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singillppl2024-08-07 09:42 pm
singmod) wrote in singillppl2024-08-07 09:42 pm
Entry tags:
August 2024 Test Drive Meme
AUGUST 2024 TDM
PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: Yet another new group of arrivals find themselves lost in the frozen wilds and vulnerable to the dangers of nature. With luck, they make it to the town of Milton, and to a friendly face offering food, warmth and shelter — not to mention the fact they are not the first to come here.
PROMPT TWO — TEA TIME: A mysterious stranger offers Interlopers some tea by her fire, with... unexpected results.
PROMPT THREE — YOU LYING NEXT TO ME: Thawing and quake activity in the Northern Territories make for a deadly mix, particularly with bodies of water.
ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST
WHEN: Mid-month.
WHERE: Milton, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential animal attacks, potential injuries, potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk.
'You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.'
It’s the last thing you hear. A dark, deep voice. Impossibly ancient. You feel afraid. Maybe you’re dreaming, maybe you’re wide awake. You saw the lights, and then your world went dark. But you hear it in the blackness, you won’t forget those words. You will later learn that these are the words of The Darkwalker, a malevolent being that exists in this world. It knows of your presence here, and you will be far worse off for it.
You awaken. You are not where you were before. It’s different for everyone, there doesn’t seem to be much of a pattern in where you find yourself. You may open your eyes to find yourself in a cold, dim and dank cabin. The air is stale, dust hangs in the rays of weak sunlight that shine through the tiny windows. Someone lived here once, but they aren’t to be found. You look around, it seems like no one has been here in several weeks, maybe longer. The fire is stone cold, the dishes in the sink are mouldy — it's possible the place has been ransacked, as if they've gone through the drawers and cupboards looking for something. It is quiet. The wood creaks around you. Or perhaps you may awaken to find yourself shivering in the yawning maw of a cave, the freezing stone below you. Or maybe you’re unfortunate enough to sit up to find yourself lying in the snow, in the middle of the wilderness. Snow lies thick around you. It’s freezing out. You haven’t felt a cold like this before in your entire life. Cruel and biting. You have no idea where you are, and what’s worse — you are completely alone.
You may feel different, too. Any powers or magics you may have feel... absent. Disconnected. Things that may not have affected you previously now do. Something in you has changed.
You know you can’t stay where you are. You’ll need to move, try to work out where you are and how you came to be here. So you walk, head out into the unknown, in hope of finding a trail or a road. Interlopers who arrive in the month of August will find that there is often disturbances and damage to the earth and roads — often similar to that found following quake activity. Care should be taken in finding your way.
Soon enough, you'll be able to find a path to town. A little more worse for wear, but alive. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused — battered from the journey. You’ll both need to keep going. It won’t be easy. You hear howls of wolves around you, and the terrain is difficult: slips and falls are likely. You’re completely vulnerable out here in the open.
Or it’s possible you may come across someone else here. Someone who looks far better prepared to deal with the freezing cold and frozen landscape, out hunting or gathering. They’ll likely offer help and get you into town. However, for the unlucky ones who don’t come across anyone, you’ll carry on until you smell it through the fog: the scent of smoke that seems to cling in the still air. Fire. Not just one, but several perhaps. Civilization...?
Follow it, and soon enough the way you’ve taken will certainly become a path or road. Unfolding before you in the foggy mountainous forests, you’ll see the most welcome of sights, even if it may appear a little eerie in the half-light gloom: a small mining town tucked up in the valley. Battered, rusted road signs will direct to “MILTON, POP. 947”. You’re almost there, you keep going, and it looks like other people have had the same idea as you. In fact, you’ll hear the muffled sounds of life. People! In the town!
As you head into the outskirts and then further into town, you’ll find it’s a little easier to walk but the cold has gripped you hard. You’ll find the buildings, both shops and homes, some are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up, some of them are occupied. People are going about their business, or stood watching from their tiny porches of their small, timber homes. For a town this big, there doesn’t seem to be many people. Several dozen at most, but no more. Some of them will direct you to the Community Hall, tell you to head there — you've been expected.
Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building where many people seem to gather: a community hall, by the looks of it. You’ll find more and more people all drawn to this place, each and every one of them in the same position as yourself (and your companion, if you’ve found one). Some are in worse states than others: some are bloodied, nursing bite wounds or cuts; others might have some other kind of injury sustained in the journey here from falls. Everyone looks as though they could faint from the cold at any second, damp and shivering.
The door opens, and you’re greeted by the gnarled, wizened face of an elderly man, dressed in thick furs. He has a kind face, but looks sad. He smiles warmly despite the sadness in him, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.
“As I suspected, another batch of poor souls from the wilds.” he nods gravely. No, this is not the first time that this has happened. “I am Methuselah. I welcome you Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. The lights are changing things, bringing more of you here. Come, we must get you warm and fed. Mother Nature has not been kind.”
The room is dim, lit only by natural daylight through the windows. A roaring fire sits at one end of the huge hall. It crackles, bright and cheerful... and warm. Even as big as this place is, the room is pleasantly warm. You’ll also find basic cots set up down one side of the hall, and while it seems there's a few people already living here, there's enough space for those in need of them. There's places to rest for a moment and get your bearings, or just trying to recover from the cold.
Down the other side are tables and chairs, and long tables offering food, and drinks similar to one might find at a soup kitchen. Once again, Methuselah offers a feast, aided by some of the other Interlopers. Newcomers will hear from others of Feasts held before, but the offering this month are… somewhat meagre. Newcomers will hear from others of Feasts held before, but the offering this month are… somewhat meagre. There are canisters with hot herbal teas and perhaps a rare canister of coffee. Soup and stew are on offer, but little in the way of charred/grilled meats. What little game Interlopers already here have caught has been used wisely to stretch it further. There is grilled fish, however. That is the most plentiful, it seems. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast.
The old man has been busy. And Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks. He does not have much time to talk. More and more people seem to be coming in from the cold. He will not stop to sit and rest until everyone is seen to, taking up a place by the fire to gaze silently into its flames. He is very troubled, thoughtful. Much has been happening. The others from town will eventually trail in too, to eat and warm themselves, and search among the new faces.
He will encourage newcomers to get warm and eat, and when they are ready to — they can explore the town and find one of the many empty homes to call their own. He will not speak much. Methuselah seems exhausted. Life within the Northern Territories has been very difficult for all who dwell here. But perhaps you might be able to get some answers from those fellow arrivals who’ve been in this place for some time now.
TEA TIME
WHEN: Mid-month — end of the month.
WHERE: Milton area; Lakeside area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: altered/magical drinks; loss of inhibitions; physical age changes; body horror/animal attributes; memory sharing; possible fourth-wall breaking; future visions;
It is incredibly rare to come across others in the Northern Territories, but certainly not unheard of. Even if the town of Milton had lost what seems to be its entire population before the arrival of Interlopers, there are still others native to this place out in the world. Young Bill and Methuselah are proof of that, as are the Forest Talkers — who have a tense relationship with the Interlopers, to put it lightly. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think that there could be more.
The old woman appears to be one of them, wrapped in many layers of synthetic clothing and furs. You may come across her as she wanders through the world, or perhaps find her huddled around a campfire in the depths of the wilderness. If one were to hazard a guess, they’d assume she were some kind of nomad like Methuselah.
She’s friendly sort; that’s the first impression you make of her. It’s safe to conclude she isn’t with the Forest Talkers. She regards arrivals with wide eyes, beckoning Interlopers to come join her by the fire. Softly spoken, with a mumbling quiet voice. It might seem like she’s not all there, and seems harmless enough. Perhaps a little lonely. Who isn’t in this place? She is mostly curious about the Interlopers themselves and will be interested in hearing about them, asking them questions about their worlds and lives. She’s a very keen and attentive listener.
As conversation grows, she will boil some snow for water upon her fire. With all this talk, what better way than to add some tea to it? The weather is getting colder, too. Something hot will stave off the chill. Out of her rucksack, she will pull out a carved wooden box. It is something quite precious to her, and within it are several small metal tins. She will show it to the Interlopers, and inside there will be different blends of herbal tea. She will ask which of the teas you would like to drink.
The choice is yours, Interlopers. But drinking one of these teas will have… unexpected results.
