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

Harry Goodsir | The Terror | OTA

[mygoodsir]

on the road
cw: suicide mention

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

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

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

in town

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

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

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

winter's bite

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

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

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

Help him.]

wildcard

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

winter's bite!

[fidior]

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

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

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

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

Dr. Goodsir!

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

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

[mygoodsir]

[Of all the things that Goodsir may have expected, hearing a familiar voice was nowhere on the list. He looks up, eyes wide and unbelieving.]

Lieutenant!

[Looking towards Little while running and trying to change direction results in something entirely unsurprising: Goodsir trips over his own feet and falls into the snow. Behind him, one of the creatures rushes forward. Not able to gain his footing, Goodsir crawls as fast as he can to escape.]

[fidior]

[ There's a burst of pure horror when the other man goes down, and Little's weirdly numb as he watches, as he realises what's about to happen — the same way it's happened again and again. He can already hear the anguished scream in his mind; he'll never forget what it sounds like to listen to someone being torn apart.

But he isn't as frozen as he once was. At least, not for as long. A year living in this place after three years living where they had been before, he's come to co-exist with a certain sense of dread. It tells him that the phantom-like bear entity that's been haunting Milton will someday be capable of harming people physically. It tells him that danger lurks out in these white woods. He stays aware of the thought that something horrible will happen.

Now it is. And as dread becomes reality, his heart wrenches out of its stupour. He can't let this man die again. He can't fail him again.

His gloved hands are shaking, but he's been hunting more these days, getting more practice with it. Less as a human and more as a beast, but he still uses his gun sometimes. He fires once, and it catches the back of the clanking entity; some shards of ice burst off of it, but it keeps lunging after Goodsir.

He shoots again. This time, it catches the odd swirl directly, and this time it explodes. It startles Little how violently it does. There's no blood, no viscera, but ice shatters outwards, dangerous, and he cries out as he shields his eyes with his other arm, but he's also staggering closer, alarmed as he cries out. Is Goodsir all right? ]

Are you hurt?!

cw: suicide mention

[mygoodsir]

[It's funny, how quickly a person can go from accepting death to wanting to live. It wasn't that long ago that Goodsir had overridden the survival urge, but now? Now the very last thing he wants is to die.

He hears the gunshots but keeps moving, now not daring to try and stand in case he takes a bullet. With the second shot he becomes convinced that he must have been when his neck and head are needled by a thousand shards. But no - it's only ice. The creature has shattered behind him.

In the sudden silence after the gunfire, Harry Goodsir becomes aware that he's very glad to be alive.

He cautiously rises to his knees. Goodsir touches the back of his neck and finds only water.]

Quite alright, sir!

[He manages to sound apologetic even now. Stunned to see Little in front of him, he doesn't think to stand.]

On the road

[moralabsolutism]

[There was a curious sight in the direction Goodsir was heading. A clear set of tracks being left by what could only be human footprints, the size of them meaning they were either large for a woman or small for a man. Then suddenly they just...stopped abruptly, as if the owner had simply vanished into thin air.

Well, not quite thin air. If Goodsir thought to look up, he would find Rorschach overhead in one of the trees, looking very much as he always did with the constantly shifting mask that serve as his true face on display. As for Rorschach himself, he was watching the doctor intently. He'd sworn this one had vanished, taken during one of the Auroras as had happened to so many others. He'd also seen others come back who had no memory of their time here but at least one who had come back who did remember. So which was this? Curious. Very curious.]

[mygoodsir]

[Tracks don't just end. And, lacking any other tracks it stood to reason that either the person making them had either been carried off by a very large bird, or was up in the trees.

Goodsir looked up.]

Ah. Hello?

[moralabsolutism]

[There was Rorschach, quite a ways up in the air with one hand wrapped securely around the trunk of the evergreen he was holding onto. He gave a small wave with the other one as the bolts on his face continued to move around sluggishly.]

In need of help, Doctor?

[The voice that came forth definitely wasn't from the masked figure physically, without even that telltale movement at the bottom of the fabric to show his jaw was opening and closing. No, this deep, gravelly voice which sounded like screws and nails being tossed in a blender was just beamed straight right into Goodsir's mind.]

[mygoodsir]

[It took Goodsir a moment to regain his equilibrium. The sensation of that voice was both foreign and intrusive. It was also far from a comfort that this stranger seemed to recognise him.]

Oh, I'm not a doctor. But I wouldn't mind some directions...? I, ah. Appear to be a little lost.

wildcard, it's goodsir's favorite person in the world

[friendsfordinner]

[ It's easy enough to overlook Hickey as Hickey. The man has shed most traces of his Victorian nature. Clothes, habits, all of these are aggressively modern. His stupid little facial hair still remains the same. But Hickey, in his water-resistant jacket, his sweatpants, and his hiking boots, he looks like someone from the 2010s, not the 1840s.

Which means that he spots Goodsir before Goodsir spots him.

