Welcome to skimm_milk's Dead by Daylight Concepts

Hi! I'm skimm_milk. I'm a young artist, writer, and Dead by Daylight fan. I've been playing the game since 2018, with the release of Darkness Among Us, with The Legion and Jeff Johanson. Jeff actually remains as my main to today. Early in 2025, I joined WheatDraws' Dead by Daylight Concept Creation Discord Server and began putting myself to the test, and I've branched out heavily in production. Everything you see was done completely by me, from icon art to perk design! If you want to show case any of my work, please give credit, and point people back here. Consider following my social accounts, linked at the bottom of the page.

Prophecies of the Mothman

LORE

At the final dawn of the Third Age, the legions of Men pounded against the forces of Mordor, slaying Easterling, Uruk, and Olog alike. Ruin had come to Mordor’s forces, with the forces of good slowly overcoming that of evil and wickedness. With one last effort, the Necromancer of Mordor, Sauron, sent his most terrible servants to bolster the front lines. They were the Nazgúl, and they flew far above the battlefield on their hell-hawks, being led by their second, Khamûl. They bore no names, not anymore, nor did they even have a form. They were merely tatters of dark cloaks, and a testament to the follies of men. The fell beasts dipped their black talons into the crowd of Gondorians and Rohirrim, gripping soldiers by the plenty and whisking them into the ashy sky. Meat squashed and bones crunched as the Black Riders let out a horrible cry, striking a terrible fear to all those that would listen.But the Dark Lord of Mordor had made an error, for the Lidless Eye atop Barad-dûr turned to face its attention at the wrong end of the black plains. Within the crags of the open maw of the earth, Mount Doom, a Hobbit stood. A lonesome and small creature, who had only dreamed of going on a journey of this shattering magnitude. Within the clutches of his hands was a small chain, and on the end was The One Ring. The Ruling Ring. The Ring that harbored all that was left of Sauron’s power. The only place that an artefact of such power could be destroyed was dizzyingly below the hairy feet of the Hobbit; the fires that once forged the cursed thing.Sauron realized his grave mistake, and in the blink of an eye all of the eight remaining Nazgúl reared their gaze towards Mount Doom. Their hell-hawks beat their black feathered wings, and raced to the Cracks of Doom. To the Nazgúl The One Ring was more than a mere ancient relic; it was identity. Without it, they were nothing more than smoke billowing in the wind. Nameless. Forgotten. Their gauntlets gripped the reins tight, drawing their blades to slay the halfling that held their fates dangling over oblivion.Just as that which remained of the Nine began to dive for the open maw of the earth, a rumble shook the land below them. The ground heaved and cracked, and the great fire pit reeled its stomach. Blazing lava belched from its great spout. The skies lit with lightning swiftly accompanied by thunder. Black smoke swallowed the Black Riders whole. Like fire streaking across the sky, the fell beasts flapped, and the Nazgúl fled as swiftly as the wind could carry them.The horrible sanctuary of Barad-dûr crumbled at its foundations, and the tower fell; the Nazgúl’s master defeated. Many that remained were struck down, burning rock cracking their mounts from the sky like a whip. Those that survived the torrent cried in anguish, choked as their withering souls simply ceased to exist. They were nothing more than a cloak floating in the storm.The last of the Necromancer’s servants remained, shooting over Mordor to escape death, the gift all Men like himself had. The tidal wave of smog began to billow faster towards him, until it swallowed him whole. Though, this fog was not that of Mordor, but of a different realm entirely. It wound around the wraith—not with malice, but invitation. In the wake of loss, the Ringwraith was offered something terrible; continuance.As the Fog dissipated, the Nazgûl was cleaved from Middle-Earth and swallowed whole, still loyal to Sauron, and to his endless search for The One Ring.

