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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!
i. the road
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?
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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He does not, however, move away, not even if Lestat comes closer. He will not stop him if he wants to place the coat around his shoulders. But pride and fear prevent him from taking it himself, accepting an offer that may come with strings attached. All offers do, don't they? The only unconditional love in the world ended in fire centuries ago.]
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It's rather like old times, as they say. ]
There you are.
[ Lestat smiles benevolently, which usually means anything but, and straightens the lapels. It's almost paternal, in its way. ]
How tragic it would be if you were to freeze before you found your way to our little lost paradise.
[ Milton, as in Paradise Lost. He likes to think himself clever. ]
And I know how you prefer your comedies. [ Lestat shows his teeth, and if Armand will allow it, will usher him along by the elbow on the road. ] Do you still prefer the comedies? I recall you being quite taken with me in them.
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This is how he does it. He disarms you by playing the gentleman, turning your world topsy-turvy, and making it feel like you're the most important angel in heaven and everything is as it should be. As if they haven't hurt each other far too much for that to be possible.
No. Something is wrong. There's no possible way Lestat could forgive him, or even pretend to forgive him, after he took Louis away from him with a lie.
So he asks, point blank, through teeth clenched so they won't chatter:]
What are you doing?
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At the moment? Keeping you from freezing to a second, much less lovely death.
[ He sighs lavishly, eyelashes fluttering. ]
In a more expansive sense? I am...honouring our old acquaintance.
[ His eyes cut sideways, a flicker of something knotted and thorny behind them. ]
Do you really want to untangle a century of estrangement in the middle of wolf-haunted woods? Perhaps leaving you to the theatre was a mistake, too much a sense of staging - [ Lestat tips his free hand in the air, managing one of those tiny sympathetic winces of his that have no sympathy in them whatsoever ] - although you did always have a natural flair for the dramatic, didn't you?
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Regardless, Armand doesn't want to bicker about pointless details. He'd much rather they just try to kill each other like normal people do when they have baggage between them. It can all be settled in a moment, once he breaks through Lestat's...whatever this is. It's not quite like he's blocking his thoughts. It's more like he doesn't have any thoughts.
Almost as if...
Two feet crunch to a halt in the snow, the look on Armand's face growing increasingly perplexed and a little strained, with just a hint of growing alarm.
Are you there? he calls out to Lestat through the Mind Gift, only to hear nothing, not even echoes of himself. Am I here?
Is this a dream? Are they dead?
What is happening?]
Are we... [He's not even looking at Lestat anymore, gazing off to the middle distance, trying to reach anything.]
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So when he stops in his tracks to give Armand a look of sheer semi-benevolent magnanimity, he doesn't blink at his own presumption or the irony of designating himself a guide to strange, bewildering circumstances an unprepared traveller finds themselves thrust into. ]
Dead? [ Lestat prompts, lightly, cocking his head like a bird of prey. ] Dreaming? Tumbled into Wonderland? I fear it's far more prosaic than that.
[ Lestat leans in, pretending to pluck a stray thread from his coat over Armand's shoulders in the dark. He studies Armand's expression, those forever fragile wide eyes of his, and remembers how eeriely lovely he found him once, feral and glorious creature. There's something of it in him again now, that desperation at the cusp of his understanding of the world being wrenched out from under him. ]
We've been whisked here by some witchcraft of this place. Like a fairytale, only without the fairy godmother - although I suppose I must act as one for you tonight. And like the plucky enfants terribles of nursery rhymes, we suffer under a curse. Our strength sapped, our gifts curbed...
[ Lestat smiles at Armand, his eyes gleaming like ice in moonlight. ]
How strange it must feel for you.
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Meanwhile, here is the hunter, pale and crystalline, looking exactly like he belongs. Was there ever a place Lestat to which could not belong? The world always seemed to shape itself around him.]
It is strange, [Armand says mildly, more an acknowledgment than a confession.] Like waking up without eyes or a mouth.
[He ponders this for a moment before his eyes venture up and down Lestat's frame to see what he is wearing.
He doesn't say "You look ridiculous," but it's in the smirk on his face.]
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And what would you do without those captivating eyes of yours?
[ Lestat raises a gloved hand, thumb poised as if he means to brush a snowflake from under Armand's eye, but he stops himself with a knowing moue about his mouth. ]
I forgot how they swallow the light...as if they were starved for it.
[ Lestat drops his hand and gestures on with a gracious tilt of his head that manages, in how perfectly gracious it is, to be a mockery of graciousness. ]
You'll adapt.
[ You did before lingers unspoken. ]
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How have you fed? [His eyes turn ahead and he restarts the march forward.] Are there settlements nearby?
[Please don't tell him he has to choke down animal blood.]
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I've had to turn to a more rustic style of dining, [ Lestat admits, if only because there's no way around it ] there's only one settlement of note, and far too sparsely populated for us to feed freely.
[ It occurs to Lestat only then that Armand might pose a threat to the fragile detente in Milton. He rubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth and glances up at the sky, letting out an affected sigh of preemptive weariness. ]
I'll share my hunt with you. Not quite a coven, of course - but if we are to share a stalking ground again, you may rely on my hospitality in your...orientation to novel circumstances.
[ Old laws of custom and habit, older than either of them, and perhaps even older than vampires. A claim over the territory in one way, an offer of succour on the other. The actions of someone who, for all his faults, never stinted on material generosity. Gifts and full bellies: the things Lestat is capable of providing, when the mood strikes him.
Walking next to Armand, his dark-eyed, slight companion, Lestat thinks, fleetingly, of Claudia. Not as he saw her last, but as she was, once, when he'd bring her prey like a cat fetching mice for its kitten. He banishes the thought, even in the absence of Armand's mind-gift. Best to think of her not at all, his little abomination, so fortunately out of either of their reaches. ]
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So he gives a nod. In the meantime, this will give him time to come up with alternate means. The fact of sharing territory isn't especially welcome, but it's simply the reality at the moment.]
Needs must, I suppose.