Ashford's strengths laid in words. Not spoken ones, but the written ones-- ink against parchment, type against a screen, quiet. Silent. He could craft them into something beautiful to please, or something practical to educate, to explain.

With the spoken word, one had to time themselves. To speak in turn, to find the right place to insert your opinion into a conversation. To ensure that the tone was correct, if one cared about such trifles.

Ashford did not.

So here he was. Amityville was more like home than he'd realised, as he was very likely not wanted back in Silent Hill. He'd not changed much, and most of Pyramidkind would disown him, cast him aside, once they found out he'd actually gone a bit softer.

Especially if they found out about Thackery. Reaperkind may be fond of demons-- but not the Pyramid Heads. They were not fond of anyone, including themselves, if Ash was frank with himself.

Focusing, Ash looked down at the first question, peering at it from beneath his helm. He didn't want any more of these ******** Boogiemen to see his face, so the metal? It stayed on.

Slowly, he filled in each question. His text was firm, pen nearly tearing through the paper more often than not. Letters with decisive strokes, not hesitating as he filled in his answers.

About Halloween, about Amityville. Whatever it is they threw at him, the Reaper focused on every possible outcome before committing his writing utensil to paper.

He was not going to lose this.