LORE

“A day may come when the courage of men fails... but it is not this day. This day we fight!.”The heir of Isildur stood before the horrible visage of the Black Gate, the only path into Mordor. He was their King, but as he dug his feet into the dirt, he was merely a Man, like the legions of Gondor and Rohan behind him. Death was his gift—a way to finally write the epilogue on his own life—and there, with the Lidless Eye focusing its wreathed fire at him, he looked it in the face. He was just a man who had known exile and shadow, who had walked the forgotten paths of the world with the broken blade in his hand and courage in his heart.Aragorn, son of Arathorn, bore the blood of kings. His ancestor, Isildur, slayed this shadow once before with the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. Though, he had made a grave error. As the broken blade sliced at the Lord of Mordor, Sauron, it cut his most powerful artefact from his fingers. The One Ring. Without the ring, the Necromancer had been defeated, retreating to his fortress in Mirkwood. When given the chance to destroy this dark power once and for all, Isildur was seduced by the power of the ring, and Middle-Earth paid for this error in blood. Aragorn would make no such mistake. No crown sat upon his head, but a promise to oppose the enemy sat on his lips. The gates began to creak open, trolls thrice his size raising and opening its black jaws. The enemy before him arrayed, he knew he did not need to seek victory, merely to buy time.The Mouth of Sauron silenced his speech, failing to tempt the Men to turn and flee from the hosts of Mordor. As the Uruk-Hai surged forward, Aragorn charged. Andúril, Flame of the West, swung forward in his hand. Beside him, the armies of Gondor and Rohan, and what remained of the Fellowship of the Ring—his friends. The Eye watched from the pinnacle of Barad-dûr, filled with fury and doubt. Aragorn did not falter once, his sword slicing through the armies of evil, knowing that the Ringbearer was upon the Crags of Doom. The One Ring was within the Hobbit’s hand; prepared to right the wrongs Aragorn’s ancestor once did three thousand years ago.For only a few moments, the Dark Lord’s most terrible servants, the Nazgûl, rode atop their hell hawks to lead the lines of orcs and trolls. However, Aragorn knew the battle had been won when the cursed kings turned tail to flee towards Mount Doom. Frodo had made it, and the ring was thrown into the fires from whence the Ruling Ring came. The clouds parted as wicked lightning struck at the peaks of Orodruin. Lava whipped at the servants at the enemy. The black tower fell. The Eye vanished in a storm of fire.Victory.Yet in that instance of triumph, Aragorn did not celebrate. He did not feel at peace just yet. The smoke of Mount Doom flowed down the side of the volcano like a flooding river, though it was too pale to truly be smoke. It swirled all around him, blotting out the now blooming sun in the sky. He turned to speak—to call out to Gandalf, Legolas, or Gimli. To his subjects, his army. It was too late. The battlefield was gone.The Fog ate him like a hungry maw, leaving him alone once again. It left him in a torrent of swirling malice, until it regurgitated him in a forest of grey. The sky did not change, the Black Gate was replaced with hooks of iron and unfamiliar machines.But Aragorn had walked through worse. He had faced the servants of darkness on Weathertop, on Pelennor Fields, and even to Sauron’s own doorstep. The Enemy had fallen. Another had simply taken its place.
As he vowed as a Ranger of the North, he would always pursue the shadow, and face it. He would stand again. The King walked.

LORE

November 15th, 1966. Roger Scarberry drove his truck down Route 62 with his wife, Linda Scarberry, in the passenger side. In the back, his friends Steve and Mary Malette. Before tonight, both couples would call Point Pleasant West Virginia a quiet and boring town. The only excitement any of the four had growing up was taking a night drive to the TNT Area. Tonight was no different.The road gave way to cracked asphalt as Roger made his exit. Trees began to flank the truck on either side. Despite flipping on his brights, Roger could still barely see a thing as he pulled into an empty lot. Stone chimneys stretched into the sky, blotting out the moon; the TNT Area. This place had been abandoned for about twenty years now, ever since World War II ended. In its heyday, all of these factories worked around the clock to make munitions for the war. Now they were nothing more than a hang out spot for teens and a place where urban legends were created.The truck came to a stop. Roger began to jingle the keys in the ignition to step out into the Autumn air, but before he could shut it off, he felt Linda’s hand grip his shoulder. Roger looked up, but found that his wife, and all of his passengers, looked with quivering lips out the windshield. He turned, and his gaze was matched by two large red eyes staring right back at him from the dark. The staring contest lasted for what seemed like minutes, with the whole car not even making a single peep, besides the low rumble of the engine. Then, with a screech, two grey wings sprouted from the dark, and Roger put the gas to the floor with the monster darting to the sky to make chase.After that night, the Scarberrys and the Malettes became the first people to witness the arrival of Point Pleasant’s new monster, the Mothman.Through the months that followed, Point Pleasant would become ill with reports matching the description the Scarberrys gave the Mason County Police Department. A tall gray creature, wings protruding out of its back, and two saucer-like red eyes. Reports multiplied as Point Pleasanters blamed their every day misfortunes on the monster. Two firemen claimed they saw a huge bird with red eyes. People’s televisions buzzed from some unknown “Mothman” frequency. Even neighborhood dogs would be roused in the dead of night, with some disappearing. The creature never seemed to attack people, however. The only reports given described the creature as a stalker, a phantom visible only when it wished to be.Panic slowly bled into obsession. Every time disaster had struck the town, the Mothman was seen moments before. Car crashes, torrential storms, and death seemed to follow the monster. To others though, the Mothman followed death. Those who gave into the “Mothman hysteria” came to find the creature as a herald. They laid out offerings in the town center, gifts of tin cans and silver coins, in hopes to appease their new prophet, to let it predict and warn others of tragedy. Through it all, the creature just watched.Thirteen months after the creature was first spotted, everything came to its crescendo. On December 15th, 1967, rush hour traffic began to cross the Silver Bridge over the Ohio River. Without warning, a fatal flaw in a single eyebar caused the suspension to snap, and rivets to pop out of place. The span cracked the ice, and plunged into the icy water. Forty six people had lost their lives in the disaster. In the chaos that followed, many survivors reported to the police that, moments before the collapse, they had seen the Mothman fly up into the sky before a thick fog had swallowed the creature whole. When rescue teams scoured the sight, not one could see the winged prophet stalking the skies.In fact, after that night, the Mothman was never seen again.