BURDOCK TEA: An earthy and bittersweet tea, with a slightly nutty flavour. Drinking this tea will pull away any inhibitions and mental filters and make you more susceptible to speaking your mind and being more honest with those around you. Maybe you want to tell someone how much they suck, or maybe you want to confess your feelings to someone. Maybe you just really want to air out your grievances about your life or current situation. And they say alcohol will loosen tongues.
HERBAL TEA: This miscellaneous ‘herbal’ smells pretty fragrant, but you can’t quite tell what’s all in its blend. This tea will show you a random moment from your future. This might be something immediate within the Northern Territories, or it may be a moment of your future within your own world. The vision itself will only last for a few moments, and then fade into black.
ROSEHIP TEA: A sweet and floral tea with a tangy aftertaste. This tea will show you a moment of your past, replaying it out before you as if you are watching it like one watches a movie. It may be a happier time, a fond memory of sorts. Or perhaps it will be your worst memory ever: a failing, a wrong decision, a difficult or upsetting time in your life. What’s more, is that anyone drinking this very same tea with you will also experience this moment with you.
REISHI TEA: A bitter tea with a woody flavour. This tea will change your appearance physically in some way. It may be something small like changing your eye or hair colour. It may go even more extreme and temporarily give you some kind of animal features: ears, scaly skin or a tail.
BIRCH BARK TEA: A pleasant wintergreen drink that tastes faintly like rootbeer. Drinking this tea will change your physical age. You may revert to a younger version of yourself, or become an older version of yourself.
Once drinking the tea, you will find yourself alone. The fire is almost embers beside you. You will find that you will never come across the old woman again, no matter how hard you try to find her.
YOU LYING NEXT TO ME
WHEN: The month of August.
WHERE: Everywhere. And specifically: Milton Basin, ponds around Milton Outskirts; Lakeside Lake, misc. Water sources.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential injuries, potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk; potential partial nudity.
There has been an instability in the earth as of late. Interlopers have been made aware of the fact that the Northern Territories have been victim to quakes in the past. But lately, there has been new seismic activity, which has not helped matters. In Lakeside, it is certainly more obvious to see: sections of the railway track that run through the area have buckled, roads are damaged and undrivable and the bridge that leads out towards the coast has crumbled away.
But the damage extends beyond the roads and railway tracks, something which Interlopers will, unfortunately, discover as they go out travelling or exploring the world.
It is hard to tell which part of the ground will give way, it often happens without warning. Interlopers will simply be out walking and the ground will suddenly collapse from beneath them into small pits and ravines. They’re easy enough to climb out of for the most part, but Interlopers are in danger of sprains and even broken bones if they don’t land right. But they may end up being completely submerged in the snow, leaving them not too worse for wear but very cold. They’ll certainly need to be dug out, and hopefully, they’re not left for too long, either. Hopefully some kind-hearted stranger may find them.
The most dangerous of all are the frozen lakes, ponds and streams. It feels like the Northern Territories have been a place of endless winter. The snow has never left, and the thick ice of almost all water sources remains. While certain smaller bodies of water have thawed enough for Interlopers to fish, most have remained in a permanent state of frozen solidity. Interlopers have been free to walk across the ice untroubled. But the quakes have… endangered the solidity of what seemed to be unmeltable ice.
What was once a rare safe bet will become no more. Unsuspecting Interlopers travelling or exploring these ‘frozen’ waters may find themselves in for a nasty surprise. Without warning, the ice will creak and groan beneath their feet — the sound echoing, a strange kind of sharp snap. Then, with a groan, the ice will give way: plummeting whichever poor soul stands upon it down into the frigid waters below.
Such cold water is dangerous no matter the depth, but some will be much luckier than others. Some of the smaller ponds within the Northern Territories will only reach waist or chest height, but the much deeper bodies of water like the Basin and Lakeside Lake will prove far deadlier. Getting victims out of the waters is half the battle, trying to do so risks yourself. Many may find themselves falling in with their companions — and although a way out can be achieved, the harder part is warmth.
Getting the poor souls who fall victim to falling into the water or trapped in the snow indoors and close to a fire is a good start. Building a fire takes time, though. It could be a while before a roaring fire is going. So alternate plans might need to be put into action. Let’s hope there are some dry blankets nearby, and it’d be a good idea to get out of any soaked clothes before they freeze on a person.
