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

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.

a tag for me? 🥹🥹

[imperatour]

[ It's you, she wants to say back, mirroring him in all the ways that feels natural, but the words don't quite make it out. Her head is cloudy, mouth fuzzy and dry in a way that makes her tongue trip over itself. Her brow furrows, too confused to fight the way he shepherds her down to the tub's edge. She studies him quizzically, eyes tracing the blood on his face, the scar on his cheek, the shape of his plush lips. All of her defensiveness has given way to confusion, and she looks at him half convinced he's a ghost although he was always the one who was staring past her to something that wasn't there.

She blinks, trying to take stock of the situation, log each distinct thing happening, but they blend. Everything's blurred at the edges, and it's hard to ground herself on feeling of cool smooth porcelain when his hand is on her side and his head is tucked so close to hers. She remembers this. His hand on the back of his neck, his face close enough to share breath. His blood a gift, first to ink a path home. Then to warm her own veins. Someone reliable.

(The shake of his head as he turned down her offer. The back of his head as he left the Citadel in the dust. A loner, her mind unhelpfully provides.)

She means to swat his hand away, but somewhere along the way her weak protest gets lost. Instead, she finds her hand grasping around the back of his. To push him away or hold him close? Hard to say. ]

Think it needs stitches.

[ A pressure bandage won't be enough, certainly not the way she moves around. Won't be easy to do herself one handed, but she will manage. She has always managed. ]

sharing the wealth!

[pursuitspecial]

[ A wave of something close to relief crashes through his body at the sight of her, even as she peers at him like he ought to be anyone else, even if she looks as peaky as when she was last in his arms.

The strangeness of their surroundings (of everything) comes secondary as Max peers at her side, at the fresh blood blooming through the fabric of her shirt. He knows how deeply he pierced her body with the slim knife, remembers the way the air in the cabin of the car changed when they all heard full breath return to her lungs. A sense of relief crested with the kind of fear Max does almost anything to keep at bay. It rises again now, though the fact that she's standing and talking to him are good signs.

The warmth of her hand over his makes him pause, long enough to consider spreading his fingers and move underneath hers.

He offers a grunt of affirmation, nodding. ]

Mmn. Got a needle. Think you can lay still for me?

[ She's right: this is the kind of wound that doesn't like to stop bleeding without more help. And Max is nothing if not prepared to mend deep cuts: in leather, fabric, or flesh. It's all the same principal, even if the material is different.

Moving his hand to her thigh, he gives her an encouraging squeeze, to keep her present. Stay with me. (You're more than welcome to come with us.) Max shakes his head, looks for her eyes to focus on his. ]

[imperatour]

[ The answer to his question gets lost somewhere, distracted by the way he's touching her. Not enough oxygen to her brain to respond when it's all pooling in the part of her that feels him touching her thigh, the gesture feeling embarrassingly intimate. Here he is to save her ass again. Will it go any differently this time or will he patch her up and go?

Her throat bobs with a swallow. Don't leave after, is what she wants to say, but at least she is conscious enough to hold back that foolish impulse. He will do whatever he is going to do.

She realizes, belatedly, that she has been staring at his hand on her leg and not responding. She forces her chin up to look at his face instead, but with kneeling in front of her, she's not sure it's any better. Finally, she manages a jerky nod, first in agreement and then gesturing toward the door, back out to the living space. More windows, so he can stitch her by the light of the stars and moon bleeding in. A fireplace, so they don't freeze overnight.

She rests her arms over his shoulder for balance, her right fist gripping tightly onto him as she pushes herself to her feet so they can walk out there together. She is not so pathetic that she needs to be carried.

There are many things to say. Things she wants to say, but is afraid of the sting of rejection when she's already so raw and vulnerable in front of him.

So instead, an observation that seems almost comical juxtaposed with their habit for continual peril: ]

Never seen snow before.

[pursuitspecial]

[ They've been here before, and not too long ago, if the state of their respective injuries is anything to go by. At least this knocks out the possibility that they've time traveled to get to... wherever the hell they are.

She's staring at his hands, sluggish and slow, but she can still hold onto him and walk with his help. It's cold in the next room but they're out of the elements, and it's about a clean a place as Max has seen in many years.

He wonders suddenly about Furiosa's past, if she ever lived in a place like this before being taken.

