wclrider

[wclrider]

The Walrider, also known as The Swarm.

It is the source of the madness that seems to infect most of the asylum's inhabitants and the deity of Father Martin's religion and his followers.

#oouuu eldrich horror born again via tech I louuurrve youuu

[wclrider]

#◜ miles upshur. ╱ ゜・ 🇲🇾 🇭🇴🇱🇾 🇦🇵🇴🇸🇹🇱🇪. ・゜ ◝

[wclrider]

#walrider vc: miles. miles reblog that. miles it's just like us For Real For Real like you humans say! #◜ aesthetic. ╱ ゜・ 🇸🇴🇲🇪🇹🇭🇮🇳🇬 🇴🇮🇱🇾 🇦🇳🇩 🇩🇦🇷🇰 🇩🇪🇸🇨🇪🇳🇩🇮🇳🇬 🇧🇪🇭🇮🇳🇩 🇲🇾 🇪🇾🇪🇱🇮🇩🇸. ・゜

[wclrider]

walriding​:

      There is, at his core, a realization that has been building since he regained a modicum of self-awareness in the asylum’s fetid wake. For a time his concerns lingered on the whys of the situation, and in the depths of his personal despair the questioning circled back to the oft-cried refrain of the beaten and weary: why me? 

      That his possession came as an act of impulsive desperation was the first drawn conclusion. With the previous Host’s blood still fresh on his hands, the Walrider had merely taken him prisoner as a last and desperate resort, as a cornered animal might lash out at anything or anyone that came too close.  And the reporter has never been one for superstition, or any kind of conspiracy theorist level belief in the universe’s lack of coincidences. But as time pressed on and the events of that night were twisted and turned over again and again in his mind, he found his consciousness returning to the pattern buried within it. The whistleblower had reached out to him specifically out of anyone in the field. Father Martin was so righteously certain the moment he saw him that fate’s path was already set in stone. Walker had sought to kill him with a narrow-minded ferocity that had apparently been reserved for Miles specifically. His journey through Mount Massive read like Dante’s descent into hell, a trek into the devils’ frozen heart – that in Miles’ case could only end with an unwilling deal that cost his soul. A soul that might never have been his to autonomously bargain with in the first place.

      And fuck does that make him angry, the idea that his entire life was no different than raising a lamb for the slaughter. Any choice he ever could have made would have landed him in that same spot, bruised and battered on the floor of the underground lab while some godforsaken shadow wormed his way into his bones. The very creature that has the audacity to profess that he’s done Miles a favor with that course of action. He thinks first to ignore it, to let the Walrider’s rage flare and fizzle under the assumption that equilibrium will return after the outburst. And if he had less of a temper to call his own, such steely acceptance might be possible. But as it stands, the continued prodding is received as warmly as a repeated slap to the face, and it isn’t long before a deep, repressed well of rage and upset and fear needs an outlet.

      He stands abruptly, legs catching the chair with such force that it drags backwards across the floor with a shrill screech. “Fuck you,” he hisses, challenging the eyeless gaze that opposes him. WIth each word that follows  his voice rises until he feels like he’s practically screaming. “Fuck you, acting like you’ve been doing me a fucking service keeping me alive. I didn’t ask for you to crawl up my ass – I was ready to die in that place, and you took it upon yourself to not fucking let me. And now – now – you’re gonna say you did me a favor? Well news-fucking-flash, I would have rather died in that damn asylum than live like this!”

𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙽𝙴𝚆   𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙴   𝙱𝙸𝚁𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙳,   always   did   it   cut   the   deepest   and   burn   the   brightest   when   it   came   of   truth.   the   undeniably   and   unwavering   pathway   that   led   his   apostle   to   his   grip.   led   through   a   barrage   of   horrors   he   meant   to   uncover   for   the   good   of   it   all,   and   instead   was   his   means   to   an   ascension   he   couldn’t   have   prepared   for.   what   worse   than   the   horrors   of   mankind   were   begat   upon   this   wretched   earth,   than   when   they   decided   to   play   god.   deliberate   and   exact,   tactful   in   their   own   means   to   gain   a   higher   understanding   of   it   all.   

and   o’   how   the   swarm   waited,   turns   over   eons   of   time   within   that   mountain.   what   bloodshed   wept   into   his   cracks   and   crevasses   of   the   greed   of   man   and   beast   alike,   to   feed   him   through   the   ages.   until   he   could   be   looked   upon   again   with   equal   parts   horror   and   awe.   men   of   science   they   were,   but   there   was   still   that   festering   pit   in   those   who   did   not   understand   --   who   𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳   𝙽𝙾𝚃   understand.   no   matter   how   far   man   crawled,   the   cruelty   of   the   matter   was   that   they   were   still   only   human.   the   cold   twist   of   seeing   the   world   from   a   view   unlike   any   other,   only   to   come   back   down,   and   my   my   was   it   a   far   way   to   fall.   all   those   men   thrown   to   madness,   all   in   favor   of   his   rebirth.   to   seep   into   his   holy   apostle’s   bones   and   fill   him   with   renewed   purpose.   so   what   barbed   venom   did   come   from   him   when   the   being   he   was   made   for   spit   upon   such   a   blessing.   

𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙲𝙷𝙴𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝚆𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙷   𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙼,   met   with   an   eyeless   gaze   as   a   sort   of   seething   vile   feeling   twists   and   blossoms   in   kind.   a   shared,   open   line   between   them   and   yet   tearing   in   contraries   upon   one   another.   𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝙸𝚃   𝚆𝙰𝙸𝚃𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴,   allows   for   all   that   ichor   and   ire   earned   well   to   be   dispelled.   floating   weightlessly,   ‘fore   that   static   howling   tears   upon   deafening   screams.   no   matter   for   it   of   course,   something   broken   was   merely   something   to   fix   for   him.   no   bedside   manner   for   the   way   that   wound   would   be   left   in   a   mind,   of   course.   far   too   proud   for   such.

❝   𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁   𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴   𝚆𝙰𝚂   𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁   𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁𝚂   𝚃𝙾   𝙻𝙾𝚂𝙴,   𝙱𝙾𝚈!   ❞

𝚂𝙻𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁   𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝚂,   digits   flickering   between   pale   imitation   of   flesh   and   bone   meet   jaw   and   hair   to   twist   and   hold   with   a   purpose.   firm,   but   faltering   on   cruel.   the   one   time   he   must   react   with   patience   as   a   necessity,   and   not   some   mundane   request   from   his   apostle.   a   host   is   a   crucial   component   yes,   and   in   most   cases   he   could   find   another   ...   but   an   apostle   such   as   Miles   was   something   once   in   a   lifetime.   such   an   act   would   be   something   beyond   his   comprehension   when   thought   of   in   that   old   stone   and   earth   ---   𝙽𝙾𝚆,   𝙷𝙾𝚆𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁,   Miles   was   making   it   difficult.   loosen   up   on   his   grip,   still   craning   Miles’   vision   up   to   him.   spoken   lighter,   almost   inquisitive   and   bordering   on   ...   frustrated.

❝   𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼   𝙱𝙴𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙴   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴   𝙰   𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃,   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚂   𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙸𝚂𝙴𝙳   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚃𝙾   𝙼𝙴   ...   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷,   ...   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳   𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁   𝙳𝙸𝙴   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴   𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙾𝚆   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙼   𝚃𝙾   𝙳𝙴𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙾𝚈   𝙰𝙻𝙻   𝚈𝙾𝚄’𝙳   𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙴𝙳?   𝙰𝙻𝙻   𝙸𝙽   𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁   𝙾𝙵   𝙳𝚈𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙰𝚂   𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁   𝙾𝚆𝙽?!   𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙰   𝙿𝚁𝙸𝚅𝙸𝙻𝙰𝙶𝙴   𝙸𝚃   𝙸𝚂   𝚃𝙾   𝙱𝙴   𝙼𝚈   𝙰𝙿𝙾𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴,   𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝙰𝙻𝙻   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚆𝙸𝚂𝙷   𝙸𝚂   𝚃𝙾   𝚂𝙷𝙴𝙳   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚃𝙸𝚃𝙻𝙴.   𝚃𝙾   𝙳𝙰𝙼𝙽   𝙰   𝙼𝙴𝙰𝙽𝚂   𝚃𝙾   𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙺𝙾𝙵𝙵,   𝙰𝙻𝙻   𝙸𝙽   𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁   𝙾𝙵   𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁   𝙾𝚆𝙽   𝙿𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙵𝚄𝙻   𝙼𝙴𝚆𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶!   ❞

#◜ response. ╱ ゜・ 🇾🇴🇺🇷 🇬🇴🇩 🇮🇸 🇳🇴🇹 🇸🇴 🇲🇪🇷🇨🇮🇫🇺🇱. ・゜ ◝ #walriding #◜ queue. ╱ ゜・ 🇦🇱🇱 🇮🇳 🇩🇺🇪 🇹🇮🇲🇪﹐ 🇦🇵🇴🇸🇹🇱🇪. ・゜ ◝

[wclrider]

walriding​:

      It’s often that Miles’ inherent nosiness gets the better of him. His resume is smattered with actions that could be construed as anything from annoying to illegal to certain types of people – the ones that the reporter sought to pick apart under the lens of his writings. More than a few harsh words have been leveled at him, occasionally accompanied by a fist in search of nose or jaw. He’s spent nights in jail, though has thankfully always been too small of a fish for the sharks to really bother with when it came time to press charges. But it was that very refusal to back down and mind his business that truncated the upward trajectory of his career, a defining characteristic that once read as admirable becoming a black mark with one pink slip.

      Perhaps it’s fitting then that he now finds himself as little more than a bug beneath a microscope, every action performed under the scrutiny of vast and watchful eyes. Personal privacy and independence had once been the very foundation upon which he’d built himself. And now all of that has been thrown by the wayside by the thing always watching over his shoulder. 

      He’s yet to fully test the boundaries of their dual consciousnesses, to try to work out just how much they share. Miles at least knows there’s no such thing as solitude in his head anymore – but that doesn’t make it easy to turn the flow of thoughts off at the source. The Walrider doesn’t always pry further, which is a blessing. The reporter has begun to recognize the feeling of his thoughts being parsed by the other, something akin to fingers skimming over a drawer full of file folders until they find what they’re looking for – when the search is a gentle one. Gentler than the sensation of insects digging into his gray matter, anyway. He feels that passing touch across his neurons in response to his recollection of the night they met, and then a cursory curiosity bumping up against the borders of his awareness.

