Dead by Daylight The waiting continues..

12/06/2017 05:07:00 pm
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Dead by Daylight The waiting continues..

The waiting continues..

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 08:38 AM PST

Drew The Hag !

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 12:29 PM PST

Anypne else tired and bored of the last survivor alive hide and seek that last 5+ minutes?

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 05:56 AM PST

Cuz I am. The hatch is annoying by itself but thats another issue, I'm much more annoyed when the last survivor cant find the hatch, and I can't find them.

Then begins this obnoxious dance of hide and seek that does nothing but irritate and bore to tears, so I suggest a little change to help both sides.

Give both parties Whispers after a minute for the survivor, and a minute thirty seconds for the killer. If the killer is within 36 meters of the survivor, aoooaahhoooohaaaa. If the survivor is within 36 meters of the hatch, aoooaahhooohaaaa. If the killer already has whispers, make it directional.

Or just fucking magnetize the survivor through the hatch after a hot minute just jesus christ I'm BORED.

submitted by /u/ShadeCrenshaw
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Patch 1.8.2d

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 11:45 AM PST

Patch 1.8.2d

BUG FIXING

Fixed an issue causing players to lose their save game if they did not yet have a profile created on the Dead by Daylight backend servers (If they hadn't played since May 2017).

Fixed an issue that could cause a loss of save game when Steam services goes down.

Steam Forum Link: http://steamcommunity.com/app/381210/discussions/16/1480982338946530500/

submitted by /u/BreadPear
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Haddonfield must be incredibly alien to the Huntress

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 02:27 AM PST

I don't think she's very accustomed to environments like that. Let alone Lery's Memorial Institute.

submitted by /u/HunterDoodles
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How to counter Gen rushing

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 12:09 PM PST

The Wraith(story)

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 07:55 AM PST

Link to previous: The Hillbilly

Philip had a routine. It was not a complex one, but it was his. He would get up with the sun, every morning, opening his blinds to check on Raincaller.

The little bird had gained his name when he called to Philip as he had been leaving the house, warning him of the violent storm clouds that hovered overhead. The bird had never done this again, but the name had stuck.

He would then go to the bathroom and wash any accumulated dirt from his nails, always attempting to discern the difference between his dark skin and the dust without his light, and always failing. It was his little game.

He would eat breakfast at his small table, munching happily on apples and bananas. His chair was too small for him, but he never replaced it. The wood was old and worn, and Philips big hands had repaired it too many times to count. As far as he was concerned, it was a part of the family now.

Philip's house was his family to him, you see. The counters were his brothers, the chairs and tables his father, the sink his mother, and the bed his wife. He cared for the house, and it cared for him. That was all he needed.

Then, as the sun began to climb into the sky in earnest, Philip would lay out a special mat, reach into his cupboard, bring out his special bells and incense burners, and he would pray there for as long as he felt he needed. Some days it would only be for a few minutes at a time, so short that the act of preparing was more than the actual praying.

Other days, he would sit there, motionless, for hours on end as the sun rose and fell. Azaraov had learned to accept this strange quirk, and Philip was a valuable and skilled enough worker that he let the odd missed day go.

When that was done, he would push open the door and walk down the street, hands in his pockets, whistling. He would pass into the part of the town where street corners were avoided, angry glares stared out of alleys, and money was passed to men in blue uniforms. He wasn't bothered. Back home he had seen much worse than this, and he was big enough that no one dared touch him.

Finally, he would pull a small, shined key from inside his jacket, and open the chain-link fence to where he worked. Still whistling, he would gaze across his domain. Autohaven Wreckers. Strictly speaking, the place belonged to Azaraov, the man who employed Philip. But he was never here, and so in Philip's mind, the place was his.

He would breathe deep, taking in the sight of the cars he was set to compress. Some would be old, some new. Some would creak when his crane grabbed them. Others wouldn't. Each one had a personality, and Philip loved learning them as he worked.

