February 2025 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

FEBRUARY 2025 TDM

PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: A 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 — and the current inhabitants, their fellow survivors.

PROMPT TWO — WINTER'S BITE: Tales of superstition from the Northern Territories appear to come to light in the form of fearsome creatures made of ice and bone.

PROMPT THREE — FROZEN HEARTS: A strange, new affliction causes Interlopers to find themselves figuratively and literally turning to ice, and there's only one way of saving them.

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

WHEN: Start of the 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.

These are the words of the Darkwalker, you’ll soon come to find.

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. This place has been ransacked, abandoned long ago. 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.

The daylight is thin. Hours are few. It will get dark soon.

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. You’ll find one soon enough. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused. 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 see it: the lazy trail of smoke rising in the air. Fire. Not just one, but several. Civilization...?

Follow it, and soon enough the way you’ve taken will certainly become a path or road. Unfolding before you in the mountainous forests, you’ll see the most welcome of sights: 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.

Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the biggest of the smoke trail rises: a school-house of sorts, or some kind of community hall. Perhaps both. 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. Others may look as if they could faint from the cold at any second.

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. He smiles warmly, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.

“They come again. I had thought we may not see more of you.” 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. You are not the only one, the lights are changing things. Come. Mother Nature has not been kind to you, but there are plenty here to help.”

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 laden with food, drinks and bottled water similar to one might find at a soup kitchen. Once again, Methuselah offers a feast, aided by some of the other Interlopers.

There are canisters with hot herbal teas, mostly. But some coffee can be found. There’s also soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus some grilled fish. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast for those who have battled the cold to come here.

Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks — aided by a handful of others in the Hall. Your fellow survivors, but those who have been here for some time now. 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 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, but gesture to your fellow survivors. They will have better answers than him.

WINTER'S BITE

WHEN: The Month of February.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural beings; magical beings; potential cold injuries; potential cuts/bleeding

Amongst the original inhabitants to the Northern Territories, superstition and folk tales were much more prominent — stemming from a mix of superstitions that settlers brought with them to the area and those beliefs of people native to Northern Territories. Some are familiar to Interlopers, others may be less so.

Much of this is now lost, with the population of Milton dead or gone, but some writings can be found in the town. Some wrote of their superstitions in regards to the changing weather and wildlife in personal journals in the lead up to what is known as The Flare, which may still be found in the empty homes uninhabited by Interlopers. Some note feeling as if 'the souls of the animals are angered somehow' or that the changes to the Aurora may be as if 'the afterlife comes too close to the world'.

Maybe they had a point, maybe they were on to something. It’s hard to really say for sure.

Whether it’s magic, some supernatural cause, or something caused by the Aurora, there’s a strange shifting in snow that blankets the Northern Territories. Throughout the month, angry chittering and clacking — like glass or bones — can be heard out in the wilds. Out of the corner of one’s eye, they may see the snow move of its own accord — with confronting it leading to nothing, and stillness.

For a time.

Until whatever it is finally strikes.

Out from the snow, spectral creatures comprised of ice and animal bone spring forwards — jittering and clunky in their movements. Long bodies that twist and dance in the air, all sharp teeth and even sharper ice. Is it a kind of animal? Or spirit? Some mix of both? An angered spirit of nature or some long dead animal? It’s hard to tell for sure.

Despite their clunky movements, their bodies rolling and jaws chattering, these strange spectral creatures are fast and they’ll strike hard — looking to take a chunk out of the unsuspecting and unprepared Interlopers. Even just brushing against one of these strange creatures can lead to some nasty lacerations if they knock themselves hard enough against you. What’s maybe worse than the lacerations themselves is the wounds will burn with their chill, colder than anything you’ve ever felt.

But being made out of bone and ice means they are also just that. Blunt force may just be enough to end up shattering the bodies of these creatures, sending their remains flying. Be careful, though. Those shards are still just as sharp and will become flying projectiles which could cause further injury to Interlopers.

Alternatively, a way to battle back these ice creatures would be through the use of flame. Fire, torches, Interlopers with the Lightbringer Feat would prove vital in getting rid of these creatures long enough to get to safety.

Fleeing is also an option. The creatures will attempt to chase for a time, but will soon give up and end up returning to the snow once more.

FROZEN HEARTS

WHEN: The Month of February, into March.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural ailments; body horror; characters turning to ice; potential character death.

The cold is a persistent thing in the Northern Territories. Even during the summer months, it doesn’t seem to get warm all that much. But the winter is a different kind of beast, and the cold seems to sink into your very bones.

It starts with a kind of cold that you find it hard to get warm, no matter how long you spend by the fire. In time, it feels like that cold has started freezing your body up: your joints feel stiff and sore. Moving around is a chore, even for the simplest of tasks like walking or sitting down. In time, it gets into the smaller joints: fine motor skills become tricky. You drop things, fail to grip on to items, struggle to close your hands into fists. Even talking can be a bit of a struggle, like you’re slowly getting lockjaw.

With that, it’s not surprising that your mood will dip. Sour moods, and even icy manners aren't out of the ordinary. It’s easy to be miserable when you’re so damn cold and you’re struggling to move and speak. It is so easy to find yourself with lowered spirits, to be irritable and closed off from your fellow Interlopers.

It feels as if nothing might warm you, physically or emotionally.

You find yourself being cold towards others, even those you care about most, your closest companions in this world. You may snap at them, or continually brush them off. You find yourself with little patience for them, and are often unmoved by their attempts to bring you some good cheer.

And certainly, what isn’t out of the ordinary is the strange affliction that plagues your skin. It isn’t frostbite, that you know of. Your skin doesn’t turn red, then white then black. No, it turns blue, frosted with white. Your skin looks less like skin and more like stone….. Or, rather, ice.

It starts in the fingers and toes, and will slowly work its way up your limbs, working its way towards your center. Even your hair may start to freeze. As it progresses, you find it harder to move. In enough time, you may find yourself completely frozen on the spot, and in time, unable to even speak as the ice slowly encloses around you.

If something isn’t done quickly enough, you may find yourself completely turning to ice and being trapped as nothing more than a statue.

Hope isn’t lost, though. They say in stories there’s such things that might save some terrible affliction such as this: An act of true love.

This cold isn’t beaten back by flames, but a different kind of warmth.

But what is true love?

It might just be enough to reverse the effects and undo this terrible affliction before it’s too late, to let the ice slowly melt back again and restore you to what you once were.

FAQs

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

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.

WINTER'S BITE

1. Digging in the snow where the creatures have returned will prove fruitless, Interlopers will not even find bones.

2. The creatures can spring on Interlopers in groups of up to three.

FROZEN HEARTS

1. The notion of true love is open to interpretation. Platonic love, familial love, romantic love could be deemed as acts of true love. Perhaps even the genuine compassion of a fellow Interloper could be seen as true love.

2. An act of showing true love is very flexible! It could be a kiss, a hug, shedding tears for the afflicted, some desperate attempt of helping the afflicted from freezing. Players are encouraged to play around with what this might entail!

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

Comments

QUESTIONS

[singmod]

Ask them here!

[kidproof]

for returning characters would they still have their feat? and how hazy would the memories be? like a vague dream or twisted nightmare or somewhere between waking and dreaming deja vu style?

also, ilu

have bird

joel miller | hbo tlou

[kidproof]

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

A:

[ When Joel comes to in the snow it's with an irritated wince and a pained exhale to follow. His eyes roll into his skull, as he weighs the possibilities of this being a bad dream, instead of his unfortunate reality. The bitterness of the ice seeps into every skin cell and with a grunt he gets back onto his haunches and dusts the snow off of his coat.

He knows where he is. He remembers, and he scans the horizon looking for the plume of smoke, but visibility is low and snow is still following so instead he treks pulling his lip up between his bottom teeth to whistle. ]

Where is that goddamned horse?

B:

[ The thing about showing up to a party you don't want to be at is that no amount of pageantry can take the intensity out of your shoulders but a crackling fire and some meat were what he needed instead of a stiff drink and with the snow melting through his hair dripping in rivulets onto his canvas coat he slams his bowl of stew down on the least occupied table and pushes his spoon through the mash with an irritated look aimed Methusalah's way. It might not be his fucking fault, but it sure felt like it.

Unfortunately for his tablemates, he's not immune to their glances either. ]

What?

WINTER'S BITE

[ There's a first time for everything and with a lantern in hand, Joel has Callus, finally, and is on his way back to see if the farmhouse he'd once claimed for himself was still available to house him when an animal skitters by out of eyeliner and spooks Callus who takes off running through the powdery snow, no doubt in pursuit of the barn he used to stay in.

Joel goes flying, hits the ground hard enough to make his ribs ache and the lantern falls a few feet from him and promptly goes out. ]

Shit!

[ Joel grapples with the snow, as the skeletal wolf starts circling and what he can make out isn't tangible enough to avoid as it lopes and snaps in his direction. ]

WILDCARD: CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE

[ Feel free to include your own hot-take on any of the above prompts, as well as to write your own. I'm also open to frozen hearts but chose the bitey meaner prompt instead because I'm awful. So, the world is your oyster get shucking. I can be found on plurk at doggos and newdlle on discord. Happy to be back now that my life's leveled out some. I love this bar. ]

feast b.

[afterdrop]

[The harsh tone doesn't shake the boy's glance. Charles just raises his eyebrows from down the table, spoon clinking back down into his empty bowl.]

You've got to dry your hair, mate. [It's not coddling, just gently chiding, like this is something he'd expected a grown man to know.] Just 'cause you're inside doesn't mean you can't still get hypothermia.

[Not the sort of thing he might have expected to come from a slouchy punk with eyeliner, but Charles is nothing if not friendly.]

Want me to get you a towel?

Frodo Baggins // Lord of the Rings

[nicehobbit]

METHUSELA'S FEAST

A. Arrival

[ Frodo is soaking wet.

This would be bad enough if he was still where he's supposed to be, with the bugs and the humidity of the marshes. Here, it is absolutely miserable. The wind wastes no time biting into him, his first breath a pained gasp as he struggles up onto his hands and knees.

For a moment before the lights and the darkness, there was a hand on his shoulder pulling him back. Sam's hand, he's certain. But it's not there anymore.

Obviously, the first wrong thing he noticed was the snow and the cold. The second was the lack of that hand. The third is that his neck doesn't feel heavy. The coldness is less important as panic grips him, and he lifts a snow-covered hand to search for the chain, and the ring, and is utterly confused when he finds it. And relieved. And concerned.

All of this is so, so wrong.

He turns over, looking this way and that, and feels his heart sink as he sees nothing but white. ]

Sam? Gollum?

[ No answer, of course.