      “Yeah, I have,” he says with a softly bemused snort. He’s tried to keep as much of his before life to himself as possible, which hasn’t exactly been easy. Or maybe the Walrider just hasn’t cared to go digging that far back into the expanse of his very human life experiences. “The asylum wasn’t my first run-in with Murkoff. I’ve been trying to expose their bullshit for years.” The tide has shifted in unbelievable ways, and yet the song and dance has hardly changed. The company remains just as much of a well-protected enigma as ever.

      What the other proposes, though, is very intriguing. Enticing, even – and a possibility he hasn’t considered until now.

      “That’s… kinda fucked up,” he says in a way that suggests he’s only saying it downplay his interest in the concept. “How would that work, anyway? Purely hypothetically. Just worm your way into their brain and get the info we need?” It’s that hot itch he felt in the underground lab again, the power he felt bubbling up under his skin that was intoxicating in the wake of helpless desperation. Like a siren song the extent of the Swarm’s capabilities coaxes him somewhere deeper and darker, his remaining humanity the only raft left to cling to in the storm.

      Focus. They can’t just go scrambling Murkoff brains for fun. Not without purpose. “Mount Massive couldn’t have been their only project. What they were doing there… I’ve gotta assume it was part of something bigger. We need to find out how far the rabbit hole goes.”

𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴   𝚆𝙰𝚂   𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴   𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙾𝙽   𝚃𝙾   𝙳𝙸𝚅𝚄𝙻𝙶𝙴   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝙿𝙰𝚂𝚃.   to   dredge   up   old   ghosts   and   things   clung   to   by   time,   hunted   and   fed   upon   by   nostalgia.   there   was   much   of   Miles   he   did   not   see,   did   not   know,   and   in   turn   there   was   much   he   refrained   from   offering   to   him.   lest   he   be   driven   mad   by   the   visage   of   the   memories   of   an   old   god.   still   too,   was   he   enamored,   finding   these   flickering   old   habits   leaving   a   trail   within   grey   matter.   synapsis   reacting   accordingly,   familiarity   usually   wins   out.   from   the   outside,   the   Walrider   never   thought   much   of   humanity.   such   simple   lives   they   must   have   led,   to   be   born   unto   this   place   and   toil   endlessly   before   succumbing   to   the   very   land   they   had   quarreled   and   reaped   from.   it   had   never   seemed   so   complex,   not   until   he   had   taken   a   host.   

with   Billy,   there   was   understanding,   and   he   had   so   foolishly   thought   he   had   come   to   understand   humans   and   all   their   petty   quarrels   and   simple   facets.   yet   here   Miles   was,   yet   again,   surprising   him.   voice   comes   like   a   rolling   thunder   of   a   distant   storm,   pouring   over   the   horizon   and   humming   deeply   to   his   core.

❝   𝙸   𝚂𝙴𝙴.   𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴,   𝙸𝚃   𝙸𝚂   𝙰𝙽   𝙾𝙻𝙳   𝙾𝙽𝙴.   ❞

𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝙾’   𝙷𝙾𝚆   𝙿𝙾𝙴𝚃𝙸𝙲   !   ...   that   he   would   have   come   bearing   to   be   the   end   of   the   Walrider,   only   to   deliver   himself   unto   its   embrace.   it   finds   it   humorous,   perfectly   just,   that   his   apostle   would   be   the   hand   of   justice   seeking   to   snuff   out   that   which   had   laid   claim   to   him.   holy   apostle,   who   confounds   a   being   so   primeval   &   sparks   it   with   intrigue   all   in   the   same   breath.   slinks   forth   to   follow   the   complexion   of   his   host   with   curiosity.

𝙵𝙾𝙻𝙻𝙾𝚆𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙿𝙸𝚀𝚄𝙴   𝙾𝙵   𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚁𝚄𝙸𝙶𝙴,   like   watching   the   spike   in   neural   activity   take   place   between   his   gentle   grip.   almost   quiet   enough   to   miss   it,   had   those   chemicals   not   been   his   entire   world.   yet   still   allows   for   his   curiosity   to   be   voiced,   his   abilities   questioned.   let   it   ne’er   be   said   that   the   mountain   king   could   not   be   cordial.   there’s   sincerity   in   tone   when   he   speaks,   no   lies   to   be   had   between   them   lest   he   poison   the   well   for   both.

❝   𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁   𝙳𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙼𝚂   𝙰𝚁𝙴   𝙰𝚂   𝙼𝚄𝙲𝙷   𝙰   𝙶𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚆𝙰𝚈   𝙰𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁𝚂,   𝙸   𝙾𝙽𝙻𝚈   𝙽𝙴𝙴𝙳   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝙳𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽   ---   𝙰   𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙳   𝚃𝙾   𝙳𝚁𝙰𝚆   𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼.   𝙸   𝙼𝚄𝚂𝚃   𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙽   𝚈𝙾𝚄,   𝙸𝚃   𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻   𝙱𝙴   ...   𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙻𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙵𝙾𝚁   𝚈𝙾𝚄,   𝙰𝚃   𝙵𝙸𝚁𝚂𝚃.   𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙲𝙴𝚂𝚂   𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻   𝙽𝙾𝚃   𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙺   𝚄𝙽𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚂   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚃𝚁𝚄𝚂𝚃   𝙼𝙴.   ❞

𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳   𝙱𝙴   ...   𝙳𝙸𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃.   he   would   need   to   give   himself   over   to   the   itch,   the   engine,   the   noise   --   the   song   that   plays   like   the   beat   of   the   Walrider’s   very   heart.   if   it   had   one,   that   is.   akin   to   a   pulse   in   how   it   thrills   with   life,   something   inhuman   and   yet   so   very   alive.   ---   but   that   would   not   be   the   difficult   part,   no   no.   the   difficult   part   would   be   Miles   allowing   the   Walrider   to   guide   him.   to   merge   the   consciousness   and   reach   somewhere   outside   of   his   own   body   to   gain   the   answer   he   so   seeks.

𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴   𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳   𝙱𝙴   𝙽𝙾   𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼   𝙵𝙾𝚁   𝙳𝙾𝚄𝙱𝚃.   any   slight   tear   in   their   connection   could   completely   throw   them   both   off,   and   lead   to   a   lot   of   mental   strain   and   exhaustion.   not   to   mention   he   would   need   to   effectively   create   some   kind   of   sensory   deprivation   tank   at   home   to   assist.   funny   that   despite   being   of   this   earth   and   soil,   the   soul   of   his   work   flows   through   water.   but   water   had   always   meant   life,   and   with   it   always   came   the   promise   of   something   more.   remembers   the   timid   streams   that   would   cut   their   paths   through   him,   he   never   forgot   their   avenues.   memorizes   them   as   he   does   the   synapsis   and   mental   trails   Miles   leaves   for   him   now.

❝   𝚆𝙴   𝙰𝚁𝙴   𝙶𝙾𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝚃𝙾   𝙽𝙴𝙴𝙳   𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚁   ...   𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝚀𝚄𝙸𝚃𝙴   𝙰   𝙱𝙸𝚃   𝙾𝙵   𝚂𝙰𝙻𝚃.   ❞

#◜ response. ╱ ゜・ 🇾🇴🇺🇷 🇬🇴🇩 🇮🇸 🇳🇴🇹 🇸🇴 🇲🇪🇷🇨🇮🇫🇺🇱. ・゜ ◝ #walriding #alas this has been sitting in my drafts for months I am a foole...

[wclrider]

“it hurts.”

prompt.   ( accepting )

𝙰   𝙲𝚄𝚁𝚂𝙾𝚁𝚈   𝙶𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴   𝚃𝙾   𝙾𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁   𝙷𝙾𝙿𝙴,   something   new   he   finds   himself   doing.   something   human.   it   would   stand   to   reason   then   that   such   a   kindness   would   be   borne   of   the   human   he's   found   himself   bound   to.   however,   he   is   busy   and   the   Walrider   is   running   out   of   patience   for   this   militia   that   stands   against   him.

❝   𝙸   𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆.   ❞

and   he   is   that   of   some   weary   god,   worn   thin   by   the   suffering   of   his   devoted.   𝙱𝙴𝙲𝙰𝚄𝚂𝙴   𝙾𝙵   𝙲𝙾𝚄𝚁𝚂𝙴   𝙷𝙴   𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳   𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆.   of   course   the   swarm   would   know   the   ichor   that   seeps   from   waylon   as   he   lays   languid,   bleeding   out   upon   the   floor   like   some   kind   of   gutted   lamb.   they   used   to   stick   them   for   him,   an   offering   of   sorts,   to   soak   his   mountain   in   their   gore.   relished   in   it,   fed   upon   it.   but   now   things   are   different.   𝙷𝙴   𝙸𝚂   𝙳𝙸𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃.   looms   o'er   him   and   sees   that   doe   eyed,   vacant   and   rather   pathetic   stare   and   feels   no   vitality   from   it   as   he   had   before   with   the   other   lambs   to   the   slaughter.

𝙺𝙴𝙴𝙿   𝚆𝙰𝚈𝙻𝙾𝙽   𝚂𝙰𝙵𝙴.     that   is   what   he   was   supposed   to   do.   they   were   a   team,   after   all.   is   only   thankful   that   waylon's   family   was   not   here   to   witness   him   in   any   more   agony   than   the   glances   they   have   caught   after   the   initial   fray   he   suffered.   like   a   rabbit   in   a   snag,   he   had   seen   him   before.   terrified,   fragile,   wounded.   furthermore,   Miles   would   certainly   be   quite   cross   with   the   Walrider   should   he   fail   at   such   a   simple   task.

𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽𝚂   𝙰𝚆𝙰𝚈   𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃   𝙰𝚂   𝚀𝚄𝙸𝙲𝙺𝙻𝚈,   the   static   grows   with   his   wrath.   his   intentions   are   made   clear.

❝   𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙳   𝙵𝙰𝚂𝚃.   𝙸   𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻   𝙽𝙾𝚃   𝙱𝙴   𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙶.   ❞

𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙰𝙺𝙸𝙽   𝚃𝙾   𝙰   𝚁𝙾𝙰𝚁   𝚂𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝚂,   shakes   the   ground   as   his   own   sort   of   decree.   without   words.   without   language   that   one   could   understand.   it   was   the   tongue   of   beasts.   of   old   gods   and   the   fear   that   waits   in   the   dark.   it   was   violence,   and   a   proclamation   of   their   end.   tears   them   apart   with   ease,   enjoyment   even.   he   may   not   have   craved   to   the   flesh   of   the   lamb   beneath   his   protection   but   he   did   relish   in   the   cries   of   the   beasts   that   had   struck   it   down.   just   as   doe   eyed   and   vacant   as   any   other   animal.   when   the   screaming   had   stopped   he   is   close   once   more.   no   rage   evident   in   his   tone   or   movement   as   he   examines   Waylon.

