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singillppl2025-02-05 07:03 pm
singmod) wrote in singillppl2025-02-05 07:03 pm
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February 2025 Test Drive Meme
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
1. Arrival threads can be treated as game canon.
2. Items characters have brought from home can be found either strewn around them when they awaken, or in the community hall — as if someone left them out for them to collect. Methuselah will not know how they got there, and will be quite bemused by the happenings.
3. Reminder that all characters are now depowered upon arrival. They can choose not to notice it at first, or can immediately sense something is different about them.
4. If asked any personal questions, Methuselah will smile and say "Oh, you don't want to know about an old man like me. But I have lived all over in these parts for all my life." He will be more concerned with trying to help Newcomers, and is genuinely concerned for them and their well-being. Other Interlopers will say much of the same — there's little to know about him.
5. More information about Milton can be found here.
1. 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.
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!
marc spector, marvel comics
☾ METHUSELAH'S FEAST
☾ WILDCARD
methuselah's feast
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?
no subject
he'd died, he doesn't say. that's not the unusual part, he'd known going in that there was a very strong chance that death would be the outcome, and he'd known there'd be a chance — almost certainty — that khonshu would not be able to bring him back, not this time.
and yet here he is.
apparently, it's nothing to do with the miserable old bastard, and given the mix of individuals, marc's inclined to take that much as truth. khonshu hadn't answered him out in the snow, either, although that means nothing. if he wasn't in the mood, marc would hear nothing from him regardless of how much he asked. )
I had a disagreement, ( he settles on instead. it's a deep, deep understatement, evident in the way he enunciates the word carefully, almost as if it's a euphemism. ) It wasn't pretty. ( that's the diplomatic way of saying it, isn't it? rather than 'I was blown up', which though true, isn't the part of it marc wishes to linger on. it wouldn't be the first time, and that death-and-resurrection, oh, that'd been a weird one.
at least he hasn't been seeing things yet.
or — he doesn't think so, anyway. there's been no stained glass scarlet, no morpheus, no jack russell. no raul, no jean-paul, no marlene.
and so, though it's not an especially straightforward answer— ) Something like this requires a lot of power, and usually it doesn't take me from my home.
heeeeeeey; ☾ METHUSELAH'S FEAST
through it all, the community hall remains standing. like lighthouses or outposts the building has become a sanctuary to sansa; it's where they congregate when the winds bring in terrors unspeakable, where they rebuild and recover from attacks, and where they meet new faces brought in by some mysterious power.
some nights sansa runs to the community hall in her wolf form, lady to her side. both of them just making sure the building still stands. still exists.
tonight is a welcoming night. she calls it so in her mind: the welcoming night, when methuselah returns with warm food and sweet drink, and with him new faces that might bolster their numbers against those who seek to remove them. one such stranger sits where she once had upon her arrival, and sansa sweeps her way to him, her mended skirts and northern way of dress marking her separate from the other, more seemingly modern types. ]
Here, [ she offers, holding out a dry pair of gloves from a basket of mended little things; clean gloves, socks, scarves, wool-lined caps for weathering the cold outdoors. she had been gifted new threads and needles recently, and took to task of putting it to good use right away. ] Try them if they fit. You can dry yours by the fire, Lady's standing guard at the clothesline.
[ the wolf — an unmissably large grey one, with an equally conspicuous ribbon as a collar — pricks up her ears, then settles them back down. ]
What were you expecting?
hiiii friend 😌
still, he doesn't seem especially surprised by the disparate manner of dress of those inside the hall, seems immediately accepting of the starkly different manner of sansa's dress — or more likely, doesn't think enough of it to consider it remarkable. he's one to talk, after all, and given his life—.
well, unusual clothing is barely, if ever, a footnote.
as such, what does surprise him are the gloves she holds out to him, a little mismatched in the stitching and body, having clearly been owned by more than one person previous, having clearly been mended more than once. they're not mr. knight's style. they're not steven's, or even jake's, but marc has never bothered with style. they're dry and they'll be warm, so they'll do. )
Thank you, ( he says as he takes them and places them carefully to one side before pulling at his own, finger by finger. his brows knit tighter, just for a moment, at the unpleasantness of suddenly cold bare skin when he eventually pulls them off. there's a pause as his attention shifts towards the fire, gaze resting on a dog? no, a wolf, but not one like those he'd heard and caught glimpses of outside. those hadn't been tame, those wouldn't take to human company.
a flickering glance back to sansa, then, and an unasked question. lady says, unequivocally, that the animal's hers, but not whether she arrived here with it, or whether they became companions here. a question for later, perhaps. )
—I was in a city, ( he answers eventually, pulling on the gloves and flexing his fingers. it's a testing, trying, curious movement. the gloves are built for warmth over movement, and he can't quite help the feeling of reflief, nor the sigh that punctuates.
he hadn't quite realised how cold his hands had been, even with the cup of coffee. ) I had a disagreement with an old friend. It didn't end well for either of us.