They do say that sharing body heat is also a good way of heating up a person who’s suffering from the cold. Hypothermia is deadly, after all. Skin-on-skin contact works best, wrapped up in blankets. Who has time for getting awkward about it? Getting cosy might just save someone’s life.
FAQs
1. Arrival threads can be treated as game canon.
2. Items characters have brought from home can be found either strewn around them when they awaken, or in the community hall — as if someone left them out for them to collect. Methuselah will not know how they got there, and will be quite bemused by the happenings.
3. Reminder that all characters are now depowered upon arrival. They can choose not to notice it at first, or can immediately sense something is different about them.
4. If asked any personal questions, Methuselah will smile and say "Oh, you don't want to know about an old man like me. But I have lived all over in these parts for all my life." He will be more concerned with trying to help Newcomers, and is genuinely concerned for them and their well-being. Other Interlopers will say much of the same — there's little to know about him.
5. More information about Milton can be found here.
1. The effects of the Burdock, Reishi and Birch Bark teas will last for 24 hours.
2. Physical changes to characters (ie. getting animal ears) will be purely aesthetic.
1. For those down in the Basin, there is a small hut/shack with a fireplace that Interlopers can use for refuge to warm up. Shelter in other places isn't too far off. Best get warmed up quickly!
2. Interlopers already in-game with the Cold Fusion Feat won't be susceptible to cold damage/hypothermia if they fall into the waters but will also not be able to warm up their fellow Interlopers who end up taking an icy plunge.
3. Interlopers already in-game with the Lightbringer or Moon Touched Feats will be hugely beneficial/vital in warming up their fellow Interlopers who fall into the waters.
no subject
"You're all questions," the young man says, blandly, his tone as flat as decking. There's a polish there, the hard edges of a lowly North of England upbringing carefully chipped away into something more sickening of society and blusteringly florid. Suiting for an officer, practically demanded, in fact, but no more fitting to Prior than the loose salvage hanging from his body now. A shell of someone else.
And yet, one might never accuse him of being an imposter. If he weren't already so damn good at faking, he'd certainly never have made it this far. Born for it, some say, and certainly the Ministry of Munitions had taken advantage of that fact (as well as Father Mackenzie, a predator of an entirely other sort).
How many are there?
The words echo stupidly around Prior's head and he returns to the moment, reminded that this is not any other time but now. And how should he know? For that matter, what difference does it make? One wolf or ten is too many for his liking.
"Enough," he decides and then nods towards the gun. "Can you shoot?"
Steady at the threshold, he seems to be readying himself for battle. The knife is held tightly, and with a stained handkerchief seized from his pocket, Prior secures the handle in his palm, unwilling to lose it as long as he has the vitality to spare.
no subject
He glances back at Prior, rising unsteadily to his feet again, but his voice is steadier than his body when he responds.
"Shouldn't you have asked before turning over the gun?"
Is he being mildly difficult in retaliation? Maybe. Definitely. But he is not anywhere near petty enough to let it jeopardize their chances, and follows up his remark with a simple, real answer as he draws the weapon again.
"Yes."
It's an unfamiliar gun, he has very little vision in one eye, and pain is stabbing through his side as he takes deliberate breaths, calming in preparation for the fight. But he's faced far worse than wolves, and with any luck, so has his companion; they can do this.
no subject
Nodding, terse but not entirely off-put, he creaks the door open by its frigid handle and places one eye into the crack. It pings, searching, but the darkness of the cabin battles with the dimming orange of the setting sun, half-blinding Prior to anything but shadows for at least a second or two.
His breath hisses, a frustrating tug on his lungs that he pointedly ignores. Steady, he tells himself, but his heart is hammering hot against his ribs, and his grip on the knife is so painfully tight that his knuckles resemble the snow.
A moment passes where Prior imagines he can hear footfalls drawing nearer, although the wind has played plenty of more imaginative tricks with greater ease. Thrusting himself through the doorway, he flings it wide into a snowbank and finds—
Nothing.
The sky threatens to give way to darkness, the vestiges of color quickly fading to blues and soon enough an inky black. Prior, poised and ready, stands feet out the door, head dipping this way and that, eyes searching the ruins. There are plenty of places to hide and no evidence is needed to know these wolves are using cover just the same.