A violent shiver alerts him to the current most pressing danger. He needs to get out of this cold. Immediately. Getting up is a struggle, because his clothes are heavy, his pack is heavy, and all his body wants to do is curl up into a ball and pretend none of this is happening. ]

B. The feast

[ The smartest thing to do would be to remove all of these wet clothes and let this dry blanket heat him up. But Frodo doesn't feel safe, and so he leaves his trousers and shirt on, takes the blanket from Methusela with a grateful smile and a thanks with a voice that shakes from the cold that's burrowed into his marrow, and wraps it around himself. The heat from the fire is starting to do its work - his skin pricks painfully to let him know - but it will take a very long time until he feels warm, he knows it. The dark curls on his head that for a while were looking more white with ice are starting to look right again.

Despite the cold and the exhaustion settling into his body, he feels ... good? Better than he's had in so long. Like he could sleep soon and it might actually be a pleasant sleep. At least, it would be if he didn't have many things to worry about.

Nothing to do about it now. He needs to warm up and dry up before he can go anywhere and work out what to do now. Which means he can't allow himself to wonder what will happen with the ring, with Sam and Gollum, with-- Can't allow himself.

It has been so long since he's had food other than lembas. He breathes in the smell of food and he can feel his mouth watering with an appetite he also hasn't had for equally as long as they've been eating nothing but lembas. Possibly longer. So he takes two corners of the blanket and a bowl in one hand, and goes to fill it with stew with his other hand. When in doubt, eat.

He's not really looking to be social, but he will smile at anyone who happens to meet his eyes. ]

WINTER'S BITE

[ After speaking with others, Frodo doesn't feel much hope for getting out of here anytime soon. But that doesn't mean he should just be sitting around. Sitting around means more time to think, and it also guarantees nothing much will happen. He makes his way back to the place where he thinks he arrived, though he's not sure what exactly he hopes to find. Maybe at the very least a frozen pond. It seems like it would make more sense to somehow travel from one body of water or another.

But he's probably just telling himself that.

Digging in the snow for a while doesn't lead anywhere, unsurprisingly. Instead, as he straightens, he tries to work out where that noise is coming from. The chittering. He squints into the distance, trying to see-- Is the snow moving?

The fine hairs on the back of his neck stand, and he feels anxious restlessness spreading through his body. He turns around immediately, because he cannot afford any risks when he's out here all alone and it's not the first time he hears these noises.

It's a good idea, but he decided on it too late. He sees the thing in the corner of his eye as it lunges at him, and he immediately starts to run. Or, rather, he tries to run. He manages to avoid the bite himself, but it catches his cloak instead, and he makes a startled noise as the thing yanks him back. ]

WILDCARD

[ Your usual wildcard option. Feel free to approach him wherever because SHORT. I can be found at Tossino and tossino on Discord! ]

Winter's Bite

[load_aim_shoot]

Raju’s been tracking that chittering noise. He shouldn’t be — if he did anything but avoid this newest bizarre thing, even not knowing yet what the noise is coming from or whether it’s dangerous, Francis would worry — but Raju needs to know where it is if he’s going to avoid it, doesn’t he? And if the odd noise and oddly moving snow does happen to be something dangerous, maybe it won’t be such a bad thing to do something properly exciting, for a change. And Francis doesn’t have to know Raju was tracking it on purpose.

The sound of footsteps hurrying over snow and the startled noise is no scream, but along with the more unnatural sounds that preceded it it’s easy to forget what he’d been thinking before and run into the little clearing. And see—

The moving snow is something made of a hundred little pieces jittering in the air, hung loosely together in the shape of something long and living, with a stranger’s cloak caught in floating shards of teeth. Raju skids to a stop, eyes widening. The only skin he’s left exposed to the cold is the tips of the fingers holding his knife the slivers the scarf can’t cover around his eyes, but that’s enough to tell him — if he needed it — that the wind’s moving in the wrong direction to make the snow move that way. There’s not a hint of anything explicable or natural here. He’d thought he was past expecting there to be.

No time to think about it. Raju darts forward, the blade of the knife catching fire as he slashes it down toward where the creature’s snout should be. At times like this, Raju’s control over the ‘gift’ — the feat — of the fire is better than it ever is when he’s at rest, but the fire on the blade may still be large enough or hot enough to burn the man’s cloak, too. Raju’s more focused on driving the creature away from him than keeping his things neat.

furiosa | mad max

[imperatour]

[ general content warnings about mad max canon/furiosa's history are here. particularly apparent will be evidence of a traumatic injury resulting in limb loss and possibly some internal reference to the apocalyptic setting she comes from. despite the topics, the canon is actually more about hope and human resilience, and i'm always happy to edit or pivot based on ooc comfort. don't be afraid to reach out! ]

001. feasting

[ There are a few things that should be immediately apparent about this woman who's stumbled in from the cold. First among them is that she's missing part of her arm, her left forearm blunted just past her elbow. It's an old wound with an ugly, gnarled scar, the opposite of what you'd might expect from a neat and tidy surgery.

The second is that she has no manners. She bursts through the door like a dangerous squall. She gulps hot tea like she's been deprived of water for days. Her teeth tear at charred meat with remarkable desperation and hunger. She tucks a bowl of stew up against her side with her shortened arm so she can scoop every last droplet with her fingers and suck them clean. She does this without regard of any odd stares or whispers.

She does not really talk either, the occasional grunt should not be confused for intentional communication. She will however menace at anyone who looks at her for too long, not unlike a dog growling at a hand reaching for its bowl. ]

002. wounded

[ Furiosa does not linger at the feast. Too many people and too many unknowns, but must important the open wound in her side aches more with every second. She's not sure if it's from gorging herself at the feast, a bloated stomach not used to ever being full pressing on it from the inside, or if the adrenaline from her mad man's high-octane blood transfusion is rapidly subsiding and she can't stand upright without a little more chemical assistance. Her skin pales, sweat beading on her face despite the brutally cold temperatures.

She retreats to the first abandoned cabin she can find, using the last of her strength to force open a lock and slamming it shut behind her. She hurries to the bathroom, too preoccupied to take notice if anyone has followed her. The edges of her vision start to tunnel again, black around the edges. Hurriedly, she unhooks the belts around her waist and hips, hands shaky, woozy and feverish. They fall to the floor with a loud clatter. Her shirt is sticky with blood underneath. She winces when she peels up the hem, hissing as open skin hits the air.

What's that noise? Did someone come in? Her head turns like a swivel, eyes sharp and narrowed with a defensive, animal instinct. ]

003. hunting

[ No scrubs allowed. Even armless, Furiosa doesn't let herself sit around waiting but instead makes opportunities for herself. While this place may not have deigned to give her her prosthetic, at least she came with a comically above average amount of leather belts. She's rigged up sling for a hunting rifle, something that makes it more adaptive and manageable with only one hand. She's been practicing her draw with squirrels and rabbits nearby the small cabin she's taken for herself on the periphery of everyone else.

The cold and the dark still formidable opponents all on their own, but she doesn't let that stop her from venturing out into the edge of the woods in search of bigger game. There's a buck she's spotted a few times, and she's scouting for him. Her footsteps are light, but she's slow underneath all the layers to protect against the cold (and despite those, she still has to spend hours by the fire to warm up her bones). The snow is a new environment, but she takes careful steps to limit the sound of her bootfalls.

Maybe not everyone is though. She hears a loud crack from behind her, the undeniable sound of a careless foot over fallen sticks. Her buck's head shoots up from the brush as it bolts deeper into the forest.

She grunts and turns to whoever spoiled her hunt. ]

Now you owe me dinner.

004. wildcard

[ feel free to throw something else at me! tall, intimidating woman with 1.5 arms who clearly isn't used to the cold. if you want to plan something, you can dm me here or hit me up beehaw ]

(002.) https://i.imgflip.com/1wjkrz.jpg?a482904

[pursuitspecial]

[ In the middle of the woods, amidst a sea of endless trees and snow and rocks, a man moves slowly and quietly, testing each footstep before leaning his weight onto it, a cat stalking prey so as not to be heard.

Max's entire system is in overdrive. Even with a blanket of snow to cover movement, everything is so loud. Branches snap underfoot, rocks become dislodged, animals cry out into the pitch darkness. Animals. He can't remember the last time he heard something living that didn't walk on two legs.

Something heightens in him, senses sharpening as adrenaline continues to flood his system. Keep going, keep moving. Live. The litany he tells himself, his own voice carrying in his mind, to try and drown out the harsh whispers that come from the pockets of space around his head.

Left them behind again, didn't you?

Didn't you?

Max exhales hard through his nose, the white puff of breath piercing the cold air to interrupt the rising threat of voices. Then they all but disappear when the sound of crunching snow filters through the frost.

He stills, letting the sound resonate into steps with a decidedly human-like gait. And then, under the dim light of the stars and moon, he catches it: the silhouette of someone he knows. A head and shoulders that drip something into the pit of his gut. The silhouette passes him, seemingly unaware of anyone or anything else, and heads for a darkened cabin.

Heart hammering in his chest, Max barrels through every other instinct and follows.

The cabin's dark and empty, save its new resident. Max takes notice of the handle and door jamb, wood splintered where the door's been forced open. He should be careful. And he is up until he finds unmistakable leather belts on the floor, rounding the corner to face someone Max has more than just one reason to believe he'd never see again.

Chest seizing with shallow breaths, his mouth falls open as if to say something, but it's a second before the words come out, breathless. ]

It's you.

[ Furiosa. And then the other information filters in. Her posture, the dewy sweat on her brow, despite the cold. The blood.

He rushes forward, a hand around her waist and the other held out for her arm to lean on, to steady herself on him. He knows the wound - it's his. Holding firm, Max guides Furiosa to sit on the edge of the bathtub, kneeling beside her with a hand on her side like a question, a palm light over her ribcage, above the wound. His voice is soft when he asks: ] Let me see.

Steve Harrington | Stranger Things

[stevieboy]

arrival.

---

[ When Steve dove into the lake to find a portal to the Upside Down, he expected to find ... Well. The Upside Down. Being dragged in and coming up in a snowdrift wasn't even on his radar.

And, hell, maybe this is the Upside Down. He isn't an expert on this shit. He doesn't even want to acknowledge this shit exists, but he can't seem to escape it. And if it's not one thing, then it really is another, isn't it?

He can't really think about that right now, because he's here in the snow without a shirt or shoes, and it's really fucking cold.

Jesus Christ, he's going to die like this, isn't he?

Luckily, Steve Harrington is stubborn, so he does the sensible thing and that's push forward. He trudges through the snow, eyes set on the smattering of buildings he sees up ahead. He can totally make it. Right? ]

feast.

---

[ Somehow Steve made it to the community hall. He doesn't really remember the last bit of it, pretty much blacked out from the bone-chilling cold. He immediately found himself a blanket to wrap himself up in, and he's set himself up by a fire to warm his cold and bare feet. Even with the fire, the blanket, and the tea he's drinking, Steve can't stop shivering. The cold doesn't seem to want to seep out of him, but the vaguely blue tint that's come to his lips is slowly fading at least.

