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

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.' ]

[alinere]

[The boy's posturing is familiar. A lot of people like this are drawn to Armand. They often see a quiet person and think, "There is someone who will be impressed with me." Or he's also been told he's got an innocent look to him, so this lad could be looking for sex. It's unnerving that he can't read his mind to know how to approach the situation, no guesswork required. That's easily the power he's angriest about losing.

How do humans manage this? Or makers and fledglings, who cannot read each others' minds at all?

Do they just...talk to each other?

If he's honest, this isn't that terrible of an experience, although he's not thrilled with the cold. But if he says that, the boy might think there's some delightful story Armand has to tell, but none of Armand's stories could come anywhere close to being called delightful. He would rather not be asked about any of them. After a long pause, he decides on something to say.

This entire time, nothing on his face has changed. He hasn't even blinked.]

I'm sure you must have a great many stories, then.

[He has some memory of an old lover he had as a human. They went through their entire relationship without Armand having to talk about himself more than a few times. He pretends he's talking to him.]

[brushoff]

That I do, [ Dorian says, with a nod and a grin. He loves talking about himself. He really loves talking about himself. Given the opportunity, he will not shut the fuck up. So rip to Armand's sanity, Dorian is going to yap. ]

Care to hear something romantic? Something scary? Or perhaps something that makes you think? Like I said, this isn't the most ridiculous day I've had.

[alinere]

[A noncommittal hum. Armand considers just luring him outside and draining him dry, but he's not particularly thirsty at present and in such a small settlement as this, it would attract attention. Ugh, he'll probably need to find volunteers or some other Louis-ish nonsense. As if a vampire can truly be satisfied without the kill.

Well, this boy is going to talk whether he has anything to say or not, so Armand might as well pick his poison.]

Then I would like to hear of the most ridiculous.

[brushoff]

[ He shouldn't be so open about his immortality. He really shouldn't be so open about his immortality. It's a bad idea, he doesn't know anybody here, if he's open about this and lets the cat out of the bag, people will have questions and Dorian doesn't want to answer the questions and he should really just shut the hell up.

Counterpoint: Armand cute.

Maybe he'll keep the most ridiculous to himself. Maybe he'll just focus on something a big less ridiculous. One of the monsters he's dealt with would be good, especially something that puts him in a good light. ]

The last time I was in a cute little town like this, in the middle of nowhere, frozen in and trapped in the snow, I was almost eaten by werewolves.

i. the road

[flanerie]

[ Lestat makes a habit of roaming the paths into town from time to time, on the grounds that it's one of the few hopes he has of meeting anyone new in their interminable isolation.

He rarely contemplates the odds of any given thing coming to pass before it does. He takes for granted that the future might contain any number of serendipitous occurrences. But even he has to think, as his bright eyes rake over a silhouette that could never hope to conceal itself from him, that the chances of this reunion, in this place, at this moment must be truly extraordinary.

Lestat peels himself from the shadows of the treeline like a knife paring a pelt from the flesh. An old and boyish smile touches his lips as he looks Armand over, his own garb much more seasonally appropriate, heavy yet elegant layers as befit a gentleman-hunter. ]

'He is going before you into Galilee'. [ Lestat quotes, then cocks his head, amusement rippling over an otherwise opaque coiling of some secret decision being reached. ] Or would you prefer the Good Samaritan?

[alinere]

[Armand glances about to find who is speaking (imagine having to find out about someone's presence from hearing them speak!) and catches Lestat in a lengthy sidelong glance. Then, one word:]

No.

[It's not an exclamation of surprise or horror. It's his response to Lestat's entire inexplicable presence in this bizarre situation. Armand continues trudging forward, ignoring how soaking wet his socks are now. If someone--no one in particular--is here, then that means there's some settlement nearby. The bitter cold is a problem, but it's not one he can readily fix, so it's not the one to focus on. Putting one foot in front of the other in rapid succession is the most important thing right now.