Hickey avoids the community center for the most part. But he had heard whisperings about new arrivals so might as well check them out, see who's there, who's warming up and calming down and enjoying whatever stew Methusalah made. Because he's curious. There's so many of their lot here already. And honestly, he's overdue someone on his side. Tozer. Armitage. Manson. One of the other mutineers.

Goodsir technically fits. But Hickey would like to point out to the universe that it's dirty to get him on a technicality. Besides, why bring him back? What's so special about Harry Goodsir that after he vanishes, he reappeared again?

Hickey pauses for a moment, before walking over to the man. He sits down next to Goodsir, right in the other man's personal space, shitty little smile on his face, as he muses, ] Well. Look at you. Alive. Will wonders never cease.

oh yes, his BFF!

[mygoodsir]

[You could put Goodsir in a velour tracksuit and he'd somehow still seem Victorian. Not that he'd dare to wear such a thing - no, he's going to dress as appropriately as he can manage, thank you.

He's not expecting to be approached as he sits drinking tea and watching the fire. So he half turns with a politely inquisitive expression before reality hits home with a nearly physical blow.

Hickey.

Goodsir looks at him for a moment, then sips his tea. He will not break now. Not after everything. Even if this is hell, he will not allow Cornelius Hickey the satisfaction.]

Apparently in spite of my best efforts. Did you want something, Mr. Hickey?

[friendsfordinner]

[ Hickey is just smiling like a shithead. He's got this obnoxious little smirk of a smile on his face as he just casually leans against the table. Everything's fine! Everything's great! Don't mind him as he continues this conversation, solely because he knows it'll piss Goodsir off.

Whatever Goodsir does, if he even does anything to begin with, it won't rattle Hickey. He's got mates here. He's got a group. Besides, all the dirty laundry about what happened to him, what he and the mutineers did to survive, it's already been aired. There's nothing Goodsir can hold over his head.

So he's perfectly content being an annoying little shit. ]

Just checking up on you. You seem remarkably hale. Healthy. Curious, that.

[ Because Goodsir was here before. But then his player dropped he vanished, seemingly without a trace. As far as Hickey's concerned, the options were 'dead back home' or 'dead somewhere in the wilderness.' Apparently, there's a third. ]

[mygoodsir]

[Of all the devils that Goodsir ever thought might torment him, he wasn't expecting any quite so smarmy.

He sips his tea, trying desperately not to become emotional. It's more difficult than he'd like, considering that seeing Hickey alive and well truly hammers home the futility of his last desperate act.]

As do you. Equally curious.

You seem to have, ah, acclimated? To this place rather well. That at least is not surprising.

winter's bone

[pacificator]

[ She and Little had spent days searching, roaming far and wide through the woods and ravines as wolves, seeking out any hint of familiar scent or remains. They never found a damn thing; it was like Harry Goodsir had just vanished without a trace. In some ways, it might even have been worse than finding a body, or parts of one: nobody knows what happened to him. Did he go back to the place and time he'd left? Did the Aurora dump him somewhere else in this world?

She's got no idea, and the sky, as usual, is bereft of answers.

Wynonna wasn't out hunting for humans today, but the sound of running feet scrambling through snow and an almost-familiar scent have her perking her ears, the rabbit she'd been trailing forgotten. In a few quick bounds, she's out of the underbrush and running flat out, a small chestnut-coloured timber wolf that flashes past the stumbling man and barrels into the creature-shaped whirl of ice and snow that's chasing him, her teeth bared and gleaming as she leaps to the attack. ]

[mygoodsir]

[Goodsir doesn't know much about wolves - just what he's read in books, really - but he's oddly certain that this one has deliberately chosen to protect him. Why he's not sure, although he worries it's because it wishes to eat him and doesn't want the other creature to get to it first. Why else would it endanger itself?

Definitely something to wonder about. Later. Away from here.

Goodsir scrambles to his feet and runs as fast as he can, which isn't very in the snow. He can't help but look back to see how the wolf is faring, praying in a distracted sort of way that it's not about to get ripped apart. He can't do much to help, so he concentrates on fleeing.

Some time later he stops, hands planted on his thighs, panting. He looks back the way he'd come, half fearful and half hopeful. It would be nice, he thinks, if the wolf had survived. Nicer still if he could see some proof of it.

[pacificator]

[ The damn thing explodes like an icicle hitting blacktop when she slams into it. Ice and rocks blow everywhere like shrapnel, and Wynonna the wolf yelps, sharp, as a few pieces tear through her thick fur and slice her skin. But the creature is gone by the time the snow settles, which is good.

Goodsir is, too, which is less so.

Wynonna takes just enough time to sniff out his tracks, then makes a swift detour into the woods for her clothes and Peacemaker. One arm is bleeding, and so is a cut along her leg as she buckles the gun belt back around her hips and runs, following the kicked up trail in the snow the panicked man had left behind him. ]

Hey!

[ He's not so far away, but he's further than she'd like, considering he's already gotten attacked by a beast conjured up out of ice and snow. ]

It's gone! Stop running, man!

