They are nothing like the Metatron divine I spoke about with the Executioner, but it does correlate with an outside force. Deciphering the truth will lay the foundation for the End. A day where others can escape. I am certain.”

The most they could hope for, was that Benedict is truthful in the way he professed. While they weren't the dumbest cast, there's much to be uncovered amidst the copious annals of the Archives themselves. Rumor has it that an older husk of a building exists, dialpidated from the extierior that houses the much needed information the others before them hoped to obtain. It's farce to say that such a thing exists, as no one's laid claim to such a structure. The story wasn't the first to be heard—there was living proof, disguised as a drawing by an unknown artist, it speaks volumes to the breadth of what could be something special. It's likely the location is buried beyond the barrier that encompasses the Hallowed Blight, but a private sector—somewhere—could bypass its estranged energy. If only, if only it were that simple.
 

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Elsewhere, depicted in the catacombs laid a man of many woes. Faced with uncertainty, he's a bit of an anomaly. The festering within became an intrusive defilement the closer someone approached. Deeper and deeper, he dug away at the emaciated flesh, though the corpse itself didn't seem particularly ancient. It's likely to have been deposited a little under two days or so, but for Franklin Mauritius, its state mattered not. He clawed and slashed away, indiscriminate and uncaring towards the haphazard application. Was he always like this?

The taste of rotten flesh hadn't bothered him in the slightest. It's unlikely that the flavor has a way with him, but rather the catharsis sensations that compel the Hallowed Blight's resurrectionist to feast with a menacing grin. Accursed crimson eyes, and a feral escape of morbid breath could arouse the deceased. The sight grew unsightly very quickly, for Hannibal Morrison had his own means to satiate. Alive or dead, there's no stopping his feast. The scourge within the deep, he braves any crevice when the time comes to feed. This is but one of many unfortunate blunders the Entity has struck its citizens with. Killers too, can have the short end of the stick.


( to be continued / part II )