Also ignoring Lestat, who is unlikely to be of any help anyway. Not that Armand is turning down help, exactly. But he doubts Lestat would genuinely offer it, and he certainly won't ask for it.

In worse news: he can't read Lestat's mind. That'll be a fun, new thing to react to whenever he's not actively freezing to death. It goes on the list.]

[flanerie]

[ So like him, Lestat thinks, with a twinge of that most terrible form of nostalgia: the edge of old fondness softened like a treasure buried in the earth to rot.

A strange thing to have, perhaps, given all that once was between them—or not so strange, as the world turns over night after restless night until even the sharpest stings of the past acquire the quality of a bad dream. Or so it might be said. ]

Oh, don't be like that.

[ Lestat takes up the jaunty stride of a man on a promenade, circling around Armand with his head still cocked and a wolfish glee to his sparkling eyes in the dark as he keeps pace. ]

Is that any way to say hello to me, after all this time? No 'Lestat, I've missed you terribly?' Or have you not missed me terribly at all? Don't say it if it's true. I couldn't stand the thought of you being anything but bereft in my absence.

[ Teasing, of course. Always and ever teasing. ]

[alinere]

[Armand's footsteps crunch to a halt.

Is Lestat flirting? After everything?

Armand would love to dig around in his mind to investigate what's going on, but either something has weakened him or Lestat got very, very good at blocking his thoughts. But he'd have thought the events in Paris in '49 would have earned him caustic commentary. Passive-aggressive remarks, at best. Not this.

He turns his head to stare owlishly at Lestat until he makes it make sense, or until Armand manages to break through whatever is blocking his Mind Gift. It would probably be more intimidating if his teeth weren't chattering, a response he wasn't aware his body still had to cold.]

[flanerie]

[ Adorable bubbles to the surface of Lestat's mind like the gasp of an opened tomb, rotten lilies and myrrh. It's not a compliment so much as it is an observation. Armand has always been shaped to be adored. ]

Ah, forgive me.

[ Lestat smiles as he brings gloved hands to his throat to begin undoing buttons, managing to make a burlesque of shucking a single outer layer over a through bundling of his person. He shrugs off the overcoat and steps closer, flicking it out with a flourish as a gentleman should when offering his coat to a poor, chilled waif. ]

It is a shock, isn't it? How careless of me to forget.

[ Layer upon layer: the broad implication that Lestat knows something Armand does not, the extension of protection from the elements and ignorance, the condescension and gallantry of garbing the tragic wayfarer. As ever, it's difficult to tell how much is intended, and how much is simply Lestat recalling his manners.

His eyes are very bright this close to Armand, fixed on him as if, once again, Lestat has discovered something to be intrigued by. ]

III.

[flambeaux]

He is hunting, hoping for a deer. Louis recognizes his place in the circle of life--blood from meat, sell meat to human, and blood again from humans if he can procure it. Louis scavenged his hunting clothes for warmth not fashion, his jacket and toque the lurid colors of some long-forgotten sports team. (Louis had a vague notion of not being mistaken for a deer by some sharpshooter.)

Louis is doing terribly. He hates it here, like a tropical plant thrown out into the cold. He has nightmares about how Claudia is missing and what danger she could be in. The irony is that she took to killing better than Louis ever did.

He generally avoids a fight, but he reasons that the supernatural swiftness granted to him by the Aurora will carry him away from danger. He follows a trail of footsteps and blood to see the ice and bone creatures chasing an indistinct figure.

He thinks of the intrepid Claudia again, whispers, "Aw hell..." to himself, and opens his lighter to ignite a torch he carries for occasions such as this. He darts supernaturally fast over the snow, and the torch collides with ice and bone in a shower of sparks. He yells, "Fuck you!" as an explosion of icy shrapnel rips his jacket and the torch gutters out in the struggle.

This was a mistake. He retreats from the remaining creatures. Louis is now sure that this figure spotted with red is not anyone he knows. He couldn't give two shits who he is. Maybe in the shelter of the building he will ask if he has seen Claudia. Maybe he will perform a coup de grâce and not have to hunt tonight.