Walking her to the middle of the living area, Max sits her down by the fireplace, eyeing it with plans forming in the back of his mind. A place to sleep, to cook, to stay warm. He removes the stolen pack from his shoulders and plucks the bare medical equipment he's inherited: IV tubing, torn cloth that counts as a bandage, a curved needle and thick thread.

Her comment has Max pausing, the barest trace of amusement in his eyes. ]

Only seen it once, [ he offers in return, thinking back to a once-in-a-decade rarity. ] Never got snow in the city except the one time. Think I was 13.

[ Better times. ]

Never seen it like this. [ Kneeling at her side, he avoids her eyes when he asks, voice low, pulling his knife from its pocket. ] Lie back. Show me the other wound.

[imperatour]

[ Her mind is sticky right now. Usually she's quick, able to assess the whole of the situation and make a quick decision. Right now, it's snagging. Getting caught on all the unimportant things as Max helps her back down to the floor. She leans her weight on her one arm, her mind hooked on this idea of Max as a young man, Max as a child seems impossible. She likes the warboys at that age. Pups in their red bandanas before they get sent on their first run, braving life at the Citadel with stripe of fearlessness that suits being on the cusp of adolescence. No doubt a pack of them unleashed here would be diving in and out of the snow, packing it together into ammunition to pelt at each other. A war game that's all game, until she loads them up onto her rig like fodder.

Stuck. She's staring at Max's mouth, not quite hearing the words. The reach her, just delayed.

She reaches for the back of her shirt's neck hole, clumsily tugging it over her head. The fabric sticks to her, smearing the blood up her side and staining the bands of fabric she's bound around her chest. She is already feeling vulnerable enough that there's no space to feel any additional reservations about undressing in front of him. She balls the shirt up and stuffs it behind her head as she lays back down.

Two wounds sit open on her trunk. One that meant to kill her, and the other that meant to save her. ]

Mhm. Work fast. Tell me more about the snow.

[pursuitspecial]

[ His eyes are darting around the room, assessing his advantages when Furiosa moves to pull her shirt up and off, reaching out to assist only when it's over her head.

Blood always makes everything look worse, he reminds himself, as he stares down her flank covered in blood. It doesn't help that she's essentially got matching wounds on each of her sides, though at least the blood on her left side is mostly sticky and dry. A compress can help there. Which can't be said for the stab wound on her right side. It looks deep and angry.

Feeling the urgency, Max grunts his answer and threads the needle, cutting off a short length of thread with his knife. He stabs the blade into the wood flooring beside him and wracks his brain for the memory, long buried under kilometres of sand and bodies. ]

Didn't snow where I lived. Mm. Too close to the ocean. Had to drive out a few hours. But one year, it got so cold, brought snow with it. Enough to close school. [ There's a twitch at the corner of his mouth, something suspiciously close to a smile. Pulling the black scarf from his neck, he places it in Furiosa's hand - something to grip onto, if she needs it. He leans in, poised with the needle. ] Breathe. There. Got a few days off. Played around in the snow almost all day.

[ And in goes the needle, halfway through a sentence. Max pulls it through quickly, doesn't linger. ]

Felt like an answered prayer, or something. When I was a kid, there wasn't much that was important. The world was so much smaller.

[imperatour]

[ Breathe. Yeah. Okay. She tries, a quick nod and the lift and fall of her chest, but her eyelids heavy and her stomach woozy. Her mind slide further away from consciousness, as if on the edge of a cliff. Her neck blazing hot and sweat beading on her forehead. She fights it, tensing her legs to keep her blood pumping.

Her brows pinch together, wincing when he pierces her flesh. She's felt worse for sure, but it still hurts. At least pain reminds her she's still alive. She can hook onto that, breathing through the rhythm of Max stitching her back together.

She rolls her head to the side, swallowing. Her nostrils flare with a deep breath. She wants to stay awake. She wants to be awake for this to learn about the different lives Max has lived. ]

Hard to imagine you as a kid.

[pursuitspecial]

[ Maybe he's saying too much, maybe he's giving away too much too soon but there's a reason to keep a person distracted while they've got metal and string threading through their flesh. It's a nasty job that's only marginally easier when done on someone else, but Max is also finding that his eyes are darting over to Furiosa's face more than once just to see how she's taking it.

He manages a little half snort of a laugh as he cuts off another closed suture with his knife. ]

Mm. [ That's the first answer as his tongue darts out to wet his lips. ] Thought I just came out like this, did you?