But today was different. Today, two people were standing near the cars, near an old BMW. One of the figures waved Philip over, and the big man was surprised to see Azaraov, standing with a black-skinned teenager.

Azaraov introduced the two, pausing slightly at Philips name. Philip wasn't paying attention. He was watching the young man, his face breaking into a wide smile when he saw the mark on the kids arm. He shared the same mark, and he embraced the teenager as a brother. The two talked for a little while, but soon Azaraov made some gesture, and the teenager moved towards his office with him, his face somehow paler than before.

Philip got to work.

He moved the keychain on which the key to the Wreckers lay, thumbing the key to the crane, bringing the machine to purring life. He tested the arm, the squeak of joints music to his ears. He studied the old BMW, bringing the claw down over its doors, the sharp points digging into the metal.

He swung it up and sideways, humming to himself. The metal groaned and thumped. He frowned. Metal didn't usually thump.

Philip debated getting out of the crane to check if there was some kind of suitcase or other belonging left in the trunk.

He took another look at the state of the vehicle. Then he shook his head. No, nobody would leave something important in that thing. The seats were too old, the metal rusted and unkempt. No, this poor machine had been forgotten about for far too long.

He smiled again. No longer will you be forgotten, little car, he thought to himself. I will take care of you from now on. He moved the machine sideways again, over the mouth of the crusher.

He took a hand off the controls, saluting the old machine. Into the next life, friend, he thought. With that, he pulled a lever on his control console, and the claw dropped the car into the crusher with an ugly screech.

Again levers clicked and whirred, and the crusher roared into action. Philip sat and watched as the metallic creature crushed down the car into a simple cube. He smiled. The simplicity of it all made Philip feel complete, in some way. He reached to the full extent of his arms, brushing his fingers against a button, inset in the wall of his crane. A conveyor belt sluggishly tugged the cube away, and Philip repeated the process.

Hours into his work that felt like minutes, he heard angry voices. The teenager slammed open the door to Azaraov's office, storming off past the lines of cars. Azaraov followed after him, running with keys glinting in the moonlight. Philip almost turned away, before he saw the black sheen of the gun.

He turned back, frowning past the rusty vehicles, watching. Waiting. Soon enough he heard the shot, and he flinched. His smile was long gone now, and he squinted through the fog. Presently, Azaraov came through, the gun gone from his hand. He was leading a rusted-up old junker from the back of the line, keeping a hand on its rusted hood.

A big white man was pushing the car from behind, the two shouting half-baked instructions to each other. They pushed it up near the crusher, under the great claw of the crane.

Azaraov slammed his hand against the hood as the other man panted, shouting at Philip that this one needed to be done first. No exceptions.

The big man tried to protest, but Azaraov glowered at him, so he sighed and moved down to inspect the car.

The thing was an old Mini Cooper with a bent and rusted license plate: AGS-2730.

It wasn't much to look at, but Philip was sure someone had loved it once. He hoped wherever the metal went, someone would love it again.

Azaraov stalked back to his office, and Philip began his work. At least, he would have, if he didn't notice a single trail of blood, leading down from the trunk, down into the wheelwell.

The stuff seemed to glimmer in the soft light, an almost purple glow to it. Philip found himself fascinated by it, almost too much to actually check the trunk for whatever was there.

He shook off the stupor, and opened the rusted trunk. It came up with little difficulty. It had been loosened recently.

Inside, bound and gagged with bruises and blood lining his face, was the teenager from earlier in the day. A brutal gunshot wound had punctured his torso, the skin around his eyes tight with pain.

Philip, in this moment of utter chaos, found himself calm, collected. His eyes sharpened in the light, and he saw clearer. He saw the path the gun must have taken, and he saw which bruises were freshest.

Avoiding the more recent wounds, he tore the bindings off the young man's hands and feet, letting him take the gag off himself.

He tried to get some answers out of the boy, but he just seemed to be in shock.

Then, quick as a snake, the boy shoved Philip hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back with shock.