[alinere]

Armand staggers up to the building, but not to take shelter. He snatches up an old but well-preserved two-by-four from a collapsed wall and spins around to face his foe, adrenaline fueling his strength and numbing the pain. That's when he hears his voice, shouting words in a chillingly familiar way. Something in his chest lightens.

Louis.

They may not have the happiest companionship, but he's still his companion. Exactly how is he still moving so quickly? That's a question for later.

For now, he swings the two-by-four with all his might, shattering the ice holding bones together. This isn't about to be how either of them die.

"Here!" he shouts, seizing another two-by-four and tossing it in Louis' direction.

[flambeaux]

The rough plank is incongruous with this young man with the slight figure, Louis thinks in a fleeting moment of stupidity. It's one of those intrusive thoughts when he should be concentrating wholly on something else. Louis catches the plank on instinct and, using it like a shield, forces his way past the creatures into the dilapidated shelter.

He rushes to close the door with haste, allowing Armand enough time to get inside, but only just. If he dallies, Louis will not consign both of them to death. He slumps panting against the door, but he needn't barricade it. The wraiths outside are only ice and bone, and they clatter fruitlessly against the wood.

[alinere]

It should be enough to make him immediately consider whether Louis is different the way Lestat is different. His Louis has little such regard for his own life--a problem Armand has spent decades trying to solve, with unsatisfying results.

But Armand's nervous system has a job to do, and it isn't behavior analysis. After approximately 450 years of existing, most of which were spent being the scariest thing within his immediate proximity, his self-preservation instincts have more or less taken flight out of the equation (unless he's facing an awkward social situation, like potential rejection, but that's neither here nor there).

And maybe his regard for his own life isn't all that, either.

So it's not until after the creatures have settled upon the surface of the snow as little more than fine dust and splintered remains that it occurs to him that he could have died. He looks down at the sluggish bleeding oozing from his wounds, noticing with macabre fascination that it isn't healing. How novel, still. The pain is bracing.

Winded--also a new sensory experience, it's like experiencing rebirth and earning all those little mortal milestones all over again--he casts aside the two-by-four and thumps twice on the wall Louis is hiding behind.

"It's me. They're gone."

[flambeaux]

"Fuck," he breathes with relief, and he has breath for little else. An invitation to conversation, if Armand should wish it, but Louis is in no hurry. He has contemplated throwing his life away many times, but imminent danger sends him clawing it back by the tips of his fingers.

"What the hell were those things? And... did you see anyone else out there?"

He resists to add "by any chance," feeling that he is unable to force any casualness, that his quiet desperation would show too much in his voice. (It already has.) There is a softness to it that speaks of someone lost, someone with whom he once spent happy times.

Louis covers his nose and mouth then, as he cannot resist the rising smell of blood. His eyes flutter closed, and he forgets what he was about.

i. the road

[clothed]

[ it's a familiar sight in milton to see three or four particular wolves roaming through the paths. one ghost-white, one pale-grey, one bright-red (though sometimes they are two). most of the time they run together early in the morning, or late into the night; rare are the instances when they're running about on their own. if not with other wolves they're beside particular humans: the white wolf stands nearly shoulder to shoulder with its human companion, such is its size, while the grey wolf keeps company a tall red-haired girl, both of them with wolfish eyes, clear blue matched with clear blue.

the latter pair meets armand along the road. the girl carries with her a covered basket, now rigged with ropes so she might wear it over her shoulder unimpeded. the wolf wears a bright red ribbon around her neck, the frayed edges whipping angrily whenever the wind picks up. when armand comes within their peripheral vision the pair turn their heads to him almost in unison, eyes sharpening with a quickness before the visibly calms herself and holds up her gloved hands as a gesture of peace.

look: no weapons. ]

Ser, you should not be out here. Are you lost?

[alinere]

[Armand turns to peer at Sansa, looking not the slightest bit threatened. He is preternaturally still, like a deer who has heard a noise, but not tense. His gaze ventures to the wolf and lingers longer than it does on the girl, simply because it is what makes the sight unusual. As large as she is, he appears fascinated, not fearful.