❝   𝙱𝙴   𝙽𝙾𝚃   𝙰𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙸𝙳,   𝙰𝙽𝙳...   𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙳   𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙻.   ❞

𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝚂   𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳   𝙱𝙴   𝚂𝙾𝙾𝙽   𝚃𝙾   𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙻   𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁,   his   nanites   making   quick   work   of   it   as   he   passes   a   hand   over   them   as   though   they   were   nothing.   it   was   not   often   he   got   the   opportunity   to   speak   directly   to   Park,   often   conversing   with   Miles   and   allowing   the   two   mortals   to   quarrel   and   plan   as   they   may.   though   it   was   never   out   of   distain   for   him,   but   rather   a   lack   of   understanding.   something   cold.   he   simply   saw   no   reason   for   it   was   all,   not   until   now.

❝   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻   𝚂𝚄𝚁𝚅𝙸𝚅𝙴,   𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙺.   𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙴.   ❞

𝙰   𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃   𝙾𝙵   𝚂𝙾𝚁𝚃𝚂,   some   things   never   change...

#ourgh walrider my beloved i have missed writing He #◜ response. ╱ ゜・ 🇾🇴🇺🇷 🇬🇴🇩 🇮🇸 🇳🇴🇹 🇸🇴 🇲🇪🇷🇨🇮🇫🇺🇱. ・゜ ◝ #◜ inquiries. ╱ ゜・ 🇮🇹 🇭🇪🇦🇷🇸 🇾🇴🇺🇷 🇸🇹🇦🇹🇮🇨 🇵🇷🇦🇾🇪🇷🇸. ・゜ ◝

[wclrider]

❝    𝙳𝙾   𝙽𝙾𝚃.    ❞

❝   𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙳𝙾   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝙼𝙴𝙰𝙽   𝙸’𝙼   ‘ 𝙱𝙸𝙶  ’   …   𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝙸𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚂𝙼𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚃   𝙸’𝚅𝙴   𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁   𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽.   ❞

#NAURR NOT BACK INTO THE PUTER RAAAAA #WAYLON DON'T TURN ME INTO AN N/FT PLEASE I'M BEGGIGN YOU

[wclrider]

❝   𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙳𝙾   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝙼𝙴𝙰𝙽   𝙸’𝙼   ‘ 𝙱𝙸𝙶  ’   ...   𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝙸𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚂𝙼𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚃   𝙸’𝚅𝙴   𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁   𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽.   ❞

#◜ dash comm. ╱ ゜・ 🇼🇦🇹🇨🇭🇮🇳🇬 🇼🇮🇹🇭 🇴🇷🇬🇦🇳🇸 🇾🇴🇺 🇨🇦🇳·🇹 🇮🇲🇦🇬🇮🇳🇪. ・゜ ◝ #going from being a big fuckoff mountain to an almost 7 ft tall creechur is wack

[wclrider]

HARD-TO-FIND HURT / COMFORT SENTENCE STARTERS.

a selection of some of my favorite underrepresented lines and phrases for one of my favorite tropes! feel free to change wording and pronouns and provide context as necessary. do not add to this list.    

TO THE THREAT.

“let them go.” / “let me go.”

“take me.” / “take me instead.”

“don’t hurt them.” / “i’ll do anything you say.”

“what do you want with me?”

“where are you taking them?”

“what did you do to them?”

“where is receiver?”

“give them back.”

“get away from them!”

“get off them!”

TO THE HURT.

“can you hear me?”

“wake up… please, wake up.”

“are you with me?”

“stay awake.” / “you have to stay awake.” / “please, stay awake… please…” / “promise me you’ll stay awake.” 

“don’t close your eyes.” / “open your eyes for me, name.”

“there you are.”

“just a little longer, okay?”

“i know it hurts, i’m sorry, it’ll be over soon.”

“shhh, it’s alright.”

“i need you.” / “i still need you.” / “i need you to be okay.”

“do you remember what happened?”

“name?! name! what happened?!”

“what did they do to you?” 

“if they lay a finger on him/her/them/you…” 

“if they touch a hair on his/her/their/your head…” 

“those bastards.” / “if i ever get my hands on them…” 

“i’m gonna get you out of here.”

“let’s get you out of here.” / “let’s get you out of this.” 

“we gotta get out of here.” / “it’s alright, name. we’re taking you home.”

“can you stand?” / “can you walk?” 

“i won’t let anything happen to you.”

“you’re safe.”

“it’s gonna be okay.” / “you’re gonna be okay, just hold on.” 

“you’re hurt.” / “did they hurt you?”

“i’ve got you.” 

“lean on me.”

“stay with me.”

“i can’t lose you.” / “i’m not losing you.”

“oh, name…” / “oh, kid…”

“receiver? receiver, it’s me. it’s sender.”

“i’m here.” / “i’m here. i promise.”

TO THE RESCUER.

"...where am i...?"

“what happened…?”

“i’m with you.”

“it hurts.” / “make it stop.”

“you came for me…” / “you came back…”

“you found me…”

“where were you…?”

“i’m sorry…”

“i was so scared.”

“i thought you’d never find me…”

“what are you doing here?”

“just go. you can still make it. don’t worry about me.”

#*GRIPS YOU ALL* HEY.

[wclrider]

alas my brain hath been mushy like mashed potato with work lately but I wish to write as the angry god swarm

#ourggh #*shakes my brain like that pic of jon with garfield*

[wclrider]

walriding​:

      It’s not as though surprise can register on the featureless face, but Miles feels it all the same, unexpected uncertainty bubbling up in their shared connection. For a moment he worries that he’s said something wrong, but as shock shifts to contemplation, so too does his anxiety fade back into quiet empathy.