A vicious insult snagged at his ears as the boy bolted across the yard, running as fast as his legs would carry him.

It wasn't fast enough.

One minute the boy was running, the next a violent bang tore at Philips eardrums, and the boy was rocketing sideways.

His head knocked into the ground, his eyes dull and dead, a bloody hole tunneling through his head, just above the ear.

Azaraov stood in the doorway of his office, the gun aimed dead center at where the boy had been running.

Philip was still as stone as Azaraov pocketed the gun, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Azaraov explained to the big man what he had truly been doing in this dread place.

You see, Philips value had not been in how hard he worked, or how efficiently. These helped his standing with his boss, yes, but the true reason Philip was kept around was as an executioner.

Every car he had crushed, every section of metal he had lovingly learned about as he worked, they were nothing more than coffins. Each had held a soul, set to be murdered by an unwitting hand.

Inside his head, Philip was pacing in circles, bouncing around his own thoughts. Everything he prayed for, everything he had worked for, was peace. A simple life, live and let live. But now he had gone against everything his parents back home taught him. He was a monster.

Azaraov, perhaps attempting to put some spring back in the big man's step, mentioned that if he could keep quiet about all this, he could of course keep his job here, and might even get a significant raise at that.
Philips eyes slowly turned to his employer. Something about that sentence. Something about the inherent belief that greed could keep him here, a killer, a monster. It enraged him.

Cold fury filled his bone marrow, his heart stilling as every sound became crystal clear.

Philip had always been a big man, huge by most standards, standing head and shoulders above the crowd. Now he used that strength to horrible effect.

He picked up the little man that had tried to bribe him, closing a fist around his throat. A hand flashed for a gun, but Philip caught the gadget in a crushing grip. Azaraov cried out in pain, and again he found Philip's eyes turned to meet his own.

But there was something different in those eyes. Something dark, something terribly cold.

Philip twisted the gun from his hand, tossing it to the ground like so much trash. He brought his fist back.

It took three to reduce Azaraov to a limp sack of meat, and Philip delivered them with brutal efficiency. He hoisted the man onto his shoulder, carrying him towards the crusher. There was no emotion left now, nothing but the job. The dirty work.

He tossed the limp body into the crusher, sparing it not a second glance, moving to the control console.

Azaraov woke, scrabbling against the sides as Philip pulled himself into the crane, flipping levers and pushing buttons.

The crusher hummed and screeched, Azaraov screaming and begging as the steel slowly closed around him.

He managed to find purchase on one of the walls, clambering clumsily up like a crab. Philip watched with dull eyes. He wouldn't make it.

Azaraov got his head and one shoulder above the crushers reach, but the steel jaws caught his midsection and other arm, and as it crushed him down, he screamed.

Philip slowly got out of the crane, watching the blood trickle down the crushers sides. Azaraov's head and arm still stuck out, the bones severed and mangled.

In a trance Philip approached the body. Something overtook him then, something dark and hungry. In a sudden rage, he seized the head below the chin, putting his foot against the slick steel. He roared in rage, and the head came off with a sickening pop, the severed spine coming with it. Philip fell, and all was quiet again.

He stood there for hours, staring as the blood clotted against the metal, before the Man found him.

He was never one thing for more than a second, shifting and morphing, his skin going from pale to coal to translucent to everything in between. His hair was long dreadlocks, going shock-white and raven-black between every instant. He wore a long cloak of red and black silk, beads jangling as he moved.

Philip stared up at this man who was even taller than him, who did not fit in this world. The man extended his hand, gesturing at the bloody trophy he still held. Wordlessly Philip handed it over.

The man moved his hands over it, and as Philip watched, it changed. It fused together, the jaw discarded and long, cruel blades replacing the teeth. A grip of leather was formed at the bottom of the spine, metal imbedding itself in the skull to strengthen the bone.

And there, inset on the face of Azaraov's cleaned and fleshless skull, was the mark that Philip wore so proudly.

