Fan creation chapter ( killer and survivor)
So I’ve had this idea bouncing around my brain for a while and decided to try and submit it ( maybe behaviour and everyone else will like it )
I honestly love the lore of this game and can’t wait to see more … such as the horror ( dear lord let me write that characters lore I have SO many ideas 😂)
Chapter title: Fairytale for the dammed.
themes : gothic stories and tales
Setting: Bremen, Germany- 16th century ( think grims tales.) ( also I’ve been listening to Bremen by Pigpen Theatre Co.)
Survivor : Mildburg Blatz. Theme: not everything that looks bad is.
Meaning: Derived from the Old English elements milde "gentle" and burg "fortress". Saint Mildburg or Milburga, the sister of Saint Mildred, was a daughter of a 7th-century Mercian king. She was supposedly in possession of magical powers.
Backstory: Mildburg was born beneath a bad omen. At least, that was what the neighbours said.
Her father was a physician employed by the royal court of Bremen. He was respected, educated, and trusted with the lives of those who could afford his services. Until the queen gave birth to twins. Both children died. There were complications during the delivery that her father could not prevent. It did not matter. The court demanded someone to blame. A physician was convenient.
Mildburg’s father was eventually sentenced to death. No amount of pleading from his family changed the decision. No evidence could save him. No physician could save a physician. The execution was carried out publicly. Mildburg was young enough to remember his face but old enough to understand what the crowd was cheering for. She remembered the rope. She remembered her mother’s screaming. She remembered her father’s eyes. Not frightened. Not angry. Just tired.
After his execution, Mildburg’s family remained in Bremen. Her mother refused to leave. Her sisters tried desperately to preserve what remained of their family’s reputation, hoping that time might allow them to reclaim some portion of the life they had once possessed. They dressed properly. They attended church. They lowered their voices when speaking about the court. They learned to smile when nobles passed. They tried to become invisible. Mildburg did not.
She had never been particularly good at becoming what people wanted her to be. Where her sisters were graceful, Mildburg was awkward. Where they enjoyed embroidery and courtly gossip, Mildburg preferred dissecting plants to discover which could heal and which could kill. She hated the suffocating perfumes worn by wealthy women. She preferred the smell of crushed rosemary. She was fascinated by bones, insects, mushrooms, roots, and the strange shapes plants took when left to grow wild.
She could spend hours beside the river watching fish move beneath the surface. She learned to recognise plants by touch. She knew which leaves eased a fever. Which roots settled an aching stomach. Which flowers could stop bleeding. Which mushrooms would make a person violently ill. And which ones would kill them. People found this knowledge unsettling. A woman was supposed to be gentle. Mildburg was gentle. They simply didn’t understand that gentleness did not mean ignorance.
Eventually, Mildburg left. She travelled north, away from Bremen’s crowded streets and stone buildings, until she found an abandoned cottage beside the river. It was small. Damp. Half-rotten. The roof leaked. The chimney smoked. The garden was overgrown. Mildburg loved it.
For the first time in her life, nobody was telling her how she was supposed to behave. She repaired the roof herself. She planted vegetables. She kept chickens. She acquired three goats. She learned to fish.
She gathered herbs from the surrounding woodland and hung them from the rafters of her cottage until the entire house smelled of lavender, rosemary, sage, mint, and drying flowers. Bundles of plants hung from every beam. Clay jars lined the shelves. Mortars and pestles sat beside old books. Bundles of roots were tied with twine. Glass bottles contained strange liquids of varying colours. At night, candlelight flickered across the walls. To Mildburg, it was home. To everyone else, it was a witch’s cottage. The rumours began almost immediately. A woman living alone in the woods.
But Mildburg never corrected anyone.
There was something strangely liberating about being feared by people who had already decided they hated you.
So she let them whisper.
Hag. Devil’s woman. Witch.
Mildburg simply continued making medicine. And occasionally, when someone secretly left an injured child outside her door, she treated them. She never asked their name. She never asked who had sent them. She simply helped.
Mildburg disappeared without a witness. There was no struggle. No scream. No body. No evidence that anything had happened at all.