      Has anyone ever asked such a creature of his own desires before? Or posed the question in earnestness, not just as an attempted plea thrown at advancing shadows. What do you want? Something to ask of a lover – but something screamed out by half the victims in slasher movies, too. Somehow Miles can only picture the latter being leveled at the Walrider, his presence decried across time and cultures as an ill and unfavorable omen. Even the reporter had believed the other incapable of human emotion when first they’d been united, and for a long while after that they notion pervaded that he felt only rage and negativity. 

      But now Miles feels an anticipatory thrill, unexpected nervousness that tempers eagerness, and he knows those are sensations not entirely of his mind’s own making. Such a human response, one that almost makes him laugh at the strangeness of it all. His old self could never have comprehended such a fate, and now here he is preparing to step beyond the most basic level of acceptance into something more. 

      He’s tired of fighting, but this isn’t the siren’s song goading him to give up a hopeless cause. He’s tired of trying to fight his way backwards when there’s the potential for better right in front of him.

      “Well – first time for everything, right?” Now he does huff a breathy laugh, an attempt at decreasing his own nerves by a small measure. Miles doesn’t entirely know what he’s saying yes to, or what he’s encouraging. His mind could go in a dozen different directions, some of them veering away from the promised gentleness in very particular ways. But he won’t push, won’t put himself at the helm like he struggles so often to do against the other half of his very being. “Tell me what you want,” he prompts softly. “Or just let me follow your lead. You’ve been inside my head, you know I’m up for just about anything.” Some of his categorically off-color humor, just to lighten the weight he doesn’t want to settle over them. Maybe this moment does mark a monumental shifting of the tides between them, but he’s never been one to put such occurrences on a pedestal. “’Gentle’ is optional.”

𝚃𝚁𝚄𝙴   𝙰𝚂   𝙸𝚃   𝙼𝙰𝚈   𝙱𝙴,   that   he   would   be   held   in   one’s   gaze   like   the   horror   he   is.   beyond   comprehension.   that,   he   was   used   to.   that,   he   could   easily   twist   to   fit   his   morbidly   cruel   and   sizable   ego.   but   this   ...   this   he   had   never   felt   before.   a   twist   of   something   like   excitement   sparks   through   his   swarm,   like   the   patterns   eyes   can   catch   in   snowfall.   gentle,   and   gone   in   an   instant.   he   did   not   understand   it,   but   by   god   did   he   crave   to.   what   bliss   it   would   be   to   have   miles   look   at   him   this   way   all   the   time   ----   (   𝘢𝘯𝘥   𝘸𝘢𝘴   𝘪𝘵   𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩   𝘵𝘰   𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦   𝘴𝘰?   ...   𝘩𝘦   𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵   𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸   )  

𝙰   𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽   𝙱𝚄𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝚃𝚆𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙰𝚆𝙰𝚈   𝙰𝚃   𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈   𝙸𝙽𝙷𝚄𝙼𝙰𝙽   𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙳.   of   all   the   virtues   of   mankind   he   has   witnessed,   love   had   evaded   him   to   fully   understand.   he   has   seen   that   look,   twisted   upwards   at   lovers   whose   faces   he   never   forgot.   the   warm   smile,   bathing   in   sunlight   and   cooing   between   every   little   brush   and   twist   of   affection.   he   has   seen   it,   yes,   but   ...   never   aimed   at   him.

𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚂𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙼   𝙸𝚂   𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙴𝙵𝚄𝙻   𝙸𝙽   𝙷𝙾𝚆   𝙸𝚃   𝙼𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚂   𝙽𝙾𝚆,   soured   by   the   idea   of   catching   a   glimpse   of   fear   in   the   other’s   eyes   should   he   move   too   fast.   large   clawed   palms   moving   upwards,   tentatively   placed   to   hold   his   face.   the   touch   is   featherlight,   almost   hesitating   ‘fore   connecting.   all   of   the   nanites   dashing   happily   to   skin   and   returning   the   data   and   information   he   already   knew   :   our   apostle   !   ‘o   beautiful   defiant   thing   he   is   !      his   laugh   only   further   draws   him   in,   and   he   resides   himself   to   the   feeling   he   cannot   place.   thumbs   idly   brushing   against   his   cheek.   warm,   soft,   alive.   a   thousand   things   to   gather   from   the   ebb   and   flow   of   those   nanites   and   yet   all   of   the   important   questions   remain   unanswered.

❝   I   want   ...   to   touch   you.   I   want   to   put   you   at   ease,   to   see   you   as   you   are.   I   want   you   to   myself   in   a   way   I   don’t   quite   understand,   I   don’t   want   to   possess   you   as   mine   but   ...   I   would   like   to   call   you   it,   sometime.   but   most   importantly,   Miles,   I   would   like   to   kiss   you.   ❞

𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝙵𝚄𝙻𝙻   𝚁𝙴𝙸𝙶𝙽   𝙷𝙴   𝙾𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁𝚂   𝚃𝙾   𝙷𝙸𝙼,  it   takes   an   amount   of   trust   or   courage   that   is   not   lost   on   the   walrider.   a   gentle   hum   escaping   him   as   he   tilts   his   head,   seemingly   lost   in   the   moment   of   being   so   close   to   him.   a   lapse   in   his   demeanor,   something   tender   but   far   more   lighthearted   than   he’s   offered   previous.   a   smile   ever   present   in   his   words,   and   some   inhuman   chortle   at   that.   “ gentle   is   optional ”   hm?   certainly   not   what   he   expected,   but   then   again   Miles   was   always   full   of   surprises.