[ Childhood might as well have been ten lifetimes ago. He hardly recognizes the person in his memories, almost like they're borrowed from someone else.

Maybe they were. He can't be too sure anymore. ]

003

[kidproof]

[ The bucks come and go, and have been known to get into stock on the outside of storefronts and even nearby his own reserves at the farm. Being that he just made it back to Milton, his top priority hasn't been hunting yet. He still needs to go back to the farmhouse, and check his supply cache to see what was left and if any of his booby traps had been triggered, and what that might mean for the place overall.

The disappearance of her meal couldn't be helped, because broken twig or not, on horseback with Callus the buck would have run with or without the snap of foliage. ]

I reckon you should've taken the shot when you had it. A sure thing goes pretty fast in this place, but if you're that hungry I've got rabbit and I'm about to see what's left of the place I used to hole up in.

[imperatour]

[ She makes a little grunt, turning down his first offer. ]

Got plenty of rabbit. Was hoping get a hide to tan too.

[ But the bigger prey is giving her trouble. She's a good shot, but she's used to shooting people. They're a lot braver than deer. Or dumber. Handling the gun without her prosthetic is another learning curve, but she doesn't quit easily. She lets the gun hang in the harness, her shortened arm across the barrel to keep it pointed at the ground and from swinging around as she eyes his horse curiously. She hasn't seen one of those in ages. ]

Used to?

[kidproof]

There's always next time. Plenty of wolves too.

[ He still had a hide tanned from the wolf he killed when he was here for the first time. He tanned all the hides he had, stitch workpieces were still valuable in a climate like this one. ]

Yeah... I've been here before. Long story. No point in sharing it since this place doesn't play by the rules.

[imperatour]

[ She bobs her head noncommittally. Yeah, yeah there's always a next time until there isn't. Not sure she has it in her to hunt a wolf, but that's the sort of personal hang up that's none of his business. This no-nonsense gruff seems like the type to argue about the sentimentality of dogs and she's got enough of one of those waiting for her back at the cabin.

Not important. He looks like he can survive and those are the kind of allies she could be making. ]

Not from a place where they matter either.

[ Rules, that is, even if she means on a greater societal level and not as much physics and the multiverse. She pauses for a second before adding: ]

Little warmer though. And none of those.

[ She jerks her chin towards his horse. ]

[kidproof]

[ It's a lot easier to kill a wolf when it's trying to tear you apart, and after that making use of the hide is just good sense. He's only killed a couple, during the stint when packs went roaming trying to pick off the people that didn't have it in them to protect themselves.

He was always quick with the kill, he never sought to kill wolves in particular but if it came down to an us versus them situation, they were the necessary conclusion. ]

They don't matter for most of us far as I can tell.

[ His only real indicator to her that he is from a similar place, a world rife with all kinds of rules that were constantly getting broken or being leveed for something better. Rules weren't a golden standard and neither was morality, not in the landscape he was from. ]

Oh. Yeah, not too many of these here either. He came with me and he's been a pain in the ass the last couple of days. Can't say that I blame him, considering...

[ Well, everything. ]

[imperatour]

[ He gets a horse, Max gets supplies, and she doesn't even get her arm? This is starting to feel a little personal. At least Furiosa's used to getting a raw end of the deal.

Quick shake of her head, a quiet groan. Everyone's earned a bad mood right now. Even the horses. ]

You got a name?

[kidproof]

[ He didn't just get a horse, he got a hunting knife and a rifle too, but both of those things came with additional work to maintain, as did the horse. He still had to figure out food for Callus, on top of finding shit to fabricate his bullets with and a way to sharpen the knife.

Nothing good here came without some work on the other end of it. ]

Joel. Not on a first-name basis with very many folks around here though. Not sure it makes up for the buck.

[imperatour]

Ah. [ A little amused huff. ] One of those types.

[ She half mumbles it, not elaborating much further, though she does wonder if it's because Joel holds on too tightly to his name or if he's not around people enough for it to matter. ]

Furiosa. [ She gestures to herself. ] Though I guess if I give you my name it definitely means we aren't square. I'll still take a rabbit if you're not the type that likes to owe favors.

001.

[goingtobeunwell]

[Crozier, another man dressed in animal furs, quietly helps with the feast and the new arrivals, moving from table to table to refill cups of hot tea or water and quietly asking if they're warm enough. He can provide little things here and there - a pair of caribou mittens to temporarily warm any frostbitten hands, a coat or sweater pulled from the community center stores, even a turn in his warm parka, if they're frigid enough.