One evening, she returned from the river carrying a basket of fish. She fed the goats. Collected eggs. Hung the fish to dry. She stirred a pot of herbal broth over the fire. Then she noticed something strange. The flame had turned black. Mildburg stared. Smoke poured out and swallowed her whole
Mildburg quickly discovered that survival in the Fog required more than running. She used what she knew. She recognised plants. She learned which mushrooms could be safely eaten. She collected berries. She treated wounds. She brewed medicines. She made poultices. She learned which sounds meant a Killer was approaching. She learned to listen to the Fog. And she discovered something remarkable.
The Fog’s rules were not entirely different from nature’s. Everything had a pattern.
An idea I had for one of her perks would be an invocation perk. Something like a witches brew. I think from the ideas I had it would need to be a once per trial think - survivors can only drink on brew and the person who started the invocation would need to have a penalty such as having to be selfish and drink all the brew to have the same effect ( due to the person knowing the invocation having a higher tolerance)
A Survivor may drink one bottle.Upon drinking it, the Survivor begins to shed their skin.
The process is instantaneous but visually unsettling. Their old skin peels away in translucent fragments before dissolving into silver dust. The Survivor becomes briefly surrounded by a shimmering, silvery trail. Broken pieces of what resemble glass scatter behind them as they move. The brew removes one negative Status Effect affecting the Survivor.
Aesthetically I’d like Mildburg to look like a stereotypical fairytale villain.
Killer - The Damsel
Theme: trying to protect something may not end in the best outcome
Aesthetic: stereotypical princess look.about 5’3- long wheat colour hair and icy blue doe eyes.
Name :Cynethryth ( From the Old English elements cyne "royal" and þryþ"strength". This name was borne by an 8th-century queen of Mercia.)
Cynethryth was a young woman born into a lower level of the royal court system in 16th century Germany, specifically Bremen. Historians agree that the later 16th century was, for many, a time of economic hardship and social stress.
Cynethryth was neither noble enough to command a room nor poor enough to disappear within one. She existed somewhere between the two. A damsel of the system. Pretty enough to be noticed. Well-mannered enough to be useful. And powerless enough to be ignored
Cynethryth possessed a stubborn sense of right and wrong. She believed that cruelty should have consequences. She believed the weak deserved protection. And, perhaps most dangerously of all, she believed that justice should be fair.
Hunting was among the favourite pastimes of Bremen’s wealthiest families. It was a display of status as much as sport.
A nobleman’s ability to kill a stag was celebrated. The taking of a boar became a story told over dinner. Exotic trophies were displayed upon walls, their lifeless eyes staring eternally into the halls of those who had conquered them.
Cynethryth had accompanied hunting parties before, though she had never cared for the bloodshed. On one particular autumn morning, she ventured into the forest alone.Her bow rested comfortably in her hand.The forest was unusually quiet.
The wind barely disturbed the branches overhead, and the golden leaves carpeting the ground muffled her footsteps. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in thin shafts, illuminating patches of wildflowers and long grass. Then she heard it. A sob. Cynethryth stopped. It came again. A soft, broken whimper.
She followed the sound through the trees, expecting to find an injured horse. Instead, she found something impossible.
A unicorn stood among the flowers.
Its coat was pale as moonlight, almost silver beneath the trees. Its mane drifted gently in the breeze despite the stillness of the forest, and its horn caught the sunlight with a faint, ethereal glow.
Yet it was crying. Tears shimmered beneath its enormous eyes. Cynethryth lowered her bow. The unicorn looked at her. She stared back.
For several moments, neither creature moved.
Then the unicorn slowly rose. Its legs trembled beneath its weight. It lowered its head. Its horn pointed directly toward Cynethryth.
The flowers beneath its hooves bent as it stepped forward.
Cynethryth felt no fear. Only sadness.
“You’re hurt,” she whispered.
The unicorn took another step.
Then…TWANG!
The sound of a bowstring tore through the silence. An arrow buried itself in the unicorn’s side. The creature screamed. It collapsed among the flowers.
A pale, almost luminous blue substance began to seep from the wound, staining the grass beneath its body. Cynethryth screamed.