He still gives a nod in greeting to whoever might come by, and he'll even move over to make space if someone wants to be close to the warmth of the flames, too. Once he feels like his limbs can move again, he decides to go scope out the food, figuring warming himself up from the inside isn't a bad idea. ]

winter's bite.

---

Jesus Christ -

[ No, this isn't the Upside Down (maybe), but apparently that doesn't stop weird creepy things from trying to kill you for no reason. But, hey, Steve's faced worse, right? Or at least he's faced something equally screwed up and terrifying, and what he's learned it Hit Things.

By now he's found a house to hang out in, and whoever lived there liked to snowshoe, which gives Steve a reasonable enough whacking device. ]

Hey, look out!

[ He smashed the flat side of the snow shoe into one of the icy bone bags, sending the shards dangerously close to himself and whatever interloper he's helping out. ]

We need to get inside.

FEASTING...

[satanicpanics]

[ Eddie observes from afar for a time, not wanting to get his hopes up that a familiar face is finally back here with him until he’s totally sure. He inches closer, closer, right up to the fire…and yeah, it’s definitely Steve.

Eddie gives him one look, sighs, slips off the leather jacket he’s only just been reunited with, and deposits it in Steve’s lap. It’s not the first time he’s done his part by preserving Steve Harrington’s modesty, but he’s well aware of the screwiness of the timelines, and one look at Steve tells him everything he needs to know: he most likely just came from leaping into Lover’s Lake.

Meaning Eddie’s vest is still somewhere in the depths of the War Zone, and he’s going to make that Steve’s problem for as long as he possibly can. ]

We have got to stop meeting like this, Harrington.

[ He counts himself lucky that he still has use of his Lightbringer Feat; he’s warmed up far more quickly than he might have otherwise, but he still drops to the floor beside Steve with a grin, grateful for the fire. ]

You know, I could be wrong, but I think you dressed for the wrong occasion, Steve.

Eddie Munson | Stranger Things

[satanicpanics]

🦇 Methuselah’s Feast

A.

[ 'You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.’

Ah, there it is. Awfully familiar words that Eddie recognizes he’s heard before. He’s experienced every step of this song and dance before, actually, and he heaves a deep sigh as he awakens to the cold, damp cabin, harboring the same aches and pains as when he’d disappeared from Milton months back. At least he isn’t bleeding out onto the floor the time, but he is without his jacket.

Swearing, he forces himself to his feet and shuffles over to peek into the closet in hopes of finding something, but this cabin has been long since ransacked. There aren’t even any sheets left on the bed. That’s fine, he tells himself. This time, he knows the way back to Milton, and he knows it isn’t far.

So that’s what he does. Unprotected for the elements, he trudges his way through the snow, and it’s not a fun walk. Eddie has never been particularly light on his feet to begin with, and he’s shivering so intensely, it feels like his teeth might rattle out of his skull, but he makes it. He waves away Methuselah’s welcome speech—again, he’s heard it before, and he barrels into the warmth of the community hall. He makes a beeline for the familiar leather jacket laid out on a table, pulls it on, then throws his arms out, a grin on his face. ]

A bit of a belated encore, I know, but uh…who’s keeping track? What did I miss?

B.

[ Cold and aching though he may be, Eddie never stumbles far from being Eddie. He forces himself though two bowls of Methuselah’s stew, though he eyes the old man with a glare of mistrust as he does. When he’s through, he makes his rounds to the different tables, inviting himself to sit, and asking: ]

Hey, so….I was wondering if you’d seen a guitar around here. Electric. Red and black, kind of the most beautiful object to ever grace this earthly realm?


🦇 Winter’s Bite

[ There’s little time to settle back in before the Northern Territories are back to their old tricks, and Eddie is quick to recall that the cold isn’t the only reason this place is absolute misery. There’s always something to be concerned about, and the flavor for this month seems to be…skeletal ice dogs.

It turns out that when you disappear for half a year, people will claim your stolen shit as their own stolen shit. Eddie is out and about, doing his fair share of plundering and pilfering what little may be left in the empty cabins, when something crawls out of the snow and ice, angry and snarling and bounding right for Eddie. ]

Ah, shit. Shit, shit, shit—

[ He scrambles backward, practically tripping over his own feet, and slowly reaches for a chunk of dead wood near his foot. ]

Hey! Hey. Nice doggie, right…? Nice…Go fetch!

[ He hurls the stick just over the creature’s head, and while its icy gaze follows the object’s trajectory, it doesn’t move to fetch. It merely stares at Eddie for a brief, chilling moment, and then continues advancing. ]

Shit—Come on!


🦇 Wildcard

[ Surprise me with something or hit me up at muttonchops or poultrylegs on discord! Hoping to return to u all this app round… ]

winter's bite.

[afterdrop]

Dog breath!

[The shout comes from the left, somewhere off past Eddie's shoulder where the cabin's shadow stretches across the snow. Something in the darkness glints - moonlight catching metal, perhaps, or the shine of a glowing eye. Then, an awful noise, like a rasping wail of pain. Live bait, maybe? The culprit finally comes into view, the poor creature dangling from one hand, and-

It's a dog's squeaky toy, held by a gangly teenager. Some kind of rubber chicken, worse for the wear. He holds it up and gives it another squeeze, trying to shift the creature's attention to him. And at least for a moment, it works.

Good old Gladys and her dead chihuahuas, coming in clutch.]

Go on, [he hisses at Eddie, more confident than he feels.] Get out of here.

esmeray şahin, original character (forgotten realms)

[moonwitch]

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

I.

She feels absence, the quick snap of a bright tether.

Then the cold rushes in all at once, filling her lungs when she starts with a gasp. Snow threatens to soak into the cloth of her light armor, Esmeray having removed the accompanying breastplate and gloves only moments ago — a fact she sorely regrets right about now, considering.

Instinct pushes her to her feet, that she may keep what heat remains. Blood from a recent encounter lingers on her face, her armor. She lifts her hand to her cheek in confirmation and finds it a strange comfort: what she last remembers is real, even if she can't explain the rest. Yet.

Her mace lies some feet away from her, shield nowhere to be found. There's a difference when she holds it. There's a difference in her and she does know why. She pushes past the disquieting thought, the uncertainty, and moves. Shelter is her first priority, but she's on the lookout for supplies, for others.

Snow tends to mute sound, but the crunching sound of footsteps to her left is unmistakable. Her hold on her mace tightens: "Show yourself."

II.

It's the little things sometimes. The smaller victories.

She holds a bowl of soup in both hands, and quietly sighs her relief to feel its warmth. To feel warmth at all. Mildly shivering still, even with a blanket wrapped around her, one might deduce she isn't used to this kind of winter. This is correct, though she's trying to put on her bravest face.

A face that is no longer caked in blood, at least.

Methuselah moves about the community hall, doing the sort of things she would if she weren't so newly arrived and so godsdamned cold: tending to the wounded, fetching this and that.

She looks after him, pensive.

"He is not a man of many words, is he?"

WINTER'S BITE

Her haul for the day is a lone box of adhesive bandages, assorted writings on an event known as The Flare, and ... she isn't sure what the third item is, actually.

But it might be important?

Esmeray places it all in her saddle bag and returns to the community hall, or attempts to. On her way there, she hears the screams of an NPC someone in distress close by.

Too close.

She doesn't have her moon magic, the magic that made her so formidable in a fight. She only has her mace, and a refusal to turn down cries for help. The proximity means she's in danger regardless. When she arrives to the scene, however, the NPC man already looks somewhat mangled.

The good news is a hard swing of her mace shatters the culprit. The bad news is more creatures made of bone and ice are bursting out from the snow.

Assistance would be nice here, maybe.

NOTE: I write all my starters in prose, but I love brackets as well, so go with your preference and I'll match you. Info can be found here.

coin flip gives you kieren! arrival!

[burying]

It's a familiar feeling, and it's almost comforting with the notion of it — playing skivvy. Kieren's good at menial stuff. It makes him feel useful; it helps him get his mind off everything, off every horrible thing he's done back home and in this place. He knows people in town still whisper; he knows he'll be doing anything and everything he can to make up for what he did — even if they deemed him innocent.

The old man said more would be coming, and he's never been wrong yet. So Kieren heads out into the woods to gather firework — looks for small branches of fir and cedar that've been downed in the storm last month. He can't really feel the weight, and the cold doesn't bother him anyway.

He trudges through the snow with an awkward gait, like he can't get his limbs to work as smoothly and fluidly as it used to. Like his body doesn't fit right. It doesn't. Not any more. And then there comes a voice, and there's a woman with— oh.

Kieren's eyes go wide. Quickly dropping his load of firewood, he raises gloved hands in a defensive gesture.

"Woah, woah—" Is that like... a mace? Like seriously medieval-knight-mace kind of deal? Kieren swallows thickly, carefully wets his lips. "It's alright. Uh— friendly."

Lottie Matthews | Yellowjackets

[spiltblood]

[OOC: Yellowjackets is a grisly little show, so warning for discussion or mention of teenagers being hurt/killed, blood/violence, starvation, injury towards animals, general mental health crises, and cannibalism! Nothing graphic will be discussed, but things may come up relating to this in her narration or in conversation. Lottie is also a character with a somewhat ambiguous "is she mentally ill, or is she supernaturally inclined" character arc -- I will be playing it more the latter, with lingering mental health issues from her situation.]

I. ARRIVAL

[Lottie had been not been fairing well, before this very moment. It was of her own design — she had asked Shauna to give in to her grief and pain, to unleash her fists and anguish on Lottie's own body. She had clutched her hands behind her back, had resisted the natural urge to protect herself as her friend's fists and feet launched an assault on her. It was for the good of the group; it was to protect her people; it was something that would appease the hungry emotions that coiled up in the forest, where the wilderness cried out for blood in return for healing. In this case, her blood.

The days had been a blur after that. Her face had swelled up, and her body gasped and sputtered and suffered through the beating. Flickers of memory had come and gone: Misty, perching her upright, coaxing her to try to eat or relieve herself or let her inspect the seeable wounds on her face. Sometimes, she would fall asleep and not exactly know if she would make it through. Maybe this would be it: the moment the forest would take her spirit, that she would nurture her hungry friends with her own body while the wilderness finally welcomed her into its embrace.

Maybe then the visions would end. The fear that came with the darkest ones. Maybe she would be rewarded for her dedication and patience. Maybe... maybe...

Then she woke up, crumpled in the snow outside, shivering violently with the chill of the white carpet beneath her. Rolling over and standing was not easy, but she felt some instinctive swell of strength that only the human body's stubborn will to survive gives out. Something's wrong, she thinks. Something is missing. Despite standing in the very forest that was guiding her (she's sure of it, isn't she?), there's a thread so suddenly snapped inside her that it takes the breath that the cold air doesn't.]

Why...? Where are you...?