Over his shoulder, he waves Fitzjames forward, but only half-certain of their safety, he signals a stop just in time to turn towards the flash of grey fur that instantly overtakes him. It snarls and snaps, teeth gnashing as they struggle together in the snow, Prior fending with arms and elbows while the wolf's overpowering jaws take hold and refuse to release.
Prior's own wolflike howl isn't pain-driven, though it might seem that way to Fitzjames. Instead, it's an inward expansion of some neglected part — one that is both familiar and unknowable to Prior — that strikes out with great force. It plunges the blade once, and then again, and on the third hit drives off one wolf while the others gather and taunt, dancing in their tracks and licking their lips, although keeping a notable distance for now.
no subject
The lack of creatures at their doorway is not a huge comfort, as they'd sounded very close only minutes before, and he is already hesitating to follow by the time the wolf suddenly attacks. It's immediately too close to Prior for James to take a shot, and he briefly entertains the idea of intervening physically to help, but he has to trust that Prior knows what he's doing with the knife. His own attention is needed for the other wolves, as he catches flashes of movement in the growing shadows; there are at least two more of them.
A snapping, snarling bark pinpoints the location of one of them, and James plants his feet, raises the gun in one motion, and fires. A canine yelp mixes with the sounds from Prior and his own wolf opponent, and when the pack regroups at a small distance, James uses the brief moment to step to Prior's side.
"Are you hurt?"
He asks it with his gaze still on the wolves, gun still raised, everything but their immediate situation faded out for him in the midst of his battle focus.
no subject
Scrabbling from the crimson-marked snow, the younger man finds his feet with the steadiness of someone who hasn't been starved and stranded for nearly as long. His sleeve and handkerchief are stained a vital red with a unique opacity that stands out against the dark wool of his coat.
Grabbing again for Fitzjames, he grips the man's wrist and marches ahead boldly, saying, "Better not press our luck." His strained voice comes through grit teeth as he swipes a hand across his face. Willing away the pounding of his head and his heart and his fucking father's fist-driven disappointment doesn't do him much good, in fact, and as Prior slogs ahead through the snowbank, he must truly look a strange sight with the swipe of blood drawn across his eyes like a morbid mask.
"The crossing—" His gasp against the cold brings with it a vague gesture — a directional marker? — before Prior wavers. A descending fog continues to rob him of his breath, and crumples him to the ground at Fitzjames' feet. Between asthma and shock, he might be a bit worse off than he'd been led to believe.
no subject
Either way, though, they can't do that much about it right now. The wolves are at a distance once again but will surely return, so they have to move now and treat injuries later.
James winces when Prior takes his wrist, as his left arm currently has a hole in it and so the jostling is not particularly pleasant. But instead of pulling away, this time he just grits his teeth and keeps his attention on the wolves behind them, occasionally raising the gun in his right hand when he thinks he has a clear shot, but doesn't end up actually firing.
The gasping comment about a crossing draws James' attention back toward Prior again, though he only catches the end of the other man's gesture toward... Something. He is of course distracted from solving that mystery when Prior suddenly collapses, and James immediately sinks to his knees beside him with a muttered curse.
"What's happening?" He asks it less in hopes of a detailed answer and more to gauge how Prior responds, half listening for the answer and half still keeping an eye on the wolves. But they don't have much time, and so he won't wait long; if Prior doesn't answer, or if he can't get up, then James will just have to figure out how to move him.
no subject
"It's as—" He tears at his collar, dragging aside lapels and popping buttons. A terrible wheeze. "—Asthma." And, oh how he looks both exceedingly scared and incredibly unhappy. Everything below the jaw runs beet red with exertion, but Prior's face is as pale as ever. It won't be long before he's as blue as ice, either, unless this situation is brought under control.
Still, he's not giving up. Not like this, Prior tells himself, because the irony would be too great. War never brought him to this: all that time in France even with the gas bombardments, the fumes, the stink, and the effort, and not one single attack. To topple so meaninglessly after all that would certainly take the piss out of Prior's post-life plans. Assuming he had any.
Each breath is like sucking pudding through a straw and shoving it back out again. Prior's grip on Fitzjames' sleeve becomes renewed and obvious as he slips in the snow getting back to his feet. His wheezing continues.