All at once he understood, and he fell to his knees before his God.

The man was kindly, explaining away Philips guilt about the lives he had ended, saying he could not have known. He looked over to the mutilated corpse of Azaraov, and then looked back at Philip with spider legs scuttling in his eyes.

He offered Philip a new purpose. A new life. Favored by him forever, Philip would serve and be rewarded forevermore. He offered a fresh start, away from everything he had ever known. He offered peace. He offered security.

Philip readily agreed. He did not want to be here any longer, not in this blood-soaked place.

The man smiled, fog rolling in. He put two fingers to the big mans forehead.

And Philip screamed.

submitted by /u/ManaTroll
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Oh Dwight, were not done here

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 01:32 AM PST

Spicy Billy Double Whip

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 08:56 AM PST

P3 clothing descriptions - List

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 08:24 AM PST

I started prestiging characters that I find interesting because the bloody clothes descriptions give some neat Lore insights or tidbits sometimes. Id like to know what they all say but the descriptions arent on the wiki, so I figured we could make a list here.

Ill add my contributions below and edit when people answer quotes we didnt have already!

Survivors

  • Dwight :

P1 - White shirts soak up blood and grime the best. (OU_Freze)

P2 - The addition of blood makes these slacks far more dramatic. (OU_Freze)

P3 - Those glasses are effective at keeping the blood out of his eyes. (OU_Freze)

  • Meg :

P1 - Keeps the sweat on the inside, shame it doesnt keep the blood there, too.

P2 - To tear skin tight leggings means you tear the skin they are tightliy clinging to (OU_Freze)

P3 - The layers of grime and damage cannot remove the look of intent on Meg's face (LaurieStronda)

  • Claudette :

P1 - It says machine washable on the label, but it will take a lot to wash this blood out (LaurieStronda)

P2 - It looks like these jeans have crawled across razor wire. (LaurieStronda)

P3 - Is all that blood from Claudette or from the others she healed? (LaurieStronda)

  • Jake :

P1 - The rips and tears make this waterproof coat far less effective (LaurieStronda)

P2 - Action-slacks for the outdoors (LaurieStronda)

P3 - Bloody and bruised just makes Jake look better (LaurieStronda)

  • Nea :

P1 - All those minds healed and the most important one left to rot

P2 - Hack, bleed and saw your way to redemption (LaurieStronda)

P3 - Gasp for one last breath of life (LaurieStronda)

  • Bill :

P1 - A bloody combat jacket that shows just how many challenges Bill has faced (LaurieStronda)

P2 - Blood-stained tactical trousers, combat boots and a holster that is still very sad and very empty (LaurieStronda)

P3 - The face and apparel of an experienced soldier you can trust (LaurieStronda)

  • David :

P1 - Davids go-to jacket for proper messy situations.

P2 - Bloody denim and sneakers that passed through too many trials (LaurieStronda)

P3 - Bloody hell! (LaurieStronda)

  • Laurie :

P1 - An object of pure unadulterated obsession

P2 - My hope seems to feed the rage of the beast that haunts me

P3 - It targets me alone, hunting relentlessly

  • Ace :

P1 - A classic jacket wonderfully and generously covered in blood (LaurieStronda)

P2 - Hey, it's just a couple of cuts and gallons of blood, they're still lucky! (LaurieStronda)

P3 - A charming gambler that apparently won the blood bank jackpot (LaurieStronda)

  • Feng :

P1 - Nothing like a blood smeared polo shirt to intimidate the competition. (OU_Freze)

P2 - Short shorts with the flashy Lazer Bears' colors under a thick layer of blood. (OU_Freze)

P3 - A highly focused and competitive young woman...covered in blood. (OU_Freze)

  • Quentin :

P1 - A tree-tee and a long sleeved vest, practical to deflect blood splats. (OU_Freze)

P2 - Bloody slim-cut jeans with blood splattered high top sneakers. (OU_Freze)

P3 - Tired, strained and bloody beyond measure. (OU_Freze)