[Abandoned. In that moment, she realizes with startling clarity that the thing that had gripped her in the forest was no where in her presence. She begins to limp in a direction, any direction, because nothing looks familiar anymore.]

Natalie...?! M... Misty?!

[She keeps walking, hoping to find some missing piece inside her. The longer she walks, the more panic wedges in her bruised chest. The girl is a rough sight to those who may run into her.]

II. METHUSELAH'S FEAST

[She eats like a rabid animal who had been hunting for weeks without prey. The shellshock hasn't quite worn off from her, but she doesn't need to process the situation to feel her starved body move for her: she grabs plates, pulls them close and starts eating urgently with her fingers.

Meats, soups, anything — they burn her mouth and she hardly flinches. So hungry — so hungry, and the food is delicious, it's seasoned and prepared with humanity. She's a skinny thing in a dirty dress, and looks rightfully embarrassed when someone else catches her eye mid-bite.

What does she even look like, to someone who wasn't among the Yellowjackets?

Or maybe... maybe there's something about this place that feels cursed, too.

She's not really sure. Actually, she thinks maybe she's hallucinating again. It wouldn't be the first time, would it? Laura Lee might spring up at any time, telling her to get up, to hurry back to the cabin before she freezes out in the cold...]

III. WILDCARD

[If you've got a starter or plot idea in mind, feel free to hit me up via PM or reach out to me at my plurk, simpledog!]

arrival

[kidproof]

[ With the line of sight being a problem thanks to the damn aurora, Joel is stuck wandering around while whistling, looking for the damn horse he'd made it to this shit heap with last time. If Callus was dropped off in the wilds with him, he wasn't answering, and so the trek through the snow becomes a painful jaunt that leaves his jeans wet and his boots soaked through.

He's got the benefit of a jacket, but the chill has eaten right through straight to the bone and his hair has gone from salt and pepper to almost entirely white from the falling snow.

He can hear something on the wind, but the howl from the weather and the view ahead is obscured in the storm until all he can make out is the color of her hair and the vague shape of another person moving in his direction.

Joel stops, hand moving to the strap on his firearm, but as the form manages a stronger shape he realizes with some dismay that it's a kid, a teenage girl, and she looks beat to hell. His arm drops from the rifle but he stands firm where he is. ]

You need to calm down, ramping up your heart rate is just gonna make you go hypothermic faster. Or hyperventilate and pass out.

Bruce Wayne | DCEU

[shoving]

Arrival

[ When Bruce wakes up, he's face down in the snow. The force that's brought him was, at the very least, kind enough to take him while he wore an expensive, tailored coat. It doesn't do much to keep out the cold - but it does enough that Bruce doesn't shiver too badly.

But it takes moments for him to orient himself, because seconds ago, he'd been at home. Seconds ago, he'd been in an elevator descending into the heart of the earth where his beats its strongest. And now, he's an interloper, laid out in the snow. He doesn't belong here.

Well, no shit.

Moments is only the amount of time he allows himself because he cannot stay still. It's freezing and he will freeze too if he doesn't find warmth soon. But in the vast, wilderness, all he sees is snow.

Thankfully, he finds a trail in the snow drift and it leads him away from the yawning emptiness. And with the hopes of a town of some kind at the end of it, it spurs Bruce on to find it. ]


METHUSELAH'S FEAST

[ Bruce isn't sure what he expected, but Milton was not it. He doesn't comment on it. Not to the kindly, wizened man who greets him at the community hall, nor to anyone else who might approach him while he soaks in the warmth of the room.

Inside, he ignores the food and drink, puts himself out of the way in a corner where he cannot be immediately observed. The fire's warm enough. He'd dry out soon, even though his clothes are very damp from the melting snow. He could already feel his fingers again. And right now, he just wanted to gain his bearings. ]

Wildcard

[ Hit me with your prompt. Or if you want to plot, you can reach me at tapsters ]

arrival

[brushoff]

[ Unfortunately, Bruce doesn't find a town just yet. Instead, he finds a young-looking man, someone who appears to be in his twenties, with floppy black hair and pale skin. The man, Dorian, has a British accent and is completely decked out in designer clothes.

To nobody's surprise, Versace kind of sucks when you're trapped in a frozen wintery hellscape. He eyes Bruce's coat for a moment, as if he's debating pushing the man down and just taking it himself, but Dorian soon settles on a different avenue: complaining. ]

Finally. I was worried I was the only one out here. You must have come from a town, a city, something like that, right? Where is it?

[ His teeth chatter as he keeps talking. Somebody is having a very bad day. ]

Cassandra de Rolo | Critical Role (campaign 1, pre-stream)

[littlestderolo]

Arrival.
Cassandra’s arrival to this world is filled with… panic, mostly. At least initially. Her first moments after waking she is panicked, terrified as she scrambles to her feet, searching for Delilah, Sylas as she tries to stem the bleeding from where he’d fed on her most recently. But they’re not here. Not that she can see. Is this another game they’re playing with her? Another way to make her suffer?

Except… she’s alone. Alone, in the snow… with a matched set of blades lying a few feet away from her. They’re hers, they’re her blades, the ones her mother had given her on her thirteenth birthday. That makes her think that maybe this isn’t some trick of the Briarwoods. They’d never give her weapons. Let alone weapons that had been a gift from her mother. (Or maybe they’re just being exceedingly cruel in this game. She doesn’t know.)

It doesn’t matter. Whatever this is, it’s cold, and snowy, and she’s not dressed for the weather. Her pale blue dress (where it’s not growing ever more stained wither blood) might have long sleeves but it’s not thick enough to keep her warm.

Pelor, she hates the cold.

Swords on her back, arms curled around herself, she starts moving, shivering and trudging through the deep snow, a slip of a girl looking a little younger than her thirteen (or is it fourteen, now) years, white-streaked dark curls falling wild over her shoulders. It’s the only way she stands a chance of surviving. She has to try and find shelter. Somewhere to get out of the snow. (The words she’d heard upon waking, even in her panic and fear, echo in her head.)


Feast.
Milton doesn’t look like any place Cassandra has ever seen, but there are buildings and people. Not that that helps, necessarily. She is prickly, and wary, half-feral and suspicious even as she sits, curled up in a corner with a full view of the community hall, face barely peeking out from the blanket she’s wrapped herself in. (A benefit of being so fully wrapped in the blanket is that it hides her injuries. Hides the blood.) Watching everything.

There’s a forgotten bowl of stew beside her. She hasn’t taken a bite, yet. Nor has she taken a drink of anything. Maybe she will, later, when hunger and thirst become too great and it’s worth the risk, but for the moment, she refrains. She doesn’t know what she makes of all this, but she certainly doesn’t trust any of it. (That might be why she hasn’t eaten anything yet.)


Winter’s Bite.
There’s something out in the snow. It sounds like bones, the angry clittering and clacking, and Cassandra half wonders if it’s some creations of Delilah’s, having followed her here. Or perhaps there are necromancers, somewhere in the forest. Whatever it is, it sets her on edge, makes her more wary than she already had been.

Until she finally sees something, a wolf that is made of ice and bones, barrelling at her from out of the forest. She only just manages to avoid its charge, losing her footing and tumbling down the snowy hill.

At the top, snarling and snapping, the skeletal wolf stares down at her.

WILDCARD!
[Choose your own adventure! Or message me at this journal or ThriceWiddershins on plurk to plot something out.]

feast

[devilmind]

Cassandra isn't the only child-shaped entity in the community hall. And the Operator, it must be said, is easily moved by those who appear to be of a similar age as themself—especially those in distress. It pulls at those old Zariman memories of when they were a human child centuries ago, huddled in a schoolroom with their classmates while their parents wailed and ranted outside. They had tried their best to help the other children, then. They still want to try now.

They approach the girl cautiously and come to a stop a respectful distance away. They nod towards her rapidly-cooling bowl of stew.

"The food is good," they tell her. "It'll warm you up."

Armand | Interview with the Vampire

[alinere]

I. The Road

[The Bay area may get pretty chilly, but it's almost never below freezing even at the coldest time of the year. No need for Armand to turn up in a heavy coat, then. Instead, he's in a perfectly serviceable outfit for his time: brown corduroys, brown leather loafers, and a thin cotton long-sleeved navy button-up shirt with cream stripes. When he first arrives, the shirt is unbuttoned nearly down to his heart. It's not long before this is rectified.

It's not precisely that he can't feel cold and warmth, so much as that neither cold nor heat usually bother a vampire. That's the first sign something is wrong, for him--the cold punches him in the chest immediately. By the time he stands up, snow is in his shoes. Is this a dream? A memory? An illusion by someone more skilled with the Mind Gift than he is?

Whatever is happening, he staggers forward while he does up the top buttons on his shirt, looking around to try to get his bearings.]

II. Metheuselah's Feast

[Cue a very confused vampire (ex-vampire? half-vampire? no such thing, in either case) studying a bowl of hot soup as if he's never seen one before. He has, certainly, but it's been a very long time since he was expected to ingest any. His face is reddened with something that could be either windburn or sunburn, and since he hasn't done much testing of how long he can stay in the sun, he's not entirely sure which one it is. Since it's not healing, it could well be the sun has no effect on him here at all.

After a moment, Armand catches a bit of broth in his spoon and takes a cautious sip, really only for show. He's mostly holding the bowl for warmth at this point, but he can't help but be a bit curious as to what his senses will do with it. He immediately gags on the tiniest bit of meat that made it into the spoon. Very dignified.

So this poses a problem. He can't fly, he can't even move as quickly as he ought, and his strength is greatly diminished. If he still can't eat human food, he will need to carefully consider how to procure nourishment before it becomes a problem. Fortunately, he has some time until then.

To an outsider, this man may appear human--even his eyes, often a burning orange, are dimmed to a clear brown--but losing his powers doesn't mean he moves any differently. There is a stillness to him some might find eerie, any emotion kept carefully away from his face, though his posture is quite casual. Aloof, reserved, not frightened.]

III. Winter's Bite

[There remains a part of Armand that still doesn't quite believe he is in any grave danger here. Danger has never meant the same to him as it did to others, not even when he was human. Oh, he'd always known a great many things in nature were cruel and savage, but for nearly as long as he can remember, he has been part of that cruelty and savagery. Nothing he could find in the woods would be more frightening than him.

At least, that was true before.

He hears the sound, but his instincts are still accustomed to seeing only other vampires as threats. As such, he doesn't turn quickly enough. His reflexes are quick--not vampire-quick anymore, but still quick--enough for him to avoid evisceration, but claws tear across his lower ribs and he is face-to-face with a creature as unnatural and unholy as he is. His blood sprays crimson across the snow.

A deep grunt punches out of him, but he is already turning and sprinting toward a half-collapsed building, the creature on his heels. With his powers gone, his only chance is to find a weapon, and there has to be something fallen nearby he can pick up.]

ii

[brushoff]

[ Dorian's been here for a few hours and he has very quickly realized one thing: so many people here are just depressingly boring. They were all kidnapped and dropped off into the frozen wilderness, and the vast majority of the people here are just...people.