❝   eager   are   we?   ❞

𝙷𝙴   𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙴𝚂   𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙻𝚈,   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙽   𝙵𝙸𝚁𝙼,  chasing   more   of   the   static   electricity   coursing   through   him.   the   feeling   is   something   beyond   the   adrenaline   he’s   felt   before   spurring   him   onwards,   chasing   that   sweet   softness   just   a   bit   deeper.   a   plea   all   its   own   in   the   tender,   hungry   way   he   drinks   him   in :   please,   just   a   moment   longer   here   with   you.   it’s   only   the   reminder   that   his   host   needs   to   breathe   that   draws   him   out.   nervous   as   he   is,   he   desperately   clings   to   the   collected   front   that   staggers   to   its   place   as   he   pulls   away.   peppering   a   few   soft   kisses   along   the   corner   of   his   lips   and   cheek   before   parting   from   those   lips   completely.   the   walrider   does   not   need   to   breathe,   so   why   then   did   he   feel   so   completely   breathless?   his   tone   is   soft,   curious   and   concerned   all   in   one   as   he   coos.

❝   was   that   ...   alright?   ❞

#your honor they are so . . . #◜ response. ╱ ゜・ 🇾🇴🇺🇷 🇬🇴🇩 🇮🇸 🇳🇴🇹 🇸🇴 🇲🇪🇷🇨🇮🇫🇺🇱. ・゜ ◝ #walriding

[wclrider]

experiencing horrors beyond comprehension while i do the dishes rn

#◜ miles upshur. ╱ ゜・ 🇲​🇾​ 🇭​🇴​🇱​🇾​ 🇦​🇵​🇴​🇸​🇹​🇱​🇪​. ・゜ ◝

[wclrider]

actually my full gender is "dead man walking" but just "man" is fine too i guess

#looking directly at miles rn #◜ miles upshur. ╱ ゜・ 🇲​🇾​ 🇭​🇴​🇱​🇾​ 🇦​🇵​🇴​🇸​🇹​🇱​🇪​. ・゜ ◝

[wclrider]

Outlast Character Aesthetics : Miles Upshur

I blink and I see static, something else. Something oily and dark, descending beneath my eyelids. Watching me with organs I can’t imagine. But the sound is coming from the machine, too. From inside the walls. I know that sound.

#◜ miles upshur. ╱ ゜・ 🇲🇾 🇭🇴🇱🇾 🇦🇵🇴🇸🇹🇱🇪. ・゜ ◝ #oh my godddd my favorite entry in the main game #ohoho yes #this entry goes so fucking hard what the hell ough #the slow decent into madness. that the walrider is absolutely counting on #*RATTLES MY CAGE* #◜ queue. ╱ ゜・ 🇦🇱🇱 🇮🇳 🇩🇺🇪 🇹🇮����🇪﹐ 🇦🇵🇴🇸🇹🇱🇪. ・゜ ◝

[wclrider]

walriding​:

      He’s gotten used to the ebbs and flows of the Walrider’s emotional tides – or at least, he’d thought that he had. From the other he often felt scorn or anger, sometimes working in tandem with his own and at other times a response to the Host’s own actions. Or inactions, as the case has so often been. It’s almost funny in some strange sense, because Miles would have expected such an ageless creature to better understand the virtue of patience. But often it’s been Miles urging for a step back, a second look, a moment to gather thoughts and plan actions, to which the Walrider typically responds with his preferred brand of violent restlessness. 

      The fact that Miles’ dragging feet are now met with such gentle coaxing stands as an antithesis to everything once known. So often has the visage before him been a sign of impending chaos, an omen about as welcome as a mirror broken by a black cat. And yet now, the nature of his appearance soothes rather than upsets, and the cursory touch at the reporter’s cheek prompts his eyes to slide shut as a sigh escapes his lips. With a few breaths the warring thoughts within his mind lower their weapons, and the heartbeat hammering against his ribs steadies into a reliable rhythm. A strange meditation mediated by the thrumming of nanites against his skin.

     “What do you want?” he asks after being given that interlude to process. A question posed far more than once in their tumultuous history, now tinted with genuine concern and deference. There’s a faint pinching between his brows when dark eyes again open, a note of worry continuing to hold him back. “I don’t expect you to indulge me if it’s not something you want, too. Contrary to popular belief, I have some manners.”

𝙸𝚃   𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚅𝙴𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚂𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙼   𝚂𝚃𝚄𝙽𝙽𝙴𝙳,   a   moment   to   bring   peace   was   as   rare   a   feat   to   see   as   his   rebirth.   one   that   only   came   in   eons   it   seemed,   and   never   enough.   and   yet,   as   of   late,   he   hungered   to   bring   further   peace   to   his   fated   form.   holy   apostle,   witness,   host,   Miles.   the   titles   brandished   and   torn   upon   his   flesh   seemed   ill   fitted   in   a   way.   no   higher   praise,   he   thought,   than   to   be   his   witness   and   yet   he   scrabbles   for   something   higher   to   lay   upon   his   other’s   name.   such   old   archaic   thoughts   of   the   honors   it   was   to   be   owned   by   him,   a   transactional   thing   in   the   past   to   be   viewed   with   near   confusion   now.   he   did   not   understand   the   subtle   give   and   take,   or   that   of   nurturing   something,   building   something   with   an   individual   . . .   𝐁𝐔𝐓   𝐇𝐄   𝐖𝐀𝐒   𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐓𝐎.

𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝚂𝙾   𝙽𝙾𝚆   𝙷𝙴   𝙰𝚂𝙺𝚂   𝙷𝙸𝙼,   what   does   he   want.   and   in   all   the   creature’s   eons   of   waiting   and   lurching   to   rip   and   take,   claim,   and   break   what   he   seeks   he   cannot   place   an   answer.   or   rather,   he   can’t   place   one   he   can   speak,   not   yet   at   least.   somehow   just   an   unsure   as   his   apostle.   and   he’s   seen   lovers   race   away   o’er   his   hills,   find   some   alcove   of   shaded   moments   spent   in   each   other’s   arms.   he   did   not   understand   how   a   moment   like   that   could   last   forever,   but   . . .   [   𝚚   ;   𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝   𝚍𝚘   𝚢𝚘𝚞   𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝   ?         𝚊   ;   𝐈   𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭   𝐭𝐨   𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝   𝐲𝐨𝐮   𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫.   𝐈   𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭   𝐭𝐨   𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠   𝐲𝐨𝐮   𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞.   ]     a   flurry   of   overwhelming   emotion   spreading   throughout   the   swarm,   anxiety   warped   and   wrapped   in   exhilaration.   and   never   has   he   spoken   so   softly   to   anyone,   but   cannot   find   the   swell   of   power   and   ego   that   he   usually   decrees   with.   instead   it   comes   as   soft   as   a   breeze,   and   warm   like   the   sunlight   that   bathed   him   once.

❝   𝙸   𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝   𝚝𝚘   𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠   𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝   𝚒𝚝   𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝   𝚋𝚎   𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎   𝚝𝚘   . . .   ❞

𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈   𝙲𝙰𝙽’𝚃   𝚂𝙴𝙴𝙼   𝚃𝙾   𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙳   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳𝚂,   the   thought   bloomed   in   another’s   shared   mind.   yet   still   draws   forth   a   barrage   of   curiosity   and   nerves.   the   walrider   knew   rage,   he   knew   fear.   yes,   the   walrider   knew   the   relentless   wrath   that   gave   way   to   nonbelievers   dropping   to   their   knees   to   accept   their   fate,   staring   in   warped   horror   as   they   witnessed   him.   ---   what   did   it   mean   then,   to   be   cared   for?   to   lay   your   frame   on   another   to   seek   safety?   what   would   it   be   like   to   feel   held?   to   be   known?   questions   he   had   all   the   time   in   the   world   to   ponder   before   his   rebirth,   surely !   ...   but   questions   that   ne’er   came   to   him,   and   never   with   such   urgency,   as   when   Miles   pressed   upon   his   palm.

❝    𝙸’𝚍   𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎   𝚝𝚘   𝚝𝚛𝚢.   𝚒𝚏   . . .   𝚢𝚘𝚞   𝚊𝚛𝚎   𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐   𝚝𝚘   𝚊𝚜   𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕.   𝙸’𝚟𝚎   𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛   𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍   𝚊𝚗𝚢   𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖   𝙸’𝚟𝚎   𝚑𝚊𝚍   𝚏𝚘𝚛   𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐   𝚜𝚘   . . .   𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎.   ❞

#◜ response. ╱ ゜・ 🇾🇴🇺🇷 🇬🇴🇩 🇮🇸 🇳🇴🇹 🇸🇴 🇲🇪🇷🇨🇮🇫🇺🇱. ・゜ ◝ #walriding #◜ queue. ╱ ゜・ 🇦🇱🇱 🇮🇳 🇩🇺🇪 🇹🇮🇲🇪﹐ 🇦🇵🇴🇸🇹🇱🇪. ・゜ ◝

[wclrider]

#◜ visage. ╱ ゜・ 🇵🇪🇪🇷 🇮🇳🇹🇴 🇲🇪 🇦🇳🇩 🇸🇪🇪 🇪🇹🇪🇷🇳🇮🇹🇾. ・゜ ◝ #◜ aesthetic. ╱ ゜・ 🇸🇴🇲🇪🇹🇭🇮🇳🇬 🇴🇮🇱🇾 🇦🇳🇩 🇩🇦🇷🇰 🇩🇪🇸🇨🇪🇳🇩🇮🇳🇬 🇧🇪🇭🇮🇳🇩 🇲🇾 🇪🇾🇪🇱🇮🇩🇸. ・゜ #◜ queue. ╱ ゜・ 🇦🇱🇱 🇮🇳 🇩🇺🇪 🇹🇮🇲🇪﹐ 🇦🇵🇴🇸🇹🇱🇪. ・゜ ◝ #ouuuuu eldritch horror I looooove youuuuuu 😛😝

[wclrider]

OUTLAST - MORPHOGENIC ENGINE [Trigger Video]

#// gif warning #// flashing images #◜ character study. ╱ ゜・ 🇹🇭🇪 🇹🇭🇮🇳🇬 🇮🇳 🇹🇭🇪 🇲🇴🇺🇳🇹🇦🇮🇳. ・゜ ◝ #walrider: oh I love this song #song: sound of your brain turning to mush #walrider summoning video my beloved...