He pauses at the sight of the woman in the process of devouring a rabbit, his eyes falling on her missing limb. His own missing left hand is wrapped up in multiple scarves and various bandages, anything to keep the cold away from what remains of his arm. He clears his throat softly and nods to her arm.]

Do you feel the cold in it?

[imperatour]

[ Furiosa may seem preoccupied with her food, but little escapes her notice. Her eyes glance up, silently watching. It's not difficult to pick out the newcomers from the veterans. Dressing appropriately for the weather is any easy give.

Surviving looks the same everywhere. Furiosa watches as the man doles out gear and water. Precious things to share here. This is how it should be. And, of course, she notices his hand, tell-tale signs of what's beneath the scarves in the way he compensates for it with his grip.

A single nod, sharp. Not a complaint, just a statement of fact: ]

Worse than the whole one.

[ It's always been like that, bouts of stabbing pain or a burn that can't be sated. It's like a ghost haunting her. ]

[goingtobeunwell]

[He understands all-too-well. He can still feel the shape of his hand at times, that ache that leads to spectral fingers still trying to claw at the ice and clasp an outstretched hand. The cold is merciless on the frayed nerves and severed bones, and at times it’s hard to understand if the pain is coming from what remains or what used to be.

He steps a little closer, not wanting their conversation to echo in the hall. He hates being pitied or coddled - any overheard compliant or commiseration could give others the wrong impression.]

Rubbing, I’ve found. At the elbow. Or…

[He makes a motion with his hand, tapping softly with two fingers against the stump.]

This helps? As much as anything does.

[imperatour]

[ He steps closer and speaks softly. The little gesture loosens her own mask. Neither looking for sympathy, but sharing a weary understanding. She nods again, slower this time with an understanding. Sometimes the scars of surviving look a little more obvious on some people than others. ]

I had something to wear in its place. [ She gestures past her stump to approximate the missing length. ] Metal with prongs for fingers. Helped some. Maybe it just gave me something else to focus on.

[ She'd worn it for so many years that she feels off balance without it, to say nothing for the way her mind still itches to punch and hold and fight with it. A quick shake of her head, dismissing the thought. She eyes the end of his arm again, her question quiet but still blunt. ]

Did it happen here?

[ The History Man told her about it once. Cold that could be as much of a killer as the heat, so biting that it'd steal your fingers and toes. Or a hand, Furiosa supposes, if it's hungry enough. ]

[goingtobeunwell]

[She had a metal arm. He doesn’t know why it shocks him to hear that something so vital didn’t make it here with her - this place excels in small cruelties, after all - but he tries to find some silver lining. Perhaps the metal would have frozen too quickly for her to remove, and the damage would have been incalculable.

He shakes his head to answer her question.]

As far as I know there’s been neither limb nor digit lost to the cold here. This…

[He rubs the stump idly, reminiscing of those early days of recovery, the pathetic struggle to do anything for himself. He wonders about the nature of her own world - was she cared for too? Nurtured, as all should be when damaged? Not everyone can be so lucky.]

It’s an injury sustained before I arrived, and further north than this, but with a blade instead of ice. Cleaner cut than gangrene.

3

[bigbaddy]

[ It's annoying how easy it is to make these simple mistakes in human form, really. Even if Bigby has already spent centuries in this human skin at this point, it still feels foreign at times - especially while hunting. He prefers going out in his wolf form, but he's been a little bit more hesitant about it with all these new people around town. Too many people who don't know yet that you can't just hunt any wolf you come across in these parts to risk it.

So Furiosa isn't the only one grunting when that twig snaps and the buck runs - so is Bigby himself, clearly just as annoyed by it. ]

Fucking hell. [ He isn't letting out that annoyed curse while looking at her though - instead he's looking up at the sky, seeming more likely the exasperation is aimed at himself.

He frowns as he looks back down and over at her. ]

I can do you one better. I can track it, if you help take it down.

Feast

[guidemyway]

[Despite Furiosa's bad manners and the grunting, Ruby doesn't exactly keep her distance. Having people show up hungry and grumpy was kind of norm around here, and she was bad at minding her own business.

Plus the whole arm situation reminded Ruby of her sister who she missed very desperately at this point.

So despite everything saying that she should probably keep her mouth shut, she does end up speaking up.]

So- Has anyone ever told you the gnarly scar is super cool? Because it totally is.