It's aggravating.

So naturally, he spends his time looking around, eyeing his fellow new arrivals, trying to spot anybody that could be worthy of his time. His eyes linger on Armand as he looks the man over. Over a hundred and fifty years of dealing with the supernatural have attuned Dorian to oddities. And this man...well, jury's out, obviously. But there's something about his posture, his demeanor, that strikes Dorian as interesting. He wants to know more.

Plus, man's cute. That counts for a lot.

So without any hesitation and like the obnoxious extrovert he is, Dorian slides into a seat right next to Armand. He flashes the other man a smile. It's the winning smile of someone who is used to being hot shit and commanding the room. And with that smile comes idle chit-chat. ]

I have to admit, this isn't the most ridiculous day I've had? But between waking up in the woods, trudging through the snow, ending up at a cute little dying town in the middle of nowhere, I'd say it's in my top three.

[ The entirety of Dorian's being just radiates 'pay attention to me.' ]

max rockatansky | mad max

[pursuitspecial]

01. [ARRIVAL]
[ Where are you going, Max? A woman's voice, distantly familiar. The sound brushes against his ears. Where've you gone?

When he comes to, Max's face is burning, little gusts of air chilling him to his core. Rolling onto his back, his skin stings, body slowly coming to terms with the cold that seeps through his clothes and lays over his bones.

Sitting up, what he faces is not the orange stretch of endless, empty, sun-blasted desert, but the eerie slopes of moon-drenched snow banks, broken up by gnarled, unhappy tree trunks. He looks behind him, and around just to make sure: no motorcycle. No trail. No footsteps. Just... nothing. Like the entire world shifted and remade itself into something unrecognizable while Max was out cold.

Unwilling to think about the hows and whys, and whether this is finally the day he has lost his mind, Max picks himself up, pulls his scarf up around his neck, and walks.

Among the white expanse of undisturbed snow are modest houses made of wood, windows boarded up and contents turned over like its occupants left in a hurry. One looks particularly desolate, but Max makes his way past the front door, walking its perimeter. It's easy enough to shoulder his way inside the small shed in the yard, enclosed within a rotting wooden fence.

He's picking through what's left, inspecting a rusted pair of branch loppers when a noise has him whipping around to face whatever's snuck up on him. ]

02. [WINTER'S BITE (+ FROZEN HEARTS)]
[ Snow makes sound, as it turns out. Walking in it does. So does everything else: rocks coming loose, branches snapping, ice creaking and yawning. At least, he thinks it's the ice.

Even if he isn't dressed for the climate, Max can't help but think that maybe his odds of survival just improved in this strange land – if he can get something else to dress himself with. Which is his next order of business, wandering in the dim winter night for other cabins when movement out of the corner of his eye has him jerking his head around. He turns to face a bank of snow behind him, one he thought was a little taller when he walked past it just a second ago. Did the snow just... move?

There's that sound again. Creaking and cracking, like small stones hitting one another, but Max hardly has time to think before he rounds to face it: a twisted figure of bone and teeth and glass – no, ice – stares at him with ghostly eyes and lashes out to clamp down over his right leg.

Shouting in surprise, Max drives his elbow down on the thing, which releases him to tumble bone over bone and lope off behind a line of trees, with a sound like a hundred chattering teeth.

Reaching down, he feels for damage. Just a small tear that stings like hell, metal leg brace protecting him from the worst, though his knee's starting to seize up too. At his feet, the closest weapon: a branch about the size of his arm, brandished like a baseball bat for when the monster wants to come back for a second try. ]

03. [WILDCARD]
[ Got something else in mind? Tl;dr what I've written and drop something completely different! Or feel free to hit me up if you want to work something else out entirely! Comment here, PM, Discord, or let me log into my old Plurk. Allow me to serenade you with bespoke tags from this half feral madman. ]

2 hehe

[lumonary]

[ Helly R., in her scavenged winter clothes and a stolen gas lamp wasn't afraid to brave the outside, but that was before she was face first with a monster. She does not think her alarmed yelps or the way she shouts, Shoo! waving her lantern alone actually does anything when some mad man not dressed for the weather is literally fighting it but like, she tries.

Is this the outside? Is the whole world an apocalyptic winter vortex? Sorting scary numbers always seemed moderately-to-highly unimportant, but she's pushing it even further to one end if this context.

Cautiously, Helly creeps across the snow towards the injured stranger after his fight with a monster. Her fingers clutch her lantern's handle, wielding it like like a weapon, ready to swing.

She yells when the stranger brandishes his stick at her. ]

Holy shit—! You're good, man, I'm not one of those... whatever that was.

marc spector, marvel comics

[vestments]

☾ ARRIVAL

( it's not the first time he's heard a voice like it, one that feels as if it reverberates within him more than it is spoken aloud. it's not the first time he'd had questions about what's just happened and what's expected of him, and as such— )

—Father?

( chicago-accented for the familiar, dulled a little by years of travel punctuated by years of living in new york. it's not soft, but it edges towards expectant, but when no answer comes — or at least, nothing anyone nearby might be able to hear — he seems unsurprised. resigned. then there's a a groan-come-sigh, and his attention shifts, searching. it's not the worst situation he's been in. it's not even the most confusing. none of that means it's especially welcome, though.

marc claims he wears white because it means he's seen. it's mostly the truth — that is, there's a little more to it than that, but visibility and MAKING AN IMPRESSION certainly play a part. keeping warm has never been a consideration, a not-quite oversight he's having to very quickly come to terms with. it is not, put bluntly, his favourite experience — he's spent time in deserts, in unbearably hot countries and unfriendly territories, but he's never been anywhere as cold as this.

bitingly miserable doesn't begin to cover it.

but snow and sand aren't so different when it comes to it, unpleasant and unkind to spend much time attempting to traverse, and though there's no immediately visible tracks for marc to follow, there does appear to be smoke in the distance. a sign of civilisation of some description. it's far enough away that he knows the walk won't be enjoyable, but not so far that he thinks he won't make it.

and if he doesn't, well—. it's not like he stays dead.
but perhaps if he gets lucky, there'll be some kind of shelter along the way.

he does pause before he sets off, attention caught by metal glinting against the snow. a small blade, crescent moon in shape, half-buried beneath the white. given everything, it's easy to assume it's his, and he stops to pick it up, brushing cold snow off the equally cold metal with a gloved hand.

("hmm.")

his coming to a stop allows any other sounds, though muffled and dampened by still-falling snow, to be more easily noticed. marc turns his head, half-glances over his shoulder, crescent dart still held between thumb and forefinger, and—) It's impolite to sneak.

☾ METHUSELAH'S FEAST

( in the immediate, marc avoids the food, not because he's not hungry — he'll come to that realisation eventually — but because it seems like the least of his concerns. getting warm and dry are the first, and the second is coffee. he's never been very fussy about how he takes it, life in the marines and then life as a mercenary had never allowed for much in the way of being fussy, and sure, he's spent time in places that are home to good coffee — south america, the middle east — but good coffee's hard to find in the jungle and in the desert. good coffee's hard to find when it's the middle of the night or the ass-crack of dawn. instant coffee's had to do more times than he can count, and so something that predominately tastes of hot is more than fine.

and even if it doesn't taste good, the heat from the mug is enough to warm his hands, even through still-damp gloves that cling uncomfortably to his fingers.

for all that the journey here was unpleasant, the dark circles beneath his eyes suggest a habitual lack of involvement with sleep, whilst the stubble implies a lack of interest in self-care that's entirely at odds with the suit he still wears. his hair, still drying, curls against his forehead, while his brows knit in an expression that's ostensibly a frown, but the kind that sits between unhappiness and bemusement, the kind that implies it's more DEFAULT EXPRESSION than anything else.

a lingering silence, and then— ) This isn't what I was expecting.

( blunt, seemingly apropos nothing, and he makes no move to immediately elaborate on what he had been expecting or what he means by that. )

☾ WILDCARD

( ooc— hmu, fam, if u wanna do something else! for anything you want to chat about, either send me a pm or shoot a pp to spandex.
any concerns, i have an info post located here, and a cw/opt-out located here. )

methuselah's feast

[starscollapse]

[ As days go, it has certainly not been one of her better ones, in recent memory, though — there have been far worse. That is a comfort, but only just. It would be troubling enough to have been brought here against her will, but that this world seems to have meddled with her powers — something innately within her — is the more alarming aspect of this entire reality at the moment.

That, and the nature of this place itself. Or what she's understood it to be already.

Like many others here, she imagines, Merrin does not trust their curious benefactor, though she won't turn down the offer of a meal. She's in no rush to overly indulge at the moment, preferring to observe those in the community hall, but she is nursing her own warm drink. She's never had coffee before, so she has nothing to judge it against; it's bitter, almost sour to her taste. There is little in it to enjoy, but she finds herself taking another sip nonetheless, and then another, wrapping her hands around the mug to stay warm. She might almost not have noticed the man near her — her attention caught by Methuselah in the corner, tending to some who appear wounded.

She looks to the man, though, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. Then, dryly — ]

Which part?

emmrich volkarin | dragon age: the veilguard

[necropolitans]

☠ — arrival / winter's bite
happy to go with a winter's bite option with arrival or just a regular arrival!

[ He wonders, briefly, if the colours may be something of the Fade. Certainly, there's a strange and wondrous kind of shimmer to the atmosphere of the Lighthouse — ancient magics of endless depths. But when he finds himself in the snow of some deep and quiet wood, there is something... off. And even more off is the absence of his connection with his magic.

At least the chill of the Necropolis has prepared him for the bitter cold, and he can keep a level head. But he cannot stay in this place, and he must try to find others — a camp, or (he hopes) his Companions.

He cuts through the snow, long strides through the snow with staff in hand. It glows, but that seems to be the only thing it capable of — he is equal parts concerned and curious. But cautious in this strange place, slowing to a stop at the sounds of someone else drawing close. Emmrich grips his staff in both hands, straightening. ]

Come out, now—! I have no wish to fight, but I warn you I am prepared to—!

☠ — methuselah's feast

[ His coat he leaves to dry off and he wanders around the Community Hall, politely declining any offer of food — there seems to be little offerings in the way of non-meat options. Instead, he finds tasks to busy himself with while he works through his mind of his current circumstance. He is... poignantly reminded of the wake of Weisshaupt's fall: shivering refugees, Grey Wardens and civilians alike trying to scrape some semblance of safety from the Blight and wrath of so-called Gods.

He slows to a stop by those in need of medical assistance, staff in hand and thoughtful for a moment. They seem to be light of hands. And even if he can't seem to manage the very simplest of spells, he's well-versed in such matters concerning injuries. The dead may be his speciality, but a Watcher should always be both prepared and learned in healing arts. And... well, there really is no time like the present. ]

Forgive me— [ There is a little bow of his head. ] I'm afraid my healing magics have evaded me, but I wish to be of assistance.

