#( renato you have the power to touch his heart and make him feel joy again for the first time in . . . a very very very long time even

[bingbxng]

Renato moves to sit beside him carefully. A little closer than someone else might deem comfortable. "Your bell gives me nightmares." He admitted, shrugging as if The Wraith asked. Fingers picking at the imaginary lint on his pants, before tapping nervously. He decided to strike up a conversation, something he wasn't exactly the best at -- now he was beginning to get in his own head. Anxious, not out of fear, death wasn't looming, not yet. Fear of the unknown, of messing up something as simple as talking.

Generators were not an issue, he could concentrate, knowing exactly what has to be done. This -- This freaked him out more than he'd admit.

"You look like you have nightmares. You watch us often, but you keep quiet, to yourself." He wasn't aware he was overstepping. Just pointing out his observations. "Maybe not in the normal sense of the word. I don't take you as the type to scream, jolting from a night terror.. but you are living one, aren't you? Just like most of us? -- I didn't ask to be here. I was living the dream, well -- my dream . My shop was finally blooming. Phones, that ringing also kept me up at night. Anyways, phones were ringing off the hook. Sadly it's probably been sold now. -- The kites brought to a junk yard, auctioned. Either way, the love they were supposed to get, they're not going to get anymore." The words just kept falling from his lips. He didn't intend to ramble. He had a plan. Come sit with The Wraith, and not say a word.. Just sit. -- He couldn't even last three seconds.

"I know you're a killer, and i'm supposed to be a survivor, but no one likes to be alone." His words came out more somber than usual. The gleam in his eyes darkening. He felt alone at times. Even around others, he was drowning in despair. No one understood. He looked happy, he was happy for the most part. Trying to find the beauty in everything, even the fog. Even death -- but he had his moments, and when they came, they took over. Consumed him completely.

"You enjoy it? Killing? Ever get satisfaction giving the last survivor a hatch? Some sense of joy?" Renato barely gave him time to process the rest of his words, before he moved onto the next subject.

@deadlykitefight | PRISONER OF THE FOG: MAIN

Curious. Exceptionally curious. The last thing Philip anticipated, finding a log to himself deep in the woods between respective campfires, was a chatterbox finding him and not running away in fear. The Wraith's idle chitters vibrated in his throat as the boy approached (and in his head, that was exactly what Renato was: a boy -- though perhaps the Fog would shift him into a man before long) and his spindly fingers clenched around Azarov's spinal column. Had such a cruel instrument become something of a safety blanket to the killer? Sometimes he considered parting ways with it. Discarding such a foul memory from his psyche in favor of his own personal growth. But The Fog had transformed Philip into a ghastly caricature of who he once was; condemned him to the suffering of loneliness between acts of slaughter. And how could he blame the very same he was tasked with hunting for keeping their distance?

Impatience lingered in the wake of the survivor's rambling, though there was no ignoring the effect such a bold, seemingly fearless approach had on him. Admittedly, no one had ever willingly placed themselves so close to his vicinity before. Another curiosity. One that admittedly made him the slightest bit uncomfortable.

"You speak as if you may not have time to finish a thought before death finds you," the Wraith uttered with a flat yet animalistic tone. Was he living as the Lyra brother implied? The name bestowed upon him by the Entity would suggest otherwise, yet a beating beneath his slender chest would remind him of what traces of Philip Ojomo's humanity remained.

"But I take no enjoyment in bloodshed beyond what I am bound to. Joy has never been a guiding factor in any of my decisions. Just as your own seem to be lacking in . . . self-preservation." A beat passed in which a beady stare hesitated beneath the silver facade he had yet to remove for some time. He struggled to recall when the last time his muddied features had a chance to breathe from outside of its confines. Yet another security blanket gifted to him by the Entity, perhaps. "Why have you come here?"