The church looms like salvation up ahead, a brick stronghold against the aggressive and hungry pack. Prior, seeing little more than the dark blob that is his unfortunate companion and the cross-adorned door, wishes desperately to be on the other side and stumbles forward together with Fitzjames as best as he can muster.
no subject
He splits his attention between the danger and casting glances back in Prior's direction once again, but the sound of the other man's wheezing tells him just as much as the awful contrast of colors his skin has taken on. He waits only long enough for Prior to finish loosening his collar before intending to ask if he can walk, but then Prior is grabbing at his arm again, and this time James leans into it. He twists his arm around Prior's to provide support, rising to his feet as the other man does, hauling him up with as much strength as he can and taking as much of his weight as he's allowed to.
"I have you." He says it quietly, certainly, equal parts reassurance and simple fact. "Focus on your breathing and your steps." He'll handle the rest, beginning to trudge them both through the snow, ignoring the newly intensified pain in his arm and side.
He spots the church in the distance as well, and although it truly doesn't seem that far away, it feels much further. Almost unreachable, with the expanse of snow and the sound of the wolves getting closer and closer, but the stubbornness of both James and Prior ends up making short work of the distance. Still, they aren't quite out of the woods yet, as they reach the door and it initially refuses to open, requiring James to slam his weight--and, by proxy, Prior's--against it. But then it swings open, just in time for them to get inside, and for James to immediately repeat the previous action to slam the door firmly behind them and in the face of a wolf, if the offended yelp is anything to go by.
But they're inside, the door is closed, and they're safe, at least from external threats. And at least for now.
cw: religious insensitivity
A quick inspection under the moonlight does little to inspire, and it isn't until Fitzjames stirs that Prior even thinks to check if he's still got his voice. He's been acting out rote survival, moving with purpose defined somewhat outside of thought.
"—e'll have to stay the night," he croaks dryly, secretly (shamefully) relieved. It isn't as if this isn't an erosive situation, Mr. Prior, he privately mocks in his therapist's voice, although the mere idea of being rendered psychosomatically mute again would certainly haunt most anyone (including dear Dr. Rivers, if only for Prior's sake).
In the nave a small fire crackles. It's primarily comprised of exactly what a person might expect from a church: bibles, hymnals, and small wooden parts. With a flaming cross in hand — oh, how the Catholics would wail – he lifts the light to inspect his companion a bit more thoroughly. Prior has been busy. His wound is wrapped poorly but sufficiently enough, and in the slowly gathering warmth, he's shed his long coat and used it to blanket his savior.
"Can you move?" he asks, eyes a piercing full black, pupil-only in the low light. He's equally pale and drawn, and the rounding of Prior's shoulders suggests a tightness still remains from his earlier asthma attack.
no subject
The vague recognition of both the warmth and sound of a fire somewhat nearby is the first thing that registers to him, and for a moment it's far more worrying than comforting. Alarm and confusion drag him more fully back to consciousness in time to register Prior's question, which absolutely doesn't help.
"'S a fire?" It comes out more of a slurred murmur than anything else, and he doesn't wait for an answer before struggling to prop himself up on his good arm, and has almost succeeded when he finally figures out it's a contained fire. In the fireplace. Mostly, anyway; there's also what Prior's holding, which is... Is that a flaming cross?
You know what, fine. Why not. As long as it's under control.
James considers, for a brief moment, continuing to try to sit up, but now that he's mostly conscious again he's suddenly aware of just how terrible he feels. If he's already passed out on the floor once, there isn't a great deal of face to save in this situation, and so he lets himself lay back down; it's only then that he realizes Prior's covered him in his coat, which is an oddly kind gesture.
So he does bother to answer the actual question, and even manages to do so with a hint of humor.
"If I must. You're well?"
'Well' in comparison to earlier, at least?
no subject
The makeshift torch is swung away and with a clatter its tossed back onto the fire as the young man paces away. His lungs are tight and his arms and sides and shoulders ache, but oxygen, blessed oxygen, is an improvement. As is the realization that, with any luck, his ailment can remain strictly between them and them wolves.
"Better than the alternative?" His boots scrape against the floor and a moment later he's settling right next to Fitzjames. With great aplomb, he offers a artfully mangled half-can of warm beans. "Let's hope."
no subject
"Better than the alternative is something, at least."