May I examine your injury?

☠ — wildcard

[ literally just for funsies tbh. contact heolstor for plotting, etc. ]

arrival

[nicehobbit]

[ Hearing another voice isn't a bad thing, considering the circumstances. Frodo has gotten used to thinking of it as a bad thing, however, and his first instinct is to find somewhere to hide. Staying put for an extended period of time will kill him, though, so he takes a breath to try to still his racing heart before he answers. ]

I do not wish to fight either.

[ And he steps out from behind the rock he was walking past. The water on him has frozen, covering him with a white sheet of ice from head to toe, except for his face and hands. ]

The Operator | Warframe

[devilmind]

i. arrival

[ Somewhere on the outskirts of Milton, a child wakes in a cave.

Or at least, something that looks like a child. Golden eyes, faintly luminous, flicker open. A soft, unblemished brow furrows. This is not where they should be. Not even remotely.

They push themself up and take in their surroundings without comprehension: the stone walls and floor, the rounded mouth of the cave, the wall of white beyond. This could be a dream—or a trap. They remember all too well how the Queens had trapped them in such a vision once, seeking to break them with despair. But the Operator had only come out the other side stronger than before. Surely no one would be foolish enough to try such a thing again. ]

Hello? [ they call out, and try to summon a spark of Void-light to their hand to see by—but nothing happens. They look down at their empty palm with a frown. This must be a dream then. The thought boldens them, and they begin to make their way towards the mouth of the cave and into the frozen landscape beyond.

Their armor—black and studded with yellow lights—stands out garishly against the snow as the Operator squints out through the frigid wind. They feel… strange. Heavier and more solid than usual. The cold wind cuts through their armor and they shiver, fighting the urge to retreat back into the cave. If this is a dream, it must have something to show them. They turn their head, scanning their surroundings—and catch sight of movement out of the corner of their eye.

They whip towards it, one hand flying out in front of them, their palm held up like a weapon. ]

Who’s there? [ they call, their childish voice suddenly hard. ]

ii. winter’s bite

[ Before coming to this place, an animal would not have daunted the Operator—not an animal of flesh and blood, and not an animal of ice and bone, either. They have slaughtered packs of wild kubrows, ripped apart Infested monstrosities, and hunted even the titanic Eidolons that roam the plains of Earth at night.

But they had been strong, then, they and their Warframes. And now, for the first time in centuries, they are nothing more than a child.

They can hear the beast’s slavering breath behind them as they flee, punctuated by the haphazard rattle of bones. They had not gotten a good look at it before it gave chase; they have only the vague impression of a maybe-ursine, maybe-canine shape, skull and skeleton held aloft by traceries of ice.

It is the kind of nightmare a real child would have, chased through the woods by a monster that doesn’t make sense. And, like a real child, the Operator does not have any of their powers to rely on. They cannot blast the beast to pieces with Void energy. They cannot skip through the Void, swift and intangible as the wind. They can only run, and even that option is rapidly closing to them as exhaustion begins to take hold. They cannot keep this up. Their steps are already starting to falter. They make a choice, then, one borne out of mingled instinct and desperation—

They stop running, turn on their heel, and scream in the monster’s face.

It isn’t a cry of terror, nor even one of despair. It is the scream of Valkyr, all throat-searing rage and implacable promise of retribution—played discordantly on a child’s vocal cords. It pierces the winter stillness, so alien and unexpected a sound, that even the beast pauses for a moment, staring at the Operator in dumb, animal confusion.

It won’t be enough to save the Operator on its own—but it might buy them enough time for someone else to intervene. ]

iii. methuselah’s feast

[ It is a small miracle that the Operator makes it to Milton with as few injuries as they have: a few cuts from their encounter with the ice monster, but nothing threatening to life or limb. The elderly man known as Methuselah has already seen to bandaging the wounds, so now the Operator sits on one of the cots, a blanket drawn up around them, trying to understand what’s happening. This doesn’t feel like a dream. But if it isn’t, how have they come to this place? Had one of their enemies banished them here? And how do they get back to where they belong?

Their thoughts are interrupted by a small, mundane sound—the grumbling of their stomach. To most, this wouldn’t be anything to make note of, but when the Operator feels it, they jump. They look down at their own body, eyes wide. ]

Did you hear that? [ they ask whoever’s closest to them, their tone one of amazement. ] I… think I’m hungry.

iii. methuselah’s feast

[clothed]

[ children are uncommon in milton. granted, she's not that far off from being a child herself, but to see someone closer to bran's age than her own under the warm roof of the community hall is— strange. sansa, who had been going from table to table offering warmer and dryer replacements for gloves, socks, or scarves, finds herself brought up short at the sight of the boy.

his wondering tone breaks her heart, too, and sansa approaches him carefully. sits next to him with respectful space still between them as she offers the boy her hand. ]

Is it your first time to be hungry? [ she understands, she thinks, that perhaps he's like her: raised in privilege, never needing to suffer the pain wanting of hunger. ] We have warm food if you like. Sometimes we have sweets.

I'm Lyanna. What's your name?

merrin | star wars universe

[starscollapse]

001. methuselah's feast

[ Despite the old man's kindness in providing food and aid to those here, he offers little in the way of actual answers. It feels obvious to Merrin that he must know more than he is willing to tell, and she cannot understand why. In the building where many have gathered and feast eagerly, Merrin observes with caution, studying Methuselah, and the others. A handful within the crowd seem to have been here much longer, in the way they carry themselves, in their less desperate approach to partaking of the food, in their ease with offering aid to those wounded and fearful.

She isn't so hungry yet that she immediately devours from the food on offer. Though, she reasons if anything were tainted and could not be fully trusted, what would be the point in that manner of sabotage? It seems unlikely, but there is an instinct in her to watch and wait, to be sure nothing befalls those who need the food more. If something happens to them, they will be vulnerable, and she prefers to keep her wits about her for now.

But she will sit and speak, she will walk the room and lend aid where she can for those who might have been injured getting here. ]

Do you trust him? He speaks with kindness, but says nothing of importance.

002. milton/winter's bite

[ Settling in would not be accurate to how she feels as the first week passes here. She is here. She does not belong. The power that should be within her now is quiet, inaccessible, taken from her. It's not the first time Merrin has lost a connection to her magick, but this is different; before, it was her need for vengeance that fueled her, and that quieted her power at the same time. She was too consumed by that anger, too uncertain of her own strength. Here and now, there isn't even the slightest spark, she cannot reach for it and touch it.

There is a restless energy in her because of it, a growing frustration, but she will take those feelings and forge them into something useful as she acclimates to this harsh land along with everyone else. She lingers around the community hall for that first week, and despite the cold, she will intermittently position herself just outside of the building, when she's not exploring. She was injured by those ice creatures recently, lacerations still healing on her face and hands. Would they come nearer to town? Anyone safely inside might be unsuspecting should they venture out, so she will stand guard, and she will speak with warning. ]

You should not wander far alone. There are creatures of ice and bone coming from the ground.

003. winter's bite redux

[ By now, she's picked up a few more supplies from empty cabins; a thicker coat, an extra knife she tucks into the holster at her hip. She is not completely unafraid — there is too much she does not yet know about this place, and without her abilities, there is a vulnerability to her that she's never known before. But she has been through too much to be felled by this alone. She fully believes, for now, that her power might return, but in the meantime, she will learn everything she can, understand the environment, and those who exist here with her. The biggest threat at the moment appears to be those creatures that come unexpectedly from the ground, and Merrin divides her time on patrol, to ensure no one is trapped alone and ambushed.

She hears sounds in the distance, that familiar clacking by now, but as she rushes forward, it seems she's too late and they've retreated into the ground. Someone appears to have been knocked off their feet, though, and she calls out — ]

Were you injured?

( ooc: happy to match prose or brackets, whichever you prefer! and open to any wildcard prompts! )

001. methuselah's feast

[clothed]

[ there was a time when sansa asked the same question about methuselah. could he be trusted? she had arrived not long after running away from ramsay bolton, with theon as her only companion; trusting another person had seemed like an insurmountable thing.

these days, she trusts methuselah more, though it doesn't mean she trusts him entirely. ]

He does what he can, [ she answers the woman. is it paint on her face? are they scars? it's impolite to stare, so sansa diverts her eyes to look to the table of food before them. ] And he can be expected to bring us food when he's in town. I've learned not to ask him questions I want answered, if that helps.

Have you just arrived?

Feldspar | Outer Wilds

[getfeldsparred]

[OOC: Feldspar is one big walking spoiler for Outer Wilds, an amazing little indie game released in 2019. If you have any intention of playing Outer Wilds and wish not to be spoiled (which I highly recommend), feel free to skip out on tagging with them! I promise I won't be mad. ::D]

🚀1. Methuselah's Feast

a. Arrival

Ooh, it's cold. It seems kind of the opposite of how they should be feeling right now, right? Like illogically cold to have survived the sun exploding.

Feldspar finds themself lying sprawled on the snow, tape-mended spacesuit doing nothing to spare them from the sudden and very sharp chill. Their oxygen tank hisses and clicks as they hear the metal freeze, and their HUD sizzles and pops and then promptly dies, the screen fading once and for all. Ah well. They were surprised it lasted this long anyway, considering the viciousness of the last crash.

They don't think they've crashed here. Maybe more...appeared, like in a quantum state. Neither here nor there, but definitely existing at this point of time because, stars, it's really, really cold!

They gather up their scattered supplies - can of marshmallows, harmonica, ice pick, and start walking towards the smoke of a fire in the distance. Maybe there's a nice campfire to warm their Hearthian bones.

b. The Feast

Even though there's plenty of oxygen to go around and it's plenty warm inside the hall, Feldspar doesn't remove their helmet once indoors. It became evident to them pretty quickly that they're on an alien planet, currently surrounded by two-eyed, fur-headed extraterrestrials, and that's reason enough to not take off their space suit. They can hide their own otherness for the most part, so long as no one looks too closely at their hands.

Pretty neat though, that they can understand their language. Must have something to do with the universe.

They don't touch the food either, wary for a lot of reasons, mostly to do with eating only tinned food and centipedes for the past...however many years it had been and not wanting to get sick. Instead they sit in the corner and play their harmonica, which by all means shouldn't work with the helmet still in place, but somehow does.

🚀 2. Winter's Bite

Feldspar can be heard laughing while being chased through the snow. Still very much wearing their space suit, they cackle joyfully as they dodge and weave through the trees, being closely followed by one of the skeletal creatures.

"Come on, beasties! Come and get me!" They cackle breathlessly, hopping over logs and stones, having the absolute time of their life. Their bright-red scarf flutters about behind them as they swing on tree limbs and bound across shallow streams. "Yaaahoooo!"

This is clearly a very sane person.

