#Gravekeeper

[stage1decomp]

rape and nonconsensual touching but it extends into the aftercare.

youre angry at them and scared and flinching and after what they just did to your body you can barely stand on your own but when you can you try to shuffle and crawl away from them. you dont WANT them to bathe you, theyre probably just trying to wash evidence off but youre weak and shaking, you cant really fight them off. they grab you by the crook of your elbow and drag you to your feet, hauling you into the bathroom while you stumble or even drag uselessly behind them. you curse at them half heartedly when they drop you into their shower. you sputter as the water comes on, too cold and unexpected. they set up a chair near where youre sitting and roll up their sleeves, take a handful of your now wet hair and drag you to them. you shake and flinch as they drag you over, hands covering your face like theyre going to hit you. instead they just start to wash your hair. you freeze under the gentle touching, struggle to connect this behavior with everything else thats happened tonight. the water is warm now and theyre cooing at you and telling you you were good, you didnt behave yourself but you still made them feel so good and youre such a good pet, or you will be once they break you a little further. you sit there dumbfounded and humiliated as they talk to you like a child or a scared animal. you dont notice your shoulders relax or how youve started leaning into their hands, but they do. they mutter vague sounds of approval at your submission, the first time youve behaved all fucking night. as soon as they finish with your hair they move to your body, gently lathering you with soap while you try to hide yourself. one smack to one of your bruised wrists is all it takes to get you to stop covering up now. the violence, the violation, the beating, the tears, and now the warm water, the whiplash, the soft touching, the confusion, its all made you so pliant. you dont say anything when they take extra care to wash your holes. you only shoot them a look when they say “good as new, like nothing ever happened.” they turn off the water and wrap you in a soft, fluffy towel. you look shell shocked and they cant help but laugh that now and only now is when you want to disconnect from your body. once it feels safe. they scoop you up and take you back to the bed you were just violated on. talking down to you as they put you in pajamas and bottle feed you water like a sick lamb, first manhandling your limp spacey body into some underwear youve never seen before (did they have that waiting for you? how long have they planned to do this to you), then a tshirt. they chide you when you dont move to help get it on yourself. clicking their tongue and telling you “arms up” like a child. you move sluggishly and hesitantly but do as they say. they put the shirt on you and kiss your head, thanking you for being so good. you feel sick. they maneuver you into their bed finally so that they can hold you to their chest. as you start to drift off in spite of yourself, they whisper “dont even think about running off tonight. you havent seen anything yet.” in your ear

[mausoleum-letterbox]

Today, she wears beige and cream—spared, yet, from years of wear and tear.

Today, they're as new as the day she bought them, and February is a beautiful, frigid affair. Snow still sticks to the untrampled stones, not yet slush.

Pressed close to her hip, he holds to her hand—sticky child, with his fingers scrubbed free of grime. His own is barely just smaller, barely able to still be swallowed whole. His eyes watch the pendulum made by their movements ; a unit, together, a grandfather clock. It isn't until she speaks, voice muffled by the wind, voice muffled by his own distraction,

"Schavo," and he looks up.

He does not respond. His tongue is dry in his mouth, his cheeks whipped red in the blustery air. He won't respond, he thinks, in that childhood sort of stubbornness, until they're back in the cottage—tucked safely between the treeline and the shore.

Instead, he stares at her expectantly, wide eyes marveling at those that peer back. His are brown like newborn fawn, light and soft with all-seeing innocence.

Hers are tired. He doesn't yet know why.

At least her voice is lively, sing-song, in time with birds he'll grow to miss. "Schavo."

He's plenty far off from knowing how much he'll miss her, too.

Today, he turns nine, and he clings to the hem of her dress, letting her drag him about the market.

"What does my schavo wish to eat tonight?" She studies his face, dark eyes scrutinizing what pinkens in the cold. Studious, always, they betray the soft edges of her mouth. "Rabbit?" She nudges, like she's a youth all the same.

He blinks. He shrugs.

Another push, soft, her forearm or her hip. She's trying at humorous. "Maybe /hen,/ hm?"

He can feel his face contort, cold settled into browbone, creaking when he frowns. She laughs at his disgust, and he can feel the reverb burrow into his chest, leaving ache where it tunnels.

"This picky son of mine," she speaks to no one but herself—and him, who stands at her side, trembling with the weight of her judgement. A hand cards through his hair, the one not bound to carry bundles of fabric, and coils loose curls around her fingers. She'd only braided his hair this morning, and half-til-noon, it's already come undone.

He blinks back hot tears and focuses on her dress, on how he leaves marks that seep into the fabric. Sootlike, almost, as they cool with the air ; the ache in his chest drips into his gut and pools. Corrodes, then, into guilt.

"Oh, come, now," soft coo, when she realizes he's sniffling. She takes her hand from his hair, only to snake her arm around his head. Half-way hug, an embrace made all the more awkward by the way they stand by stall. "You needn't cry."

It's meant to be soft, he thinks—in the moment, relived, it's more of a chide. She presses her lips to the top of his head, but does not purse them ; settled, stitch-straight, against his crown.

She pulls away before he can bury himself in it.