Killers

  • Trapper :

P1 - When the moon rises and the trapper begins his hunt, his blade dribbles with the blood of anticipation. (OU_Freze)

P2 - His rubber apron, once stained with the blood of animals, now runs wet with the blood of his victims. (OU_Freze)

P3 - When the frenzy is on, it is hard to contain the blood of his victims. (OU_Freze)

  • Wraith :

P1 - When the bloodlust is in full swing, his weapon glistens thick with clotted blood (LaurieStronda)

P2 - An outfit of shadow, blood and grime (LaurieStronda)

P3 - A mask of blood hides the eyes of certain death (LaurieStronda)

  • Hillbilly :

P1 - The blood of countless animals runs free with the brains of victims. (OU_Freze)

P2 - Everyday work clothes for life in the slaughterhouse. (OU_Freze)

P3 - His violence-filled rage covers the body with the fluids of others. (OU_Freze)

  • Nurse :

P1 - A rotten uniform, thick with the blood of someone or something (LaurieStronda)

P2 - A disgusting pillowcase, so thick it can block airways and suffocate (LaurieStronda)

P3 - Wrought from the bloody hands of some terrible darkness (LaurieStronda)

  • Huntress :

P1 - A traditionnal axe with a large and heavy head, suitable for smashing skulls and cutting limbs

P2 - A torn sarafan, customized with pillaged soldier utility belts and covered in their blood. (winian)

P3 - Don't be afraid of the blood, child. The gentle Hare will take good care of you. (winian)

  • Shape :

P1 - The blood of victims seems to pulse within the blade itself (OU_Freze)

P2 - It's hard to keep the fabric clean in close quarters (Magic_123)

P3 - Inhale the smell of blood over the stink of latex (Magic_123)

  • Hag :

P1 - Horridly overgrown claws dripping with blood and gory chunks (LaurieStronda)

P2 - Dense and compact hairlock glued with blood and guts (LaurieStronda)

P3 - Dripping with the blood of countless feasts (LaurieStronda)

  • Doctor :

P1 - An instrument of punishment when all other treatment failed. They often do. (FrankWest21CP)

P2 - A sleeveless doctor's coat. The doctor appreciates the dramatic look of blood on his coat. (LaurieStronda)

P3 - Strapped in his electroconvulsive gear, The Doctor has no choice but to get blood all over... eyes and mouth included. (LaurieStronda)

  • Nightmare :

P1 - A bloody device of nightmares, crafted to torture and kill (LaurieStronda)

P2 - A striped woolen shirt and sturdy gardener trousers, dripping with his prey's blood (LaurieStronda)

P3 - The burnt and blood spattered face of an odious man, topped with a fedora (LaurieStronda)

  • Cannibal :

P1 - The Sledge might be old fashioned but it is still the fastest and cleanest way to put down cattles (LaurieStronda)

P2 - Providing meat for the whole family is messy work. Especially uncooperative squirming meat (LaurieStronda)

P3 - A terrifying mask of dried skin, stretched, stitched together and heavily marinated with 2 month old type O negative blood (LaurieStronda)

submitted by /u/OnceUponADream_
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New Juke Meta

Posted: 04 Dec 2017 07:30 PM PST

Reasons why Hillbilly is one of the best killers.

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 05:25 AM PST

Who would win?

Posted: 04 Dec 2017 04:15 PM PST

Good News for Survivors on DBD

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 12:20 AM PST

He didn't post it to reddit, so I will. I love these messages.

Posted: 04 Dec 2017 03:07 PM PST

Sooo is this a friendly build? P.s. the purple addon is the 'Calm -Carter Notes'

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 07:24 AM PST

Killer is OP starterpack

Posted: 04 Dec 2017 05:18 PM PST

victim of the tunneling

Posted: 04 Dec 2017 03:14 PM PST

This ad on this reddit on my phone literally right now

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 12:34 AM PST

Self-care taking priority over hook rescue and hatch jumps?