🚀3. Wild Card

When not being very normal in town or exploring every inch of the place they can, cliffs and caverns and trees included, Feldspar can be found by a fire. Inside the community hall, outside at the edge of the town, in one of the abandoned buildings - wherever there's a fire there's Feldspar, still in their space suit, still playing their harmonica.

If someone happens by they wave to them with their gloved hand (is that three fingers?) and point to a large can of marshmallows.

"Hey, pull up a log and have a mallow. Plenty to go around."

2

[brushoff]

Using himself as bait in an aggressively stupid decision is Dorian's playbook. But as he sees Feldspar laugh, running through the snow and the woods, letting that creature chase him, Dorian very quickly realizes how absolutely insane that play of his looks. Maybe he should do something different next time.

Still, it's bad form if someone dies and you don't really do anything about it (there would be questions. Gross.) So he lets out a small sigh, annoyed that he's going to play the hero, before chasing after Feldspar. Does he know how to stop this thing? No. But he's got a few rocks that he can at least lob at the thing so he can pretend that he's actually been useful.

Guess what, Feldspar! You're (sort of) getting help! Or at least, you've got someone chasing the creature that's chasing you.

Dorian Gray | Confessions of Dorian Gray

[brushoff]

( ooc: Dorian is from an obscureass canon that I don't expect anyone to know! Said canon can also be triggering as fuck. He'll be trying to keep a lid on some of the more fucked up aspects of his lease check his opt-out post and tell me if you'd prefer a topic not show up in our threads. )

arrival
Going from murdering three people to save himself from an eternal portrait-based hellscape to reconnecting with your ex and dealing with plague pit ghosts haunting the bank he works at to waking up face-first in the snow when your last memories were of London in October over the span of forty-eight hours can be quite a lot for most people. But for Dorian, it's business as usual. Kind of. Sort of. Look, he's had weirder forty-eight hours in his life.

But one thing is absolutely certain: designer clothing does absolutely nothing for the cold. At least, not cold like this. Dorian is visibly shivering as he makes his way through the woods, hands in his pocket, obviously cold, cursing the gods or devil or what the hell ever dropped him here in his current state. These are Louboutons, for fuck's sake. They're not supposed to go through snow.

His completely ill-dressed state means that he occasionally wipes out a few times, faceplanting in the snow or tripping over a hidden rock or both. Someone is not graceful in this environment so, uh, little help?

arrival: methuselah's feast. cw: descriptions of body horror
There is the ugliest fucking portrait you've ever seen sitting amongst the gathered items.

It's ostensibly a portrait of a man. However, the subject is ravaged by age, by disease, his skin is mottled and burned, outright decaying and near close to falling off. The subject of the portrait is wearing Victorian dress, though the clothing is so tattered and torn that it can barely be called clothing. Occasionally, the patches of skin are so mottled and diseased that a little glimpse of white can be seen amongst the decay, a glimpse of white that you know must be bone.

But the worst thing of all is the sneer the portrait has. It's got a horrible sneer, an expression of pure malice in it's eyes. If that portrait were a person, it would absolutely hate you.

And Dorian's squatting down, taking a look at the portrait, little frown on his face as he muses, "Ugly thing, isn't it. I wonder why it's here."

He knows exactly why it's here. But Dorian is a damn good liar.

winter's bite
That glass creature, that thing made of glass and bone, that thing that should not exist is now, thankfully, dead. However, it's certainly tried it's hardest to take out Dorian and whomever he's with. Wincing slightly, Dorian looks at his arm, covered in small cuts and a large gash where the creature managed to get a good swipe in. He rolls up his sleeve, exposing bare skin to the elements as he winces through the pain, looking down at his arm.

That sure is a normal looking arm. Yep. It's his arm. It's cut up and bleeding. But Dorian's expression is shifting as he looks down at it. His arm is cut up and bleeding and it still fucking hurts and, most importantly of all to Dorian, it's not healing.

His voice is low and raspy, trying (and failing!) to hide the fear in his words as he turns to whoever helped him defeat that creature to ask, "What was that thing?"

[makebread]

Life in the dungeon led Senshi to witness some horrifying things. The worst he has seen was Marcille’s forbidden magic, using dragon flesh to revive her friend. He will never forget the looming darkness and hushed whispers, of flesh being woven into a digested skeleton. Marcille claims magic doesn’t have morality, and maybe she has the right of it, but looking at this picture makes Senshi think even she might agree that this the epitome of evil.

“Looks nasty. I wonder why someone would paint something like that.”

Theon Greyjoy | A Song of Ice and Fire

[reek]

🏹 Arrival

[ Nearly every morning of his adult life, Theon has awoken to a world just as cold as this one. He’s used to it. In truth, home had been just as cold as Winterfell, bitter and windswept by the cold sea winds, but Winterfell had felt colder, and nine years had faced him to grin and bear it.

Yet Theon’s mind swims, and not with words of Interlopers and nature’s design.

Burn it, burn it all.

Those are the words that echo in his head. Again and again, alongside images of his horse rearing, mane aflame. He tastes blood in his mouth and feels the dark, painful bruise that has begun to form across the side of his face; a souvenir from the blow of a steeled hand. But this isn’t Winterfell. He can tell by scent alone—and that’s because Winterfell is ablaze, burning to ashes, and the air here is clean and crisp. Wherever here is, it’s not where he’s meant to be.

He pulls himself from the snowbank he’s been dumped into, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He knows the woods well enough to pick out paths in the snow, taken by previous travellers, and that’s what he follows. Unlike many less fortunate Interlopers, he’s actually dressed for the weather, in furs and leathers, but he's on edge, and any snap of a twig will cause him to reach the dagger at his hip.

So hopefully you’re not the one following him. ]


🏹 Methuselah’s Feast

[ It makes him feel no better to be surrounded by strange people, fellow lost souls pulled from snowbanks and deserted shacks. Or so they claim.

Theon’s paranoia has tuned everything into a red flag, including Methuselah’s generosity. He’s rejected any medical attention to the bruising on his face and starving though he is, he doesn’t eat. His spoon dips into the broth, scrapes the bottom, but he never actually lifts it to his mouth. He scans the room, strange and unfamiliar and not half as grand as Wintefell’s Great Hall, with visible wariness. They have not earned your trust, his mind warns. Do not trust the old man, do not trust his food, trust no one here.

And so he doesn’t. Every time someone’s eyes turn to him, however briefly, he smiles—a sharp, biting smiling that might be handsome if it weren’t so cruel. It never quite meets his eyes. ]

What?


🏹 Winter’s Bite

[ On the bright side, Theon has managed to collect his bow and quiver. It’s yet another event he has chosen not to trust, but it doesn’t stop him from making use of them. They especially come in handy when the snow begins to move and come to life in the form of three icy hounds.

He’s a good shot. He aims for where a normal creature’s heart might be, and while the arrow hits it mark and shards of ice go flying, the creature doesn’t die. That’s fine. It still slows it downs nd he moves onto the second creature. ]

I do not need your help.

[ He snaps angrily at a fellow Interloper who may have approached, loosing another arrow. ]

Just get out of here.


🏹 Wildcard

[ Right now, this one is just for fun but you can find me at muttonchops/poultrylegs on discord if you want to discuss something! He is book-verse and from the end of A Clash of Kings. ]

arrival

[pursuitspecial]

[ Sooner or later, Max figures he'll run into someone else in the middle of the woods, as bewildered and angry as he was when he woke up. The trouble is that first, he didn't see them arrive, which could have possibly unlocked one part of this mystery. Second, that the person arrives still alive, making the task of searching a body more like robbing a live person. A dangerous proposition considering he doesn't know where the hell he is.

Unfortunate, too, because the strange man pulling himself out of the snow is dressed to survive this place: dressed in layers of leather and draped in the fur of some large, hardy animal. A wolf, maybe, though it hardly matters.

Taking a few steps is enough to alert the newcomer to his presence, Max stopping in his tracks to hold both hands up as he's faced down. ]

Just got here, huh? [ He gives a little grunt, tilting his head to look around them and nod. ] Me too.

[ Posture relaxed, Max flicks his chin up. ]

You kill that thing yourself?

Clark Kent (Superman) | Superman and Lois

[thebuntking]

METHUSELAH'S FEAST

[It wasn't the first time Clark had found himself in a strange new world. If anything this one was a little less bizarre than the last one he had been too. Either way he'd have to start working to find his way home when he could.

First thing was first though, he had to get out of the cold. Normally it wasn't something that would bother him, but he had noticed the distinct lack of powers when he first woke up. Between that and his current... condition the cold bit at him a little harder than he would guessed. At the very least he was partially dressed for the occasion, though he could use a few more layers.

So he trudges through the snow an eventually makes his way Milton and the community center. It's an exhausting trip though and his heart is pounding in his chest when he finally gets in somewhere warm. He's quick to stumble his way into a chair to rest for a minute. Coughing and wheezing as he tries to catch his breath.]

I'm okay- I'm... okay. Just need a minute.

WINTER'S BITE

[Oh great. Maybe wandering out alone in the snow wasn't exactly a great thing for Clark to do. On a normal day on his earth an icy creature like this would be easy to handle. Without super strength, breath, or heat vision things might be a little tricky for Clark.

But he's a pretty clever guy and realizes that the ice and bone don't exactly make creature incredibly sturdy. So with some effort he finds the biggest fallen branch he can find to use a club and stands ready. He starts to wave it around.]

Okay- Stay back! I'm warning you!

[He still might need a little help here though.]

winter's bite

[notarat]

[ ...

This looks like such a poor idea to Billy. Granted, it's not like he knows Clark, or knows anything at all about the other man, but everything about the idea of just waving a branch at a terrifying creature like whatever the hell this bony thing is just screams bad idea to him.

Especially when he has seen people wield overconfidence with terrible results before.

Not that it makes him step in. No, he's definitely going to remain here, where Clark is standing between him and the creature, thanks! It's not his fault Clark wants to play the hero!

Still, there's definitely uncertainty in Billy's voice as he asks, trying to swallow his panic: ]

Do you even know what you are doing? [ Do you, Clark?? Is this a professional branch waver at work?? ]

Lt. Arilanna Tayrey | Original

[astrogator]

Arrival

[She dreams of cold, and of blackness, and when her eyes flicker open, Tayrey thinks that she dreams still, of an icy planet without a name where once she proved her worth. It takes a moment for the confusion of sleep to leave her - but then it does, and young Lieutenant Tayrey realises that she is planetside in truth, and that the creeping cold is very real.

She's on her feet in a trice, glancing around warily. She wiggles her toes in their sturdy spacer boots. Something is very wrong here; she should be shipside, with Savitskaya, handling an L-space transition. She certainly shouldn't be on a planet like this without survival supplies, an antigrav sled, or even a coat. This should frighten her, but she's been taught to numb her mind to fear when she has to. To be decisive. In the command simulations, too much dithering and delay gets everyone killed.