LORE

Harper Caldwell had long ago learned that the world was much stranger than it first seemed. Being born in 1916 on a large farm in rural Kentucky lent itself to a child that always had his eyes on the stars. From a young age, Harper imagined himself being compared to the likes of Galileo and Copernicus, with the endless expanse of the sky above him, being viewed through the lens of a telescope. The skies always seemed alive to him, but perhaps too alive. With his father’s telescope pointed to Mars, a young Harper put his eye up to the eyepiece, but instead of seeing a small orange marble, a strange spinning disk sat right in front of the planet. Harper blinked, rubbing the lens before peering back, only to see the disk fly off abruptly, like lightning streaking across the sky.When he mentioned it to his mother and father, they waved their hand, laughing as they downplayed what Harper saw, listing it off as a bird. Harper knew, however, that something else was at work in this universe besides Heaven and Hell. He internalized that moment through his teens, trying desperately to catch lightning in a bottle yet again. He carried his questions with him, even as he joined the army and was sent on tour to France during the last years of World War II.What he saw overseas was the worst humanity had to offer. Choked in mud and gunpowder, Harper fought day in and day out, barely scraping by as he fended off the enemy. However, what was more to the war to him than just human cruelty. Impossible things happened during war, but many of the things he’d heard about were simply too impossible. Men burned with no fire, bunkers being left empty in the dead of night, platoons vanishing without a trace. Both sides had scary stories to tell around the campfire. Harper filed each of these into memory, feeding into his appetite for the unknown.When the war ended, so did Harper’s chance of a normal life. His obsession with chasing the unexplainable had made its way up the grape vine, and into the highest traces of the United States government. Caldwell had an impressive portfolio—a war hero and an astronomer in hobby. It was only natural that he’d open his door to two men dressed in dark coats and fedoras. Without introducing themselves, they asked to come in, and Harper put the kettle on. From then on, Harper was recruited to a nameless government division—faceless men in black suits who carried credentials too vague to question. Their task was not to protect, but to research and erase. Harper quickly accepted the position, finally feeling that itch at the back of his mind be scratched.Harper Caldwell was good at his job. Too good. He thirsted for the unexplainable, and his new line of work quenched that thirst, if only for a moment. For decades, Harper chased reports of anomalies all over America, hiding things that were for his eyes only. His hair turned gray, and his joints stiffened, but his eyes never dulled, even if he was a hard case for anything else. These ghost stories gave him answers that a telescope couldn’t.In December of 1967, his work led him to Point Pleasant, West Virginia. Locals spoke of a winged creature with eyes like embers. Some even came to worship this creature, giving it offerings, however pathetic it may have been. Even if it sounded silly to him, after the disaster that was The Fold with the Ottomarians, the United States wasn’t taking any more chances on creature cults. For nights, Harper hunkered down in the local inn, hearing witness testimonies left and right. The Mothman took her dog, the Mothman broke his TV, the Mothman this, Mothman that. Everything in this town seemed to go right back to this damn Mothman. Truth be told, Harper found the idea to be silly. During his years of service, he’d seen all sorts of things. Extraterrestrials, impossible technology. Hell, even sitting in on the O.S.S. during the Project Apple Pie years were more interesting than this.Then, everything turned on its head when disaster struck. It was an uneventful night, with rush hour traffic coming to and from Point Pleasant across the Silver Bridge, until a flaw in a single eyebar caused the entire bridge to collapse, taking forty six lives in the process. In the chaos, Harper kept his eyes on the sky. Sirens blared, casting blue and red light into the sky, and illuminating for a brief moment a winged beast. Through his shades, Harper bore witness to two red saucers staring right back at him. Before he could reach for his gun, a thick fog descended from the sky and swallowed the Mothman whole. Harper’s eyes widened, and he began to chase the creature into the mist. Then, the fog cleared, and Harper Caldwell was never seen again.