( well. it's kind of an answer. )
🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂
she has learned, and very quickly in her time in king's landing, that the fewer words a person has to spare for a conversation, the greater the secrets they bear. but that's too much to put on the shoulders of a man she doesn't know, sansa thinks to herself, and shakes her head for her own benefit.
uninvited, she sits herself next to the man, offering to take the wet gloves from him and perhaps unburden him of any other garments he means to have dried. there is a quiet kind of pride in her at hearing the man sigh in relief thanks to the proffered, drier gloves, too; she had done good work mending them, and it really is deeply cold. ]
Milton is only a township, I'm afraid, [ she starts, smoothing out the gloves in her hands and wringing the icewater out of them slowly. ] And in Canada, supposedly. Not that I know where that is.
Will you not eat? Coffee doesn't make for a full meal, and we don't know when we'll have this much food again. I'm Lyanna, by the by. My brother Jon is also here, and his wolf too.
You'll meet a fair number of wolves in this town if you mean to stay a while.
[ she herself is a wolf, when the hour is in favour. a secret for later on. ]
i missed writing with you!!!
("I'd wondered if this is real," he doesn't comment, nor does he add that he's still uncertain on if it really is.)
plesko, the black spectre (version three), is not a man that she needs to worry herself with, which is why he leaves the detail out. he won't be bothering anyone again any time soon, certainly not here, and the nature of the disagreement—. well. even marc knows 'I was trying to kill him' isn't the sort of detail that belongs in first conversations. lyanna doesn't know him, and though a reputation as a dangerous man is one that marc's honed deeply and, in recent years, quite deliberately, it's one that doesn't always have its uses.
hence, of course, mr. knight. hence steven grant. hence jake lockley.
hence, often, a lack of need for marc spector. the fists. the brawn. the violence. )
North America, ( he comments, although he imagines that means nothing to her either. ) It's not where I'm from, but I've passed through. ( punctuated by a breath of a pause, and then— ) It's on Earth. ( a mild utterance that says her lack of familiarity is far from shocking. weird is relative.
it's accompanied by a relenting, and the removing of his jacket. he and his clothes will likely dry faster the less he's wearing, and the less he'll feel like a drowned rat. it allows him, just for a second, the chance to think about how to counter her question about food. she's right, coffee doesn't make for a full meal, but there have been plenty of times when he's acted as if it does.
plenty of times when he's been left with a headache, been left feeling grouchy and irritable and aware, fully, that he only has his own choices to blame for it — that is, often, a lack of food and a lack of sleep.
still, what do dead men need of food and drink?
an inhale of breath, then, and— ) —I'll eat after I warm up.
( which, he thinks, at least gives him some grace as far as deciding how much he wants to trust anything he places in his mouth goes in this place. )
I heard the wolves when I was outside. They didn't sound as if they wanted company. ( beat. ) Marc.
me too omg we are back (tentative)
[ she answers him softly, rounding the syllables out to seem like they're only discussing plain weather and not the unforgiving snow outside. sansa takes the clothes with a quiet thanks and steps away for a quick moment to line them up along the clothesline, securing them in place with practiced familiarity before dipping quickly and petting lady round the ears.
it's a good way to get her used to the new folk as well, hanging their clothes where she or ghost or diefenbaker might be able to sniff at. people come and go, and even the ones who choose to stay do not always stay in town; lady has caught the scent of a seeming stranger only for sansa to realise it's a fellow interloper who's chosen to stay in the outskirts. would this man — marc, his name was — choose to stay in town too, if he does linger?
perhaps she could ask lady randvi if they could host a guest. the recent snowstorm (if it could be called that at all) and attacks had left many homes broken into, with snow piling up indoors. at the very least she can offer to help him get warm until he finds his own place to stay.
sansa returns to marc with an uneven blanket, clearly quilted from a wide variety of scavenged fabrics. it's not as pretty as she would like, but it'll keep heat in. she also brings with her a roll of bread, freshly warm, breaking off a chunk from it that she bites into as she offers the rest to him. there's a knowing look in her eyes as she holds it out: it's safe to eat, i promise. ]
Some of the men dip in the coffee. I don't like to drink it, but maybe you would like it better with bread?
We don't have coffee where I come from.
we sure are something!!
and for as much as marc tends to act like he's a loner, that he's better off without anyone, it's not true. he can and will isolate himself when he's not at his best, when he's decided (again and again) that it's not worth the risk for anyone else's safety for them to be close to him, but outside of those instances, marc is better off with people, functions best with a support system of friends. he may not always be capable of acknowledging that, but what he can and does acknowledge is that he's not going to have much luck in protecting the travellers of the night if he's not where the travellers of the night are.
("travellers at night" being a much less grandiose, specific thing than the term makes it sound—.
—which means that no, he won't opt to stay in the outskirts.)
the blanket is taken with a quiet, firm 'thanks' and wrapped around his shoulders, its mismatched nature a sharp contrast with the WHITE and the theming of his suit, while the bread earns—
flat bemusement.
sorry, there are people that dip their bread in their coffee? arched eyebrows, scepticism lined with doubt as his mouth quirks and, ) No. ( punctuated by an exhale of breath that's definitely not a laugh, but it's not wholly divorced from faint, distant amusement. ) Not that I drink coffee for the taste, ( he admits, as a concession of sorts.
then, another concession in the form of marc breaking off a piece of bread, a mental note of he's definitely put worse in his mouth, whatever happens — paint (in case it was blood), actual blood, another man's sweat (deliberately), and— )
Where do you come from?