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 06:26 AM PST

Since last patch I have noticed this strange thing that sometimes I can't unhook people if I'm injured, I will start self-healing instead. Same thing happens sometimes with hatch if I'm injured, I simply can't jump in until I heal myself to full.

I had a game where I found the hatch, was injured, killer chasing me, I tried to jump on the hatch 3 times but just cant. Anyone else has this problem? Is there any fix other than dropping self-care out?

submitted by /u/sad_hillbilly
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Iron Grasp question

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 11:48 AM PST

So I've recently seen a lot of people running ig, and was wondering why? The wiggling effect of survivors isn't bad and it only adds 1.9 seconds to the amount of time it takes to wiggle (Source: dbd wiki). Do people not understand that the stats are horrible or what? I would take agitation 1 over ig 3 any day.

submitted by /u/ChunkyLlama
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What in the actual fuck?

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 01:30 PM PST

So I'm a freshly prestiged nurse on console (P2) and I decided to go play a match and see how I'll do after prestiging.

Anyway, I start a lobby and a swf group with a P3 Dwight, P3 Ace and two Quentins joins. Challenge accepted

So the match starts on Haddonfun and long story short, I end up hooking all of them, two of them twice. I hook the Ace and I decided to go check the gens (he got saved instantly ofc). After I let them heal and run off, they all played super stealthy. They did all of the gens in like a few minutes, but before they did the last gen I caught the Quentin and he was dead on hook.

The dreaded sirens go off and as im rushing to the nearest exit gate I spot Ace cleansing a totem, I hook him and quickly blink to the other gate across the map. After getting there and seeing that no one is at the exit gate, I quickly blink back to the hooked Ace. And what do you know? Both Dwight and Quentin are there to save Ace (insert mandatory BT) I hit them all once and Ace uses his deadhard to escape. I spot Quentin healing behind a bush and i kill him.

Yay two kills vs. a swf group, right?

Well... after that game the Quentin sent me "What ist dein problem junge" and then he proceeded to spam me with "Tunnelr".

I'm sick of this! Are survivors ever happy? How am i supposed to please them? They all had BT, decisive strike and two of them had deadhard. Like, are you fucking serious? I played fair the whole game and you spam me with messages how im basically trash? I just don't understand!

submitted by /u/clueth
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[Lore Question]: Nea could possibly be the one who burnt down Crotus Penn Asylum?

Posted: 05 Dec 2017 12:27 AM PST

Crotus Penn Asylum Lore

There is insanity, and then there are minds that are so severely distorted that they cease being humans. Instead they end up a feral, living, unwanted thing. These people must be "stored" somewhere, and that's where the Crotus Prenn Asylum plays a crucial role. Established in 1857, Crotus Prenn was originally a hospital, but as the need of storage grew, it was turned into an insane asylum. Crotus Prenn is a place riddled with tall tales that aren't even close to the reality that takes place within its walls. It was never the biggest asylum, but the one that held the most violent and warped minds the country had ever met.

But it was not the residents that etched the name Crotus Prenn into the history books. Instead it was the mass suicide where over fifty patients were found dead in their beds. The building was abandoned shortly after that. Investigators had no answers, and the town's folk became more and more worried as rumors talked about a woman still living inside the asylum. Finally, one night, smoke rose from the woods as Crotus Prenn had been set ablaze. The bystanders did nothing. They just let it burn.

Nea Karlsson Lore

Nea is of Swedish descent, a tagger and a bit of a troublemaker. She started rebelling when she was 16, she dyed her hair black and cut it in a way she liked it. In her early teens, her parents thought she lacked that thing that makes everyone else "normal". She may have gone too far when her friends, not thinking well, dared her to tag the old asylum. She was never seen again, and now tries her best to survive the Entity's dangers.

What do you guys think?

submitted by /u/CuriousCuestions
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Beware my Locker Stand

Posted: 04 Dec 2017 10:00 PM PST

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