After a long moment of silence, flakes of snow collecting in damp black hair, he speaks softly:]

Is he tame?

[He makes no comment to soothe her brief fear. She is right to be afraid, especially in his presence, though he will not harm her. Fear will grant her a longer life than some mortals are destined to see.]

[clothed]

She will not harm you if you won't, ser.

[ sansa's tone is light, but there is a firmness underneath it; here stands a wolf before you, beware. lady is well-behaved as any wolf can be, but she is a wolf still, and sansa — well, she has a knife in her basket, scavenged from the houses and sharpened to an edge like she's seen jon do.

she hopes the stranger will not cause trouble, or mean any harm. they've seen more than enough of it as late. ]

Will you let us help you? To find your way to town, or elsewhere you might like to go?

Please, you must be so cold.

[alinere]

[To the contrary, he relates more to the wolf than to the girl. This creature is also a predator living among its prey, not tamed, but cooperative for now.

He spends another moment contemplating the wolf before giving the girl a shivering nod.]

Please. Lead the way.

ii

[notarat]

[ Something strange happens to the creature that's chasing Armand. Maybe the latter won't notice it as quickly if he isn't looking at it and instead trying to sprint over to that building, but the sound should definitely be enough to make him aware something is off.

Because the weird wolf-like creature lets out a terrible shriek that sounds more pained than aggressive. Surprised, almost. If Armand glances back even a little, he will be able to notice that the spectral animal collapsing into the snow, seeming having spontaneously combusted, considering it's actively being consumed by fire.

There's another man standing there, on the other side of the dying creature. Tall, and pale in a way that - judging by his facial expression - seems to mostly be because of some sort of fear or surprise.

He looks over the burning - and no longer moving - creature at Armand, still kind of startled, even as he speaks. ]

.. are you alright?

[alinere]

[Oh, good. Armand loses all his powers and here someone just happens to have the Fire Gift, or something like it. Unless it's a flamethrower. That would be amazing. But he doesn't look like he's holding a flamethrower.

He takes two steps toward his unlooked-for savior and reminds himself (as it's been a long time since he met something that presented an existential threat to his person) that the expected response is gratitude. He gives a quiet nod, trying to remember the appropriate form gratitude takes in situations like these. When was the last time anyone saved his life? Not spared his life, saved it.

He's drawing a blank for a few seconds, so he improvises.]

I am grateful.

[Nailed it.]

[notarat]

[ Billy's eyes grow a little wider.

He's clearly taken aback by the response. Sure, it's not like it's entirely weird for someone in Armand's situation to feel grateful. It's probably kind of instinctive when you're saved from some terrible creature in this place. Billy is pretty sure he'd feel the same in the other's shoes.

But saying it so suddenly and plainly is another thing entirely, and Billy seems to need a second to wrap his head around it. Perhaps the other is still in shock, he figures. ]

No need. [ He then answers - sounding just a touch awkward. Like he's trying to downplay what he just did, because basking in gratitude feels too embarrassing for him. ] Once it was done with you, it likely would have turned on me.

[ As if that's all there is to it.. It's not. Not really. But it's easier to put it this way. ]

.. It must have taken you by surprise. Things can be rather dangerous here.

[alinere]

I believe you. [Ordinarily, Armand would be the most dangerous thing he could possibly encounter that day, but that's no longer true, is it? He'll actually have to think about how to protect himself now that he can neither sense anything coming nor overpower any attacker with brute strength. But he has survived in that precise situation before. He'll make do.]

What is your name?

[notarat]

William Gibson.

[ There doesn't seem to be much hesitation about giving out his name, despite the fact that Billy looks a little bit introverted. It's all over his body language, or in the way he doesn't really say more than what's practical or necessary.

The only thing that might be mixed in there is some curiosity, since he does bother to ask: ]

Are you new?

[ He doesn't think he has often seen the other man around before. ]