"Do you want rabbit," she tries, again, as she shuffles them away from the weaver's stand, "or lamb? Sweet boy."

He blinks away what blurs her face, but fixes his eyes on the ground. He feels /brattish,/ like this, clinging to her, offering nothing.

/"Lamb,"/ He whispers, because nothing that comes from his mouth is anything but meek. Mousy boy, white as rat. "Please, dej," he adds, and buries his begging in her frock.

Again, she laughs, clucking softly as it trills. His face is hot with the shame of it.

He tries to wipe it off, the burning humiliation, tries to soften shame in the cotton on her hip.

She doesn't comfort him, this time. She turns, and he can feel cotton slip through his fingers, just as time will.

Stone-still, his little boots cemented to the road, he blocks plenty of traffic. His mother is swept away in the underbrush, or maybe she leaves with it. A dread bubbles as snot does, something he'll live day to day with, soon.

The folk that wash out all sight of her offer no kindness—glares spared, not glances, at the anchor sitting ashore. Everything blends together, people and faces, dresses and pants. Even his hiccuping, messy sobs are drowned out by the undercurrent, beat set not by the pound of his heart, but the gallop of their boots.

There's a hand in his, at some point, one that pulls him aside. The voice that must be connected to it chides a familiar word, as he struggles to shuffle in time.

"I'm sorry," he weeps, as she boxes around him, crouching to his height. Her lovely dress settles on the murky ground, and more apologies spill in time with the sway of dirtying hem. "I'm /sorry,/ dej, /I'm sorry,"/

His voice cracks, dropped porcelain, as she holds him in her arms.

/"Schavo,"/ she has to interrupt, as he presses his cheek into the crook of her neck. He seeks to hide in the warmth that she shields him with, but they both know she won't allow that. His shoulders are dwarfed by her hands. "My, Andrew, what has gotten into you?"

"I'm sorry." He's sniveling, pathetic child, as he presses the balls of his palms into his eyes. So that he might not see hers, so that he might only feel the softer side of her scorn.

This is not allowed ; she pulls his hands down, and watches, carefully, as his head lolls.

"My Andrew," her repetition is much more purposeful than his. "You were so excited to come with me, today." Her voice is sadder than it was ; he wishes he could say more than what breaks from his lips.

"I'm sorry, dej," her dress is dirty with snow, and now her shoes are painted in his tears.

She tuts, holds him, all angles and frail edges, close to her heart. "I know."

He knows he's mussing up her dress worse, even as she's fussing over his hair ; he leaves her apron stained and snotty, and she slicks his cowlicks down, toying with braids unbecoming.

"But what have you to be sorry for?" Her fingers seek to split them, undo, redo, by this stall. She doesn't, though, just lays her fingers against. "It's only supper, bakri, it isn't supposed to /scare/ you."

Just because she smiles—it doesn't wash his sour sadness away. She sighs, places palm against his cheek.

"I only want you to be happy today. It's such a /good/ day, too, all yours ; can't you do that, for this dej of yours?"

The shrug he gives is met with hardly-pitying snort. She rubs her thumb along what remains of baby fat. He grows thinner by the day, and they both know it.

"Oh, /please,/ sweet boy? Where's my happy schavo, who was so excited to come with me into town?

"Where's my sweet Selim, hm? The one who made his dej braid his hair?" She twists what remains of rowdy plaits, pushes bushy ends against his cheeks. When he laughs, a bit of shine returns to her eyes—or maybe he's blinking away what remains of his tears. He covers his eyes with his hands, again, to hide from ticklish onslaught.

"Could that son of mine gone off while I was talking to the weaver, hm? Run along to join the lambs, butting heads all the while?" Pointer taps against her chin, feigning daydream.

He snickers from beneath his fingers, peering out to see faux thought. Her smile seems more genuine, her eyes alight with a luster she loses much too often,

"No, no, my Selim is a good boy," her thumbs slip between the cracks against his face, yet she doesn't yank when she pries. "He's only hiding in plain sight!"

She scoops him up, giggling wild, and fixes him on the hip that doesn't hold bundle.

"There he is, my Selim—who doesn't have a thing to cry for, today! Too good a birthday to be ruined by some tears," a kiss to his temple, then to his cheek, until all that stings is the giddiness of grin, and his cheeks aren't stained salty any longer.

"Now, you help this mother of yours!" They're both brighter when she lowers him to his feet, and tucks tall wrappings into his hand. "You help me carry these, Andrew, and I'll carry our lamb."

And, after he nods a final time, eyes bright like the spring soon approaching, he's the one to drag her to the butcher's stall—

—

When he wakes with a startle, he finds his face is damp, his hair slick with sweat. His pillow is stained, already—

The sob that rips from his chest is violent, visceral ; the frame shakes as he does, too.

[catucchi]

weepydrew for @metrotteca !!! <3

[pandamorphic]

SEPULCHRE, THE GRAVEKEEPER

•

A dense fog blankets the moor, leaving only faint ghosts of markers long forgotten, in patterns once revered ages before. At the farthest copse of struggling, scraggly trees lies a small monument cut from stone; a hole, gaping like a maw, stretches down, down, beneath the earth into shadow. A pair of eyes like the dead peer up as if they heralded the end of all before them.