He frees his good hand from beneath the coat in order to give a small wave of disinterest at the beans--where did he find those anyway?--neither hungry nor planning to eat anything out of a tin ever again if he can help it. Besides, the food will probably do Prior a lot more good than it'll do James, so may as well not waste it.
Instead, he decides to try sitting up again, despite his previous decision to just lay on the floor a bit longer; it certainly has nothing to do with a sudden strange sense of restlessness, which was certainly not brought on by the half-acknowledged memory of others sitting at his bedside when he was so far gone he couldn't even make an attempt at being upright. This is different.
So he pushes himself off the floor again, managing to fully sit up, though his head spins so violently that his eyes go blank for a moment before he comes back to himself. Still, he's up, and that's... Some sort of victory that should probably feel somewhat less hollow than it does.
cw: religious insensitivity
"Prior," he says, somewhat abruptly. A name to go with a face would be helpful. As a second thought, he adds: "But not the prior." In case that isn't obvious. Not Benedictine, Cistercian, nor bloody Premonstratensians, thank Christ. He can't recall the last time he'd visited a confessional for more than unrepentant reasons, and woe be anyone who trusts him with that position of power (never mind all the secrets that come with it).
He reaches to help tuck the peacoat more precisely over Fitzjames'. "Which means I don't— do Last Rites." His flat intonation — one that mimics London too well — echoes with the vestiges of his earlier asthmas attack. Upon waking, he'd coughed hard and long for minutes. The cold air had cut like knives but eventually it had faded to the regret still burning in his overburdened muscles. Still, it's a rhythm to follow: A handful of words to a single, raspy, short, painful breath. Rinse, repeat.
cw: vague suicidal ideation-adjacent thoughts
"Fitzjames." He introduces himself in return, allowing Prior to adjust the coat without protest despite his disinterest in being fussed over. "And fortunately for us both, I am very difficult to kill."
Even when he wants--
He's not going down that line of thought and instead redirects back toward Prior, having not missed the pauses between his words or the sound of his breathing.
"Is there something that can be done, for you?" He doesn't know what helps, but if there's something he can do, he wants to.
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"To start—" he says with measure, "don't chastise me for this—" His pale fingers, long like a piano virtuoso, slither beneath the wool coat. The warmth is incredibly inviting and Prior thinks to make himself at home would be a convenient excuse for saving his life (or vice versa). Unfortunately, no such instinct seems to be raging within Fitzjames, so without too much groping for the inside pocket, Prior merely finds what he's looking for and retrieves a crushed pack of Woodbines.
As he settles back again, he rests a cigarette in place but he doesn't light it yet. Even the insinuation of it between his lips seems to help, although Prior's certain no one's actually fooled. In his lap, he fusses with the remainder of the pack.
Prior's head tipping back to meet the wall reminds him of a particular basement in France: tucked in like sardines, the smell of so much humanity should have been aggressively appalling, but with his men — not King George's men, his men — Prior had almost felt at peace. It's not so different here, is it?
The absurdity rips a laugh from him which descends into a middling cough. A quote immediately comes to mind, which he recites softly with his eyes closed: "'It's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.'" He has no idea that Alice in Wonderland — less contemporary, but still quite the rage in his time — is a full two decades beyond Fitzjames' last known breath. And within that quote? Not a single wheeze. Curiouser and curiouser.
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But he does refrain from saying anything immediately, even if he fixes Prior with a dubious look and debates with himself over whether or not he should comment. But no lighter is coming out, and the cigarette isn't being held to the fire to be lit that way, so perhaps it's just a distraction. Something to mess with to calm his nerves, just like James plays with his napkin ring or the edge of the tablecloth when telling a story at dinner.
That theory gains a little more traction when Prior recites some unknown lines--from a book, or a play, perhaps?--and James tries to run through some mental options for conversation that aren't about their current situation, but he's coming up a little blank. Idly, he tries to fold his legs a little more comfortably, but the movement sends a stabbing jolt of pain through his side, bad enough that he can't catch himself before he winces and he presses his good hand to the wound on reflex.