[mygoodsir]

[Goodsir stays put when he hears the voice, looking back the way he'd come. He'd been expecting an animal if anything, so hearing a person - a woman, no less - is a shock.]

I've stopped!

[Not that he thinks he could have gone much further.

He sees the blood and stumbles back toward Wynonna.]

Oh dear, you're injured! Please, let me help. There are wild animals about.

WILDCARD — methusalah's feast.

[extramuralise]

[ The familiar face is... unexpected, to say the least, although words would fail Irving to even try articulating exactly how and why that is. Good thing at least half of that surprise is relatively self-explanatory, because Irving has no sense of a poker face: he gapes, wide-eyed and speechless, hand pressing to his heart as if he's just seen a ghost.

(Which, considering that Irving pointedly does not believe in ghosts, means he must be feeling a considerable amount of alarm, indeed.)

Still, politeness is always paramount, even in the most impossible, one of a kind situations such as this. ]

Dr. Goodsir? [ he asks it quietly, as if confirming to himself at first that he's seeing who he's seeing, before then approaching cautiously with shining eyes: ] Dr. Goodsir, is that really you?

[ The thing is, Irving likes Goodsir and is therefore quite happy to see him again alive and intact, but he's also heard a great deal about Goodsir's horrifically unfortunate fate from others by this point, and it's forcing him to now once again reconsider the various concerning implications about what and where, exactly, 'this place' truly is.

Notions that he must, for now, put out of mind. ]

Y-you should eat something— [ he gestures anxiously towards the laden table. ] There's food here, real food.

[mygoodsir]

[Goodsir looks up and his expression is equally surprised at first. It melts into a delighted smile and he moves to stand.]

Lieutenant Irving! I could ask much the same of you!

[Considering the last time he'd seen the man he'd been opening him up.]

I can scarcely believe my eyes. You're well, then?

[He glances to the table and back again, smile widening.]

And yes, sir, I've eaten, I promise.

[extramuralise]

[ Irving's tense expression slowly softens with relief, lips curving into a tight, anxious smile. Truly, the less said about either of their fates, the better— and Irving of all people is not the type to pull at that thread. ]

Well as can be claimed, yes, [ he affirms with a nod, although his expression retains his usual sense of vague discomfort. ] And it may please you to know that there's a young girl here who makes tea from rosehips that is meant to help counteract any scorbutic symptoms one might still be experiencing, should you happen to need it... not that I would think it to look at you.

[ Which he's intended as a compliment, even if it doesn't necessarily sound like one; you look well, in other words. He's babbling, really, unsure as ever about how to make conversation, but this seems like something surely Goodsir would be interested in hearing. From one nerd to another... ]

[mygoodsir]

[Goodsir looks delighted at this news. Irving might be socially awkward, but Goodsir is equally so and thus barely notices.]

That is fantastic news! I will have to track this young lady down.

[Pause. Stutter.]

For the tea, I mean. Ah.

Would you care to sit? It is so very good to see a friendly face.

joining the train of wildcarding at the feast!

[notarat]

[ ... huh.

At first he isn't entirely sure what he's seeing as he looks at the new arrivals at the feast. Usually seeing Goodsir here wouldn't be so strange, were it not for the fact that Billy has heard the talk of the man having disappeared from town. Long enough that he is pretty sure the other couldn't just have survived out in the wild by himself.

So why is he here now?

It's curious enough that he can't help but approach when the other is sitting there by himself. ]

.. Mr. Goodsir? Have you returned?

[ Unfortunately he does not realize how strange that question might be to the other.. Sorry, Goodsir.. ]

he's just haunted now <3

[mygoodsir]

[Goodsir looks up. His expression is perfectly blank aside from his eyes, which register a slow, swooning horror. He closes them for a moment and takes a breath before opening them again.]

Mr. Gibson. I'm afraid I have not 'returned' to this place, for despite what people seem to think I have no recollection of having been here before.

It is good to see you looking so... whole.

this is the kind of stuff that makes people go vegetarian 😔

[notarat]

[ Honestly, the fact that this apparently is Goodsir having disappeared and then returned is more surprising than the look in the other's eyes. Because that look makes a whole lot of sense in that context.

It's the same look the other man gave him when they first saw each other here the last time around, after all. And by now he even knows what it means. ]

Whole. [ He repeats. A word that would have puzzled him before that knowledge that he slowly gained here over the months, but now it definitely makes sense. It makes him say it with a touch of dry irony, rather than surprise.

No real resentment or anything, though. ]

I suppose. I can't say you have found yourself in what is necessarily a great place, but at least we are alive here.

aahahaha! Also cw: suicide

[mygoodsir]

Yes.

[Goodsir likes to think he's been handling this purgatory or deathbed hallucination or whatever it is quite well. But having Billy Gibson before him, apparently perfectly fine with having been murdered by a man he trusted... that is too much.

He looks at Billy with a bewilderment that edges on panic. When he speaks his voice is a low hiss.]

Something I decidedly did not wish to be, Mr. Gibson! And I'm not entirely certain I am, considering both you and Lieutenant Irving are wandering around hale and hearty.