•

Ok i really enjoyed making this one!! Also the wraps change their eye color to be slightly less spooky when they want, and it may also ward off bad luck or spirits 0: AB is $30! (But offer what you can)

As always you can change whatever when bought, including making it non wof

[dolliebabs]

wip

Andrew Kreiss my beloved

[sirenjose]

Andrew's 4th Letter and Who's With Him

(Doing this for @LEx2THA on twitter's request)

We know:

3-0-1 is Andrew, 3-1-3 is Antonio, and the Will brothers (Polun) are with them. 3-?-2, 3-1-4, and 3-1-5 are the unknowns.

Polun I suspect is 3-?-2, as Andrew's 3rd letter mentions 3-?-2 and 3-1-3 having "noticeable emotional expressions". Based on Polun's personality + the fact they wear masks, they'd fit the "noticeable emotional expressions" descriptions. Then there's how in their 2nd letter, they mention Andrew started avoiding them after they asked him to "play a supporting role in their performance". This matches with Andrew in his 3rd letter stating he avoids 3-?-2 (and 3-1-3).

And Polun's 2nd letter mentions them getting dizzy after a feast, and 3-1-2 is described to be 1 of the first to be affected by the drugged wine during a "dinner party".

3-1-4 and 3-1-5 are harder to determine.

What we know about 3-1-4 is that they are polite, have themes involving trauma and faith, and are eliminated after being involved in arson beneath a stage.

My best guess at the moment is that 3-1-4 could be Sangria, who also has themes of faith and trauma in her story (faith related to the red lady, and trauma such as how her father beat her offstage and saw her as a toy). The ending of her backstory and deductions, where she leaps into a fire after a performance would fit with potentially being eliminated after a fire near a stage.

My current issue with her is I'd like confirmation Sangria is alive/real (not saying she is or isn't, just I wish I was more certain), as dead hunters aren't participants of the games (ex: Mary, Wu Chang, etc…).

There is Matthias, who we know burns Louis backstage and causes his parents' deaths would relate to the arson/elimination bit too, but the faith bit doesn't seem to fit with him.

There is someone like Ann, who does have faith themes in her story, but we know she's with Alva (based on her 2nd leter), who doesn't appear to be one of Andrew's teammates, and ergo I don't think she's here either.

That leaves 3-1-5. We know that they're good at disguising their true intentions, at sensing other's emotions, are hostile to Andrew, and wear a "facade created through acting" (uses when he lies to Andrew via fake praise). And they may eliminate Andrew and 3-1-4.

Honestly, based on the little we know about Florian from his recent trailer, I wonder if he may be 3-1-5. In a sense he is in the "spotlight" based on the whole bit with him being a "miracle" and how he "learned to play along with the stories" to receive more sympathy and donations, though we know from his trailer and hints from his backstory that he likely starts a fair number of fires (like in the scene where he drops a match with some nun not far away). So he would be the type not to be bothered by endangering or eliminating others. And it's also possible, based on his outlook about his parent's love still being with him, just "absorbed into the flames", and him being a miracle due to their sacrifice, which alleviates his pain at not seeing them, could be why he might be hostile to Andrew.

Andrew's mother did all she could to protect Andrew, but Andrew wants to die to be with her.

Compared to Florian, who may believe he is a "miracle" resulting from his parents' love, parents that did all the could to protect him.

Maybe he'd dislike the idea of Andrew throwing away his life after all his mother did to protect him?

I don't know, it's a bit hard for me to describe my thoughts rn, but hopefully I got at least some of it across.

(And we really do need Florian's deductions to know for sure.)

[ask-twistedgravekeeper]

"I think I my have a bit of a backlog ta get ta but I'm sure it's nothin' I can't handle~" @foodielovethealicorn @ask-summer-epos

[sierradoodle]

Pastor Andrew from the IdentityV 5th Anniversary Event. I wanted this as a skin so bad!!

[lord-businessss]

AHAHAHAHGAGAHAHAGHHAGAHHAKWOWUEJWKWNSFDJSUWYWJWHWVWCW HAHAHHAHAHAHAHHEHHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHHEEHEHEHHEHEEHHEEEEEHEHEHEH ANDREWWWWWW

[ladymoony-art]

To elevate the man...

[vanillayoteart]

Buried.

IF YOU ARENT DEAD, how come you are being buried in a grave then, mr graverobber? Not so smart now huh!  Something spooky for from my weekly streams in October!

[stage1decomp]

trying to cope during your rape by self soothing until your rapist notices and starts mocking you for it and going harder and harder until you cant disassociate or keep track of what you were telling yourself and youre forced to be in that moment with them living out that experience fully and exactly how they want you to

[modelingbonds]

[pensable]

[cowb0y63]

Hello IDV community

[vampyresonata]

Bury me in burgundy, I just don't care! Nothing's left-- I looked everywhere! Is this how I die? Was there ever any other way my life could be?

andrew means a lot to me and the arc that he is on will stab me so hard into the chest. i just know it. epitaph makes me think. a lot.