“No!”
Laughter echoed between the trees. A young royal prince emerged from the forest, mounted upon a magnificent horse. His hunting party followed behind him, cheering and congratulating him upon his kill. He dismounted with a smug smile.
“What a magnificent prize.”
He approached the dying creature. Cynethryth stared at him in disbelief.
“You shot it.”
The prince laughed.
“Of course I did.”
“It was not hurting anyone.”
“And yet it will make a magnificent trophy.”
He reached for his sword. She moved before she could think. She threw herself over the unicorn’s body. Her arms wrapped around its trembling neck.
“You cannot take it.”
The prince stared at her. For the first time, his amusement disappeared.
“Move.”
“No.”
Her voice shook. But she did not move. The unicorn’s breathing became increasingly shallow beneath her.
Its enormous eyes remained fixed upon the prince. And something changed within them. The creature was dying. But it was not afraid anymore. It was angry. The prince raised his sword. Cynethryth squeezed her eyes shut. And then … The forest went silent. Not quiet. Silent.
No birds. No wind. No insects. Even the prince’s horse stopped breathing. A coldness settled over the clearing. Behind Cynethryth, something moved. A tendril of pitch-black fog slipped between the trees. Then another. And another. The darkness crawled across the forest floor like living fingers. Cynethryth opened her eyes.
The Fog had arrived.
The prince began to scream. Something enormous moved above the trees. Blackened claws descended from the sky. They seized the unicorn. Cynethryth refused to let go. She clung desperately to its mane.
“NO!”
The claws tightened. The unicorn’s body was dragged upward. Cynethryth went with it. Her fingers tore through its mane. The last thing she saw of the forest was the prince running. The last thing she heard was the unicorn’s dying cry. And then the Fog swallowed her.
BODY HORROR WARNING
Cynethryth awoke somewhere that had no sky. There was no sun. No moon. No birdsong. Only trees twisted into grotesque silhouettes and an endless sea of black mist. The unicorn lay beside her. Dead. Or what remained of it.
Cynethryth crawled toward the creature.
“I’m sorry.”
The words escaped as a whisper. She placed her hands against its neck.
And the Fog answered. Cynethryth screamed. Her spine arched violently as something beneath her skin began to move. Her arms twisted. Her fingers lengthened into blackened claws. Her legs buckled beneath her. Then came the sound of breaking bones.
CRACK.
Her body stretched.
CRACK.
The unicorn’s corpse convulsed. Its skeletal frame twisted unnaturally, its ribcage splitting and folding around Cynethryth’s changing form.
The two bodies began to merge. Flesh knitted with flesh. Bone fused with bone. Cynethryth’s torso became anchored to the unicorn’s enormous frame. Four equine legs tore from the creature’s body, their joints bending at impossible angles.
Her wheat-coloured hair darkened, becoming tangled and filthy, streaked with something that looked almost like dried blood. Her beautiful blue eyes remained. But whatever innocence had once lived within them was gone. The unicorn’s horn pierced upward from the centre of her brow. It was no longer radiant. It was black. Cracked. Dripping with pale-blue blood.
When Cynethryth finally opened her eyes, the Fog saw what she had become.
Not a damsel.
Not a victim.
Not a protector…
The unicorn’s grief had become her rage. Her compassion had become instinct. Her desire to protect had become possession. And her belief that the wicked should be punished had been twisted into something more personal:
No one would ever take anything from her again.
There is something particularly unsettling about encountering her in the Fog. From a distance, she almost resembles something beautiful. A pale unicorn wandering through an ancient forest.
Then she turns.
And you realise the unicorn has a woman’s torso fused into its body. Her face is stretched into an expression of perpetual grief. Her mouth opens too far when she screams. Her fingers drag along the ground, leaving furrows in the earth.
For her power I’d like to have her have a small burst charge to try and inpale the survivors on her horn and if she collides with the wall she temporarily gets stuck - but it’d also like her to have a range with her bow.
For her mori I’d love to have her use her horn to get the survivors between the eyes - she bows to them and the boom.
Thank you for taking the time to read this - and now it can finally leave my brain 😂
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