Priority one. Ensure her own survival. Tayrey unties a bright blue ribbon from her hair and attaches it to a nearby tree. A sign of life, if her people come for her. Then she walks. One foot in front of the other. Quick pace. She hasn't gone far when she sees a Tradeline officer's formal coat lying on the ground. Bright blue, double breasted, warm wool. As she picks it up, she listens carefully, thinking that some comrade of hers must have suffered the same misfortune, and she might hear them nearby.

No. It's her coat. It fits perfectly; she'd paid for the tailoring. This is something else that makes absolutely no sense, but Tayrey doesn't think too hard about that. She puts it on, buttons it up, and keeps walking.

There. A figure up ahead. She calls out to them.]

Peace! I ask peaceable contract!

[Not that she isn't prepared to use that gun clipped to her belt if they refuse. Priority one.]

Methuselah's Feast

[Tayrey gulps down sugary coffee as if she'd had nothing to drink for days. She wants the warmth of it, the energy. Shipside, she'd been a coffee snob, imported the stuff from her homeworld at considerable expense and kept it in her private stores. Now she barely tastes it. She's sitting by the fire, wrapped in a warm blanket while she lets her snow-dampened clothes dry. Her undershirt and trousers were fine, thankfully, but she's barefoot. (She remembers, on expedition, the way Kirannen had laughed and indulged her fussing over spare socks. She'd been right.)

Much of the food she passes over, wrinkling her nose. She finally accepts a bowl of vegetable soup, taking small sips of the thin broth. Glancing over at a companion in a nearby chair, she asks:]

Is the situation so desperate on this colony that people are all... eating the flesh of creatures?

[Her voice is hushed, her tone conveying both shock and pity, as if it were some extreme measure to take.]

Wildcard

[Prefer one of the other prompts? Want to plot something out in advance? Please feel free to PM or add me MillisaK - there's also info about my OC here in this journal if you want more details.]

Arrival

[meadqueen]

[The woman she encounters is around her height, but that's where the similarities end. Her red hair is swept over her shoulder in a braid, and she wears a fox fur cloak over her shoulders. Her face is scarred, though the wounds don't look recent, and there's a patch covering her right eye. She carries a spear that's been built from materials scavenged in the village, but is keeping it pointed at the ground for now.]

Peace. I mean you no harm. You've just arrived?

[A small dog hovering near the woman’s right foot eyes her warily, but doesn't bark.]

[Closed to Sansa -- Frozen Hearts]

[northerndragon]

[It's bloody cold out there.

One of the few things Jon has to his name in this town is his sword, so he takes care to keep the blade cleaned and oiled, and he takes care to clean and oil Ice, too, though that makes him feel guilty, and he does not carry it. One afternoon he sits at the table in their house, his feet feeling unaccountably stiff and cold, as he puts away the cloth and oil and sheaths the sword. And here is Sansa coming to him with something in her hands. It glints.]

What have you got there?

[An empty seat at the table right next to him, and the fire is warm, for all that his feet are chilled.]

zooms

[clothed]

A knife. It's lost its edge.

[ she had been trying to cut meat for their supper, and she thought she might be getting better at it, but the cuts had been uneven and jagged. it took her too long to think of inspecting the blade; sansa has no wish to bring the matter to the lady randvi, never mind jason.

no, jon will likely be more understanding. a common girl would know how to sharpen a knife, after all, and jon has known many such girls.

—sansa winces, too, late in realising how her thoughts would have sounded if she spoke of them. she waits for jon to invite her to sit; her own form of apology for the rudeness of her thoughts. ]

Will you teach me to sharpen it?

reiner braun | attack on titan | current character

[nohero]

Winter's Bite (late february)

Maybe the smart thing would be to flee. Reiner has no powers here, no trace of the Titan in his veins save for markings on his cheeks. He has no ODM gear to "fly" and maneuver mid-air, no swords to slash through these spectral creatures.

But Reiner Braun is not good at running from danger. No; he runs toward it.

With a sizable bough in hand, Reiner changes straight at the beast snapping at another person. "Go left!" he shouts.

Hopefully they listen, because Reiner swings the bough like a baseball bat, all of his considerable strength behind the blow.

Frozen Hearts (early march)

At first, Reiner doesn't notice the cold. Not because there's anything wrong with his senses, but because he's always cold. He ran warm for eleven years. Even after all this time here, he hasn't adjusted to being a regular human temperature; he doubts he ever will.

Eventually, however, Reiner realizes that his joints are too stiff, his movements too sluggish. He rubs his hands together, exhaling a hot breath on them—but is it as hot as it should be? It seems to make no damn difference at all.

"I thought it was getting warmer," he grouses, blowing on his hands again. The tips of his bare fingers have a decidedly blueish tint.

( ooc: will match prose or brackets! info & permissions. hmu by pm or bicepsbrigade for plotting )

winter's bite

[notarat]

There is really no time to think about anything here right now. Billy would do just about anything to get away from this very serious threat. So when Reiner is telling him to go left? That's exactly what Billy is doing. Not even because Reiner is saying it, because Billy's mind is not exactly processing a whole lot right now - but just because he's trying to get away.

It's only when he's pretty sure he's a sizable distance away from whatever the hell that creature was that he turns around. He's kind of expecting Reiner to be running too, but that's when Billy realizes the other guy has actually actively engaged in combat with that being.

It instantly makes Billy look surprised. Who would ever-- Even with what he knows about Reiner from the cave incident, this still feels like far too much.

"Why are you attacking it?! Just run!" He yells back at the other.

Harry Goodsir | The Terror | OTA

[mygoodsir]

on the road
cw: suicide mention

[It's not the cold that's surprising - it's that he opens his eyes at all.

Harry Goodsir awakens and sits up, blinking stupidly at the white expanse all around him. At first he thinks he's awoken from a nightmare, but he sees that the terrain is all wrong. This is not the frozen sea. There are trees, mountains. Birds soar overhead. This land is alive.

He wipes roughly at his eyes as he first stands and then turns slowly in a circle. Lacking any better ideas, he then begins to walk. Finding a trail lifts his spirits considerably, but he isn't actually certain which way he's meant to be going. So he just trusts that the smudge he sees on the horizon line is smoke, and therefore civilization.]

in town

[He's shivering badly by the time he gets into town, but he barely notices - it's a town. One that seems partially abandoned, certainly, but a town for all of that. It's been years since he's had to speak to anyone who wasn't a shipmate and he wonders if he even still has the knack.

He's headed for the central building, but he gets distracted the second he sees someone nursing an injury. He changes course at once and approaches the injured party instead.]

Pardon me. Hello. Do you require, ah, assistance? I'm a surgeon - I can help.

winter's bite

[After spending years in a frozen land being hunted by a supernatural creature, one would think Goodsir would be happy to stay indoors for the rest of his life. But, no. This is a new land and there are plants and animals to examine and catalogue.

Which is how he winds up out in the snow (again) hearing a mysterious noise (again) and then running for his life when a monstrous being leaps out of the snow (again!) with the intent to attack.

Did he bring a gun? Of course not. All he's got is a notepad and a pencil.

Help him.]

wildcard

[Hit me up! Will match prose/brackets, I'm easy.]

winter's bite!

[fidior]

[ Little never lost hope of seeing Goodsir again. Not fully. Foolish and impossible though it might seem — because he's gone from this place now, and no matter what point in time he returned to, it is one that will end in a cruel, gruesome fate for Harry Goodsir, and Little knows that — his heart, some part of it, held onto the concept of hope.

It's why even now, when he patrols the town and its outskirts, he keeps an eye out. The Goodsir that he knows, the one who was in this place with him since his own arrival, disappeared weeks ago. If, by some slim chance, he actually is still here, there's certainly no way possible that he could be alive. Edward prepares himself that one of these days, maybe months from now, he will find a corpse.

But the man running in the near-distance now is alive. Alive, and Edward's eyes widen, breath freezing in his chest with a sharp, aching hitch as he stares for a few long seconds, unable to react, to move, to process, to think. Then—

—instinct kicks in as he sees the swirl that's not entirely identifiable, something that clatters and clanks and snarls in pursuit of the other man. Little rushes forwards, lifting his shotgun, though unwilling to move and shoot at the same time. So he calls out in a shout, voice rising loud and desperate. ]

Dr. Goodsir!

[ Some habits stick, the title that so many of the men before had adopted and even now refuses to budge. Doctor. The Goodsir that lived here before helped people in that way, too. ]

Lead it to me! I'll shoot when it's near!

Natalie Scatorccio | Yellowjackets

[pitofguilt]

(ooc: canon point is the very end of season 2)

arrival - methuselah's feast

[ Figures she'd end up back in the frozen fucking wilderness once she died. It just fucking figures.

Natalie doesn't go through shock or confusion about this development, having done that more than enough times when she was seventeen and had just climbed out of the wreckage of the plane that was supposed to take them to nationals. Nope. Here, she just picks up and heads in the direction she woke up facing, and then she's in Milton, joining everyone for the feast. ]

So hell's got a buffet.

[ Half question, half observation as she gets herself a cup of coffee. Damn, it's not bad!

Okay. Time to feel out how things are, get to know the people and the place in this frigid afterlife. ]

This a regular thing?


winter's bite

[ Of course she goes out hunting. Whether or not you can actually die here (she has her doubts, but also, her afterlife would absolutely kill her multiple times just for fun), Natalie understands that survival is a team effort.

And of course weird shit starts to happen. Someone else is out here with her, and the fucking snow is coming to life what the fuck it's heading right for them--

Natalie shouts a warning at them just before slamming into them and rolling the two of them out of the way of the possessed snow what the fuck??? ]

Get up, run!

[ She will try and distract this thing from you if you need the time, and run with you when you're ready. ]


frozen hearts

[ It takes Natalie a while to notice something is amiss. She's not the most cheerful person ever, and she's no stranger to having her will to exist sapped away by the cold of winter in the Canadian wilderness (look, Milton is close enough, abandoned as it is). It's the skin affliction that gets her to realize this is some kinda new bullshit.

She will huddle by a fire. She will curl up close to it like a cat. She will bring blankets over to complete the tucked-in cat aesthetic.

And then she'll shuffle around Milton in nothing more than usual because why the fuck not??? If she's gonna die by freezing to death, she may as well fight it, kind of! ]

Your chin's blue, [ she'll say to anyone she encounters. Substitute the currently blue portion of skin as applicable. ] Can't believe it. Stupid way to die here.



[ hmu here or at punnyinpink to plot if you want! ]

Arrival

[the_second_noel]

Eh, you'd be surprised.

[ This is an in-joke. This is not a helpful answer.

The in-joker is a man in his - thirties? forties? - with the most New York accent you can possibly picture. Red pre-blisters on his face and fingers, and the delicate way he's holding a plate, suggest that he might've had to hike a while before he made it out of the cold. He seems perfectly good-humoured about it. ]

You tried this soup yet? Good stuff.