( he imagines he won't know it, but it's good to build up a picture. )
life could be nicer to me, i'm begging atp
[ home. it's been so long since sansa had felt the true warmth of home. winterfell is hers no longer, now that it's been stained by the cruelty of the boltons. her fists tighten at the memory – at the still-persisting echoes of ramsay's hands.
jon is here, is what matters. jon, and ghost, and lady; all of them too precious to her than she could ever say. sansa smooths her expression back to pleasantry and, with girlish poise, brings herself back to the conversation at hand.
his name is marc. he is a man from north america. he wears white like it's an armor, and he doesn't drink coffee for his own pleasure. it's not enough to account for the man, but it's a start. ]
It was strange to have come here at all, truthfully. Magics are not unheard of back home, but this — and I hesitate to call it magic when it seems to go far deeper than that. Do you——
[ is it too forward to ask? marc seems open to questions the same way jon had always been in sansa's memory: willing to hear it, but rare to answer without cause. jon never means it untoward, of course, and sansa's not given her half-brother any reason to think her fond of him. but sometimes she can guess when a man would be interested in speaking with a woman, or when they'd think one simple and no more than a face to look at.
she doesn't feel that way with marc, thus far, but she had been so wrong about other men before. good that i have lady with me, sansa decides, and a knife in my sleeve if need be.
i am only a girl here. a soft and foolish girl. i am lyanna snow, and i am no one important. ]
Just that we've not had new faces around in a while. Do you remember how you arrived?
ARRIVAL.
Foraging, not "sneaking," [ he says, taking off his Naval cap and holding it to his chest. ] Though I apologize if I've startled you.
[ He looks at Marc curiously, recognizing something familiar not about the man himself, but in his demeanor— which is understandably confused and disoriented, and not to mention undoubtedly miserably cold, but there also seems to be a certain tension underlying it all, as well, something Irving himself (though he's an evangelist, not a zealot) would liken to a religious fervor.
No, fervor is the wrong word. It's more like a... disquiet, something which is neither terror nor wonderment, but strangely seems to somehow invoke an impression of both.
Could be that he's only imagining it, of course, or at very least misreading the man — Irving is, after all, far from intuitive when it comes to reading people — but it does pique his interest slightly more. ]
However, I'm afraid that's not the voice of God you're hearing, but rather something else entirely.
[ There comes an ominous pause, as if he also wants to say "something decidedly unholy," but chooses not to. ]
I suggest you pay it no mind.
👀 i know so very little but!!!!
instead, he pockets the crescent dart and offers a noise that sits somewhere between a hum and grunt at both the 'foraging' correction and the apology, seemingly considering them neither here nor there.
—or rather, considering it notably less interesting than everything else irving says, even if marc knows that the god irving speaks of is not the same god marc is thinking of. not here, anyway, not now. he might be the one that marc had prayed to before death in spite of khonshu, but—. )
I didn't think it was. He's never spoken. ( level, not intended to be argumentative. faintly curious, an almost-question without the intonation of one. it's an assumption of faith (christian, probably—), given the hat in irving's hands. royal navy? marc doesn't know enough of the history to comment one way or the other as to modernity versus anything else, but it's almost certainly not american.
but it's the pause that really captures marc's focus, the everything that's not said. marc's used to those kind of pauses, the ones where silence is left to do the heavy lifting thanks to uncertainty or, occasionally, self-awareness.
and so there's a beat of pause in turn, a flicker of something that maybe, if looked at just right, borders on humour. dry and deadpan, but it's there. )
But don't worry. I've had a lot of practise with—. ( he gestures vaguely with a hand as if to say 'you know, all of that'. ) Even if interloper's new.
WILL THEY VIBE? ... i have absolutely no clue but finding out is always half the fun <3
Thankfully, the point has been rendered rather moot now anyway, so he simply squints dubiously at the stranger. ]
When you say practise...?
[ Speaking of ominous— Irving can't help but wonder if he already regrets asking.
Hurriedly, he nods his head in curt agreement. ]
I always thought that it was quite uncalled for— interloper. After all, [ he looks around at their surroundings, shoulders slumping. ] We've not exactly chosen this, now have we.
methuselah's feast
But Bigby does carry himself in a more relaxed way here. It seems to imply that he's been here for longer, especially compared to Marc who only just wandered into the hall.
But it's mostly his tone that is absolutely not surprised in the slightest as he says: ]
I'd be more surprised if you did expect to get kidnapped to some weird place in the middle of the snow.
[ Yes, he is just dryly pointing that out to Marc.. ]
Unless this is normal for you. [ It's a little more normal for Bigby, granted. But he's spoken to a lot of new people here, and that has taught him it sure isn't normal for most other people around. ]
Feast