His coat is wet. Not soaked, but distinctly damp, and he's half-forgotten Prior's in the room when he pulls his hand away to look at the pale red staining his fingertips. Vaguely, it feels like deja vu, though instead of pulling his own coat closed--its already closed--he has a similarly useless thought that he should return Prior's coat before he bleeds on it. Because that's clearly the main thing to be concerned about.
At least this might work as a distraction, even if it isn't an intentional one.
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"Let's see it," he says, voice brooking no argument. He turns partway, legs akimbo, and begins rolling up his sleeves so as to avoid getting too much blood on his cuffs. Bad enough to have to rely on scavenging, he's certainly not bound to run across a qualified laundress.
cw description of injury
His shirt is already bloodstained, so it looks somewhat worse than it is, but there's still a sizeable new addition. Pushing the coat off his left shoulder also reveals the two spots on his upper arm, similarly stained with both old and new blood.
"They're old, but have reopened and won't heal." Not until the scurvy is dealt with anyway, which he should probably explain, but his thoughts are going hazy again and he mostly has to concentrate on staying upright.
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The sound of his boots scrape as he stands, a hollow noise that rings out in the quiet hollow of the church. Knife donned, Prior snaps up the can of beans, tosses the remainder against an overturned pew, and collects the discarded chalice that must have once served this town.
"I'm going out." At the door now, he looks to Fitzjames. "Don't move," he commands, more lieutenant than captive for the moment.
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But as he'd said there's very little that can be done about it right now, not until he can treat the scurvy and exhaustion and malnutrition enough that his body can remember how to heal itself, and so as soon as he registers what Prior is doing--getting containers, perhaps for snow?--and what he says, he protests immediately.
"Don't risk us both." He says it lowly but very seriously, mustering up as much of a sense of his own authority as he can manage, even though it's his turn to need pained breaths between every few words. He appreciates that--presumably, at least--Prior is trying to help, but in practical terms, this isn't the best way of doing so; if he goes outside and attacked by the wolves or has another asthma attack, James will have to go after him, and then they'll both be even worse off than they already are.
Instead--
"If there's something in here to make bandages from, that will do for now." He'll accept that much help, and it'll give Prior something to do.
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"Don't be mad, we can't seal in that mess. It's got to be cleaned first." They have the means to boil water, so Prior thinks they should. Not only would it allow them to ensure the wounds are clean, but also give them an opportunity to sanitize their chosen bandages.
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"That can wait until first light." He says it instead of what he thinks, which is that there's no point, there's no sealing anything, and the best that can be hoped for is to control the bleeding. The wounds themselves won't close, and the bandages won't last more than several hours without needing replaced anyway, this is a slow way to die, he's already done this once, it's just going to happen all over again, it was supposed to be over--
He takes a breath that feels like a knife has been put through his ribs, struggles to maintain what composure he still has, and holds his bad arm against his injured side with his other hand. The pressure helps, a little, but now something is jamming against his other side in a feeling that's more annoying than actually painful, and he lets go of his arm for a moment to reach into the pocket of his great coat.
It's the flares he'd found earlier, unfamiliar to him for the most part aside from passing similarity to some other things he's seen before, so he doesn't realize they're a potential solution to at least one of the problems with going outside. They are therefore simply tossed lightly onto the ground beside him, though the gesture is less out of irritation and more just exasperation.
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In his fussing, he see Fitzjames set aside the flares and Prior quickly reaches for them. They're pristine, unfired, and he considers them carefully in his hand while trying to decide if its worth trying to find someone else to dump onto the wounded Fitzjames if it means losing something that might otherwise be considered precious.
"Do you know where to find the doctor?" He's heard there is one.
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"Yes. I knew him before this place, and plan to see him at earliest opportunity." He isn't entirely impossible, after all. Even if he weren't suffering an entire list of ailments he would want to go see Goodsir, and it's simply an added bonus that he's also a doctor that James trusts.
Not for the first time, he misses Dr. Stanely, but he puts that thought out of his mind immediately.
"What are they?" He asks instead, nodding his head just slightly toward the flares as he fully pulls his coat back on.
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And yet—
"They're flares," he says, twisting to examine the labeling in the warmth of the flickering fire. "French, from the looks of it." Or close enough, as it's dual labeling is meant for Canada. Prior makes a face and tests the cap. His eyes lift and he squares his attention on Fitzjames. "They would light our way..."
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